With almost all menswear bought off the rack or online today, the “shoddy dropper” has long passed into obscurity.

This 1920s slang term, used only in Australia and New Zealand, referred to roving sellers of cloth. Most shoddy droppers sold men’s suiting such as serges and tweeds. They walked city streets or went door-to-door in suburbs and towns.

Driven by a cost-of-living crisis that followed the first world war, shoddy dropping was eventually killed off by rising wages by the 1950s.

The practice underscores how readily fashion markets respond to economic factors such as supply, demand, inflation and wages.

‘Suit-length swindlers’

The most successful shoddy droppers were smooth talkers attractively dressed in made-to-measure three-piece suits.

They often went door-to-door, trying to convince would-be customers they could afford to dress like them. All a customer had to do was buy the shoddy dropper’s “high-quality” suit-lengths at a price they would be unable to find elsewhere.

Some shoddy droppers also claimed to have a special deal with a tailor that allowed buyers to have their suit tailor-made at a steal.

The term “shoddy dropping” played on the dual meaning of the word “shoddy”. The first was a noun referring to a cheap fabric made from a mix of new and recycled wool. The second was an adjective meaning “inferior or badly-made”.

Both meanings of shoddy were implicit in an article published in a rural New South Wales paper in 1913.

Though the writer did not use the term “shoddy dropping”, they warned readers against travelling “suit-length swindlers”, saying that

shoddy articles are frequently palmed off as good quality cloths by irresponsible men.

The number of shoddy droppers at any one time was probably tiny, but since they were off the books they are impossible to quantify.

Having said this, crime and news reports suggest the practice began around the start of the first world war.

Supply, demand, inflation and wages

Shoddy dropping surged in the the 1920s and 1940s, as prices soared due to war.

Working-class men’s desire for well-fitting suits was another factor. When Melbourne carters and factory workers gave evidence to the Australian Royal Commission on the Basic Wage in 1920, for example, they said most men they knew wore tailor-made suits to and from work.

This created financial stress; spiralling costs meant made-to-measure suits were hard to afford.

Fashion was another likely reason for the surges in shoddy dropping in the 1920s and 1940s.

The slimline jazz suit, which came into vogue in the early twenties, was just one example.

The jacket of this suit was single-breasted and slightly flared from the waist, while the trousers were narrow and short enough to expose silk-knit “jazz socks”.

The impish charisma of the jazz-suited Louis Stirling below makes it is easy to imagine how a stylish shoddy dropper persuaded fashion-conscious young men to buy their wares.

Stirling was a suit-length seller photographed by Sydney police in 1920 after he was caught stealing cloth. He later produced evidence that he was a shoddy dropper to escape a vagrancy charge in Melbourne in 1922.

The high number of restless first world war veterans looking for work was a further reason for a surge in shoddy dropping in the 1920s.

Consider returned serviceman Reginald Sharples (also known as Walter Johnson). In 1920, police charged him and an accomplice with stealing more than £1,000 of men’s suiting from a tailor in Sydney’s Hunter Street. This was somewhere in the vicinity of A$83,000 today.

Sharples was caught after transporting the stolen cloth to Melbourne. Like Stirling, he later produced convincing evidence to show that he was a shoddy dropper to escape a vagrancy charge.

In his 1920 mugshot, Sharples is dressed in an early interwar version of smart-casual street style. He had combined a light pinstripe suit with a cream turtleneck sweater, black fedora and returned-serviceman’s badge.

Sharples was also an example of links between shoddy dropping and organised crime in and after the 1920s.

Apart from the suits-stealing charge, Sharples was also convicted of stealing morphine and cocaine from a wholesale druggist in Melbourne in 1922. He was also unsuccessfully prosecuted for vagrancy along with Louis Stirling in 1924.

Rumours that both men were associates of underworld figure Squizzy Taylor swirled in court during the trial.

A cost-of-living story

Shoddy dropping had disappeared by the mid-1950s, thanks to rising wages and increasing sophistication in the manufacture of ready-made suits.

These factors meant there were fewer low-income men who felt the only way they could afford a decent suit was to first buy cloth “off the back of a truck”, then face the uncertainty of arranging for it to be tailor-made.

Though shoddy dropping flew under the radar even in the 1920s, it is worth remembering today as a reminder of the unscrupulous selling practices that bloom in cost-of-living crises.

Along with the evidence in the extraordinary informal mugshots taken by Sydney police across the interwar era, shoddy dropping offers further insights into Australia’s history of male fashion consumers’ desire.

It has often been said Australian men were a cause lost to fashion. Shoddy dropping suggests that, in fact, many longed to dress in tailor-made suits and quality textiles. For many, however, those commodities were frustratingly out of reach.

Melissa Bellanta, Professor of Modern History (Australian Catholic University), Visiting Professor of Australian Studies (Seoul National University), Australian Catholic University

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

In the wake of Donald Trump’s election victory, Meta chief executive Mark Zuckerberg fired the fact-checking team for his company’s social media platforms. At the same time, he reversed Facebook’s turn away from political content.

The decision is widely viewed as placating an incoming president with a known penchant for mangling the truth.

Meta will replace its fact-checkers with the “community notes” model used by X, the platform owned by avid Trump supporter Elon Musk. This model relies on users to add corrections to false or misleading posts.

Musk has described this model as “citizen journalism, where you hear from the people. It’s by the people, for the people.”

For such an approach to work, both citizen journalists and their readers need to value good-faith deliberation, accuracy and accountability. But our new research shows social media users may not be the best crowd to source in this regard.

Our research

Working with Essential Media, our team wanted to know what social media users think of common civic values.

After reviewing existing research on social cohesion and political polarisation and conducting ten focus groups, we compiled a civic values scale. It aims to measure levels of trust in media institutions and the government, as well as people’s openness to considering perspectives that challenge their own.

We then conducted a large-scale survey of 2,046 Australians. We asked people how strongly they believed in a common public interest. We also asked about how important they thought it was for Australians to inform themselves about political issues and for schools to teach civics.

Importantly, we asked them where they got their news: social media, commercial television, commercial radio, newspapers or non-commercial media.

What did we find?

We found people who rely on social media for news score significantly lower on a civic values scale than those who rely on newspapers and non-commercial broadcasters such as the ABC.

By contrast, people who rely on non-commercial radio scored highest on the civic values scale. They scored 11% higher than those who rely mainly on social media and 12% higher than those who rely on commercial television.

The lowest score was for people who rely primarily on commercial radio.

People who relied on newspapers, online news aggregators, and non-commercial TV all scored significantly higher than those who relied on social media and commercial broadcasting.

The survey also found that as the number of different media sources people use daily increased, so too did their civic values score.

This research does not indicate whether platforms foster lower civic values or simply cater to them.

But it does raise concerns about social media becoming an increasingly important source of political information in democratic societies like Australia.

Why measure values?

The point of the civic values scale we developed is to highlight the fact that the values people bring to news about the world is as important as the news content.

For example, most people in the United States have likely heard about the violence of the attack on the Capitol protesting Trump’s loss in 2020.

That Trump and his supporters can recast this violent riot as “a day of love” is not the result of a lack of information.

It is, rather, a symptom of people’s lack of trust in media and government institutions and their unwillingness to confront facts that challenge their views.

In other words, it is not enough to provide people with accurate information. What counts is the mindset they bring to that information.

No place for debate

Critics have long been concerned that social media platforms do not serve democracy well, privileging sensationalism and virality over thoughtful and accurate posts. As the critical theorist Judith Butler put it:

the quickness of social media allows for forms of vitriol that do not exactly support thoughtful debate.

Sociologist Zeynep Tufekci said social media is less about meaningful engagement than bonding with like-minded people and mocking perceived opponents. She notes, “belonging is stronger than facts”.

Her observation is likely familiar to anyone who has tried to engage in a politically charged discussion on social media.

These criticisms are commonplace in discussions of social media but have not been systematically tested until now.

Social media platforms are not designed to foster democracy. Their business model is based on encouraging people to see themselves as brands competing for attention, rather than as citizens engaged in meaningful deliberation.

This is not a recipe for responsible fact-checking. Or for encouraging users to care much about it.

Platforms want to wash their hands of the fact-checking process, because it is politically fraught. Their owners claim they want to encourage the free flow of information.

However, their fingers are on the scale. The algorithms they craft play a central role in deciding which forms of expression make it into our feeds and which do not.

It’s disingenuous for them to abdicate responsibility for the content they chose to pump into people’s news feeds, especially when they have systematically created a civically challenged media environment.

The author would like to acknowledge Associate Professor Zala Volcic, Research Fellow Isabella Mahoney and Research Assistant Fae Gehren for their work on the research on which this article is based.

Mark Andrejevic, Professor of Media, School of Media, Film, and Journalism, Monash University, Monash University

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

Podcasting is the medium of choice for millions of listeners looking for the latest commentary on almost any topic. In Australia, it’s estimated about 48% of people tune in to a podcast each month.

However, the rise of podcasts has also led to a new trend of “fake podcasts”. In some cases, these are a trivial marketing strategy. In others, they are a deceptive form of misinformation.

So what are fake podcasts?

Fake podcasts are short video clips designed to appear like snippets from real podcasts published on short-form content platforms such as TikTok.

These clips centre on one or sometimes two speakers, positioned behind high-quality broadcasting microphones, directing their conversation off camera. However, in reality no broader discussion is taking place.

These videos began gaining attention in late 2022 when social media users realised several viral clips showing commentators on seemingly high-profile podcasts were in fact “fake”. These clips weren’t from any real podcast episodes. In some instances the microphones hadn’t even been turned on.

The most noteworthy example came from fitness influencer and YouTuber Vincent Sant. To market his online brand, Sant created a video suggesting he had appeared on the Joe Rogan Experience.

Although the video showed him using the same microphone, headphones and red velvet curtain backdrop as Rogan, viewers quickly pointed out Sant had never appeared on the show. He removed the clip shortly after.

Since then, fake podcast clips have become a recognised marketing strategy employed by a range of brands. Some professional actors produce this content regularly, earning up to US$16,000 per month.

There are even explicit guides on LinkedIn for marketers wanting to produce their own fake podcasts, with the practice described as “the future of video marketing”.

Some fakes are more harmful than others

There are three main types of fake podcast, each one deceiving viewers to a different extent.

The first is the explicit ad. In this case, the podcast format is used to present an obvious sales pitch for a specific product. Examples include this ad from Junkee and Bank Australia:

While the ad uses a podcast format, it’s unlikely to fool many viewers, not least due to the “paid partnership” disclaimer.

The second category of fake podcasts uses the podcast aesthetic to market a personal brand, rather than a specific product. Several influencers including online entrepreneur Sebastian Ghiorghiu and Pearl Davis (the so-called “female Andrew Tate”), have garnered millions of followers through such clips, which intentionally leave the broader context ambiguous. They produce clips from both real and fake podcasts, with no means of differentiating the two.

These kinds of fake podcasts have three main purposes. The first is to gain consistent viewers. The second is to legitimise the creator’s, at times, conspiratorial political perspectives. And the third is to sell products.

The final and most intentionally deceptive form of fake podcast is what I call the “deep” fake podcast. These clips combine elements of the first two categories alongside manipulated audio and video – usually produced with the help of AI tools.

The purpose here is usually to convince viewers a certain prominent podcaster or personality has made certain claims and/or endorsed certain products. One recent example purports to show Joe Rogan and neuroscientist Andrew Huberman endorsing a “libido-boosting” supplement. This is the most deceptive form of the practice.

The psychology behind fake podcasts

Out of all the mediums to fake, why fake a podcast? Are online audiences so susceptible that they immediately associate anyone talking off camera into a microphone with expertise? Not quite.

Podcasting reflects what media researcher Henry Jenkins calls “convergence culture”. In this space, the distinctions between traditional, alternative and social media are increasingly blurred, as are the lines between producers, consumers, technical experts and “popular experts”.

Social media users usually recognise podcasters as popular experts. These individuals may not have recognised qualifications, yet they are often just as knowledgeable about a particular area of popular culture as a technical expert due to their experience and/or passion. Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark, hosts of the top podcast My Favourite Murder, are a good example, as is former YouTuber MatPat, whose channel The Game Theorists has close to 20 million subscribers.

Convergence culture has increasingly foregrounded popular experts in online spaces, helping to legitimise their blend of amateur and professional communication.

How to spot them

According to the Pew Research Centre, US adults who hear “news” discussed on podcasts are likely to view this information as more reliable than news gleaned from other sources such as social media. At the same time, podcasts are much easier and cheaper to fake than other forms of traditional media.

Spotting fake podcast clips may not always be easy, especially if you haven’t come across one before. If you see a suspicious clip, a good rule of thumb is to look for a clear link to the original video and recording. If this original is easily accessible, verifiable and lasts longer than sixty seconds, the clip itself is probably real.

Another way is to cross-reference the clip with other official channels. For instance, the next time you see a 20 second video of a renowned health expert spruiking a new supplement on Amazon, check that expert’s official social media page before clicking the purchase link.

Finley Watson, PhD Candidate, Politics, La Trobe University

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

Sydney’s Hyde Park Barracks was built between 1817 and 1819 to house male convicts.

The barracks is World Heritage Listed for its convict history, but is equally important for the story of 19th century Australian immigration.

After the end of convict transportation to New South Wales, the Hyde Park Barracks became home to the Female Immigration Depot (1848–87) and the Female Destitute Asylum (1862–86).

The depot housed newly arrived unmarried women and girls who came to New South Wales on subsidised tickets. The asylum was for women who couldn’t support themselves because of age, illness or disability.

Official records for the two female institutions suggest the women who stayed there ate a monotonous diet of bread, tea and meat (roasted or boiled into soup) in the dining rooms.

My new archaeological research published in Antiquity tells a different story. Dried plant materials found under the floorboards of the upstairs dormitories show inhabitants were eating a range of fresh fruits, nuts, vegetables and even spices.

This research sheds new light on the diets of settlers in 19th century Sydney and the importance of combining documentary research with archaeology to understand the history of institutions where official records alone can’t tell the whole story.

More than a monotonous diet

The women and girls who stayed in the Female Immigration Depot and the Female Destitute Asylum found a safe place to stay, with a bed and three meals a day.

But they also had to live by strict rules under the supervision of a matron, and had to do most of the cooking and cleaning to keep the institutions running.

Eyewitness accounts, government reports and official records tell us the meals served in the dining rooms were monotonous: bread and tea for breakfast and supper, and a soup made of boiled meat and vegetables with yet more bread for dinner (served at lunch time), the main meal of the day.

On special occasions, such as Christmas, the meat might be roasted and supplemented with puddings, fresh fruit and extra tobacco. But if that was what inhabitants were eating, why did archaeologists find thousands of fruit seeds and nut shells under the floorboards?

In the 1980s, archaeologists excavated parts of the courtyard as well as inside the building itself. As renovations started on the floorboards on the second and third floors of the building, archaeologists found tens of thousands of objects dropped or hidden beneath floorboards.

Like much of the archaeological collection, the botanical remains were not analysed systematically at the time of excavation. Now, my new analysis of the dried plant remains in the Hyde Park Barracks museum’s collection reveals women who stayed in these institutions supplemented the bland meals they were served.

Maybe they foraged fresh peaches on the way back from church, or bought peanuts from peddlers at the gates, or worked within the asylum for an extra ration of tobacco.

In an environment where everyone ate the same thing at the same time, these off-menu items were probably a way of expressing personal preferences and building relationships through sharing or bartering.

Food from home and away

Many of the foods the women were acquiring would have been familiar to immigrants from Britain.

The most common items I found were pits from stone fruit including peaches or nectarines, plums, cherries and apricots. There was also evidence for apples or pears, grapes, dates, hazelnuts, walnuts and citrus fruit.

Other foods introduced from South America, the Pacific and Southeast Asia, like an annonaceous fruit (like a modern custard apple), Brazil nuts, coconut, and lychees might have been unfamiliar to the British migrants. These plants, alongside pumpkin, chili pepper and corn originally from the Americas, highlight how Australia was part of global networks of plant exchanges.

The women were also learning about native Australian plants. A single fragment of macadamia shell is probably the only direct evidence of consumption of a native plant, but the women were collecting bottlebrush and tea tree.

The most interesting example is a complete woody pear, the seed pod of a shrub native to Australia’s east coast. Someone at Hyde Park Barracks carefully collected this specimen and labelled it with the botanical name Xylomelum pyriforme, revealing an interest in Australian botany.

A look at the lives of women

While we can’t connect individual people to individual plant remains at Hyde Park Barracks, we can catch glimpses of the lives of the women who stayed there.

A beautifully preserved rose must have been special to somebody who carefully kept it safe by placing it under the floorboards.

Groups of citrus peel or the seeds from something like a cherimoya hint at illicit meals, with the evidence hidden away from the matron’s watchful eye.

And maybe a whole chili pepper, still bright red, tells us about someone who liked to spice up their meals.

Each seed gets us a little bit closer to the lives of the women of Sydney 150 years ago.

Kimberley Connor, Postdoctoral Scholar at Stanford Archaeology Center, Stanford University

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

Australian photographer Carol Jerrems took an expansive approach to portraiture. She experimented with seriality – constructing narratives and meaning across multiple frames – and understood photography as a collaboration between her subjects, her camera and herself.

Born in Ivanhoe, Victoria, in 1949, Jerrems worked primarily with black and white photography until her early death in 1980.

Over 140 of her photographs are currently on display at the National Portrait Gallery in Canberra.

Everyday scenes, collective portraits

Faces are just one element of Jerrems’ portraits. Equally significant are the spaces she chose to photograph.

Many photographs depict her subjects in everyday realms: bedrooms, living rooms, suburban backyards and streets in Melbourne and Sydney in the 1970s.

She focused on faces and bodies amid the rumpled sheets of a bed, the clutter of a room, suburban street signage, the drape of a hospital curtain – always attentive to the interior frames of windows, tables, doorways.

Many images are taken in spaces dedicated to creativity or protest, speaking to the feminist politics of 1970s Australia and the mesh of domestic life, creative labour and resistance. There are artists’ studios, protests, the Filmmakers Co-Op in Sydney and the National Black Theatre in Redfern. There are film reels and fridges, sewing machines and slogans.

There are scenes at a university campus (a commission for Macquarie University), and eventually, and with finality, the interior of a Hobart hospital in the last series before her death from the rare illness Budd-Chiari syndrome in 1980.

These environmental portraits position the subject in a familiar context, such as their workplace or home. They treat space as part of the complexity of her human subjects.

This is not to say faces, and individuals, are not key: they are everywhere in this exhibition. Some are well-known, others are not.

Many of the portraits in the exhibition are photographs taken as part of Jerrems and Virginia Fraser’s 1974 photobook, A Book About Australian Women.

The book collates photographs of children, activists, writers, artists, historians and sex workers. There are the recognisable faces of a young Evonne Goolagong (1973) and an elderly Grace Cossington Smith (1974).

Portrait of Anne Summers (1974) pictures the author in her home, half her face in shadow, a pile of books behind her. Bobbie Sykes is at the podium in Black Moratorium, Sydney ’72 (1972) and elbows jutting out, hands on hips looking away from the camera in Bobbi Sykes, Aboriginal Medical Service (1973).

Shadows, patterns, frames

Looking at photographs can bring the temptation to focus on the singular, to seek out the one image that “speaks”.

But Jerrems’ life work, and the curation of this exhibition, suggest a different project. The meaning here accumulates across and between images.

The photograph Caroline Slade (1973) pictures a young girl, a solemn chameleon in a floral printed dress surrounded by floral wallpaper. This moment of camouflage has echoes in the image Enid Lorimer and Kate Fitzpatrick (1974). This photograph shows the actors gazing at each other in floral dresses that merge with the patterning of leaves in the garden behind them.

Sites of mimicry are coupled with other patterns, other photographs in conversation. Shadows repeat across images and years.

Lynn Gailey sewing (1976) features the right half of Gailey’s face in shadow. In the earlier photograph of Myra Skipper (1974), the bottom half of her face is in shadow and her eyes are averted upwards. Esben Storm’s face, repeatedly held by Jerrems’ gaze, regularly emerges from shadow, dappled with light.

Cuts, exchanges, phases

There is an autobiographical bent to many of the portraits. Jerrem’s presence enters the frame of Rita on the couch at Kilcare Beach (1976). The shadow of Jerrems’ arm, holding camera to eye, mirrors the angle of Rita’s crossed limbs.

Jerrems’ photograph of Ambrose Campbell (1973) shows him relaxed on a bed covered in white sheets. The photograph is framed to include her mirrored reflection, dressed and standing camera to eye. She is composed and appears distant, framed by the bright light of the window behind her.

In Self portrait after surgery (1979) Jerrems pulls the photographic frame in tightly around herself, her elbows raised but her camera and face are out of frame. There is a long stitched incision down her abdomen, the bruises and residues of medical tape telling a story on her skin.

In 1969 Jerrems produced the handmade, accordion photobook A Continuum of Age as an assignment while a student at Prahran Technical College.

In the front of the book strips of cut-and-pasted typewriter text explain the relevance of age to “every speck of matter”. The photographs compiled in the book are “not concerned with individuals, but with states, with phases, with specific periods of existence”.

This conceptual framing of the photobook (which, wonderfully, is on display, splayed open behind glass) offers another entry point to understanding Jerrems’ work and portraiture made during the following decade.

The photographs in this exhibition are all small prints, intended to be looked at closely, and, crucially, in relation to each other. This approach is reflected in the decision to exhibit several of Jerrems’ contact prints – sheets containing grids of images – which reveal their own history of being held, written on, cut into.

These imperfections are themselves part of the photographic exchange. They reflect the chain of decisions made by Jerrems, a glimpse into her process.

Carol Jerrems: Portraits is at the National Portrait Gallery, Canberra, until March 2.

Jane Simon, Senior Lecturer in Media, Macquarie University

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

The Black Friday bushfires which swept across southeastern Australia in January 1939 have been remembered as a deadly and traumatic event.

Most human deaths, however, occurred during the preceding heatwave – 78 lives were lost to bushfires in mainland southeastern Australia but at least 420 people died as a result of the high temperatures during the preceding week.

Globally, heatwaves still remain one of the deadliest natural hazards.

Our research examines how people in the past understood and adapted to extreme weather — without the contemporary comforts of airconditioning and refrigeration.

The fortnight when Adelaide sweltered

Adelaide is the most heatwave affected capital city in Australia.

In the first fortnight of 1939, the city endured 13 days of temperatures exceeding 34°C. January 12 was Adelaide’s hottest day since records began: 46.1°C (recorded at the time as 117.7°F) — a record that stood until 2019.

Record highs were also recorded across the southeastern states.

Diaries, press reports and oral history accounts reveal how Adelaidians coped with the heat.

Noel Weller, who lived on a suburban block in Glandore with his wife and two children, kept a daily diary. On January 12, 1939 he wrote:

117.7% A Record Hot Temperature day. I went to work in shirt sleeves. Lil & Peace Tenell who are on holiday came to tea & had shower & so did I morn(ing), night & before bed. We had Ice Blocks & Cool drinks on the front lawn & Chook & Doris came & all left at 11.15. WE ALL SLEPT OUTSIDE on the back lawn.

Like most households, the Wellers relied on an icebox to keep their food and drinks cool. Demand for ice, and prices, soared during the heatwave, and supply ran short, made worse by a mechanical failure at the government ice works.

By January 13, the situation was so dire the police had to manage crowds at some suburban ice depots.

General Motors Holden’s at Woodville was among the industrial workplaces that shortened shifts in response to the heat; others declared holidays to give workers a chance to recover.

Manufacturers of ice cream and cold drinks were extending hours and taking on casual staff to meet unprecedented demand.

How people tried to beat the heat

During this week, a small fashion war was being waged in the press.

Advocates for attire more suited to the climate ridiculed businessmen who determinedly wore suits and ties. Others hailed “courageous” young men for wearing shorts to work.

Women, meanwhile, were advised to wear sandals and go without gloves.

Florence Bond, a well-connected expat visiting from England, wrote of her difficulty sleeping in the heat. She attempted to sleep on a cane lounge in the garden with her dogs – it was an uncomfortable night, disturbed by hot winds and insects.

As the heatwave unfolded, she despaired that a good sleep would be “impossible.”

Those without verandas or gardens slept in Adelaide’s public squares and beaches.

Irene Ingram lived in the closely-packed row cottages of Adelaide’s East End in the 1930s with her husband and son. Interviewed in 2000, she vividly recalled sleeping outdoors to escape the heat of the house:

We used to have heat in those days, (one) hundred and ten, hundred and 12, hundred and fourteen (degrees) every day – that’d go on for two weeks. We used to sleep down in Hurtle Square, bring our blanket and a pillow down there, because the little houses we lived in were just so hot. Oh it was great fun; we used to think it was great. Everyone was down there.

The newspapers reported Adelaide’s beaches were crowded as thousands slept on the sand, taking the opportunity to start the next day with a reviving swim.

Some tragic consequences

Hospitals, meanwhile, were facing a rise in heat-related admissions.

Some doctors broke ranks to describe the conditions in some wards of Adelaide Hospital as “a reproach to the main hospital of a capital city”, pointing out the heat in some wards was affecting patients admitted for unrelated conditions.

What wasn’t publicly known until after the event was the death toll. A government statist reported that heat caused 64 deaths in January 1939 across South Australia and was a contributing factor in another 68.

Our detailed study (yet to be published) of death certificates reveals a slightly higher figure for the metropolitan area: 68 deaths for which heat was the only or a primary cause.

Most vulnerable were the very young and the old: two thirds of deaths were people older than 60, with a high proportion in psychiatric, aged or residential care.

Modern solutions

Since 1939, social and technological changes have transformed how Australians live – refrigerators are widespread, as is airconditioning in homes and public buildings.

In 2025, people may not choose to sleep outdoors but other strategies to manage heat remain relevant: using natural ventilation, taking rest, and wearing lightweight, loose-fitting clothing.

Noel Weller and his family visited and entertained friends and family throughout the heatwave, sharing ice cream and soft drinks in the cool of the evening.

Staying socially connected during extreme weather means others can keep an eye out for your welfare – and is as important now as it was in 1939.

Mandy Paul, Visiting Research Fellow, School of Humanities, University of Adelaide and Rochelle Schoff, PhD Candidate at La Trobe University, La Trobe University

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

Watch any match at this year’s Australian Open and you’ll see balls curving in the air or bouncing higher or lower than expected. Players such as Novak Djokovic, Iga Swiatek and Coco Gauff are particularly masterful at the art.

The secret? It’s all about spin.

The ability to control a tennis ball’s spin has transformed the modern game, making it faster and more spectacular than ever. But how exactly do players make the ball move through the air or bounce off the court like that?

The complex physics of spin

The physics underlying the effect is complex. But the easiest way to explain it is to consider the Magnus effect.

When a spinning ball moves through the air, it creates a force that makes it curve away from its straight-line path. Scientists call this the Magnus force, named after German physicist Heinrich Gustav Magnus who first described it in 1852.

The force is generated by the spinning ball dragging air around it in an unusual way. When a tennis player puts topspin on the ball (for example, by brushing the racquet upwards over the back of the ball during the shot), the ball spins forwards end-over-end after contact. As it spins, the friction between the ball and the air starts the air moving in the direction of spin.

Because air spins around the ball, oncoming air hitting the top of the ball collides with oncoming air due to the spin, and slows down. But air hitting the underside meets air moving in the same direction and travels relatively faster.

According to a law first introduced by the Swiss mathematician, Daniel Bernoulli, pressure is greater on top of the ball, where air flows slowly, than under the ball where the air moves quickly. This pressure difference pushes the ball downwards.

It’s the same principle that helps aeroplanes fly – except in reverse so the ball drops rather than flies.

Topspin: a lethal weapon

Topspin is one of the modern tennis player’s most powerful weapons. When top exponents such as recently retired star Rafael Nadal deploy it, the ball can spin at more than 50 rotations per second!

But why is topspin so lethal?

If a player hits the ball at a high speed, it should normally sail over the baseline because there’s insufficient time for gravity to drag it down into the court.

When hit with topspin, the ball will dip down quickly into the court. This allows players to hit the ball with a lot of horizontal velocity without the ball sailing over the baseline.

And because the top-spinning ball spins in the same direction as the ball travels, the ball continues quickly even after bouncing. So, the ball travels quickly both before and after its collision with the court, allowing less time for the opponent to get to it.

A final benefit is that the ball also tends to bounce higher than normal, which can make it harder to hit for an opposing player.

This is partly because the ball strikes the ground at a steeper angle as it curves downward toward the ground and partly because a ball spinning in the same direction as its travel will skid less as it bounces, saving energy and allowing the ball to bounce higher.

Backspin: the gentle winner

Alternatively, a player might “slice” the ball to put backspin on it by brushing under the ball with their racquet.

This creates an upward Magnus force, making the ball float and stay in the air longer than expected. The ball can then be kept low over the net and yet still travel far into the opponent’s side of the court.

When it lands, it stays low and can even skid slightly. So the ball slows down and stays low, making it hard to hit. In response, opponents often have to hit a slower return shot because the ball doesn’t bounce high enough to hit it with a lot of topspin.

The most dramatic use of backspin comes in the form of the “drop shot”, where players disguise a gentle, heavily underspun shot that barely clears the net, then “dies” on the bounce. This leaves little time for the opponent to rush to the net to make the shot before the ball bounces for its second time and the point is lost.

The Spanish star, Carlos Alcaraz, is a master of this type of shot, as you can see in the below video.

Harnessing the physics of spin

This year when you watch the Australian Open, pay attention to how players use spin to control the court: that “heavy” forehand that pushes an opponent back, the slice serve that draws them wide, the delicate drop shot that brings them forward.

And you might watch for players who put sidespin on the ball, the effects of which I’m sure you can now guess.

They’re all examples of players harnessing the physics of spin to their advantage.

Anthony Blazevich, Professor of Biomechanics, Edith Cowan University

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

A Victorian man is reportedly in a critical condition in hospital after contracting Japanese encephalitis from a mosquito bite.

This news comes after both Victoria and New South Wales issued public health alerts in recent weeks warning about the virus.

So what is Japanese encephalitis, and how can you protect yourself and your family if you live, work or are holidaying in mosquito-prone regions this summer?

Mosquito-borne diseases in Australia

Relative to other parts of the world, Australia has traditionally been very low risk for potentially life-threatening mosquito-borne diseases.

There’s no widespread dengue, yellow fever or malaria. But there are still many viruses that local mosquitoes can spread.

About 5,000 cases of mosquito-borne disease are reported in Australia each year. The vast majority of these are due to Ross River virus. The disease this virus causes is not fatal, though it can be severely debilitating.

Disease caused by two other pathogens, Japanese encephalitis virus and Murray Valley encephalitis virus, are much rarer but potentially fatal.

The symptoms of human disease caused by these two viruses are similar.

Most people infected show no symptoms. In mild cases, there may be fever, headache and vomiting. In more serious cases, people may experience neck stiffness, disorientation, drowsiness and seizures. Serious illness can have lifelong neurological complications and, in some cases, the disease is life-threatening.

There’s no specific treatment for either disease, though there is a vaccine for Japanese encephalitis which may be appropriate for certain people at high risk (more on that later).

The influence of weather patterns

Murray Valley encephalitis virus has been known in Australia for many decades. After a significant outbreak across the Murray Darling Basin region in 1974, activity has generally been limited to northern Australia.

Outbreaks in southeastern Australia often accompany flooding brought on by La Niña weather patterns. Floods provide ideal conditions for mosquitoes, as well as the waterbirds that harbour the virus.

Japanese encephalitis virus is closely related to Murray Valley encephalitis virus. Mosquitoes pick up both viruses by biting waterbirds. But Japanese encephalitis virus has only recently become widespread in Australia.

After flooding rains brought on by La Niña in 2020, conditions that persisted for three years, Murray Valley encephalitis virus returned and Japanese encephalitis virus arrived for the first time.

Japanese encephalitis virus was initially discovered in southeastern Australia during the summer of 2021–22, and the boom in mosquito and waterbird populations that followed flooding at the time contributed to its spread.

There have been around 80 cases of disease caused by these two viruses combined over the past four years. This includes seven deaths due to Japanese encephalitis across Queensland, NSW, South Australia and Victoria.

Additional deaths have been reported due to Murray Valley encephalitis in recent years – two each in Western Australia and the Northern Territory.

In the summer of 2023–24, hot and dry summer conditions returned, mosquito numbers declined, and the number of cases of disease caused by Japanese encephalitis virus and Murray Valley encephalitis dropped.

Now both viruses appear to be back. So what’s going on?

What’s different this summer?

This summer, Japanese encephalitis virus has been detected in mosquitoes and feral pigs in NSW. The virus has also been detected in environmental surveillance in northern Victoria, and we know at least one person has been affected there.

Meanwhile, Murray Valley encephalitis virus has been detected in sentinel chicken flocks – which health authorities use to test for increased mosquito-borne disease risk – in NSW and in the Kimberley region of Western Australia.

It’s unusual to see activity of these viruses when conditions are relatively dry and mosquito numbers relatively low.

Some regions of Australia may have experienced flooding, but for many regions of the country, conditions have been hot and dry. This is bad news for mosquitoes.

There is no evidence that mosquito numbers are booming like they did back when La Niña brought floods to the Murray-Darling Basin.

There also isn’t any evidence of more waterbird activity. In fact, numbers have declined in recent years.

So why are Japanese encephalitis virus and Murray Valley encephalitis virus active again when the conditions appear to be less favourable?

Despite predictions of a rare mid-summer return of La Niña, there’s still speculation about what this means for temperature and rainfall. We may not see flooding, but there is still likely to be enough water around for mosquitoes.

For Japanese encephalitis virus, it may be that feral pigs are playing a more important role in its spread. We know numbers are on the rise and with drier conditions, perhaps mosquitoes and feral pigs, and other wildlife, are gathering together where they can find bodies of water.

After its unexpected arrival, it now seems Japanese encephalitis virus is here to stay. But how this virus interacts with local mosquitoes and wildlife, under the influence of increasing unpredictable climatic conditions, requires more research.

How can you reduce your risk this summer?

The public health alerts in Victoria and NSW focus especially on specific regions in northern Victoria and around Griffith and Narromine in NSW where the virus has been detected.

If you live or work in areas at risk of Japanese encephalitis, seek advice from your local health authority to see if you are eligible for vaccination. Residents in specified local government areas in affected regions in both states are currently eligible for a free vaccine.

But there is no vaccine available for Murray Valley encephalitis or Ross River viruses.

Wherever you live, mosquito bite prevention is key. Apply insect repellent when outdoors, especially during dawn and dusk when mosquitoes are most active or at any time of the day if you’re in bushland or wetland areas where numbers of mosquitoes may be high.

You can get better protection by also covering up with a long-sleeved shirt, long pants, and covered shoes.

Cameron Webb, Clinical Associate Professor and Principal Hospital Scientist, University of Sydney

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

That satisfying feeling after doomscrolling through endless TikTok videos or impulsively shopping online mimics the relief of scratching an itch. This is dopamine at work — a brain chemical (neurotransmitter) responsible for feelings of reward and accomplishment. Whether indulging in viral videos or engaging in new hobbies, dopamine creates a sense of achievement that keeps us coming back for more.

However, reliance on these dopamine hits can lead to lasting brain changes, particularly in teenagers and young adults. This is what my team and I at London Southbank University study. We investigated which brain regions and connections change due to increased social media engagement — or “dopa-mining”, as we call it.

Using social media lights up the same parts of your brain as other addictions, such as drugs, alcohol and gambling. Scientists have found that every time you get a notification, a “like”, or even watch a video you enjoy, your brain’s reward system (the nucleus accumbens) gets activated. This is the same system that makes people feel pleasure when they win money or eat their favourite snack.

But here’s the catch: the more you use social media, the harder it can be for your brain to resist it. It’s like training your brain to crave those dopamine hits – just like an addiction.

Ever wonder why social media feels so addictive? It’s because your brain starts pruning (or trimming) neurons, a bit like cutting away extra branches on a tree, to make the “reward pathway” faster.

This sounds efficient, but it’s not great. The shorter pathway means your brain can “feel” rewards faster, but we know from research that it can also make you more impulsive and less able to stop yourself from scrolling. Over time, this pruning can shrink the size of certain brain areas, like the amygdala and nucleus accumbens, which are key for controlling emotions and making decisions.

Can social media mess with your mental health?

Have you noticed feeling more anxious or down after spending hours on Instagram or Snapchat? You’re not alone. Studies show that people who spend a lot of time on social media are more likely to feel stressed, anxious or even depressed. Why? Because apps such as Instagram are designed to make you seek validation from others. When you don’t get the likes or comments you’re hoping for, it can affect your self-esteem.

On the flip side, those who use social media less often report feeling more confident and less worried about what others think.

How many times have you promised yourself “just five more minutes”, while scrolling in bed, only to realise an hour has passed?

Social media is designed to keep you hooked, much like gambling or drinking. Every notification, like and comment triggers dopamine, making it harder to stop. Scientists call this “delay discounting”, which is when you choose the immediate reward (scrolling) over something important, like studying, sleeping or even hanging out with friends in real life.

Understanding the effect of social media on the brain is just the beginning. The next step in research is to dig even deeper into how social media disrupts the brain’s “default mode network” (DMN) — a system that’s active when you’re not focused on a specific task, such as when you’re daydreaming or reflecting.

Using EEG (a method that tracks brain activity), my team and I are examining whether heavy social media use interferes with this network. Why does this matter? The DMN plays a big role in how we process our sense of self, make decisions and even regulate our emotions. If it is disrupted, it could explain why some social media users struggle with attention, emotional control and maintaining healthy mental habits.

The good news is you don’t have to give up social media entirely. But being aware of how it affects your brain is the first step to taking back control.

Laura Elin Pigott, Senior Lecturer in Neurosciences and Neurorehabilitation, Course Leader in the College of Health and Life Sciences, London South Bank University

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

Roman writers found the relative empowerment of Celtic women in British society remarkable, according to surviving written records. New DNA research from the University of Bournemouth shows one of the ways this empowerment manifested – inheritance through the female line.

The researchers present a genetic analysis of mitochondrial DNA (mtDNA), which is matrilineally inherited (from the mother), and Y-chromosome DNA, which is patrilineally inherited (from the father). The DNA comes from human remains taken from a late iron age cemetery (circa 100BC – AD100) of the Durtriges tribe in Dorset.

The researchers discovered a continuous line of descent of mtDNA, which contrasted sharply with the varied Y-chromosome markers. That means that the bodies in the graveyard all shared DNA on the women’s side, but not the men’s side.

This led them to the conclusion that the tribe practised matrilocal marriages. That is, the men came to live with the women’s family, who stayed in the same location for generations.

When the authors compared their data to other iron age sites, they found that matrilocal marriages were common among the tribes. While this does not necessarily infer a matriarchal society, in which women were the primary decision-makers, it is a practice that supports the matrilineal inheritance of wealth, land and status.

The power of this analysis is its ability to pull together ancient textual accounts, linguistic studies and archaeological data to create a fuller understanding of our past. But it’s also a reminder that our present is plagued by prejudices and misconceptions about human history.

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News reports about the study have called it “jaw-dropping”. But considering the well-known power and military accomplishments of Celtic queens such as Boudica of the Iceni (circa AD30-AD60) and Cartimandua of the Brigantes, the results should not have been surprising.

If historic accounts were more honest, the find would have been received as a confirmation of the role of women in iron age Britain. Instead, it is being framed as a breakthrough that contradicts the innate assumption of patriarchy in history.

What has often been assumed to be an innate natural division in warfare (men fighting, women staying behind) is actually a male-centric perception of history.

I first presented on this topic at Penn State University during the 1996 gender and resistance conference. I quoted the then-speaker of the US House of Representatives, Newt Gingrich.

Giving a lecture on “renewing American civilization” January 7 1995, Gingrich had said: “If combat means living in a ditch, females have biological problems staying in a ditch for 30 days because they get infections. They don’t have upper body strength. I mean, some do, but they’re relatively rare.” He also said that “males are biologically driven to go out and hunt giraffes”.

Despite significant progress on many fronts, this kind of misogyny borne of historic misconceptions is still entrenched in society, right up to the highest levels of government.

Pete Hegseth, the current nominee for the US secretary of defence, wrote in his book The War on Warriors (2024) that: “There are examples in history of women in combat roles. But one is hard pressed to find many outside of religious or mythical settings that have anything close to a positive military outcome.”

He added: “Unlike the mythologies of great Amazonian Warriors in the Greek mythology, most of the world’s accounts of women in war were connected to seductive and sexual power.”

At a certain level, these statements can be interpreted as referencing the sexual dimorphism of our species. That is, the statistical contrast of size and strength in post-pubescent men and women based on genetic differences between males and females.

But if it were merely that a level of physical performance was required for someone to become a warrior, then any candidate who could pass a physical test would be eligible without regard to gender.

Warrior women through history

History is actually rife with examples of woman warriors. Accounts of conquistadors from the 16th century describe the Aztec women, the Native American women of Alabama and the women of the Tupinamba of Brazil as warriors.

The west-African kingdom of Dahomey, meanwhile, was known for its core of 5,000 fierce women warriors whom the British colonialists called Amazons. The true Amazons of Greek myth, who Hesgeth assumed have no basis in reality, can be attributed to the Scythians and Sarmatian female cavalry of the ancient Eurasian Steppe nomads.

The list of historic women warriors illustrates how such identities are determined more by cultural circumstances than genetic limitations.

Today the significant contributions of women warriors in Ukraine, Israel and the US military are breaking down preconceived misogynistic notions of power. Data-driven studies like this one show that the status and power of women in ancient Britain differed significantly from the Victorian ideals of femininity that still prevail today.

Studies like this, that illuminate a past where women held equal or elevated status, help normalise equality. Importantly, they undermine those who attempt to call upon history or divine design as a justification for misogynistic policies.

Jay Silverstein, Senior Lecturer in the Department of Chemistry and Forensics, Nottingham Trent University

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

E.M. Forster’s final novel and masterpiece, A Passage to India, celebrated its centenary in 2024. It tells the story of Adela Quested, who arrives in the city of Chandrapore with Mrs Moore, the mother of her fiancé, hoping to see “the real India”.

On an excursion to the infamous Marabar caves with the Indian doctor Aziz and the English schoolteacher Cyril Fielding, the women hear an echo that sets in motion the events that unfold across the rest of the book.

The echo causes an existential crisis for Moore. Quested, meanwhile, believes she has been assaulted in one of the caves by Aziz. A court case ensues that sends both the British and Indian public into a frenzy. While giving evidence, Quested realises that Aziz is innocent and that her experience in the caves was possibly the result of hysteria or a hallucination.

The novel refuses to answer the question of what, if anything, happened in the caves. At the heart of the book is a vacant centre, a black hole around which everything turns. It is this uncertainty which has allowed readers to arrive at so many different interpretations of the novel across the decades. So, how can we read the novel today, over 100 years after its first publication?

This article is part of Rethinking the Classics. The stories in this series offer insightful new ways to think about and interpret classic books and artworks. This is the canon – with a twist.

In a letter to a friend, Forster said that he didn’t know himself what happened in the caves; that he performed a “particular trick” by willing his “writing mind” to “remain a blur, and to be uncertain”. “I call it ‘trick’,” he wrote, “but 'voluntary surrender to infection’ better expresses my state.”

A voluntary surrender to infection? That phrase has troubled and confused many readers. As the eminent literary critic Frank Kermode once exclaimed, it’s an “odd expression!” But returning to the book now, in our post-pandemic moment, these words resonate powerfully – especially because A Passage to India was written in post-pandemic times, too.

Forster started writing the novel after his first visit to India in 1912, when the country – along with much of Asia – was in the grip of the third plague pandemic. On the day he arrived in the new capital Delhi, questions were asked in the UK parliament about the plague in India, “which, last year, caused 842,000 deaths and which has, during the last 16 years, swept away 8,000,000 victims”.

Forster then put his manuscript aside, and only began writing again in earnest after his second visit to India in 1921, when the world was emerging, traumatised, from the global influenza pandemic of 1918. That pandemic killed somewhere between 50 and 100 million people, and India was hit especially hard. Some studies suggest that in British-controlled areas of the country alone, 13.88 million people died.

As professor of literature Elizabeth Outka has observed, this event of mass death is everywhere in the literature of the period. But it has often gone unnoticed, overshadowed by the more obvious violence of the first world war.

The flow of disease

In the opening chapter of A Passage to India, Forster references influenza, a word that stems from the Latin influentia (“to flow into”). These etymological roots reflect the medieval belief that intangible fluid flowing from the stars was the cause of disease, affecting or “influencing” people.

Setting the scene at Chandrapore, the narrator describes all human life as determined by “the overarching sky” in which “the stars hang like lamps from the immense vault” – “the sky settles everything”. Under this stellar influence, disease spreads across the novel.

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The social pressures exerted by colonialism are described as “viral”, with Aziz “breathing the prevalent miasma” and Fielding’s “nerves breaking under the contagion”. In one of the book’s central scenes, Fielding visits the feverish Aziz in his sickbed.

And the infection spreads to Quested, it seems, as she prepares to give evidence at court:

The touch of her hands on her face started prickly heat, and she seemed to swallow and expectorate the same insipid clot of air that had weighed on her lungs all the night.

That which is “in the air” becomes highly significant. The “reputation” of the Marabar caves, we are told, “does not depend upon human speech”:

It is as if the surrounding plain or the passing birds have taken upon themselves to exclaim ‘extraordinary’, and the word has taken root in the air, and been inhaled by mankind.

There is something distinctly pathogenic about this – an airborne infection.

Inside one of the caves, Moore “couldn’t breathe, and some vile naked thing struck her face and settled on her mouth like a pad”. Later, bodies in the returning train “all resembled corpses, and the train itself seemed dead though it moved – a coffin”.

Moore is haunted by this experience, as if possessed by what is in the air. Words previously spoken with affection “seemed no longer hers but the air’s”, and she “surrendered to the vision” of an indifferent universe.

The “ou-boum” sound heard in the caves has often been interpreted as a distant echo of the trenches. But reading A Passage to India today, as we reflect on and reckon with the huge toll of the COVID pandemic, the “horror” unleashed by the caves resonates with a different trauma – reflecting a world changed irrevocably by disease.

Beyond the canon

As part of the Rethinking the Classics series, we’re asking our experts to recommend a book or artwork that tackles similar themes to the canonical work in question, but isn’t (yet) considered a classic itself. Here is Chris Mourant’s suggestion:

If you liked A Passage to India, try Untouchable by Mulk Raj Anand (1935), which is also set in India and centrally concerned with themes of dirt and contagion.

Inspired by the “day in the life” form of modernist city novels, such as Ulysses by James Joyce (1922) and Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf (1925), Anand’s book tells the story of Bakha, an 18-year-old sweeper and toilet cleaner who inwardly revolts against his low position as an “untouchable” in the Indian caste system.

Forster wrote a preface to this novel in which he observed: “Bakha is a real individual – lovable, thwarted, sometimes grand, sometimes weak, and thoroughly Indian.”

Chris Mourant, Lecturer in Early Twentieth-Century English Literature, University of Birmingham

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

Saturday Night Fever hit the silver screen in 1977 and epitomised the culture of the time. Disco music, flared trousers and pure escapism. Saturdays remain the most popular night for going out, although it has very much moved on from the days of John Travolta and bell-bottoms. But the pleasure-seeking lifestyle has remained and spawned a collection of what might be referred to as the “Saturday night conditions”.

Let’s start with “fever”. It’s important not to overlook the risk of overheating on a night out. Get caught up in the beat and prolonged, frenetic dancing can raise your temperature to new heights. This can lead to severe dehydration – which if you’re not careful, can land you in A&E. So keep sipping that water.

The clubbing drug, ecstasy, is well known for its ability to cause overheating too. One study that examined the effect of the drug on clubbers found that it raised their body temperatures at least one or two degrees higher than those who hadn’t used it. The other associated dangers mean it’s never a good idea to use it.

But Saturday night fever is not the only condition that can mess up your weekend. Here are some others.

Saturday night blindness

In 1974, a group of ophthalmologists reported a case of an individual who had collapsed while intoxicated and woke up blind in one eye the next day.

The patient had fallen into a stupor, face down, and placed continuous pressure on one of their eyes. In doing so, the artery that supplies the eye was compressed. Shutting off the blood supply had caused irreversible damage to the light-sensitive retina and loss of sight. The condition also led to paralysis of the eye’s movements.

It seems extraordinary that this position could cause something as extreme as blindness. “Saturday night retinopathy”, as it has since been named, is luckily very rare but has been described in other reports. One example detailed three patients who developed the same symptoms through similar circumstances, after remaining prone and unconscious for long periods. In each case, the loss of sight was profound and vision could not be recovered.

Saturday night rashes

While Whigfield might like the way you move, too much dancing on a Saturday night might be to your detriment (pretty baby).

Take the cases of two separate adolescents who went to see their doctor, complaining about an odd, itchy rash on their legs. They appeared to look like purple spots, which are otherwise known as purpura. However, the appearance of these purpura only seemed to coincide with weekend trips to the disco – and disappeared after a few days.

The doctors who saw them named the condition “Saturday night purpura”. The condition is more commonly referred to as exercise-induced vasculitis: inflammation of blood vessels through exertion, which causes the purple rash. It particularly arises in people who have been on their feet for a long time, especially in warm environments.

Saturday night palsy

Unfortunately for some Saturday night owls, the end destination is a trip to A&E. Frequently, this is as a result of alcohol or substance misuse, which precipitates falls and fisticuffs. Another very good reason to limit the amount of alcohol you consume – to mitigate injuries, and a very disappointing denouement to your night out.

It’s not uncommon for doctors to call in inebriated patients from the A&E waiting room to find them sound asleep. If they hang their arm over the back of the chair to stop themselves sliding on to the floor, they may end up with a case of Saturday night palsy. A palsy is another name for paralysis in a muscle, sometimes due to compression and damage to the nerve that makes it work.

This happens when the radial nerve – a large nerve that runs from the shoulder down the arm to the tips of your fingers – becomes compressed, such as when it hangs over the back of a hard chair for too long.

The patient may find themselves with a weak arm upon being roused, since the radial nerve controls muscles that extend their wrist, and straightens their arm. They may also experience pins and needles.

It can also happen when falling asleep awkwardly on your arm in bed, or wherever else you may find yourself the next morning.

Given the hedonism we’ve come to associate with the weekend environment, it’s unsurprising that many doctors have connected it to certain cases they’ve seen. But Saturday-night conditions can, of course, occur any day of the week, given the right conditions and misfortune.

The message of the story: enjoy your Saturday nights, but never forget the importance of stayin’ alive.

Dan Baumgardt, Senior Lecturer, School of Physiology, Pharmacology and Neuroscience, University of Bristol

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

Imagine you are at sea facing a violent battle with an enemy ship. The experienced 17th-century surgeon John Moyle asked his reader to do just that. In his printed guide of recommended practice, the reader was compelled to put themselves in the place of a ship’s surgeon in the thick of battle: “You have another wounded Man brought down, having a Musket bullet penetrated into the thick of his Groin, and lodging there, and the great Vessels wounded, and bleeding lamentably.”

For sailors facing injury, accident, or illness at sea in the 16th and 17th centuries, the ship’s surgeon was the only professional medical help. And yet we know relatively about the experiences and lives of shipboard surgeons.

My research explores texts written by British ship surgeons to get a deeper understanding of medical care at sea, and the emotional and psychological challenges of shipboard life for surgeon and crew.

By the 17th century, surgeons were a regular presence on English merchant and naval ships. This was an era of improved ship technology, maritime exploration and rapidly developing global trade and exploitation.

A surgeon was necessary for hazardous long-distance merchant voyages that lasted weeks, even months, across the Indian and Atlantic oceans. The Royal Navy grew substantially during a series of major wars from the mid 17th century – and with it the medical needs of naval seamen.

Ship surgeons had a weighty responsibility. As well as treating illnesses and injuries, they equipped the medicine chest (containing surgical tools and medicines), made their own remedies, and were often responsible for the ship’s sanitation. Surgeons were trained by apprenticeship, on ships or on shore.

In his popular printed guide on preparing the medicine chest and medical care at sea, surgeon John Woodall recommended that trainee ship surgeons closely observe signs of sickness in the crew, gain hands-on therapeutic experience, and “read much” on surgery and medicine. Both practical and theoretical knowledge were important.

Ships at sea were a challenging working environment for crews and their surgeons. Accidents were frequent, especially in wet and windy conditions. Seafarers fell from masts, slipped on the deck and were injured by nautical equipment. The ship’s surgeon Henry Watson, aboard British naval warship HMS Tyger in the Mediterranean, recounts how Thomas Story, an unfortunate crew member, fell from the fore-topmast to the deck and fractured his skull. In his log, Watson added the grisly detail of Story’s brain matter “flying out upon the deck” on impact.

As well as the very real risks of serious injury, diseases such as typhus, dysentery and malaria spread quickly in the confined and poorly ventilated space of the ship – especially in hot climates. Diets were limited and lacking in fresh fruit and vegetables. Scurvy (caused by a lack of vitamin C) was a serious problem on long-distance voyages.

Scottish ship’s surgeon William Ferguson wrote of scurvy sufferers who were unable to walk, “so emaciated and breathless”, with rotten gums and “livid yellow Swellings on their joints”. John Woodall recommended the use of citrus fruits to combat the “lamentable disease” of scurvy – though this advice would not be widely adopted by the Royal Navy until the late 18th century.

Humours

In his mid-17th medical journal written aboard the merchant vessels Peregrine and Phoenix, ship’s surgeon John Conny recorded his daily treatment of the crew. Conny applied medicated bandages and gave cordials and medicines. Crucially, he purged the sick body – sailors were bled, by opening a vein with a blade and given remedies to vomit and sweat.

This may seem strange to us, but in the 17th century the human body was believed to be composed of four “humours” (blood, phlegm, yellow bile and black bile). Bloodletting and purging “balanced” the humours and rid the body of so-called corrupt humours, which was understood as the cause of disease. Surgery, such as amputation, was very risky in an era before antibiotics, antiseptics and anaesthetic, and only undertaken as a last resort.

Woodall recommended that surgery should only be done with the patient’s “own free will, and request”, and the sailor should prepare his soul for death. Performing operations on a constantly moving vessel was no easy task. Surgeons had to steady their hands against the unpredictable sway of the ship, often working by dim lantern light in cramped, unsanitary quarters as waves crashed around them.

Psychological distress

The challenges and risks of life at sea were not just physical but also psychological. Ships could be claustrophobic, with little privacy or personal freedom. Months at sea, with no sight of land, was disorientating. Warfare was emotionally taxing. Storms were terrifying.

The writings of ships’ surgeons give us access to some of these emotional experiences and mental health challenges. Moyle described states of psychological distress in which confused sailors believed the sea “to be a Meadow, and will endeavour to go into it”. This would usually end in tragedy.

From aboard the Blackham Galley, surgeon John Looker recorded the shared terror of the crew as they endured “tempestuous weather and hurricanes of wind, the sea running mountains high”. They were “expecting every hour to be lost”.

The manual nature of the surgeons’ craft, and his contact with diseased bodies lowered his social status in pre-modern society. Unfavourable comparisons were made between surgeons and butchers – both carved bodies and handled flesh. Surgeons were also presented as ignorant by contrast to university-educated physicians.

My research suggests that the reality was more complex. Ships’ surgeons could have considerable skill and experience, be wary about the risks of surgery, and have an awareness of the latest medical knowledge.

The accounts of ships’ surgeons enrich our understanding of medical care at sea at a time of unprecedented maritime activity and expansion. Their writings also provide fascinating insights into the everyday experiences and challenges of early modern shipboard society.

Jasmine Kilburn-Toppin, Lecturer in Early Modern History, Cardiff University

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

The Black Friday bushfires which swept across southeastern Australia in January 1939 have been remembered as a deadly and traumatic event.

Most human deaths, however, occurred during the preceding heatwave – 78 lives were lost to bushfires in mainland southeastern Australia but at least 420 people died as a result of the high temperatures during the preceding week.

Globally, heatwaves still remain one of the deadliest natural hazards.

Our research examines how people in the past understood and adapted to extreme weather — without the contemporary comforts of airconditioning and refrigeration.

The fortnight when Adelaide sweltered

Adelaide is the most heatwave affected capital city in Australia.

In the first fortnight of 1939, the city endured 13 days of temperatures exceeding 34°C. January 12 was Adelaide’s hottest day since records began: 46.1°C (recorded at the time as 117.7°F) — a record that stood until 2019.

Record highs were also recorded across the southeastern states.

Diaries, press reports and oral history accounts reveal how Adelaidians coped with the heat.

Noel Weller, who lived on a suburban block in Glandore with his wife and two children, kept a daily diary. On January 12, 1939 he wrote:

117.7% A Record Hot Temperature day. I went to work in shirt sleeves. Lil & Peace Tenell who are on holiday came to tea & had shower & so did I morn(ing), night & before bed. We had Ice Blocks & Cool drinks on the front lawn & Chook & Doris came & all left at 11.15. WE ALL SLEPT OUTSIDE on the back lawn.

Like most households, the Wellers relied on an icebox to keep their food and drinks cool. Demand for ice, and prices, soared during the heatwave, and supply ran short, made worse by a mechanical failure at the government ice works.

By January 13, the situation was so dire the police had to manage crowds at some suburban ice depots.

General Motors Holden’s at Woodville was among the industrial workplaces that shortened shifts in response to the heat; others declared holidays to give workers a chance to recover.

Manufacturers of ice cream and cold drinks were extending hours and taking on casual staff to meet unprecedented demand.

How people tried to beat the heat

During this week, a small fashion war was being waged in the press.

Advocates for attire more suited to the climate ridiculed businessmen who determinedly wore suits and ties. Others hailed “courageous” young men for wearing shorts to work.

Women, meanwhile, were advised to wear sandals and go without gloves.

Florence Bond, a well-connected expat visiting from England, wrote of her difficulty sleeping in the heat. She attempted to sleep on a cane lounge in the garden with her dogs – it was an uncomfortable night, disturbed by hot winds and insects.

As the heatwave unfolded, she despaired that a good sleep would be “impossible.”

Those without verandas or gardens slept in Adelaide’s public squares and beaches.

Irene Ingram lived in the closely-packed row cottages of Adelaide’s East End in the 1930s with her husband and son. Interviewed in 2000, she vividly recalled sleeping outdoors to escape the heat of the house:

We used to have heat in those days, (one) hundred and ten, hundred and 12, hundred and fourteen (degrees) every day – that’d go on for two weeks. We used to sleep down in Hurtle Square, bring our blanket and a pillow down there, because the little houses we lived in were just so hot. Oh it was great fun; we used to think it was great. Everyone was down there.

The newspapers reported Adelaide’s beaches were crowded as thousands slept on the sand, taking the opportunity to start the next day with a reviving swim.

Some tragic consequences

Hospitals, meanwhile, were facing a rise in heat-related admissions.

Some doctors broke ranks to describe the conditions in some wards of Adelaide Hospital as “a reproach to the main hospital of a capital city”, pointing out the heat in some wards was affecting patients admitted for unrelated conditions.

What wasn’t publicly known until after the event was the death toll. A government statist reported that heat caused 64 deaths in January 1939 across South Australia and was a contributing factor in another 68.

Our detailed study (yet to be published) of death certificates reveals a slightly higher figure for the metropolitan area: 68 deaths for which heat was the only or a primary cause.

Most vulnerable were the very young and the old: two thirds of deaths were people older than 60, with a high proportion in psychiatric, aged or residential care.

Modern solutions

Since 1939, social and technological changes have transformed how Australians live – refrigerators are widespread, as is airconditioning in homes and public buildings.

In 2025, people may not choose to sleep outdoors but other strategies to manage heat remain relevant: using natural ventilation, taking rest, and wearing lightweight, loose-fitting clothing.

Noel Weller and his family visited and entertained friends and family throughout the heatwave, sharing ice cream and soft drinks in the cool of the evening.

Staying socially connected during extreme weather means others can keep an eye out for your welfare – and is as important now as it was in 1939.

Mandy Paul, Visiting Research Fellow, School of Humanities, University of Adelaide and Rochelle Schoff, PhD Candidate at La Trobe University, La Trobe University

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

Australian photographer Carol Jerrems took an expansive approach to portraiture. She experimented with seriality – constructing narratives and meaning across multiple frames – and understood photography as a collaboration between her subjects, her camera and herself.

Born in Ivanhoe, Victoria, in 1949, Jerrems worked primarily with black and white photography until her early death in 1980.

Over 140 of her photographs are currently on display at the National Portrait Gallery in Canberra.

Everyday scenes, collective portraits

Faces are just one element of Jerrems’ portraits. Equally significant are the spaces she chose to photograph.

Many photographs depict her subjects in everyday realms: bedrooms, living rooms, suburban backyards and streets in Melbourne and Sydney in the 1970s.

She focused on faces and bodies amid the rumpled sheets of a bed, the clutter of a room, suburban street signage, the drape of a hospital curtain – always attentive to the interior frames of windows, tables, doorways.

Many images are taken in spaces dedicated to creativity or protest, speaking to the feminist politics of 1970s Australia and the mesh of domestic life, creative labour and resistance. There are artists’ studios, protests, the Filmmakers Co-Op in Sydney and the National Black Theatre in Redfern. There are film reels and fridges, sewing machines and slogans.

There are scenes at a university campus (a commission for Macquarie University), and eventually, and with finality, the interior of a Hobart hospital in the last series before her death from the rare illness Budd-Chiari syndrome in 1980.

These environmental portraits position the subject in a familiar context, such as their workplace or home. They treat space as part of the complexity of her human subjects.

This is not to say faces, and individuals, are not key: they are everywhere in this exhibition. Some are well-known, others are not.

Many of the portraits in the exhibition are photographs taken as part of Jerrems and Virginia Fraser’s 1974 photobook, A Book About Australian Women.

The book collates photographs of children, activists, writers, artists, historians and sex workers. There are the recognisable faces of a young Evonne Goolagong (1973) and an elderly Grace Cossington Smith (1974).

Portrait of Anne Summers (1974) pictures the author in her home, half her face in shadow, a pile of books behind her. Bobbie Sykes is at the podium in Black Moratorium, Sydney ’72 (1972) and elbows jutting out, hands on hips looking away from the camera in Bobbi Sykes, Aboriginal Medical Service (1973).

Shadows, patterns, frames

Looking at photographs can bring the temptation to focus on the singular, to seek out the one image that “speaks”.

But Jerrems’ life work, and the curation of this exhibition, suggest a different project. The meaning here accumulates across and between images.

The photograph Caroline Slade (1973) pictures a young girl, a solemn chameleon in a floral printed dress surrounded by floral wallpaper. This moment of camouflage has echoes in the image Enid Lorimer and Kate Fitzpatrick (1974). This photograph shows the actors gazing at each other in floral dresses that merge with the patterning of leaves in the garden behind them.

Sites of mimicry are coupled with other patterns, other photographs in conversation. Shadows repeat across images and years.

Lynn Gailey sewing (1976) features the right half of Gailey’s face in shadow. In the earlier photograph of Myra Skipper (1974), the bottom half of her face is in shadow and her eyes are averted upwards. Esben Storm’s face, repeatedly held by Jerrems’ gaze, regularly emerges from shadow, dappled with light.

Cuts, exchanges, phases

There is an autobiographical bent to many of the portraits. Jerrem’s presence enters the frame of Rita on the couch at Kilcare Beach (1976). The shadow of Jerrems’ arm, holding camera to eye, mirrors the angle of Rita’s crossed limbs.

Jerrems’ photograph of Ambrose Campbell (1973) shows him relaxed on a bed covered in white sheets. The photograph is framed to include her mirrored reflection, dressed and standing camera to eye. She is composed and appears distant, framed by the bright light of the window behind her.

In Self portrait after surgery (1979) Jerrems pulls the photographic frame in tightly around herself, her elbows raised but her camera and face are out of frame. There is a long stitched incision down her abdomen, the bruises and residues of medical tape telling a story on her skin.

In 1969 Jerrems produced the handmade, accordion photobook A Continuum of Age as an assignment while a student at Prahran Technical College.

In the front of the book strips of cut-and-pasted typewriter text explain the relevance of age to “every speck of matter”. The photographs compiled in the book are “not concerned with individuals, but with states, with phases, with specific periods of existence”.

This conceptual framing of the photobook (which, wonderfully, is on display, splayed open behind glass) offers another entry point to understanding Jerrems’ work and portraiture made during the following decade.

The photographs in this exhibition are all small prints, intended to be looked at closely, and, crucially, in relation to each other. This approach is reflected in the decision to exhibit several of Jerrems’ contact prints – sheets containing grids of images – which reveal their own history of being held, written on, cut into.

These imperfections are themselves part of the photographic exchange. They reflect the chain of decisions made by Jerrems, a glimpse into her process.

Carol Jerrems: Portraits is at the National Portrait Gallery, Canberra, until March 2.

Jane Simon, Senior Lecturer in Media, Macquarie University

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

With almost all menswear bought off the rack or online today, the “shoddy dropper” has long passed into obscurity.

This 1920s slang term, used only in Australia and New Zealand, referred to roving sellers of cloth. Most shoddy droppers sold men’s suiting such as serges and tweeds. They walked city streets or went door-to-door in suburbs and towns.

Driven by a cost-of-living crisis that followed the first world war, shoddy dropping was eventually killed off by rising wages by the 1950s.

The practice underscores how readily fashion markets respond to economic factors such as supply, demand, inflation and wages.

‘Suit-length swindlers’

The most successful shoddy droppers were smooth talkers attractively dressed in made-to-measure three-piece suits.

They often went door-to-door, trying to convince would-be customers they could afford to dress like them. All a customer had to do was buy the shoddy dropper’s “high-quality” suit-lengths at a price they would be unable to find elsewhere.

Some shoddy droppers also claimed to have a special deal with a tailor that allowed buyers to have their suit tailor-made at a steal.

The term “shoddy dropping” played on the dual meaning of the word “shoddy”. The first was a noun referring to a cheap fabric made from a mix of new and recycled wool. The second was an adjective meaning “inferior or badly-made”.

Both meanings of shoddy were implicit in an article published in a rural New South Wales paper in 1913.

Though the writer did not use the term “shoddy dropping”, they warned readers against travelling “suit-length swindlers”, saying that

shoddy articles are frequently palmed off as good quality cloths by irresponsible men.

The number of shoddy droppers at any one time was probably tiny, but since they were off the books they are impossible to quantify.

Having said this, crime and news reports suggest the practice began around the start of the first world war.

Supply, demand, inflation and wages

Shoddy dropping surged in the the 1920s and 1940s, as prices soared due to war.

Working-class men’s desire for well-fitting suits was another factor. When Melbourne carters and factory workers gave evidence to the Australian Royal Commission on the Basic Wage in 1920, for example, they said most men they knew wore tailor-made suits to and from work.

This created financial stress; spiralling costs meant made-to-measure suits were hard to afford.

Fashion was another likely reason for the surges in shoddy dropping in the 1920s and 1940s.

The slimline jazz suit, which came into vogue in the early twenties, was just one example.

The jacket of this suit was single-breasted and slightly flared from the waist, while the trousers were narrow and short enough to expose silk-knit “jazz socks”.

The impish charisma of the jazz-suited Louis Stirling below makes it is easy to imagine how a stylish shoddy dropper persuaded fashion-conscious young men to buy their wares.

Stirling was a suit-length seller photographed by Sydney police in 1920 after he was caught stealing cloth. He later produced evidence that he was a shoddy dropper to escape a vagrancy charge in Melbourne in 1922.

The high number of restless first world war veterans looking for work was a further reason for a surge in shoddy dropping in the 1920s.

Consider returned serviceman Reginald Sharples (also known as Walter Johnson). In 1920, police charged him and an accomplice with stealing more than £1,000 of men’s suiting from a tailor in Sydney’s Hunter Street. This was somewhere in the vicinity of A$83,000 today.

Sharples was caught after transporting the stolen cloth to Melbourne. Like Stirling, he later produced convincing evidence to show that he was a shoddy dropper to escape a vagrancy charge.

In his 1920 mugshot, Sharples is dressed in an early interwar version of smart-casual street style. He had combined a light pinstripe suit with a cream turtleneck sweater, black fedora and returned-serviceman’s badge.

Sharples was also an example of links between shoddy dropping and organised crime in and after the 1920s.

Apart from the suits-stealing charge, Sharples was also convicted of stealing morphine and cocaine from a wholesale druggist in Melbourne in 1922. He was also unsuccessfully prosecuted for vagrancy along with Louis Stirling in 1924.

Rumours that both men were associates of underworld figure Squizzy Taylor swirled in court during the trial.

A cost-of-living story

Shoddy dropping had disappeared by the mid-1950s, thanks to rising wages and increasing sophistication in the manufacture of ready-made suits.

These factors meant there were fewer low-income men who felt the only way they could afford a decent suit was to first buy cloth “off the back of a truck”, then face the uncertainty of arranging for it to be tailor-made.

Though shoddy dropping flew under the radar even in the 1920s, it is worth remembering today as a reminder of the unscrupulous selling practices that bloom in cost-of-living crises.

Along with the evidence in the extraordinary informal mugshots taken by Sydney police across the interwar era, shoddy dropping offers further insights into Australia’s history of male fashion consumers’ desire.

It has often been said Australian men were a cause lost to fashion. Shoddy dropping suggests that, in fact, many longed to dress in tailor-made suits and quality textiles. For many, however, those commodities were frustratingly out of reach.

Melissa Bellanta, Professor of Modern History (Australian Catholic University), Visiting Professor of Australian Studies (Seoul National University), Australian Catholic University

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

Neale Daniher, a campaigner in the fight against motor neurone disease and a former champion Essendon footballer, is the 2025 Australian of the Year,

Himself a sufferer from the deadly disease Daniher, 63, who lives in Victoria, co-founded the charity FightMND, that has raised and invested more than $100 million into research to seek a cure.

Daniher was diagnosed in 2013. “Neale has lived his condition very publicly, even in the advanced stages of the disease,” a statement announcing the award said. He has also defied the usual odds in surviving with the disease for more than a decade when the average life expectancy is 27 months.

“With amazing courage and relentless drive, he’s dedicated his life to helping prevent the suffering of those who’ll be diagnosed in the future.”

Daniher played for Essendon between 1979 and 1990, and at 20 years old was the club’s youngest ever captain. He was senior coach of Melbourne from 1998 to 2007.

He has made appearances at FightMND’s regular Big Freeze event.

The Senior Australian of the Year is Brother Thomas Oliver Pickett, 84, from Western Australia, co-founder of Wheelchairs for Kids in 1996. The charity provides free adjustable wheelchairs and occupational therapy expertise for children in developing countries.

More than 60,000 custom-made wheelchairs have been given to children in more than 80 countries. The charity has more than 250 retired workshop volunteers (with an average age of 74); another more than 550 people sew covers, rugs and soft toys.

“Olly also spearheaded the development of an innovative, low cost wheelchair design to World Health Organisation standards that grows as the children do – a world first,” the announcement said.

The Young Australian of the Year is scientist Katrina Wruck, 30, from Queensland, a Mabuigilaig and Goemulgal woman.

Based on her research she has set up a profit-for-purpose business, Nguki Kula Green Labs “which is poised to transform the consumer goods sector by harnessing the power of green chemistry, while inspiring others to step into STEM.

"Katrina’s method of converting mining by-products to zeolite LTA – which can remove contaminants from water that cause hardness – will be commercialised.”

Local Heroes are Vanessa Brettell, 31, and Hannah Costello, 32, co- founders of Cafe Stepping Stone.

The business, in two locations in the ACT, “operates as a social enterprise, employing women mostly from migrant and refugee backgrounds and others who experience significant barriers to employment”.

Their “inclusive employment practices involve targeting female workers who are the sole income earners in their households, new arrivals to Australia, those with limited English or minimal employment history, and those experiencing homelessness”.

The awards were presented by Prime Minister Anthony Albanese in Canberra on Saturday night.

Michelle Grattan, Professorial Fellow, University of Canberra

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

Sydney’s Hyde Park Barracks was built between 1817 and 1819 to house male convicts.

The barracks is World Heritage Listed for its convict history, but is equally important for the story of 19th century Australian immigration.

After the end of convict transportation to New South Wales, the Hyde Park Barracks became home to the Female Immigration Depot (1848–87) and the Female Destitute Asylum (1862–86).

The depot housed newly arrived unmarried women and girls who came to New South Wales on subsidised tickets. The asylum was for women who couldn’t support themselves because of age, illness or disability.

Official records for the two female institutions suggest the women who stayed there ate a monotonous diet of bread, tea and meat (roasted or boiled into soup) in the dining rooms.

My new archaeological research published in Antiquity tells a different story. Dried plant materials found under the floorboards of the upstairs dormitories show inhabitants were eating a range of fresh fruits, nuts, vegetables and even spices.

This research sheds new light on the diets of settlers in 19th century Sydney and the importance of combining documentary research with archaeology to understand the history of institutions where official records alone can’t tell the whole story.

More than a monotonous diet

The women and girls who stayed in the Female Immigration Depot and the Female Destitute Asylum found a safe place to stay, with a bed and three meals a day.

But they also had to live by strict rules under the supervision of a matron, and had to do most of the cooking and cleaning to keep the institutions running.

Eyewitness accounts, government reports and official records tell us the meals served in the dining rooms were monotonous: bread and tea for breakfast and supper, and a soup made of boiled meat and vegetables with yet more bread for dinner (served at lunch time), the main meal of the day.

On special occasions, such as Christmas, the meat might be roasted and supplemented with puddings, fresh fruit and extra tobacco. But if that was what inhabitants were eating, why did archaeologists find thousands of fruit seeds and nut shells under the floorboards?

In the 1980s, archaeologists excavated parts of the courtyard as well as inside the building itself. As renovations started on the floorboards on the second and third floors of the building, archaeologists found tens of thousands of objects dropped or hidden beneath floorboards.

Like much of the archaeological collection, the botanical remains were not analysed systematically at the time of excavation. Now, my new analysis of the dried plant remains in the Hyde Park Barracks museum’s collection reveals women who stayed in these institutions supplemented the bland meals they were served.

Maybe they foraged fresh peaches on the way back from church, or bought peanuts from peddlers at the gates, or worked within the asylum for an extra ration of tobacco.

In an environment where everyone ate the same thing at the same time, these off-menu items were probably a way of expressing personal preferences and building relationships through sharing or bartering.

Food from home and away

Many of the foods the women were acquiring would have been familiar to immigrants from Britain.

The most common items I found were pits from stone fruit including peaches or nectarines, plums, cherries and apricots. There was also evidence for apples or pears, grapes, dates, hazelnuts, walnuts and citrus fruit.

Other foods introduced from South America, the Pacific and Southeast Asia, like an annonaceous fruit (like a modern custard apple), Brazil nuts, coconut, and lychees might have been unfamiliar to the British migrants. These plants, alongside pumpkin, chili pepper and corn originally from the Americas, highlight how Australia was part of global networks of plant exchanges.

The women were also learning about native Australian plants. A single fragment of macadamia shell is probably the only direct evidence of consumption of a native plant, but the women were collecting bottlebrush and tea tree.

The most interesting example is a complete woody pear, the seed pod of a shrub native to Australia’s east coast. Someone at Hyde Park Barracks carefully collected this specimen and labelled it with the botanical name Xylomelum pyriforme, revealing an interest in Australian botany.

A look at the lives of women

While we can’t connect individual people to individual plant remains at Hyde Park Barracks, we can catch glimpses of the lives of the women who stayed there.

A beautifully preserved rose must have been special to somebody who carefully kept it safe by placing it under the floorboards.

Groups of citrus peel or the seeds from something like a cherimoya hint at illicit meals, with the evidence hidden away from the matron’s watchful eye.

And maybe a whole chili pepper, still bright red, tells us about someone who liked to spice up their meals.

Each seed gets us a little bit closer to the lives of the women of Sydney 150 years ago.

Kimberley Connor, Postdoctoral Scholar at Stanford Archaeology Center, Stanford University

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

Less red meat is good for the planet and a growing number of people have started the new year resolving to pursue a meat-free diet.

Besides being good for the planet and kinder to animals, eating less red meat is also better for your health. Reducing consumption of red and processed meat could reduce your risk of diabetes, cancer and heart disease. These diseases share risk factors with dementia, including the most common type, Alzheimer’s disease.

Alzheimer’s and other types of dementia are the UK’s leading cause of death. With Alzheimer’s, memory problems are often the first issue to become apparent and these are later followed by other cognitive impairments significantly affecting daily life and social interactions.

A large US-based study investigated different foods and their associated dementia risk in over 133,000 healthcare professionals who did not have dementia when the study started. They were tracked for over four decades. In that time, just over 11,000 developed dementia.

Eating processed red meat (such as sausages, bacon, hotdogs and salami) was linked to a 16% higher risk of dementia and a faster rate of cognitive ageing. Eating about two servings of processed red meat a week raised the risk of dementia by 14% compared with those who ate less than about three servings a month. (A serving is a piece of meat roughly the size of a deck of playing cards – around 85g.)

If people substituted processed red meat protein for that found in nuts, tofu or beans, they could reduce their dementia risk by 19%, the study found. The rate of cognitive ageing was also reduced.

In this same sample, eating less red and processed meat was shown to substantially reduce the risk of death from cancer and heart disease. The researchers estimated that almost one in ten deaths could have been prevented if everyone had eaten less than 42g of red meat (less than half a serving) a day throughout the study.

Red or processed meat can result in high levels of “bad fats” in the blood because of its saturated fat and cholesterol content. This can result in fatty deposits building up in the blood vessels, explaining some of the association with heart disease deaths.

High blood pressure can result from the high salt content in processed meats. The fat around the tummy caused by these calorific foods combined with a sedentary lifestyle is also linked to high blood pressure, in addition to inflammation of the blood vessels and diabetes.

These factors are all also associated with Alzheimer’s. “Good fats” found in nuts, fatty fish, olive oil and avocado could help reduce these mechanisms and may protect against dementia and memory decline.

Gut health

Scientists increasingly recognise the role of the gut in brain disorders.

Gut health can be improved with prebiotics, such as fibres in plants, and probiotics (the helpful bacteria that can be found in fermented foods such as tempe, sauerkraut, kefir, kombucha and yoghurt).

Plants and beans that contain lots of fibre were associated with less risk of dementia in the studies mentioned. Conversely, gut health can be negatively affected by ultra-processed food, such as crisps, fizzy drinks, breakfast cereals and ready meals.

A review of studies, published in 2023, found that people who ate lots of ultra-processed foods (of all kinds – not just processed meats) had a 44% higher risk of dementia. So, do we need to cut out all processed foods?

This is a difficult topic, and it is also very hard to implement. Much of what most of us eat is processed, from tinned vegetables to bread and milk. Many of these foods have health benefits. The above-mentioned review found that eating moderate amounts of ultra-processed food was not associated with an increased risk of dementia.

Moderation is key

As always, moderation is key in any diet. Any food or drink – even water – in the wrong dose can harm the body. So be wary of recent diet trends suggesting we need to eat loads of protein.

Too much protein can be tough on the kidneys, leading to their dysfunction. This is a problem as you need your kidneys to remove toxins from your body, get rid of excess fluids and waste. They help regulate blood pressure and support bone health, among other important functions. Not having good kidney function can lead to serious health problems.

Besides going meatless, many people want to lose weight in the new year. Keto diets with lots of protein and fat, while popular, have low adherence and the same weight loss as other diet programmes in the long term.

Eating a healthy, balanced diet that includes lots of plants, beans and good fats (such as those found in nuts and fish), and exercising regularly will help to reduce your risk of dementia and heart disease.

Eef Hogervorst, Professor of Biological Psychology, Loughborough University and Emma D'Donnell, Senior Lecturer in Exercise Physiology, Loughborough University

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

Having compulsory super should help create a comfortable and stress-free retirement. But Australia’s super system is too complex for retirees to navigate.

This can leave them stressed and lacking the confidence to spend their super savings.

Our latest report, Simpler super: taking the stress out of retirement, recommends the federal government offer all Australians a lifetime annuity - a financial product that pays a guaranteed income for the rest of their lives.

This would help retirees stress less, spend more, and enjoy their retirement years.

Stress prompts many to underspend super

For the first time, many Australians are entering retirement with significant super balances: Australians are retiring with an average super balance of more than A$200,000, and couples with about $300,000.

Despite having saved enough to be comfortable, four in five people say planning for retirement is complicated, and 60% don’t think their retirements will be financially stress-free.

Few retirees draw down on their retirement savings as intended. In fact, many are actually net savers – their savings continue to grow for decades after they retire.

Our analysis of the ABS Survey of Income and Housing shows for those aged 60-64 in 2003-04, average super balances had grown by 37% in real terms by the time they were aged 76-80 in 2019-20.

And their average net wealth, which excludes the equity in their home, grew by 14% over the same period.

Australia’s $4 trillion compulsory superannuation system is turning into a massive inheritance scheme. That’s not how super was supposed to work.

Retirees are given too little guidance

The super system makes most big decisions for working Australians, such as how much to contribute or how it’s invested. But once we retire there is little guidance about how to use our funds.

More than four in five retirees are steered into account-based pensions. But partly because they’re anxious not to outlive their savings, this group manages their spending very cautiously.

While on average, an Australian woman aged 65 today can expect to live until 88, they also have a one-in-five chance of either dying before age 81 or of making it to 94.

Half of those retirees who use an account-based pension draw their super at legislated minimum rates, which if followed, leave 65% of super balances unspent by average life expectancy.

This widespread use of account-based pensions makes Australia a global outlier. Retirees in most rich countries are automatically given – or otherwise strongly encouraged to choose – an income guaranteed to last their entire lives.

Research suggests having an income that is guaranteed to last until death can reduce stress and boost retirees’ spending.

Government could steer retirees into annuities

Our report argues retirees should be encouraged to use 80% of their super balance above $250,000 to purchase an annuity.

The government could embed this pre-set guidance throughout the retirement income system. It could be included in all relevant communications with retirees from super funds, and especially at the point of retirement.

Research shows that retirees tend to choose the option put in front of them.

The remaining super balance – $250,000, plus the remaining 20% of any savings above that level – would continue to be drawn down via an account-based pension. Retirees would still have to access their super for large purchases if needed.

Using some super to buy an annuity could boost expected retirement incomes by up to 25%, compared to solely drawing on an account-based pension at legislated minimum rates.

And it would ensure that the bulk of retirees’ incomes, irrespective of their super balances, would be guaranteed to last the rest of their lives.

Annuities should be provided by government, not super funds

But steering retirees into annuities offered via super funds is unlikely to work.

Super funds have resisted previous attempts by government to require them to offer annuities to retirees.

Many people also struggle to understand and compare annuities. They often find it difficult to switch to a better deal later even if they can spot one.

Recent experience in the UK showed when required to purchase an annuity, most people simply took what their fund was offering and often got a poor deal.

Designing a regulatory regime that overcomes these issues is a huge challenge. The best option, therefore, is for the government to directly offer annuities. It should offer all retirees a simple lifetime annuity as the baseline option.

The government could also offer alternatives including investment-linked annuities, where payments are guaranteed for life, but payments could vary based on investment returns.

Priced fairly, and managed by an independent agency, a government annuity would encourage there take-up. Retirees would be more confident that they’re getting a good deal.

Annuity payments would be made from the pool of capital created by annuity purchases, with these investments managed by the Future Fund.

Under reasonable assumptions we project the government annuity provider could be managing assets totalling 2.5% of GDP by 2040.

Superannuation offers Australians the promise of a more comfortable and stress-free retirement. Government-offered annuities can help turn that dream into reality.

Esther Suckling made substantial contributions to the research underpinning this article.

Brendan Coates, Program Director, Housing and Economic Security, Grattan Institute and Joey Moloney, Deputy Program Director, Housing and Economic Security, Grattan Institute

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

Podcasting is the medium of choice for millions of listeners looking for the latest commentary on almost any topic. In Australia, it’s estimated about 48% of people tune in to a podcast each month.

However, the rise of podcasts has also led to a new trend of “fake podcasts”. In some cases, these are a trivial marketing strategy. In others, they are a deceptive form of misinformation.

So what are fake podcasts?

Fake podcasts are short video clips designed to appear like snippets from real podcasts published on short-form content platforms such as TikTok.

These clips centre on one or sometimes two speakers, positioned behind high-quality broadcasting microphones, directing their conversation off camera. However, in reality no broader discussion is taking place.

These videos began gaining attention in late 2022 when social media users realised several viral clips showing commentators on seemingly high-profile podcasts were in fact “fake”. These clips weren’t from any real podcast episodes. In some instances the microphones hadn’t even been turned on.

The most noteworthy example came from fitness influencer and YouTuber Vincent Sant. To market his online brand, Sant created a video suggesting he had appeared on the Joe Rogan Experience.

Although the video showed him using the same microphone, headphones and red velvet curtain backdrop as Rogan, viewers quickly pointed out Sant had never appeared on the show. He removed the clip shortly after.

Since then, fake podcast clips have become a recognised marketing strategy employed by a range of brands. Some professional actors produce this content regularly, earning up to US$16,000 per month.

There are even explicit guides on LinkedIn for marketers wanting to produce their own fake podcasts, with the practice described as “the future of video marketing”.

Some fakes are more harmful than others

There are three main types of fake podcast, each one deceiving viewers to a different extent.

The first is the explicit ad. In this case, the podcast format is used to present an obvious sales pitch for a specific product. Examples include this ad from Junkee and Bank Australia:

While the ad uses a podcast format, it’s unlikely to fool many viewers, not least due to the “paid partnership” disclaimer.

The second category of fake podcasts uses the podcast aesthetic to market a personal brand, rather than a specific product. Several influencers including online entrepreneur Sebastian Ghiorghiu and Pearl Davis (the so-called “female Andrew Tate”), have garnered millions of followers through such clips, which intentionally leave the broader context ambiguous. They produce clips from both real and fake podcasts, with no means of differentiating the two.

These kinds of fake podcasts have three main purposes. The first is to gain consistent viewers. The second is to legitimise the creator’s, at times, conspiratorial political perspectives. And the third is to sell products.

The final and most intentionally deceptive form of fake podcast is what I call the “deep” fake podcast. These clips combine elements of the first two categories alongside manipulated audio and video – usually produced with the help of AI tools.

The purpose here is usually to convince viewers a certain prominent podcaster or personality has made certain claims and/or endorsed certain products. One recent example purports to show Joe Rogan and neuroscientist Andrew Huberman endorsing a “libido-boosting” supplement. This is the most deceptive form of the practice.

The psychology behind fake podcasts

Out of all the mediums to fake, why fake a podcast? Are online audiences so susceptible that they immediately associate anyone talking off camera into a microphone with expertise? Not quite.

Podcasting reflects what media researcher Henry Jenkins calls “convergence culture”. In this space, the distinctions between traditional, alternative and social media are increasingly blurred, as are the lines between producers, consumers, technical experts and “popular experts”.

Social media users usually recognise podcasters as popular experts. These individuals may not have recognised qualifications, yet they are often just as knowledgeable about a particular area of popular culture as a technical expert due to their experience and/or passion. Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark, hosts of the top podcast My Favourite Murder, are a good example, as is former YouTuber MatPat, whose channel The Game Theorists has close to 20 million subscribers.

Convergence culture has increasingly foregrounded popular experts in online spaces, helping to legitimise their blend of amateur and professional communication.

How to spot them

According to the Pew Research Centre, US adults who hear “news” discussed on podcasts are likely to view this information as more reliable than news gleaned from other sources such as social media. At the same time, podcasts are much easier and cheaper to fake than other forms of traditional media.

Spotting fake podcast clips may not always be easy, especially if you haven’t come across one before. If you see a suspicious clip, a good rule of thumb is to look for a clear link to the original video and recording. If this original is easily accessible, verifiable and lasts longer than sixty seconds, the clip itself is probably real.

Another way is to cross-reference the clip with other official channels. For instance, the next time you see a 20 second video of a renowned health expert spruiking a new supplement on Amazon, check that expert’s official social media page before clicking the purchase link.

Finley Watson, PhD Candidate, Politics, La Trobe University

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

In the wake of Donald Trump’s election victory, Meta chief executive Mark Zuckerberg fired the fact-checking team for his company’s social media platforms. At the same time, he reversed Facebook’s turn away from political content.

The decision is widely viewed as placating an incoming president with a known penchant for mangling the truth.

Meta will replace its fact-checkers with the “community notes” model used by X, the platform owned by avid Trump supporter Elon Musk. This model relies on users to add corrections to false or misleading posts.

Musk has described this model as “citizen journalism, where you hear from the people. It’s by the people, for the people.”

For such an approach to work, both citizen journalists and their readers need to value good-faith deliberation, accuracy and accountability. But our new research shows social media users may not be the best crowd to source in this regard.

Our research

Working with Essential Media, our team wanted to know what social media users think of common civic values.

After reviewing existing research on social cohesion and political polarisation and conducting ten focus groups, we compiled a civic values scale. It aims to measure levels of trust in media institutions and the government, as well as people’s openness to considering perspectives that challenge their own.

We then conducted a large-scale survey of 2,046 Australians. We asked people how strongly they believed in a common public interest. We also asked about how important they thought it was for Australians to inform themselves about political issues and for schools to teach civics.

Importantly, we asked them where they got their news: social media, commercial television, commercial radio, newspapers or non-commercial media.

What did we find?

We found people who rely on social media for news score significantly lower on a civic values scale than those who rely on newspapers and non-commercial broadcasters such as the ABC.

By contrast, people who rely on non-commercial radio scored highest on the civic values scale. They scored 11% higher than those who rely mainly on social media and 12% higher than those who rely on commercial television.

The lowest score was for people who rely primarily on commercial radio.

People who relied on newspapers, online news aggregators, and non-commercial TV all scored significantly higher than those who relied on social media and commercial broadcasting.

The survey also found that as the number of different media sources people use daily increased, so too did their civic values score.

This research does not indicate whether platforms foster lower civic values or simply cater to them.

But it does raise concerns about social media becoming an increasingly important source of political information in democratic societies like Australia.

Why measure values?

The point of the civic values scale we developed is to highlight the fact that the values people bring to news about the world is as important as the news content.

For example, most people in the United States have likely heard about the violence of the attack on the Capitol protesting Trump’s loss in 2020.

That Trump and his supporters can recast this violent riot as “a day of love” is not the result of a lack of information.

It is, rather, a symptom of people’s lack of trust in media and government institutions and their unwillingness to confront facts that challenge their views.

In other words, it is not enough to provide people with accurate information. What counts is the mindset they bring to that information.

No place for debate

Critics have long been concerned that social media platforms do not serve democracy well, privileging sensationalism and virality over thoughtful and accurate posts. As the critical theorist Judith Butler put it:

the quickness of social media allows for forms of vitriol that do not exactly support thoughtful debate.

Sociologist Zeynep Tufekci said social media is less about meaningful engagement than bonding with like-minded people and mocking perceived opponents. She notes, “belonging is stronger than facts”.

Her observation is likely familiar to anyone who has tried to engage in a politically charged discussion on social media.

These criticisms are commonplace in discussions of social media but have not been systematically tested until now.

Social media platforms are not designed to foster democracy. Their business model is based on encouraging people to see themselves as brands competing for attention, rather than as citizens engaged in meaningful deliberation.

This is not a recipe for responsible fact-checking. Or for encouraging users to care much about it.

Platforms want to wash their hands of the fact-checking process, because it is politically fraught. Their owners claim they want to encourage the free flow of information.

However, their fingers are on the scale. The algorithms they craft play a central role in deciding which forms of expression make it into our feeds and which do not.

It’s disingenuous for them to abdicate responsibility for the content they chose to pump into people’s news feeds, especially when they have systematically created a civically challenged media environment.

The author would like to acknowledge Associate Professor Zala Volcic, Research Fellow Isabella Mahoney and Research Assistant Fae Gehren for their work on the research on which this article is based.

Mark Andrejevic, Professor of Media, School of Media, Film, and Journalism, Monash University, Monash University

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

Aluminium is an exceptionally useful metal. Lightweight, resistant to rust and able to be turned into alloys with other metals. Small wonder it’s the second most used metal in the world after iron and demand is set to soar.

But aluminium comes at a cost – energy. The four aluminium smelters in Australia consume 10% of the nation’s electricity and produce close to 5% of total emissions. Smelting is so energy intensive that in many countries, it has driven the construction of new fossil fuel power plants. That’s why it’s nicknamed “congealed electricity”.

This week, the federal government proposed a new policy aimed at making aluminium smelting green.

Under the scheme – due to run between 2028 and 2036, aluminium producers would receive a certain amount of funding for every tonne of aluminium produced using renewable energy. If smelters pursue this incentive, we can expect to see more funding flowing to renewables to meet demand.

But will this scheme work? Our research shows Australia could cut aluminium emissions 98% by 2050, from mining all the way to smelting – if renewable energy expands to support it, as well as domestic consumption.

Why focus on aluminium?

By 2050, global demand for aluminium is projected to rise by 50%, due largely to demand from electric vehicles manufacturing, clean energy equipment and construction.

Australia is one of few countries with an end-to-end aluminium industry, running from mining bauxite ore, refining it into alumina and smelting it to produce aluminium. We produce around 1.6 million tonnes annually and export almost all of it. Our exports account for 10% of the world’s total.

While emissions are produced at every step, this week’s announcement is aimed at the single largest emissions-producing process: smelting.

In 2020 Australia’s smelters produced about 4.6% of the nation’s emissions – 22.8 million tonnes of carbon dioxide equivalent.

The nation’s four smelters are in Tomago in New South Wales, Boyne in Queensland, Portland in Victoria and Bell Bay in Tasmania. The industry is important to local economies and employs roughly 14,000 workers.

How hard is it to go green?

At present, the electricity to smelt aluminium comes largely from burning coal.

Switching doesn’t require major changes in industrial processes – only that there’s enough renewable power to meet demand.

Technical limitations at existing facilities and limited financial incentives to update them mean Australia’s smelters can’t easily ramp up or down. Electricity demand is almost constant.

Renewables such as solar and wind can do the job once “firmed”, meaning the power is stored to be available as needed. Smelters could also use technology to be more flexible with the timing of energy consumption.

To their credit, some aluminium companies are already working to cut emissions. In 2024, Rio Tinto announced a deal to power its Gladstone aluminium operations with renewables.

The real challenge is ensuring enough renewable energy in the grid for smelters to tap into, alongside new solar and wind to electrify homes and businesses.

Globally, more than a third (34%) of the total electricity used to make aluminium now comes from zero-emissions sources – almost entirely from hydroelectric plants. Hydropower is well suited to powering smelters because it allows for continuous and cheap electricity once built. Tasmania’s Bell Bay smelter is powered by hydroelectricity, for instance.

Expanding aluminium production through hydropower is limited, however, due to a lack of suitable sites of the right scale and location.

Do we need a policy to make green aluminium a reality?

Aluminium production in Asia is steadily increasing, powered by fossil fuel plants. Vietnam is investing A$11.7 billion in boosting output, for instance.

Australian aluminium smelters risk being outcompeted. The industry’s best chance is to meet growing demand for green products. But to do this affordably, the smelters require reliable, near-zero emissions electricity supply at low cost.

Energy infrastructure must be planned at sufficient speed and scale to both achieve Australia’s export ambitions and meet increasing domestic demand.

To do this, as our research shows, Australia needs to double the capacity of renewable projects currently in progress.

Over the past decade, Australia’s electricity prices have increased substantially, particularly due to rising gas prices.

In response, governments have moved to shield aluminium smelters from price rises. In 2021, the previous government announced a A$150 million subsidy for Victoria’s Portland smelter. By contrast, this new federal government incentive is aimed at reducing emissions and accelerating the energy transition.

Over time, smelter operators may see opportunity in changing when they use the most electricity, to soak up cheap solar during the day and scale back during evening peaks. This would be good for smelters and would reduce electricity prices for all consumers.

Government and industry will have to work together

Sun, wind, bauxite and water resources mean Australia has natural advantages in green aluminium. But it’s not a given.

If done well, tax credits or subsidies can kick-start a market for green products and give companies the certainty to take the plunge. Once running, the government can then remove the incentives.

As we tackle harder sectors such as chemical manufacturing, mineral refining, steelmaking and mining, we will need yet more firmed renewables. Shifting alumina refineries to clean energy will take yet more power.

Green aluminium offers a chance to slash Australia’s emissions while capitalising on growing demand for low-carbon products.

While these government incentives will start the process, it will take steady work from industry and government to make it a reality. Coordinated, strategic action will be necessary to future-proof our industrial heartlands.

Tessa Leach, Research Manager, Industry, at Climateworks Centre, Monash University and Anna Malos, Climateworks Country Lead, Australia, Monash University

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

Anecdotal reports from some professionals have prompted concerns about young people using prescription benzodiazepines such as Xanax for recreational use.

Border force detections of these drugs have almost doubled in the past five years, further fuelling the worry.

So why do young people use them, and how do the harms differ to those used as prescribed by a doctor?

What are benzodiazepines?

You might know this large group of drugs by their trade names. Valium (diazepam), Xanax (alprazolam), Normison (temazepam) and Rohypnol (flunitrazepam) are just a few examples. Sometimes they’re referred to as minor tranquillisers or, colloquially, as “benzos”.

They increase the neurotransmitter gamma aminobutyric acid (GABA). GABA reduces activity in the brain, producing feelings of relaxation and sedation.

Unwanted side effects include drowsiness, dizziness and problems with coordination.

Benzodiazepines used to be widely prescribed for long-term management of anxiety and insomnia. They are still prescribed for these conditions, but less commonly, and are also sometimes used as part of the treatment for cancer, epilepsy and alcohol withdrawal.

Long-term use can lead to tolerance: when the effect wears off over time. So you need to use more over time to get the same effect. This can lead to dependence: when your body becomes reliant on the drug. There is a very high risk of dependence with these drugs.

When you stop taking benzodiazepines, you may experience withdrawal symptoms. For those who are dependent, the withdrawal can be long and difficult, lasting for several months or more.

So now they are only recommended for a few weeks at most for specific short-term conditions.

How do people get them? And how does it make them feel?

Benzodiazepines for non-medical use are typically either diverted from legitimate prescriptions or purchased from illicit drug markets including online.

Some illegally obtained benzodiazepines look like prescription medicines but are counterfeit pills that may contain fentanyl, nitazenes (both synthetic opioids) or other potent substances which can significantly increase the risk of accidental overdose and death.

When used recreationally, benzodiazepines are usually taken at higher doses than those typically prescribed, so there are even greater risks.

The effect young people are looking for in using these drugs is a feeling of profound relaxation, reduced inhibition, euphoria and a feeling of detachment from one’s surroundings. Others use them to enhance social experiences or manage the “comedown” from stimulant drugs like MDMA.

There are risks associated with using at these levels, including memory loss, impaired judgement, and risky behaviour, like unsafe sex or driving.

Some people report doing things they would not normally do when affected by high doses of benzodiazepines. There are cases of people committing crimes they can’t remember.

When taken at higher doses or combined with other depressant drugs such as alcohol or opioids, they can also cause respiratory depression, which prevents your lungs from getting enough oxygen. In extreme cases, it can lead to unconsciousness and even death.

Using a high dose also increases risk of tolerance and dependence.

Is recreational use growing?

The data we have about non-prescribed benzodiazepine use among young people is patchy and difficult to interpret.

The National Drug Strategy Household Survey 2022–23 estimates around 0.5% of 14 to 17 year olds and and 3% of 18 to 24 year olds have used a benzodiazepine for non medical purposes at least once in the past year.

The Australian Secondary Schools Survey 2022–23 reports that 11% of secondary school students they surveyed had used benzodiazepines in the past year. However they note this figure may include a sizeable proportion of students who have been prescribed benzodiazepines but have inadvertently reported using them recreationally.

In both surveys, use has remained fairly stable for the past two decades. So only a small percentage of young people have used benzodiazepines without a prescription and it doesn’t seem to be increasing significantly.

Reports of more young people using benzodiazepines recreationally might just reflect greater comfort among young people in talking about drugs and drug problems, which is a positive thing.

Prescribing of benzodiazepines to adolescents or young adults has also declined since 2012.

What can you do to reduce the risks?

To reduce the risk of problems, including dependence, benzodiazepines should be used for the shortest duration possible at the lowest effective dose.

Benzodiazepines should not be taken with other medicines without speaking to a doctor or pharmacist.

You should not drink alcohol or take illicit drugs at the same time as using benzodiazepines.

Counterfeit benzodiazepines are increasingly being detected in the community. They are more dangerous than pharmaceutical benzodiazepines because there is no quality control and they may contain unexpected and dangerous substances.

Drug checking services can help people identify what is in substances they intend to take. It also gives them an opportunity to speak to a health professional before they use. People often discard their drugs after they find out what they contain and speak to someone about drug harms.

If people are using benzodiazepines without a prescription to self manage stress, anxiety or insomnia, this may indicate a more serious underlying condition. Psychological therapies such as cognitive behaviour therapy, including mindfulness-based approaches, are very effective in addressing these symptoms and are more effective long term solutions.

Lifestyle modifications – such as improving exercise, diet and sleep – can also be helpful.

There are also other medications with a much lower risk of dependence that can be used to treat anxiety and insomnia.

If you or someone you know needs help with benzodiazepine use, Reconnexions can help. It’s a counselling and support service for people who use benzodiazepines.

Alternatively, CounsellingOnline is a good place to get information and referral for treatment of benzodiazepine dependence. Or speak to your GP. The Sleep Health Foundation has some great resources if you are having trouble with sleep.

Nicole Lee, Adjunct Professor at the National Drug Research Institute (Melbourne based), Curtin University and Suzanne Nielsen, Professor and Deputy Director, Monash Addiction Research Centre, Monash University

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

Roblox isn’t just another video game – it’s a massive virtual universe where nearly 90 million people from around the world create, play and socialise. This includes some 34 million children under 13 who spend an average of 2.6 hours daily on the platform, making Roblox one of the most influential digital platforms for kids and teenagers.

The attraction for young people is the millions of virtual experiences they can have – from raising and dressing up virtual pets, to playing an online game of hide and seek using GPS. Kids can even develop their own games for others to play.

But the joys of the platform come with risks – especially for children. These risks range from cyberbullying to sexual exploitation, to grooming by pedophiles and violent extremists.

Roblox recently introduced a range of new safety features to reduce the risk of harm to children, following consultations with a number of experts (including myself).

Even with these new safety features, however, many parents might still be wondering: “Should I let my kid play Roblox?”

What are the new safety features?

The new features centre on limiting who kids can communicate with on Roblox, the content they play with, and the control parents have on what their kids do on Roblox.

Parents now have more fine-grained controls they can use to manage the type of content, advertisements, friend lists and communication their children have access to. They can also set daily screen-time limits for their children.

Roblox has also changed the ratings of the experiences from age-based ratings to maturity-based ratings (much like the ratings you might see for movies).

The labels are voluntary. But experiences published without one will only be accessible to users 13 and over. This removes the one-size-fits-all idea about kids. Parents know all kids are different – what one 13-year-old is ready for is different to what another 13-year-old is ready for.

Under 13s are no longer allowed to speak to other users outside of mini-games and experiences.

These are all positive steps.

The elephant in the room

To access this new suite of parent controls, parents first need to create a Roblox account, and then link it to their child’s account. To do this parents need to add their ID or credit card details. This is a risk for parents. Our data is being commodified at a rapid rate and scams are rampant, making it difficult for platforms such as Roblox to guarantee the safety of personal information.

What often goes under the radar about Roblox is ongoing messages to spend money. Buy accessories to wear on your avatar while you play, in-game upgrades to make gameplay more fun, accessories for your virtual pets – the list goes on. This reinforces the idea that you need to spend money to have more fun.

The elephant in the room is that the changes made to keep kids safe are housed within parental controls. This requires parents to be very hands on – and digital skills, time, work, busy family life are all barriers to this.

Safety features musn’t just revolve around parents.

Enhanced safety measures could include more defined segregation of experiences, similar to having separate playgrounds for primary school, junior high school and older users, allowing parents greater confidence in age-appropriate content.

A subscription-based model could also replace the current system, potentially reducing the constant pressure on children to spend money.

Implementing youth-led safety initiatives, where older children mentor peers and younger players about online safety, could prove more effective than traditional parent-led guidance. Children often respond better to peers who understand their digital experiences firsthand.

The bottom line?

The new safety features are a step in the right direction. They won’t eliminate inappropriate content and communication risks. But they should help reduce children’s exposure to concerning content and provide parents with better tools to manage their children’s online experience.

Would I let my child use Roblox? Yes – but not in a “set and forget” way. Keeping kids safe on the platform requires constant communication about what they see and do on it.

Realistically, we can’t let our kids play in these huge virtual spaces without this. We have our own parental control – talking to our child – which is powerful as well.

Joanne Orlando, Researcher, Digital Literacy and Digital Wellbeing, Western Sydney University

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

Picture this. It’s a summer evening in Australia. A dry lightning storm is about to sweep across remote, tinder-dry bushland. The next day is forecast to be hot and windy. A lightning strike tonight could spark a fire that grows into a catastrophic blaze tomorrow.

Fire authorities deploy drones to chase the storm. The drones detect spots where lightning strikes have ignited the bush – perhaps smouldering tree roots, or smoke pouring from a tree hollow. The drones stay aloft throughout the night, identifying new ignitions and monitoring those that progress to small fires.

Larger drones are dispatched through the night. They drop retardant on the burning bush to slow the flames. The small drones continue to supply data to human fire crews. By dawn, the crews are armed with precise information and ready to act. They suppress the small fires in the early morning, before the winds arrive. What could have turned into a raging megablaze is confined to a few hectares.

This is not science fiction. It is a feasible vision for using drone technology to manage bushfires in Australia, outlined in the federal government’s recent roadmap, which we authored.

So let’s take a look at how drones can help Australia fight bushfires, and the obstacles to be overcome before it becomes reality.

Stopping fires when they’re small

The current fire season marks five years since the Black Summer bushfires devastated southeast Australia in 2019–20. This summer, fires have burned in Victoria’s Grampians region and around Western Australia’s Wedge Island.

And the devastating fires in Los Angeles provide yet another example of how terrifying huge bushfires can be.

The sooner a fire is detected, the easier it is to control and extinguish. Fires that start in remote bush may go unnoticed for hours or days.

Studies show lightning is the primary cause of large bushfires in Australia. Fire outbreaks must be detected and suppressed quickly, while still small, so they don’t become large and uncontrollable. That’s where drones can be very useful.

What is a fire-fighting drone?

Drones are aerial vehicles that can fly on autopilot under human supervision. Those used to fight fires may carry cameras and thermal detectors, provide communications links, or hold water or retardant to douse flames.

Drone technology extends the capabilities of existing human-crewed aircraft when fighting fires.

For example, technology allowing human crews to fight fires at night is still in its infancy. Humans cannot work for days without rest, and may get bored looking for signs of fire over the same ground time and again.

Drones do not have these limitations. They operate by satellite navigation and function well at night or when visibility is limited. Drones can easily fly at night, and all night, then fly the next day, too.

The below footage shows the BRCoE Scout Drone detecting a small spot fire from more than 800 metres away. The fire was lit by firefighters to simulate a lighting strike ignition. In the infrared camera view (lower left), the small fire stands out clearly against the cooler temperature of the bush.

Multiple drones can be coordinated to cover a large area or stay close to an ignition. They can deliver fire retardants in remote locations, and with remarkable accuracy.

And crucially, losing a drone to bad weather or mechanical failure does not compare to the tragedy of losing an aircraft crewed with firefighters.

Fire agencies are already trialling and using drone technology. For example, Australian Federal Police and the Australian Capital Territory Rural Fire Service used drones to spot fires during the Black Summer fires, after smoke and poor visibility grounded crewed aircraft.

The New South Wales Rural Fire Service last year conducted a trial using drones to monitor grass and bushfires in the state’s west. And Noosa Council in Queensland is investigating if drones can help survey an area after a bushfire to provide data on the extent of damage.

A few things to consider

Despite the obvious advantages, using drones to battle fires is challenging.

For example, many systems cannot operate in the high winds and intense heat found near fire zones.

Smaller drones, although portable, lack endurance and cannot carry heavy loads such as high-end thermal sensors and cameras. And work is needed to improve reliability, such as making drones waterproof and ensuring cables and connectors can’t unplug during flight.

Drones produce a vast stream of data such as video, thermal images and information about temperature and wind speed. This data must be processed quickly in a fire emergency. Doing this requires reliable communication links and powerful computers.

Firefighting drones require human workers to support their operation, including remote pilots, service crews, and workers on landing fields. This incurs labour costs – albeit far lower than using human-crewed aircraft.

Expanding drone technology will require investment in infrastructure such as operation centres, landing facilities and maintenance hubs. But this infrastructure can be shared with other sectors using drones, such as land management and surveying.

In a warmer world, innovation is vital

Our roadmap outlines essential steps to ensure drone technology fulfils its potential. They include:

• streamlining regulatory approvals to lower the bar for companies to operate commercial drones remotely

• adequate infrastructure investment

• fostering collaboration between the first responders, such as rural fire services, and technology companies developing drones.

Drones are not the only technology promising to revolutionise efforts to fight bushfires. Others include satellite technology monitoring vegetation flammability, and using artificial intelligence to detect fire outbreaks.

As fire seasons grow longer and more intense, innovation is not just an opportunity – it’s a necessity. Added to Australia’s existing resources, drone technologies have the potential to help safeguards lives, communities and ecosystems.

Marta Yebra, Professor of Environmental Engineering, Australian National University; Iain Guilliard, Research Fellow, School of Engineering., Australian National University; Nicholas Wilson, Research Fellow, Fenner School of Environment and Society, Australian National University, and Robert Mahony, Professor of System Theory and Robotics, Australian National University

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

Anxiety, a philosophical guide is a book of therapeutic philosophy. Author Samir Chopra’s aim is to take us through the history of philosophy, pointing out those thinkers along the way who have shaped its course.

In confronting anxiety then, this is not a list of prescriptions to memorise and enact, but rather, a rich vocabulary to draw upon in those silent but turbulent moments when we are in conversation with ourselves.

Review: Anxiety, a philosophical guide – Samir Chopra (Princeton University Press)

Rather than explain our anxiety away, Chopra’s aim here is to cultivate the ability to see what anxiety “points to”. In this short text, he explores four schools of thought in relation to anxiety: Buddhism, existentialism, psychoanalysis, and critical theory.

The book begins with a deeply personal and reflective account of Chopra’s own experiences with anxiety. A philosophical counsellor and professor emeritus of philosophy in New York, Chopra writes about coping with loss, his past experiences in relationships, and facing up to his search for meaning throughout his life.

Chopra writes openly about his struggle to cope with the loss of his father at a young age, and later, the loss of his mother. In seeking relief from grief, an unyielding melancholy, and his anxiety about death, he turns to philosophy. This book is very much a product of Chopra’s life experience and how he came to accept and live with his anxiety with the help of philosophy.

He begins by exploring how anxiety – and other emotions traditionally treated as aversive such as anger – can be overcome by an awareness of our “true nature”. These emotions surface in the Buddhist conception of “dukkha”, which Chopra defines as

an acute anxiety, an existential discomfort, resulting from an intellectual and emotional failure to face up to the bare facts of existence.

In order to live tranquil lives in the face of our experience of dukkha, we must embark on the Buddhist journey of “coming to see”. This is a long, difficult process of transforming how we understand the world and our place within it.

In his extrapolation of dukkha over a number of pages, one finds a variety of well-crafted phrases saying much the same thing. Essentially it is that anything we might think is good, like love or desire, is quickly overshadowed by the (re)discovery of our feelings of alienation, pain, and powerlessness in the face of the futility and absurdity of everything (although he says it better).

At this point, after so much talk of despair and alienation, it is reasonable to wonder if we are even talking about anxiety anymore.

But Chopra affirms that existential anxiety is a species of dukkha because

it is the state of being of an ignorant creature confused about its own nature, fumbling in the dark, hurting itself and others by its delusions and ignorance, by its fearful reactions to the ever-present possibility of decay, dissolution, and death in its life.

The “simultaneously disheartening and promising” solution lies within us, he suggests, as thinking beings, in our minds.

With the help of meditation and mindfulness, Chopra maintains, the Buddhist method for coping with anxiety is to make room for it in our lives. We do not just rid ourselves of anxiety then. Instead we see it as an inevitable feature of our striving to live.

Existential anxiety

For the existentialists, as the name suggests, the root of our anxiety stems from our search for existential meaning.

The existentialists defined themselves in opposition to the essentialists, who argued there was a “telos” (an end, or purpose) to everything, including our own lives. Instead, the existentialists assert, there is no meaning or purpose in life at all.

In Sartre’s famous lecture, Existentialism as a Humanism, he writes,

We are left alone, without excuse. That is what I mean when I say that man is condemned to be free. Condemned, because he did not create himself, yet is nevertheless at liberty, and from the moment that he is thrown into this world he is responsible for everything he does.

Human life is marked by a nauseating abundance of freedom, which we are condemned to do something with. Chopra writes, “we are not just creatures who are free to act; we are creatures who are aware we are free to act”.

Anxiety, then, is born out of this awareness of our freedom. For Sartre, the authentic life, the life well-lived, is one in which we courageously embrace that freedom in every choice, by thinking and choosing for ourselves.

Chopra takes us through thinkers like Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Tillich and Heidegger to also make the case that the existentialist message is to cultivate this courage, “to realize the braveries we have already demonstrated our capacity for” and to “erect ourselves as heroes in our minds for getting up in the morning and turning our face towards the sun”.

Rather than attempt to mask our anxiety – and thus deny a fundamental feature of what it means to be – we must instead accept that in each choice, we create meaning for ourselves anew.

Psychoanalysis and critical theory

Chopra’s brief detour through the psychoanalytic tradition brings us to Sigmund Freud. The latter, he maintains, would double down on this existentialist call for courage, with the added proviso that attempting to repress anxiety is futile.

Repressed anxiety only comes to surface in parts of our lives, particularly our social lives. Freud suggests a trained and mature response to anxiety involves better understanding how it forms part of life, how it arises in our childhood, and how it surfaces for us now.

There is also a particular category of anxiety assigned to the uncertainty brought on by our ever-evolving social and political environments.

Chopra argues this anxiety points to a lingering fear of losing our economic standing, along with an agonising over our social and moral adequacy. This anxiety has not been helped, he continues, by science and technology, which “hurtle us toward climate change, mysterious pandemics, and political dysfunction”.

Chopra turns to Herbert Marcuse and Karl Marx to suggest that, contrary to the existentialists, this anxiety and alienation are not inevitable features of the human condition. Rather, they are a product of the world we have created.

Our experience of anxiety, he continues, should spur activism and political critique in the hope that we might make this world slightly more bearable:

Combating and confronting anxiety requires acceptance, activism, and contemplation, an acute blend of which might be the salutary recipe for living with it.

Overall, Chopra does a great job bringing difficult philosophical perspectives into his conversation about anxiety. However, anxiety appears to have many roles in this book, roles we might usually ascribe to other emotions or moods, like estrangement, wonder, alienation or sorrow.

By implicitly running together these many forms of experience, Chopra risks reading too much into these philosophers at times. A consequence of this is overlooking what makes these experiences unique.

Still, by sharing his own experience with anxiety, as well as connecting us to the extensive philosophical literature where anxiety is explored, Chopra and his philosophical interlocutors are offering a powerful and therapeutic insight: we are all bound together in the human condition that always has, and will continue to involve, encountering our anxious selves.

Oscar Davis, Assistant Professor in Philosophy and History, Bond University

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

If you’ve ever seen people at the gym or the park jumping, hopping or hurling weighted balls to the ground, chances are they were doing plyometric exercises.

Examples include:

• box jumps, where you repeatedly leap quickly on and off a box
• lateral skater hops, where you bound from side to side like a speeding ice skater
• rapidly throwing a heavy medicine ball against a wall, or to the ground
• single leg hops, which may involve hopping on the spot or through an obstacle course
• squat jumps, where you repeatedly squat and then launch yourself into the air.

There are many more examples of plyometric exercises.

What ties all these moves together is that they use what’s known as the “stretch shortening cycle”. This is where your muscles rapidly stretch and then contract.

Potential benefits

Research shows incorporating plyometric exercise into your routine can help you:

• jump higher
• sprint faster
• reduce the chances of getting a serious sporting injuries such as anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) tears
• build muscle strength
• improve bone mineral density (especially when combined with resistance training such as weight lifting), which is particularly important for women and older people at risk of falls.

Studies have found plyometric exercises can help:

• older people who want to retain and build muscle strength, boost bone health, improve posture and reduce the risk of falls
• adolescent athletes who want to build the explosive strength needed to excel in sports such as athletics, tennis, soccer, basketball and football
• female athletes who want to jump higher or change direction quickly (a useful skill in many sports)
• endurance runners who want to boost physical fitness, run time and athletic performance.

And when it comes to plyometric exercises, you get out what you put in.

Research has found the benefits of plyometrics are significantly greater when every jump was performed with maximum effort.

Potential risks

All exercise comes with risk (as does not doing enough exercise!)

Plyometrics are high-intensity activities that require the body to absorb a lot of impact when landing on the ground or catching medicine balls.

That means there is some risk of musculoskeletal injury, particularly if the combination of intensity, frequency and volume is too high.

You might miss a landing and fall, land in a weird way and crunch your ankle, or get a muscle tear if you’re overdoing it.

The National Strength and Conditioning Association, a US educational nonprofit that uses research to support coaches and athletes, recommends:

• a maximum of one to three plyometric sessions per week
• five to ten repetitions per set and
• rest periods of one to three minutes between sets to ensure complete muscle recovery.

One meta-analysis, where researchers looked at many studies, found plyometric training was feasible and safe, and could improve older people’s performance, function and health.

Overall, with appropriate programming and supervision, plyometric exercise can be a safe and effective way to boost your health and athletic performance.

Justin Keogh, Associate Dean of Research, Faculty of Health Sciences and Medicine, Bond University and Mandy Hagstrom, Senior Lecturer, Exercise Physiology. School of Health Sciences, UNSW Sydney

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

When British TV doctor Michael Mosley died last year in Greece after walking in extreme heat, local police said “heat exhaustion” was a contributing factor.

Since than a coroner could not find a definitive cause of death but said this was most likely due to an un-identified medical reason or heat stroke.

Heat exhaustion and heat stroke are two illnesses that relate to heat.

So what’s the difference?

A spectrum of conditions

Heat-related illnesses range from mild to severe. They’re caused by exposure to excessive heat, whether from hot conditions, physical exertion, or both. The most common ones include:

• heat oedema: swelling of the hands, feet and ankles

• heat cramps: painful, involuntary muscle spasms usually after exercise

• heat syncope: fainting due to overheating

• heat exhaustion: when the body loses water due to excessive sweating, leading to a rise in core body temperature (but still under 40°C). Symptoms include lethargy, weakness and dizziness, but there’s no change to consciousness or mental clarity

• heat stroke: a medical emergency when the core body temperature is over 40°C. This can lead to serious problems related to the nervous system, such as confusion, seizures and unconsciousness including coma, leading to death.

As you can see from the diagram below, some symptoms of heat stroke and heat exhaustion overlap. This makes it hard to recognise the difference, even for medical professionals.

How does this happen?

The human body is an incredibly efficient and adaptable machine, equipped with several in-built mechanisms to keep our core temperature at an optimal 37°C.

But in healthy people, regulation of body temperature begins to break down when it’s hotter than about 31°C with 100% humidity (think Darwin or Cairns) or about 38°C with 60% humidity (typical of other parts of Australia in summer).

This is because humid air makes it harder for sweat to evaporate and take heat with it. Without that cooling effect, the body starts to overheat.

Once the core temperature rises above 37°C, heat exhaustion can set in, which can cause intense thirst, weakness, nausea and dizziness.

If the body heat continues to build and the core body temperature rises above 40°C, a much more severe heat stroke could begin. At this point, it’s a life-threatening emergency requiring immediate medical attention.

At this temperature, our proteins start to denature (like an egg on a hotplate) and blood flow to the intestines stops. This makes the gut very leaky, allowing harmful substances such as endotoxins (toxic substances in some bacteria) and pathogens (disease causing microbes) to leak into the bloodstream.

The liver can’t detoxify these fast enough, leading to the whole body becoming inflamed, organs failing, and in the worst-case scenario, death.

Who’s most at risk?

People doing strenuous exercise, especially if they’re not in great shape, are among those at risk of heat exhaustion or heat stroke. Others at risk include those exposed to high temperatures and humidity, particularly when wearing heavy clothing or protective gear.

Outdoor workers such as farmers, firefighters and construction workers are at higher risk too. Certain health conditions, such as diabetes, heart disease, or lung conditions (such as COPD or chronic obstructive pulmonary disease), and people taking blood pressure medications, can also be more vulnerable.

Adults over 65, infants and young children are especially sensitive to heat as they are less able to physically cope with fluctuations in heat and humidity.

How are these conditions managed?

The risk of serious illness or death from heat-related conditions is very low if treatment starts early.

For heat exhaustion, have the individual lie down in a cool, shady area, loosen or remove excess clothing, and cool them by fanning, moistening their skin, or immersing their hands and feet in cold water.

As people with heat exhaustion almost always are dehydrated and have low electrolytes (certain minerals in the blood), they will usually need to drink fluids.

However, emergency hospital care is essential for heat stroke. In hospital, health professionals will focus on stabilising the patient’s:

• airway (ensure no obstructions, for instance, vomit)
• breathing (look for signs of respiratory distress or oxygen deprivation)
• circulation (check pulse, blood pressure and signs of shock).

Meanwhile, they will use rapid-cooling techniques including immersing the whole body in cold water, or applying wet ice packs covering the whole body.

Take home points

Heat-related illnesses, such as heat stroke and heat exhaustion, are serious health conditions that can lead to severe illness, or even death.

With climate change, heat-related illness will become more common and more severe. So recognising the early signs and responding promptly are crucial to prevent serious complications.

Matthew Barton, Senior lecturer, School of Nursing and Midwifery, Griffith University and Michael Todorovic, Associate Professor of Medicine, Bond University

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

Superbugs that are resistant to existing antibiotics are a growing health problem around the world. Globally, nearly five million people die from antimicrobial resistant infections each year. The annual toll of antimicrobial resistant infections is expected to rise by 70%, with an estimated 40 million deaths between now and 2050.

To address this, researchers must discover new antibiotics and agents that improve the efficacy of existing antibiotics.

Hope may come from a surprising source: oysters.

In new research published today in PLOS ONE, we show that antimicrobial proteins isolated from oyster hemolymph (the equivalent of blood) can kill certain bacteria responsible for a range of infections. The proteins can also improve the efficacy of conventional antibiotics against problematic bacteria species.

Robust, resistant bacteria cause common infections

Pneumonia is an acute infection of the lungs, commonly caused by Streptococcus pneumoniae. It is the leading cause of death among children under five years of age, and a common cause of hospitalisation and death in older people.

Upper respiratory tract infections, such as tonsillitis, are also common. In fact, they are the most frequent reason children are prescribed antibiotics.

Persistent skin and throat infections caused by Streptococcus pyogenes can lead to the development of acute rheumatic fever and rheumatic heart disease.

The high prevalence of these bacterial infections and overuse of antibiotics have contributed to the evolution of drug-resistant bacteria. This makes these infections difficult to treat.

The formation of biofilms compounds the problem.

Biofilms are populations of millions of bacterial cells embedded in a self-secreted substance that sticks to surfaces. They protect bacteria from the host’s immune system – and from antibiotics. Almost all bacterial infections involve biofilms.

Because of this, new antibiotic treatments that can inhibit, disrupt or penetrate biofilms are very valuable.

Oysters as a source of new antimicrobial agents

Over 90% of antibiotics we currently use are derived from nature. The same is true for over 65% of antibiotics under recent development.

In the search for new antimicrobial drugs, researchers will usually start by looking at organisms that produce antimicrobial chemicals for self defence.

Oysters are exposed to high concentrations of diverse microorganisms in their natural marine environment. Because of this, they have evolved strong immune defences. For example, they rely heavily on antimicrobial proteins and strings of molecules known as peptides in their hemolymph (blood) to protect them from infection.

Research over the past few decades has found that oyster hemolymph contains antiviral and antibacterial proteins and peptides. These are active against a range of human and marine pathogens.

Oysters, along with other molluscs, plants and animals, have a long history of use as traditional medicines to treat infectious diseases.

In traditional Chinese medicine, various preparations from oysters are recommended for treating symptoms of respiratory infection and inflammatory conditions. Oysters have also played a significant role in the health of Indigenous people in Australia for millennia. This provides useful clues for drug discovery.

Our latest research confirms that antimicrobial proteins in the hemolymph of Sydney rock oysters (Saccostrea glomerata) are particularly effective at killing Streptococcus spp. bacteria.

The proteins were also effective at inhibiting Streptococcus spp. biofilm formation and could penetrate biofilms that had already formed.

Boosting the drugs we have

To improve how well currently available drugs work, they are increasingly combined with antimicrobial peptides and proteins.

These peptides and proteins can disrupt bacterial cell membranes, helping conventional antibiotics reach their targets more easily. Many of these proteins and peptides can also boost the host’s immune system, making treatment even more effective.

We tested Sydney rock oyster hemolymph proteins for activity against a range of bacterial pathogens in combination with different commercially available antibiotics. At very low concentrations, the proteins improved the effectiveness of antibiotics between two- and 32-fold.

The results were particularly promising for Streptococcus spp., Staphylococcus aureus (also known as “golden staph”, a primary cause of drug-resistant skin and bloodstream infections) and Pseudomonas aeruginosa (a major problem for immune-compromised patients with cystic fibrosis). There were also no toxic effects on healthy human cells.

What next?

Overall, oyster hemolymph proteins hold promise for future development as an antimicrobial therapy. They can kill pathogens embedded in biofilms, work in synergy with conventional antibiotics, and are non-toxic.

However, more work is needed, including testing in animals and clinical human trials.

Sustainable supply of the proteins for research and medical use is an important consideration, but this is helped by the fact Sydney rock oysters are commercially available.

The results of this work present an opportunity for pharmaceutical and aquaculture industries to collaborate with researchers on new, more effective antibiotics development.

Kate Summer, Postdoctoral research fellow, Southern Cross University and Kirsten Benkendorff, Professor, National Marine Science Centre, Southern Cross University

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

Originally known as 2JJ, or Double Jay, when it launched in Sydney at 11am on January 19 1975, Triple J has since become the national youth network. The station now encompasses broadcast radio, live events, social media and a huge digital and cultural influence. It’s been the beating heart (or beating drum, as its logo depicts) of generations of young Australians.

With a target audience of 18–24-year-olds (ish), what does it mean when the national youth broadcaster hits middle age?

A station for young Australians

Triple J was born out of the Whitlam government’s commitment to young Australians. In addition to lowering the voting age from 21 to 18, the introduction of a dedicated space for young people provided by the national broadcaster allowed for greater cultural and civic participation.

The first song played on air was You Just Like Me ‘Cos I’m Good in Bed by Skyhooks. Banned by commercial networks for its explicit sex and drug themes, the ABC – not beholden to advertisers – pushed boundaries by starting with this song.

The station became known as Triple J in 1981 when it shifted to FM radio, and the move to become a national network started in 1990, rolling out across the decade.

A station for Australian talent

People like Mark Colvin, Wil Anderson, Zan Rowe, Myf Warhurst, Judith Lucy, Roy and HG and Dr Karl all got their start at Triple J, often moving beyond the right “look or sound” for the commercial networks.

Triple J’s influence on Australian musical culture is almost impossible to understate.

Playlists for Australian music have been consistently and significantly higher than commercial competition.

The station has long run programs designed to support local artists. Cooking with George, a new Australian music show in the early 1980s hosted by George Wayne, created a platform for new artists to connect with audiences.

The Long Live the Evolution campaign in the early 1980s encouraged audiences to buy Australian music by offering a free Australian music compilation record with purchase of any Australian album.

The new talent competition Unearthed began in 1995 and now counts among its alumni Missy Higgins, Flume and Grinspoon.

One Night Stand is a semi-regular festival the station takes to different regional or rural Australian towns. The station’s coverage of festivals like Big Day Out and Splendour in the Grass provided a way for audiences who couldn’t afford to attend to still listen along.

A station for chaos, and youth politics

The appeal has always been the energy, if not occasional chaos, of having young people in charge and on air.

Clashes with ABC management have been inevitable. A memo distributed internally in 1976, and redistributed in 1979, gave “a very stroppy reminder to all staff of our self-imposed rule – NO DOPE IN THE OFFICE OR STUDIO!!”

In 1989, presenters protested the censorship of N.W.A.’s Fuck Tha Police. To show their objections, staff played N.W.A’s Express Yourself – a song rallying against censorship, and also the only song on the album without swear words – repeatedly for an entire day.

This again played out in the early 2000s when the presenters played The Herd’s 77% in full, complete with explicit lyrics which target the government and commercial broadcasters, saying “these cunts need a shake up”. ABC management argued that the language was unacceptable. But announcer Steve Cannane instead used the song to spark a 90 minute talkback special.

Overwhelmingly, Triple J presenters felt the strength of the language reflected the strength of the artists’ activist feelings.

Tracing the station’s approach to social issues is a way to trace the priorities of many young people in Australia. In 2017 the Hottest 100 countdown was moved away from January 26, following a listener petition and survey.

Over the years the station has promoted activists standing up against racism and homophobia. In 2023 after the Voice referendum, announcer Nooky gave an impassioned personal statement, followed by Yothu Yindi’s Treaty on repeat for the rest of the show.

A station for audiences

As I found studying Triple J’s impact during COVID, providing listeners with a range of listening options remains vital.

In May 2020 listeners across the country took over the program grid and requested songs – literally anything – as part of a week-long “Requestival”.

Hilariously the audience trolled the broadcaster, requesting everything from The Antiques Roadshow theme to Beethoven, as well as local artists and international pop.

Triple J became a clear place where the pent up energy, fear and loneliness of the young audience could be shared.

Room to grow

There were rumours Triple J was on its last legs even before it completed its first year on air.

While general and music outlets seem to periodically publish “is Triple J still relevant?” opinion pieces, most often these pieces are written by people who have aged out of the station’s target.

But commentators past the target demographic, judging it from their nostalgic perspective, aren’t the right people to decide if Australians 18–25 are getting what they feel they need.

Generational battles over the role and importance of Triple J continue to rage.

This is not to say older audiences should stop caring about Triple J. Nostalgia is powerful and important, shown by audiences who attended the sold out 20 year anniversary show by former breakfast hosts Adam Spencer and Wil Anderson.

Since 2015, the digital station Double J has served the “former” Triple J audience, complete with former Triple J presenters, music specials and music aimed at an older demographic.

Triple J is etched in the memories and forms a legacy for older Australians. Those who remember that first broadcast in 1975 will even get to relive it this weekend on Digital Double J, but Triple J is still a vital resource for its target audience.

At a time when media outlets are increasingly concentrated, more regularly incorporating AI and moving away from rigorous fact checking, there is even more need to promote and protect an outlet that embraces the distinctiveness of young Australians making new work now.

Liz Giuffre, Senior Lecturer in Communication, University of Technology Sydney

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

This time of year, many of us love to get out and spend time in nature. This may include hiking through Australia’s many beautiful national parks.

Walking in nature is a wonderful activity, supporting both physical and mental health. But there can be risks and it’s important to be prepared.

You may have read the news about hiker, Hadi Nazari, who was recently found alive after spending 13 days lost in Kosciuszko National Park.

He reportedly survived for almost two weeks in the Snowy Mountains region of New South Wales by drinking fresh water from creeks, and eating foraged berries and two muesli bars.

So next time you’re heading out for a day of hiking, what foods should you pack?

Here are my three top foods to carry on a bushwalk that are dense in nutrients and energy, lightweight and available from the local grocery store.

1. Muesli bars

Nazari reportedly ate two muesli bars he found in a mountain hut. Whoever left the muesli bars there made a great choice.

Muesli bars come individually wrapped, which helps them last longer and makes them easy to transport.

They are also a good source of energy. Muesli bars typically contain about 1,500-1,900 kilojoules per 100 grams. The average energy content for a 35g bar is about 614kJ.

This may be a fraction of what you’d usually need in a day. However, the energy from muesli bars is released at a slow to moderate pace, which will help keep you going for longer.

Muesli bars are also packed with nutrients. They contain all three macronutrients (carbohydrate, protein and fat) that our body needs to function. They’re a good source of carbohydrates, in particular, which are a key energy source. An average Australian muesli bar contains 14g of whole grains, which provide carbohydrates and dietary fibre for long-lasting energy.

Muesli bars that contain nuts are typically higher in fat (19.9g per 100g) and protein (9.4g per 100g) than those without.

Fat and protein are helpful for slowing down the release of energy from foods and the protein will help keep you feeling full for longer.

There are many different types of muesli bars to choose from. I recommend looking for those with whole grains, higher dietary fibre and higher protein content.

2. Nuts

Nuts are nature’s savoury snack and are also a great source of energy. Cashews, pistachios and peanuts contain about 2,300-2,400kJ per 100g while Brazil nuts, pecans and macadamias contain about 2,700-3,000kJ per 100g. So a 30g serving of nuts will provide about 700-900kJ depending on the type of nut.

Just like muesli bars, the energy from nuts is released slowly. So even a relatively small quantity will keep you powering on.

Nuts are also full of nutrients, such as protein, fat and fibre, which will help to stave off hunger and keep you moving for longer.

When choosing which nuts to pack, almost any type of nut is going to be great.

Peanuts are often the best value for money, or go for something like walnuts that are high in omega-3 fatty acids, or a nut mix.

Whichever nut you choose, go for the unsalted natural or roasted varieties. Salted nuts will make you thirsty.

Nut bars are also a great option and have the added benefit of coming in pre-packed serves (although nuts can also be easily packed into re-usable containers).

If you’re allergic to nuts, roasted chickpeas are another option. Just try to avoid those with added salt.

3. Dried fruit

If nuts are nature’s savoury snack, fruit is nature’s candy. Fresh fruits (such as grapes, frozen in advance) are wonderfully refreshing and perfect as an everyday snack, although can add a bit of weight to your hiking pack.

So if you’re looking to reduce the weight you’re carrying, go for dried fruit. It’s lighter and will withstand various conditions better than fresh fruit, so is less likely to spoil or bruise on the journey.

There are lots of varieties of dried fruits, such as sultanas, dried mango, dried apricots and dried apple slices.

These are good sources of sugar for energy, fibre for fullness and healthy digestion, and contain lots of vitamins and minerals. So choose one (or a combination) that works for you.

Don’t forget water

Next time you head out hiking for the day, you’re all set with these easily available, lightweight, energy- and nutrient-dense snacks.

This is not the time to be overly concerned about limiting your sugar or fat intake. Hiking, particularly in rough terrain, places demands on your body and energy needs. For instance, an adult hiking in rough terrain can burn upwards of about 2,000kJ per hour.

And of course, don’t forget to take plenty of water.

Having access to even limited food, and plenty of fresh water, will not only make your hike more pleasurable, it can save your life.

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.

TikTok and Instagram influencers have been peddling the “Barbie drug” to help you tan.

But melanotan-II, as it’s called officially, is a solution that’s too good to be true. Just like tanning, this unapproved drug has a dark side.

Doctors, researchers and Australia’s drug regulator have been warning about its side effects – from nausea and vomiting to brain swelling and erection problems.

There are also safer ways of getting the tanned look, if that’s what you’re after.

What is melanotan-II?

No, it’s not a typo. Melanotan-II is very different from melatonin, which is a hormonal supplement used for insomnia and jet lag.

Melanotan-II is a synthetic version of the naturally ocurring hormone α-melanocyte stimulating hormone. This means the drug mimics the body’s hormone that stimulates production of the pigment melanin. This is what promotes skin darkening or tanning, even in people with little melanin.

Although the drug is promoted as a way of getting a “sunless tan”, it is usually promoted for use with UV exposure, to enhance the effect of UV and kickstart the tanning process.

Melanotan-II is related to, but different from, melanotan-I (afamelanotide), an approved drug used to treat the skin condition erythropoietic protoporphyria.

Melanotan-II is not registered for use with Australia’s Therapeutic Goods Administration (TGA). It is illegal to advertise it to the public or to provide it without a prescription.

However, social media has been driving unlicensed melanotan-II sales, a study published last year confirms.

There are many black market suppliers of melanotan-II injections, tablets and creams. More recently, nasal sprays have become more popular.

What are the risks?

Just like any drug, melanotan-II comes with the risk of side effects, many of which we’ve known about for more than a decade. These include changes in the size and pigmentation of moles, rapid appearance of new moles, flushing to the face, abdominal cramps, nausea, vomiting, chest pain and brain swelling.

It can also cause rhabdomyolysis, a dangerous syndrome where muscle breaks down and releases proteins into the bloodstream that damage the kidneys.

For men, the drug can cause priapism – a painful erection that does not go away and can damage the penis, requiring emergency treatment.

Its use has been linked with melanoma developing from existing moles either during or shortly after using the drug. This is thought to be due to stimulating pigment cells and causing the proliferation of abnormal cells.

Despite reports of melanoma, according to a study of social media posts the drug is often marketed as protecting against skin cancer. In fact, there’s no evidence to show it does this.

Social media posts about melanotan-II rarely mention health risks.

There are no studies on long-term safety of melanotan-II use.

Then there’s the issue of the drug not held to the high safety standards as TGA-approved products. This could result in variability in dose, undeclared ingredients and potential microbial contamination.

The TGA has previously warned consumers to steer clear of the drug due to its “serious side effects that can be very damaging to your health”.

According to an ABC article published earlier this week, the TGA is cracking down on the illegal promotion of the drug on various websites. However, we know banned sellers can pop back up under a different name.

TikTok has banned the hashtags #tanningnasalspray, #melanotan and #melanotan2, but these products continue to be promoted with more generic hashtags, such as #tanning.

Part of a wider trend

Australia has some of the highest rates of skin cancer in the world. The “slip, slop, slap” campaign is a public health success story, with increased awareness of sun safety, a cultural shift and a decline in melanoma in young people.

However, the image of a bronzed beach body remains a beauty standard, especially among some young people.

Disturbingly, tan lines are trending on TikTok as a sought after summer accessory and the hashtag #sunburnttanlines has millions of views. We’ve also seen a backlash against sunscreen among some young people, again promoted on TikTok.

The Cancer Council is so concerned about the trend towards normalising tanning it has launched the campaign End the Trend.

You have other options

There are options beyond spraying an illegal, unregulated product up your nose, or risking unprotected sun exposure: fake tan.

Fake tan tends to be much safer than melanotan-II and there’s more long-term safety data. It also comes with potential side effects, albeit rare ones, including breathing issues (with spray products) and skin inflammation in some people.

Better still, you can embrace your natural skin tone.

Rose Cairns, Senior Lecturer in Pharmacy, NHMRC Emerging Leadership Fellow, University of Sydney

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

The church of Saint Ignatius in Rome (or San Ignazio) has become a viral selfie location. Tourists have been queuing out the doors for a chance to take a selfie in a mirror that reflects the church’s richly painted ceiling.

The vault was painted by the artist Andrea Pozzo between 1688 and 1694. In the centre we can see Saint Ignatius of Loyola (1491–1556), the founder of the Jesuit order. He is ascending through the clouds to heaven while a divine light pours into him and through him to representations of the four continents of the world, an allegory of the missionary work of the Jesuit order.

The real fascination of the painting is the optical illusion Pozzo created, which is probably also why it is gaining fans as an Instagram backdrop.

When you look up at the painting it seems the real architecture of the nave continue upwards to an impossible height and the roof has lifted off entirely.

Figures of angels dangle their legs from cloud, saints gaze down towards us or look towards heaven, putti (baby angels) hold symbolic objects and peek from beneath voluminous robes, while animals charge out from behind the architecture.

Even with the most critical eye it can seem impossible to tell where the real church ends and the illusion begins.

An ‘illusionistic’ ceiling painting

Pozzo’s masterpiece marks a significant moment in the history of illusionistic painting in Europe.

Since the 15th century, artists and architects had been interested in refining the use of a technique called “linear perspective” that allowed them to depict three-dimensional space on a two-dimensional surface. Anyone who has tried their hand at drawing lessons has probably had a go at depicting this kind of perspective.

A common exercise, found in a 15th-century book by the architect Leon Battista Alberti, shows the example of drawing straight lines that converge at a single point to create the illusion of depth.

Pozzo was one of the leading artists in the 17th century for this style of painting. He wrote a book, Rules and Examples of Perspective, explaining how he created these optical illusions using perspective.

For the ceiling of Saint Ignatius he first created a drawing on paper divided into squares. A grid was then suspended on the ceiling by attaching pieces of string to the cornice (the moulding between the wall and ceiling).

A central point on the floor (where the selfie mirror is) was chosen as the central viewing point and the design was copied line by line onto the ceiling. This was challenging as the ceiling is not flat, but curved.

If you could view it up close you would see that the figures and lines of architecture are distorted, stretched, curved and foreshortened, but when viewed from the central spot on the floor it creates a seamless illusion.

The science of vision

The fascination with illusionistic ceiling paintings in this period in Europe was in part a response to new scientific ideas about optics – the study of the properties of light.

Painting was regarded as an art that had its foundations in scientific reasoning. The best painters understood how shadows and light worked, understood colour theories and studied perspective and anatomy.

In 1604 the astronomer, mathematician and natural philosopher Johannes Kepler published a text proposing that vision was based on light passing through the cornea, pupil and lens to produce an image on the retina.

The philosopher Rene Descartes then proposed in two works, Dioptrique (Optics), published in 1637, and L'Homme (Treatise on Man), published posthumously in 1662, that these images were conducted to the brain – the idea of sensory projection.

Art played an important role in helping people conceptualise these new ideas. Both Descartes and Kepler used the metaphor of “painting” to describe how light created an image on the retina.

In the illustrations created for Descartes’ L'Homme we also see how theories about seeing were illustrated using geometry and linear perspective.

This new understanding of vision also led to the realisation the eye could be manipulated. Optical illusions in art prompted delight and anxiety about whether the eye could be trusted. They also prompted deeper reflection about the nature of truth and existence of god.

A theatre of religious visions

Illusionistic paintings in churches also had a religious purpose.

The Jesuits regarded performance and spectacle as a central part of their mission to educate and inspire religious devotion. Philosophers like Descartes believed that the experience of wonder prompted an emotional response that could transform the mind.

It is likely Pozzo was inspired by these popular ideas about wonder.

Visitors in the 17th century experienced the sense of amazement, as we still do, but the idea was this moment of wonder would translate into stronger religious faith.

These paintings helped to make abstract concepts – like religious faith and ascending to heaven – more real and tangible.

Why does a 350-year-old painting still hold such an attraction for modern visitors? For some, the religious message is still significant.

For many others it is the illusion that draws us in. We know what we see is not real, yet our brains register it as such. The visual dissonance delights and intrigues us.

And still for many it is just a popular Instagram or TikTok backdrop. But, hopefully, it is also a reminder that, in a world flooded with constructed and fake images, the eye is easily fooled.

Katrina Grant, Research Associate, Power Institute for Arts and Visual Culture, University of Sydney

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

Sad, anxious or lacking in motivation? Chances are you have just returned to work after a summer break.

January is the month when people are most likely to quit their jobs after having had time off.

And even though most people experience the return to work blues, the good news is there are ways to get through them. But first we have to understand why we experience them at all.

Holidays often promote idealised expectations of life, such as the freedom and joy that comes from reduced responsibilities and expectations from others.

Unsurprisingly, returning to work clashes with these expectations due to its inherent pressures and responsibilities. This mismatch between one’s expectations and reality creates psychological discomfort, or “cognitive dissonance”, which includes feelings of disappointment or frustration.

Cognitive dissonance can also occur when there is a mismatch between perceived identities or roles in life. For example, during the holidays I become “an avid watcher of TV shows I missed throughout the year” and “someone who is readily available to others”.

However, the return to work quickly shifts me to being “productive worker (who has no time for TV)” and “someone who needs to be mindful of how they spend their limited downtime and energy”. Managing this shift can be mentally taxing and quite stressful!

5 ways to ease your back to work blues

Self-determination theory further highlights the importance of autonomy, competence, and relatedness in maintaining psychological well-being.

People often have greater autonomy over their time and activities during the holidays, leading to a stronger sense of control and fulfilment. In contrast, returning to work may restrict this autonomy which in turn reduces feelings of competence and satisfaction.

An abrupt return to a demanding workplace can amplify cognitive dissonance and the negative consequences of reduced autonomy.

According to the effort-recovery model, the holidays are a time for people to replenish their physical and mental resources.

Not having enough time for a smooth transition back into work can make us feel any recovery and pleasure from being away has been lost. This makes us feel fatigued, unmotivated and less able to manage psychological stressors like cognitive dissonance.

Understanding why we experience “return to work blues” can help with managing this very common phenomena. Here are five strategies to make it easier.

1. Ease back into work gradually

Schedule a day between your return from vacation and your first day back at work to unpack, rest, and mentally prepare. If you have already started work, then consider taking the first few Fridays or Mondays off so you have a longer weekend. Also, break down your workload into manageable chunks, focusing on high-priority tasks to avoid feeling overwhelmed.

2. Incorporate elements of your holiday into daily life

Really enjoyed watching TV shows, being out in nature or trying new restaurants during the break? Then schedule time to regularly engage in these activities. You can even organise your next break so that you have something to look forward to.

3. Set meaningful goals

Use what you have learnt over the holidays to set personal and professional goals that align with your values and aspirations. For example, you might have discovered you really value social connection. So you could set a professional goal of connecting more with your colleagues by organising after-work drinks.

4. Reframe your perspective

Celebrate routine by recognising the stability and structure that work provides. You can also focus on the parts of your job that provide you with joy and fulfilment.

5. Maintain connections and prioritise self-care

Share holiday stories with your co-workers to foster camaraderie and ease the transition. Make healthy lifestyle choices, such as adopting a balanced diet, regular exercise and adequate sleep to support your mental and physical well-being.

Know that you are not alone in feeling sad or apprehensive about returning to work after the break. However, if these feelings persist or worsen, speak with a trusted friend, family member, call a support line like Beyond Blue, or seek support from a mental health professional such as a psychologist.

Kelvin (Shiu Fung) Wong, Senior Lecturer in Clinical Psychology, Swinburne University of Technology

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

There is no denying times have been tough for small and medium-sized businesses, and 2025 is not looking that much better.

Gross domestic product per capita is continuing to decline in both Australia and New Zealand. Company liquidations are on the rise, hitting a ten-year high in New Zealand and nearing an 11-year high in Australia.

And while consumer confidence has inched up, it’s still below the long-term average.

But even in this tough economic climate, there are ways small and medium-sized businesses can improve their prospects in 2025.

A fresh look at customers

While it is tempting to chase all revenue in a downturn, it can come at a cost. This is particularly the case when businesses overextend resources, acquire less profitable customers or over-invest in marketing.

Bad customers – those who don’t pay, don’t know what they want, are not loyal, constantly demand exceptions or who engage in aggressive or abusive behaviour – can kill profitability in a business.

Small businesses can also lose money when emulating the marketing strategies of large firms, such as offering freebies or discounts.

Rather than investing significant effort in finding new customers, businesses can benefit from retaining existing customers. Research on earlier economic crises found a 5% increase in customer retention produces more than a 25% increase in profit.

Businesses need to better understand their most profitable customers — those who pay in full, on time and provide repeat business.

This means asking questions such as: “what do these customers value and could we get more of them?”

Indeed, businesses might first have to shrink by losing bad customers before becoming more profitable by targeting good ones.

A fresh look at the competition

Businesses also need to recognise they are not alone. Surviving 2025 might require a focus on collaboration rather than competition. Doing so could be the difference between closing and making it to 2026.

Collaborating with another business could mean sharing costs or the opportunity to pitch for a larger project.

These types of opportunities are easily dismissed when the economic climate is strong. But during an economic downturn, collaboration could mean the difference between surviving or not.

Other competitors might be looking at winding down. Every business has some “crown jewels” — key assets, employees or customers. These jewels become greatly undervalued if the business is dissolved.

Bluntly put, there might be a bargain or a great customer to secure from competitors who are on their way out.

A fresh look at digitalisation

Many businesses have delayed investments in technology as they try to weather the economic slowdown. This means there are often unrealised efficiency gains from digitalisation, or new sales channels, such as TikTok, Facebook and other social media platforms.

Digitalisation helps small and medium-sized businesses to respond to crises, such as enabling cost savings and growth to increase chances of survival.

Artificial intelligence (AI), in particular, has significant potential to help small businesses bridge gaps in content creation, insights and productivity.

Although the Australian and New Zealand governments have begun supporting AI transition for small and medium-sized businesses, overall buy-in remains cautious.

Half of small and medium enterprises in both countries have yet to adopt AI. So while AI holds the potential to level the playing field and drive productivity by equipping these businesses with tools and capabilities typically reserved for large firms, it may deepen the divide.

Digitalisation can also increase flexibility and spark an entrepreneurial mindset. As employees of large companies return to the office in droves, some skilled and entrepreneurial employees seek opportunities to maintain the freedom of remote work.

Hiring this talent creates a win-win: working for your business can help them to hone their skills, while their skills can yield a competitive edge for your business.

These shifts can help businesses attract and keep talent, and reduce the need for physical assets.

A fresh look at oneself

How a business performs in a crisis is determined by the quality of its management. The value of good management is often underestimated. It lies in doing the basics well: setting clear goals, monitoring progress and encouraging performance.

A crisis is the perfect time to take a fresh look at customers, competition and costs. Leaders need to examine what their blind spots are so the business doesn’t fall short at the management level.

Personal success in business depends on achieving balance across work, home, community and self. What matters most to me? Where do I see the business in three years? Where do I see myself?

Taking the time to think about these questions is vital — not just for your business, but for you.

Antje Fiedler, Senior Lecturer, Management and International Business, University of Auckland, Waipapa Taumata Rau; Benjamin Fath, Senior Lecturer, Management and International Business, University of Auckland, Waipapa Taumata Rau, and Martie-Louise Verreynne, Professor in Innovation and Associate Dean (Research), The University of Queensland

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

Getting casual work over summer, or a part-time job that you might continue once your tertiary course starts, can be a great way to get workplace experience and earn some extra money.

But it’s important to be cautious and to ensure you don’t get caught up with an unscrupulous employer who might take advantage of a young, inexperienced job-seeker.

The most common red flags to be aware of are unpaid or underpaid wages, unsafe working conditions or unfair treatment. But, before we get into that, where do you start?

How to find a casual or summer job

Recruitment agencies

Register with recruitment agencies that specialise in temporary or seasonal work – they can match you with employers looking for short-term staff, ideal for summer jobs.

It’s free to join, and all you need to do is submit your resume and contact details. A quick tip: a recruitment agent makes their income from matching prospective job seekers to roles, so make sure your resume is tailored to the industry you’re interested in.

Local papers and community boards

Despite the rise of social media, many summer jobs can be found in local newspapers or newsletters, or your community bulletin boards, especially for smaller companies and in regional areas.

Check your local libraries, supermarkets and shopping centres. Some businesses will also place a notice in their front window.

Social media

Follow your favourite organisations and brands on social media, as many will use their sites to advertise vacancies. Studies have shown more than 90% of employers have used, or are planning to use, social media to find candidates.

Online job portals

Employment websites such as SEEK, Indeed, GradConnection and Prosple allow you to filter roles by location, industry and job type. If you want to work for a particular company, go directly to its website and check the careers page.

Personal networks

Use your personal and professional networks. Let your friends, family and acquaintances know you are looking. People will often help or recommend you. Most job vacancies are filled via the hidden job market, without being advertised.

Now you’ve found a job…

Getting a job is the first step. Ensuring your wages, hours and other conditions are legal under the Fair Work Act is the next.

Carefully read job descriptions

If an advertisement is vague and offers a promise of earning a lot of money for very little effort, as in the case of some work-from-home or remote jobs, it’s probably too good to be true.

Legitimate job ads provide detailed information about the role, responsibilities, required qualifications and experience, working hours and application process. Most importantly, an advertisement should include an email or phone number you can contact to get further information.

Do your research

Before you apply for a job, take the time to research the organisation. Look for reviews on websites such as Glassdoor – where former employees share their experiences.

Take a look at the company’s website, if it has one, to get an idea of the culture and values. If you find negative information, be wary. Sometimes a simple Google search will produce articles on a businesses questionable behaviour.

Ask for an employment contract

A written contract is necessary to protect your rights. A contract must outline your pay, working hours, working conditions, work health and safety issues. Before starting a job, the contract should be signed by both parties.

Read the Fair Work Ombudsman’s Guide to starting a new job.

Once you start working, keep written records of your hours and tasks. Keep a notebook or spreadsheet and track your hours and tasks daily. Also, keep records of all your payslips in case there’s an issue with your pay.

Safety and wellbeing

Safety is very important, especially if you are doing physical labour. Look for signs that your workplace follows local regulations and provides a safe work environment.

As well as physical safety, it is also important to protect your mental health. Watch for signs of bullying, intimidation or other inappropriate behaviour by bosses or colleagues.

Trust your gut

If something doesn’t feel right throughout the process, it probably isn’t. If a potential employer can’t answer simple questions, or is reluctant to give you written documentation, those are red flags.

It’s better to walk away than risk being put in an uncomfortable situation. If in doubt, talk to someone you trust, such as family, friends or mentors.

If you don’t have anyone you can talk to, you can always contact the office of the Fair Work Ombudsman.

Grozdana Manalo, Career Services Manager (Education), University of Sydney

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

Once, borrowing money to make a purchase was a relatively tedious process, not a spur-of-the-moment thing.

True, some stores offered lay-by plans that would let you pay for goods in instalments. But if they didn’t, and you didn’t already have a credit card, you’d have to go to a bank and apply for one.

That would mean providing a range of supporting documents, negotiating an appropriate credit limit, and waiting for approval. It’s unlikely you’d apply for credit just for a single, small purchase.

In recent years, though, the financial technology or “fintech” revolution in the customer credit market has changed all that, with the meteoric rise of buy-now-pay-later (BNPL) services.

BNPL credit allows consumers to split their purchases into smaller, interest-free instalments. It is often directly integrated into online checkouts with fast approval, making it easy to purchase something instantly and spread the cost over coming months.

There are some obvious risks. Many BNPL providers charge less visible fees, such as late payment fees and account maintenance fees. In many countries, the BNPL sector is also less regulated than traditional credit.

But does it also change our spending habits? Our recent research uncovered a concerning insight: consumers who use BNPL services end up spending more money online than those who don’t. This effect is particularly strong among younger shoppers and those with lower incomes.

Our research

We analysed data from an online retailer in the Nordic region that offered customers three payment options for online purchases: card, pay on delivery and BNPL.

We found that consumers who used BNPL spent an average of 6.42% more than those who didn’t.

This increase was particularly noticeable for low-ticket items, suggesting that BNPL may encourage customers to buy more when shopping for smaller, everyday things.

Why might this be the case? For one, BPNL spending is constrained by the size of the loans on offer. In the US, the average BNPL loan amount is US$135 (A$217).

It may also be related to what’s known in economics as the “lipstick effect”, where customers under financial strain tend to reduce spending on big-ticket items in favour of lower-priced luxuries.

Selling such low-ticket items doesn’t always give online retailers the biggest profit margins. But it can play a crucial role in acquiring and retaining customers, and creating opportunities to upsell.

Our research also showed that younger, lower-income customers were more likely to spend more when using BNPL services, likely because it provides them with additional “liquidity” – access to cash.

Why might they be spending more?

It’s easy to see why so many consumers like BNPL. Some even think of it as more of a way of payment than a form of credit.

The core feature of such services - offering interest-free instalment payments for online purchases - has a significant psychological impact on customers.

It leverages the principle that the perceived benefit of spending in the present outweighs the displeasure associated with future payments.

This behaviour aligns with theories of “hyperbolic discounting” – our preference for smaller immediate rewards over larger later ones – and the related “present bias” phenomenon.

Our results also suggest customers with high category experience – that is, more familiar with the larger product categories carried by a retailer – and those more sensitive to deals and promotions are likely to spend more when online retailers provide BNPL as a payment option.

A growing influence on spending

The economic impact of BNPL is substantial in the countries that have pioneered its adoption.

In Australia, birthplace of Afterpay, Zip, Openpay, and Latitude, it’s estimated that (allowing for flow-on effects) BNPL services contributed A$14.3 billion to gross domestic product (GDP) in the 2021 financial year.

Industry research firm Juniper Research projects the number of BNPL users will exceed 670 million globally by 2028, an increase of more than 100% on current levels.

Substantial projected growth in the sector is attributed to multiple factors. These include increasing e-commerce usage, economic pressures, the flexibility of payment options and widespread adoption by merchants.

Buyer, beware

BNPL services can be a convenient way to pay for online purchases. But it’s important to use them responsibly.

That means understanding the potential risks and benefits to make your own informed decisions. Be mindful of your spending. Don’t let the allure of easy payments let you get carried away.

Customers should explore beyond the marketing tactics of interest-free split payments and pay close attention to terms and conditions, including any fees and penalties. They should treat BNPL like any other form of credit.

Whether you’re a shopper considering using BNPL or a business thinking about offering it, our research highlights that it may have the power to significantly influence spending patterns – for better or worse.

Ashish Kumar, Senior Lecturer, RMIT University

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

Hot on the heels of a spectacular comet late last year, another celestial visitor is set to put on a show. And Southern Hemisphere observers have a ringside seat.

Comet C/2024 G3 (ATLAS) has just experienced a very close encounter with the Sun, and will become visible low in the western sky after sunset in the coming days. With luck, it will prove to be a spectacular sight.

It is often said that comets are like cats – their behaviour is notoriously hard to predict. So while astronomers have been awaiting the arrival of C/2024 G3 (ATLAS) for several months, they have been cautious of raising expectations too high.

Over the past couple of days, the comet has swung past the Sun, and survived its close encounter intact. The time has come for it to emerge to our evening skies.

A Sun-skirting snowball

At the heart of comet C/2024 G3 (ATLAS) is a dirty snowball or “cometary nucleus” only a few hundred metres to a couple of kilometres across. When it was discovered, in April 2024, it was still more than 600 million kilometres from Earth and the Sun.

In the days following the comet’s discovery, astronomers worked out its orbit – and it turned out to be a “Sun-skirter” that would pass less than 14 million kilometres from our star on January 13.

As a comet approaches the Sun, it begins to heat up. The ice on and near the surface “sublimes”, causing jets of gas and dust to erupt from the nucleus’ surface. This shrouds the nucleus in a vast cloud of gas and dust, which is then blown away from the Sun, creating the comet’s tails.

Comets that get particularly close to the Sun can become spectacular. This is what happened with comet C/2006 P1 (McNaught), which put on an incredible show for observers in the Southern Hemisphere in early 2007.

For that reason, astronomers often get excited when a new comet is found that will pass particularly close to the Sun. However, comets are also notoriously fragile and friable. Many small comets on Sun-skirting orbits simply fall apart in a puff of dust and disappointment.

When comet C/2024 G3 (ATLAS) was discovered it was very faint, which suggested its nucleus is relatively small. As a result, it seemed likely to fall apart during its close approach to the Sun.

One piece of evidence gave astronomers hope. The comet’s orbit indicated it had passed this way at least once before – and survived.

Now the time has come – as I write this, the comet has passed its closest approach to the Sun intact. It has already put on an incredible show as the third brightest comet ever observed by NASA’s space-based solar observatory SOHO, and even been imaged by keen astrophotographers in broad daylight. Over the coming days, it will move into the evening sky as it moves away from the Sun.

A bright comet, low in the west after sunset

Comet C/2024 G3 (ATLAS) will begin to appear in the evening sky, low to the west-southwest. For observers in the Northern Hemisphere, it will remain lost in the Sun’s glare. But for those south of the equator, it has the potential to be easily visible for the next few evenings, as the sky darkens after the Sun sets.

Unfortunately, the comet’s orbit is also taking it away from Earth, so it will fade relatively quickly. At its closest to the Sun, the comet was almost as bright as the planet Venus (currently a spectacular sight in the western evening sky). Within a couple of weeks, the comet will cease to be visible to the naked eye.

What does that mean? If you want to get the best possible view, you need to seize your chance in the next few days. Each evening, the comet will set later, and be farther from the Sun in the sky. But it will also be fainter from one night to the next.

So when, and where, should I look?

If you want to see comet C/2024 G3 (ATLAS), you’re going to need to find somewhere with a clear, unobstructed view of the horizon slightly to the south of due west. Using a planetarium app or website like Stellarium will allow you to work out what time the Sun and the comet will set from your location, so you can plan your observations.

The videos below show the comet’s location a little after sunset at three different latitudes (around Cairns, Brisbane and Melbourne/Auckland) over the evenings from January 16 to 23.

Note the position of the comet in these videos is just the location of the comet’s head. The tail will rise upwards from the comet into the sky, leaning a bit to the right. The videos also don’t give a real feel for how bright the comet will be – you’ll just have to go out and see.

Get to your chosen viewing location around sunset, to maximise your chances of spotting the comet. As soon as the Sun is below the horizon, you can start scanning for the comet with binoculars, your camera, or the naked eye.

At first, the sky will be too bright, but the comet should eventually reveal itself, low to the horizon, before it sets.

From my own experience with comet C/2023 A3 (Tsuchinshan-ATLAS) last year, seeing a comet low in the twilight sky can be challenging. I found it was easy to spot the comet through my camera. Once found, I could find it with the unaided eye.

The time-lapse video I shot, below, shows that comet rising in the morning sky in early October 2024. You can see how the comet gets easier to see the darker the sky becomes. For the new comet C/2024 G3 (ATLAS), imagine the video running backwards, with the comet setting as the sky becomes darker, to get a feel for how the comet might look.

Of course it is hard to say just how bright and easy to spot comet C/2024 G3 (ATLAS) will be.

With each night that passes, the comet will get higher in the sky, and so in theory be easier to spot. It will be dimming, however, so the best view will be had during the next week.

Jonti Horner, Professor (Astrophysics), University of Southern Queensland

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

When I (Nathan Brooks English) was six years old, I snuck a starfish home from the beach and hid it in my closet. I regret that now, as my parents did then when the smell of rotting starfish overwhelmed the house. I regret it also because that starfish had a place and a purpose – and dying in a hot, dark closet next to my Hot Wheels was not it.

Likewise, the beautiful shells and natural flotsam that decorate Australian beaches have a place and a purpose. For many of us, summer at the beach is a cherished memory and collecting seashells is probably a part of that memory.

On most beaches in Australia, collecting shells without living creatures in them is legal, but let me convince you there are better options that ensure future Sallies will still find seashells by the seashore.

Someone needs that shell more than you

For native wildlife, both occupied and unoccupied shells provide important shelter and sources of calcium and grit.

Taking that beautiful snail shell could increase the cost of housing for a hermit crab or the small shrimp that needs it next. The beautiful conch shell that calls to you is actually an octopus caravan.

For these reasons, never pick up shells in the water or in tidal pools; chances are they are being used or will be shortly.

Likewise, collecting shells in marine parks is strictly prohibited.

Shells have spiritual and cultural importance

For the island Woppaburra People of central Queensland, beaches and shells have spiritual and cultural importance as part of Dreaming stories, dance and ceremonies.

In addition to their place and purpose in my (Robert Muir) stories and culture, shells can also provide valuable insight and context to our history on the island.

Middens (deep piles of shells left on the beach after being used to produce food or tools) provide archaeological evidence that the islands have been occupied for at least the past 5,000 years.

Back then, Woppa (also known as Great Keppel Island, in Queensland) and its beaches could sustainably support the 100 to 200 people who lived on the island for more than five millenia.

Today, Woppa hosts tens of thousands of visitors a year on three small beaches. And while people are welcome to pick up, examine and play with the shells, to preserve their place and purpose they must be left on the shore where they were found.

If everyone took a shell…

Increasing pressure on beaches and their natural resources isn’t just felt on Woppa.

The global population now exceeds 8 billion people and our collective (pun intended) impact on beaches is magnified. That’s twice as many people as when I (Nathan Brooks English) was a child in the late 1970s.

For example, in 2019 Bondi Beach had more than 2.1 million visitors (not that anyone is looking at shells). If everyone took a shell, there’d be hardly any left.

Even smaller beaches need time to accumulate shells and a summer rush of collectors can quickly deplete beaches of shells until the next cyclone or winter storm washes more up.

What to do instead of collecting shells

So how do we balance wanting a tangible reminder of the beach in our own yards or homes (the destination of many shells) versus not damaging the natural beauty and function of beach ecosystems?

Instead of taking a shell, take a picture instead. You can photograph unoccupied shells in place along the beach where the tide has collected, or arrange them together for a photographic collage.

Include them in your sandcastles as gates, windows, or little people to populate the castle.

For your artsy children (or adults), use crayons or coloured pencils and a small sketch pad to draw the shells.

Taking a few shells at a time to your umbrella to sketch them and then returning them to the tide line will sate the urge to collect and leave the beach unchanged.

You may even find you have a gifted scientific illustrator on your hands.

When you’re done with the shells, leave them by the shore. Wind, tides and time (or tomorrow’s small visitor) will sweep them back into natural circulation, continuing their storied lives as creature homes or fine grit for our beautiful Australian beaches, their purpose and place preserved.

If you absolutely must pick something up and take it home, please pick up some of the vast amount of plastic found on Australian beaches.

Nathan Brooks English, Associate professor; Flora, Fauna & Freshwater Research Cluster Lead, CQUniversity Australia and Robert Muir, Project Officer at the Woppaburra TUMRA Aboriginal Corporation, Indigenous Knowledge

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

Cycling, in its most familiar form, dates back to at least the 19th century. One example of an early bicycle was known as the “hobby horse”, and it later became the “Dandy horse” and then the “accelerator”. Early cycling was reserved for the upper-classes and was seen as highly fashionable and decorous – particularly for men.

Women’s cycling, on the other hand, was viewed as trivial and unbecoming. When women were portrayed cycling, they were often eroticised and undressed.

The early development of women’s bicycles and cycle-wear was impeded by debates on women’s morality and sexual innocence. The bicycle was said to cause “bicycle face” (a face of muscular tension), harm reproductive organs and diminish what supposedly little energy women had.

Cycling women were viewed as sexually promiscuous both for the “unnatural” straddling of the bicycle and for the freedom cycling offered them. Where were they all cycling to, men wondered.

New women

The development in 1885 of the Rover “safety bicycle” revolutionised women’s cycling. It featured a lower mounting position and inspired somewhat of a cycling craze. By the 1890s, several million women around the world were cycling.

The influx of female cyclists on the streets created a moral panic for the Victorians. The image of the cycling woman came to represent a new type of woman with feminist ambition. This led to a discourse known simply as the “woman question”.

The fear caused by this cycling “new woman” is made clear in postcards from the time. The new woman in the example above is abandoning her husband and children for a day out and charging her husband with domestic tasks – a highly provocative notion to a Victorian audience. God forbid, perhaps she is also on her way to a suffragist rally. Cycling women were seen as radicals who threatened the “natural order of things”.

Such was the symbiotic relationship between feminism and women’s cycling, that the bicycle became emblematic of the suffrage movement. This photograph, taken in 1897, was taken at the height of the “woman problem” debate.

An effigy of a cycling woman hangs above a crowd at Cambridge University, as they await the result of a vote on whether female students ought to receive a degree upon completion of study. The vote was defeated and the effigy triumphantly torn down. Women could not receive a degree from Cambridge University until 1948.

This photograph captures the cultural rejection of cycling, educated women.

The effigy, dressed in collegiate striped stockings, cap and rational dress is a stereotypical new woman. Akin to a Guy Fawkes dummy in November, during this time the cycling woman momentarily joined Britain’s long history of reviled figures of rebellion.

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Mobile women

In her book Women and the Machine (2001), art historian Julie Wosk documents the history of a “cultural longing to represent women as safely stationary” in visual culture.

At the turn of the century, cycling women were often depicted as incompetant, either falling off their bicycle, cycling into something or being attacked while cycling.

The intention behind these images was to showcase women’s supposed technical and physical inability. The Victorian equivalent of the sexist modern-day stereotype that “women can’t drive”. At the base of such claims is a fear of mobile women. Images like these served as visual warnings for women who wished to exercise their physical freedom on two wheels.

After 1900, women’s cycling went through another transition. While in its early years cycling was considered an upper-class pursuit, by the 20th century bicycles were becoming democratised as the motorcar became the in thing for the wealthy.

Bicycles became a form of functional transport for the working classes. The need for an expanded female workforce during the first world war had also helped to normalise women’s cycling.

As shown in the above special munitions edition of Cycling magazine, the bicycle was seen as the ideal “energy saving” mode of transport for female workers. While the advertisement copy shows that the 19th-century concerns over women’s “energies” endured during the war, the visual of a woman successfully cycling to her workplace confirms some progress.

By the 1930s, cycling manufacturers were offering women’s ranges more in line with men’s and leading brands offered speed and sports models to women. Marketing copy focused less on issues of morality and decorum and worries of “bicycle face” had long ceased to exist.

This was surely progress? Unfortunately, it isn’t so straightforward. The discourse around women cycling was still concerned with health and beauty more than sporting achievement. But now instead of being thought to damage femininity, cycling now supposedly ensured it.

In 1938 Billie Dovey was named British bicycle manufacturer Rudge-Whitworth’s “Keep Fit Girl” after she peddled almost 30,000 miles around Britain. But rather than focus on her remarkable achievement, the press described Dovey’s “fine physique”, “healthy” skin and “tan”.

Images of the past can tell us a lot about the culture which produced it. These images show a cultural discomfort with physically mobile women. And it’s a discomfort that hasn’t entirely disappeared.

A gender gap in British cycling persists. Nine in ten British women are reportedly “scared of cycling in towns and cities”. The UK’s poor cycling infrastructure matched with an increase in violence against women on the streets together make for an unappealing prospect for would-be female cyclists.

As well as safety fears, women have less leisure time – despite more flexible post-pandemic working structures – and societal pressures regarding their physical appearance when cycling still linger. That’s all despite the number of female cyclists adding to medal tallies for British teams in recent years which made household names of some athletes.

Whatever the future for women’s cycling, it is critical to understand and redress these long-held assumptions about women’s “paltry” abilities regarding technology, sports and cycling. It is important to recognise the bicycle as an agent for progress whilst acknowledging the historic and contemporary challenges facing female cyclists.

Tamsin Johnson, PhD candidate in visual cultures, Nottingham Trent University

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

Multiculturalism is central to Australia’s identity, with more than half the population coming from overseas or having parents who did.

Most Australians view multiculturalism positively. However, many experience a declining sense of belonging and ongoing discrimination. When surveyed in 2024, one in three migrants from non-English-speaking backgrounds reported dealing with racial, ethnic or religious discrimination in the past 12 months.

In this context, cultural festivals present a valuable opportunity. They help remove barriers between different communities and build understanding across cultures.

We studied two cultural festivals in Sydney, the Africultures Festival and the New Beginnings Festival, to investigate the impact they had on communities.

Through interviews and surveys, we found cultural festivals are meaningful to the people they celebrate and enriching for non-migrants who attend them. These events help cultivate a sense of hope and optimism for Australia’s future as a multicultural society.

A chance for cultural enrichment

The Africultures Festival has been held each year since 2009. Led by a passionate all-women African-Australian committee, this event connects African communities with the broader Australian public.

The New Beginnings Festival is organised by the not-for-profit organisation Settlement Services International. It celebrates the diversity of migrant, refugee, multicultural and First Nations communities with themes of home, belonging, resilience and creativity.

Both festivals present unique opportunities for the general public to learn about different cultures and traditions. And for those whose cultures are being celebrated, they offer space to express one’s cultural identity and counteract negative stereotypes.

At the Africultures Festival, visitors can eat traditional foods, dance to African beats and even partake in African drumming workshops. As individuals from different backgrounds dance side-by-side, cultural barriers begin to dissolve.

The New Beginnings Festival features music, dance, visual arts, crafts and cuisine, celebrating the creativity and cultural heritage of artists and communities from diverse backgrounds.

As one attendee at New Beginnings told us:

You feel that you’re sharing your culture and art and your background in a new society and with new people. They will learn about it […] they will become interested and maybe it can change their mind about […] migrants and refugees. So they challenge themselves and they think that: ‘Oh, it’s not all about what media says and all about what politicians say. It’s about the depth of the culture’.

Apart from appreciating different cultures, these shared experiences also help remind people of what they have in common. They do more than entertain; they promote cultural understanding and personal growth.

Community building and connections

For migrant communities, in particular, we found cultural festivals create three levels of connection.

Preserving ethnic roots

Festivals such as Africultures allow migrants to celebrate and showcase their cultural traditions and heritage. This helps strengthen their sense of belonging in Australia, allowing them to feel more “at home”.

One attendee at New Beginnings said:

It just makes you feel like you’re in your own country […] You stay in another part of the world, far away, but still you can have part of your country and part of yourself. So your identity is still there and many people see you.

Bonding between migrant groups

Gatherings such as New Beginnings bring migrants from diverse backgrounds together. Despite coming from different countries and cultural backgrounds, attendees can connect over the shared journeys of settlement and adapting to life in Australia.

One attendee at New Beginnings said:

because I’m an immigrant I have more similarities with them [other migrant attendees] and I feel attracted to them as we have gone through the same thing.

Bridging gaps with the wider Australian community

Cultural festivals help establish meaningful connections between migrant and non-migrant Australians. At Africultures, nearly all of the Africans we surveyed (96.7%) said the event left them feeling more positive about other cultural groups.

For non-migrants, the festival allowed them to feel more connected to people from diverse backgrounds. Our findings suggest it also encouraged many of them to become open to different viewpoints.

One non-migrant attendee at Africultures told us:

I hope Australia can be a welcoming place for others. It is wonderful to experience other cultures and I hope that everyone can call Australia home.

Empowering entrepreneurs and artists

Beyond the wellbeing and personal growth aspects, cultural festivals also help migrants build their careers and businesses.

At last year’s Africultures Festival, we found nearly half the attendees spent more than A$75 at food and market stalls, directly supporting small business owners from migrant backgrounds.

Similarly, New Beginnings offers business owners and artists opportunities to showcase their work, meet potential customers and build professional networks.

Performers, too, highlight the career opportunities these festivals provide. One told us:

[Africultures has] given me the hope that I have a chance to expand my music to a whole lot of different audiences.

Such festivals have been stepping stones for notable successes. Yellow Wiggle Tsehay began performing at the Africultures Festival. Little Lagos, a Nigerian restaurant in Sydney’s Inner West, also got its start there in the form of a stall.

Shaping Australia

Cultural festivals are more than just celebrations. They are powerful tools for shaping a more inclusive Australia. By bringing people together to share their stories, food, music and traditions, these events help strengthen and connect communities.

The most impactful cultural festivals actively engage with and respond to the needs and aspirations of the communities they represent. They provide meaningful opportunities for cultural and ethnic minorities to share their experiences, ensuring their perspectives shape the direction of the event.

When festivals focus on these values, they become catalysts for a more united, inclusive Australia – one where everyone feels they belong.

Najmeh Hassanli, Senior Lecturer at UTS Business School, University of Technology Sydney and Pavlina Jasovska, Senior Lecturer in International Business & Strategy, University of Technology Sydney

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

It’s unlikely you’ve missed the story. In recent weeks, US President-elect Donald Trump has again repeatedly voiced his desire for the United States to take “ownership and control” of Greenland – an autonomous territory of the Kingdom of Denmark.

Trump first floated the idea of the US buying Greenland back in 2019. At the time, he argued, quite correctly, that he was not the first US president to come up with the idea.

Modern-day territory sales are rare. Whether Trump will revive them remains to be seen. But the question is intriguing – how would one decide what to offer for an entire state, territory or nation?

Not a new idea

Greenland’s strategic position has been of great value to the US since the early days of the Cold War.

In 1946, then-President Harry Truman offered to buy the Danish territory for US$100 million in gold. It is reported the Danes had much the same reaction to that offer as they did in 2019, and again in 2025: “No, thank you.”

One sovereign nation buying territory from another may seem strange today, but there are many instances where this has happened over time.

The US purchased much of its Western expansion in the early 19th century.

This included the “Louisiana Purchase”, vast swathes of land in North America, bought from France in 1803 for US$15 million (an estimated US$416 million in 2024 figures).

About half a century later, the US paid Mexico for large amounts of territory after the Mexican-American War. The US also bought Alaska from Russia in 1867, for US$7.2 million (over US$150 million today).

And it bought the US Virgin Islands from Denmark in 1917 for US$25 million (over US$600 million today) in gold coin.

It isn’t just the US. Japan, Pakistan, Russia, Germany and Saudi Arabia have all purchased territory, transferring jurisdiction over local inhabitants and gaining land, access to critical waterways or simply geographical buffers.

What is a country’s value?

Valuing a country (or an autonomous territory like Greenland) is no simple task. Unlike companies or assets, countries embody a mix of tangible and intangible elements that resist straightforward economic measurement.

A logical place to start is gross domestic product, or “GDP”. Simply put, GDP is the value of all the final goods and services produced in an economy in a given time (usually one year).

But does this really capture the true “value” of an economy? When we buy something, the benefits derived from it last – we hope – into the future.

So, basing a purchase price on the value produced in a given time period may not adequately reflect the value of that object (in this case, an entire economy) to the buyer. We need to consider the ability to continue to generate value into the future.

Greenland’s productive resources include not only the existing businesses, governments and workers used to generate its current GDP (estimated at about US$3.236 billion in 2021), but also its (difficult to measure) ability to change and improve its future GDP. This will depend on how productive these resources are expected to be in the future.

There are other attributes of value not captured in GDP. These include the quality of its capital (both human and infrastructure), quality of life, natural resources and strategic position.

Unexploited resources

Beyond what is already there, from a market perspective, it’s the as-yet unexploited resources that make Greenland valuable.

Greenland has been mining coal for decades, with large, confirmed reserves. The subsoil has been shown to contain rare earths, precious metals, graphite and uranium.

In addition to coal mining, there is gold, silver, copper, lead, zinc, graphite and marble.

Finally, there is the potential for major oil exploitation off the waters of Greenland. None of this potential is reflected in Greenland’s current GDP.

National assets are easier

Putting a price on a large national asset, such as the Panama Canal (which Trump also wants under US control), is a much easier prospect.

The theory of asset valuation is a fundamental part of the finance discipline and dates back to the 18th century.

The “asset pricing model” has evolved over time, but fundamentally, it’s about estimating the future net income flows from an asset, based on a few inputs.

For the Panama Canal, this would involve estimating the future net income that could be generated, based on factors such as fees generated by its use and the level of anticipated traffic.

You’d then take steps to subtract the anticipated costs of maintaining the equipment and any expected damage to the health of the waterway. Another factor in determining what you would pay is the risk of actually realising that net income.

The value or “price tag” of such an asset is usually determined by working out the present value of all of these future (net) income flows.

Modern territory sales are rare

The decline in territorial sales is tied to several factors. Historically, land sales often benefited ruling elites rather than ordinary citizens. In modern democracies, it is nearly impossible to sell land if local citizens oppose the idea.

Such democracies operate on the principle that national assets should serve the people, not the government’s coffers. Selling a territory today would require demonstrating clear, tangible benefits to the population, a difficult task in practice.

Nationalism also plays a powerful role. Land is deeply tied to national identity and selling it off is often seen as a betrayal. Governments, as custodians of national pride, are reluctant to entertain offers, no matter how tempting.

Compounding this is a strong international norm against changing borders, born of fears that one territorial adjustment could trigger a cascade of claims and conflicts elsewhere.

In today’s world, buying a country or one of its territories may be little more than a thought experiment. Nations are political, cultural and historical entities that resist commodification.

Greenland may theoretically have a price, but the real question is whether such a transaction could ever align with modern values and realities.

Susan Stone, Credit Union SA Chair of Economics, University of South Australia and Jonathan Boymal, Associate Professor of Economics, RMIT University

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

Travellers have always faced health hazards when far from home. Medieval people were no exception. Pilgrims, crusaders and others were warned by preachers such as 13th century Jacques de Vitry of “dangers on land, dangers at sea, the dangers of thieves, the dangers of predators, the dangers of battles”.

There were also dangers to health: disease, lack of good nutrition and water, injury, accident and poisoning. Medieval travellers were active and innovative in trying to prevent ill health while away.

Although the adjective “medieval” continues to be used disparagingly to imply backwardness in medical and scientific knowledge, this history of preventive medicine shows us something different.

From good sleep to ‘good’ leeches

One especially interesting set of practical health care instructions for travellers is the De regimine et via itineris et fine peregrinatium (About the regimen and way of the journey for the traveller). The text was composed by Adam of Cremona in about 1227–28 for the German emperor Frederick II, who was about to set out on crusade.

Unedited and surviving in a single manuscript, Adam draws heavily on Ibn Sina’s 11th century Canon of Medicine, used for medical teaching in medieval universities.

Adam advised bloodletting (phlebotomy) should be performed prior to the emperor’s journey and then regularly throughout, depending on the “will and mood” of the stars.

Bloodletting was central to medieval medical practice. It used leeches or sharp knife-like instruments to nick the vein and cause blood to drain from the body. It was performed both preventatively and, in the case of some medieval religious communities, periodically as part of monastic bodily regulation and discipline.

Devoting some 25 chapters of his text to phlebotomy, Adam drew on the idea that bloodletting would regulate the humours (the four fluids thought to make up the body: blood, yellow bile, black bile and phlegm), evacuating “bad” ones and setting the body in balance to prepare for healthy travel.

While the concept of the four humours has since been abandoned by modern medicine, bloodletting and “leech therapy” continue to be performed in some medical settings for specific purposes.

Adam advised all travellers should be mindful of the instruments of bloodletting – especially leeches – while on the road. His writing included warnings to distinguish between leeches: good (round and shiny) and bad (black or blue in colour and found near fetid water).

He also gave careful instruction on how to desalinate water, as well as advice about diet (as close as possible to the traveller’s home diet, with plenty of fruit and vegetables), the importance of rest and adequate sleep, and the importance of regular bathing.

Dysentery was a well known hazard of travel, especially for crusaders, and Adam’s guide reflected all travellers’ wish to avoid it by keeping the digestive system in balance.

Balancing body and spirit

Knowledge about water supplies was especially important for travellers.

One pilgrimage guide informed travellers one of the best sources of water in the holy land was just outside Haifa, in modern-day Israel.

Theodoric’s Guide for the Holy Land reminded travellers there was no water in Jerusalem other than the rainwater collected by inhabitants and stored in cisterns for daily use.

Medieval travellers were also reminded to take particular care of their feet. In 1260, Vincent of Beauvais gave instructions to travellers to use poultices (a dressing for wounds) made of oil, plants and quicksilver (mercury) to prevent and manage blisters – an all too frequent ailment experienced by pilgrims walking long distances.

Adam of Cremona suggested travellers regulate their pace as they walked, especially on unfamiliar and rough roads.

The overall benefit of exercise was generally understood. Preachers such as Jacques de Vitry told his congregations movement made the body healthy both physically and spiritually, so should be undertaken regularly before and during a journey.

Different climates and environments meant encounters with dangerous fauna. The holy land was said to be home to poisonous serpents.

Travellers took with them theriac, an antidote made in part from snake flesh in case of a bite. This would be ingested or smeared on the wound.

Crocodiles in Egypt were also often mentioned as a hazard. There were no antidotes for an attack, but forewarning travellers with knowledge helped them to remain alert.

Medieval travellers did not leave their fate entirely in God’s hands. Even the crusaders took precautionary measures to balance both bodily and spiritual health before and during their journeys.

They confessed sins, sought blessings to protect their property and baggage and carried with them charms and amulets that were thought to ensure “the health of body and protection of the soul”, as one 12th century Italian blessing explained. This “divine prophylaxis” ran alongside more practical care of the physical body – a holistic view of health as corporeal and spiritual.

The actions and remedies available to medieval pilgrims and other travellers may seem limited and perhaps dangerous to modern readers. But like all travellers, medieval people used the knowledge they had and tried hard to maintain good health in sometimes difficult conditions.

The urge to remain well is a very human one, and its long medieval history reminds us that good health has always been carefully managed through prevention just as much as cure.

Megan Cassidy-Welch, Professor of History and Dean of Research Strategy

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

The Martyrs of Compiègne, a group of 16 Discalced Carmelite nuns executed during the Reign of Terror in the French Revolution, were canonised by Pope Francis on December 18.

Their extraordinary faith and courage in the face of death offer timeless lessons on conviction and resilience.

These nuns, led by their prioress Mother Teresa of St. Augustine, embraced their fate with a profound sense of spiritual purpose, leaving an enduring legacy.

Religion and the French Revolution

Established in the 16th century by two saints, Teresa of Ávila and John of the Cross, the Order of Discalced Carmelites is a Catholic religious order. The name of the Order includes the designation “discalced”, meaning “without shoes”, referring to their rule to go about barefoot or wearing sandals.

The Carmelite nuns dedicate themselves entirely to a contemplative way of life and live in cloistered monasteries.

The French Revolution, marked by its anti-clericalism and radical reorganisation of society, profoundly disrupted religious life. The Civil Constitution of the Clergy in 1790 made religious vows illegal, forcing the majority of monastic communities to disband.

The religious community of the Carmel of Compiègne, established in 1641 and renowned for its piety, refused to break up. In August 1792, the revolutionary government decreed the closure of all monasteries occupied by women.

The nuns’ expulsion from their cloister followed in September 1792. The nuns maintained their communal life in secret, relying on the support of the local community. They continued their prayers and acts of devotion.

The nuns’ commitment was inspired by a prophetic vision experienced in 1693 by Sister Élisabeth-Baptiste, who saw her sisterhood destined to follow Jesus Christ in a profound act of sacrifice. The written record of this vision, preserved in the monastery’s archives, deeply resonated with the Carmel’s prioress, Mother Teresa, as Catholics endured the turmoil of the Revolution.

In November 1792, the prioress proposed an extraordinary act of consecration: the nuns would offer their lives for the salvation of France and the Church. Since then, each nun daily offered herself for the salvation of France, praying for peace and unity.

Arrest and trial

The Revolution’s intensifying hostility toward religious communities led to the nuns’ arrest in June 1794 at the height of massacres and public executions known as the “Reign of Terror”.

Accused of being “enemies of the people” for their continued religious practices and perceived loyalty to the monarchy, they were transferred to Paris’s notorious Conciergerie prison that held such prisoners as Queen Marie Antoinette.

At their trial on July 17 the public prosecutor, the notorious Antoine Quentin Fouquier de Tinville, charged them with fanaticism, defined as their steadfast attachment to their faith.

The nuns confronted the prosecutor, demanding a definition of fanaticism. This act of defiance highlighted the absurdity of the charges and revealed the regime’s persecution of religious belief as a threat to its revolutionary ideals.

Execution and legacy

That evening the nuns were paraded through Paris in open carts on the way to execution. They sang hymns such as Salve Regina and Miserere.

In doing so, they continued to proclaim their adherence to their faith, preparing to give their lives so the terror might end and French Catholics would no longer face persecution.

Upon reaching the guillotine at the Place du Trône Renversé, they renewed their vows. Sister Constance, the youngest at 29 and still a novice due to revolutionary laws banning religious professions, was the first to ascend the scaffold. As she approached her death, she began chanting Laudate Dominum omnes gentes, a hymn proclaiming God’s mercy.

One by one, the nuns followed.

The executioner and witnesses reported their extraordinary composure and the solemn silence of the crowd. Mother Teresa, the last to die, upheld her role as a spiritual leader to the very end, completing the community’s sacrificial offering.

Ten days later, the revolutionary leader and architect of the Terror Maximilien Robespierre was arrested and executed, effectively ending the Reign of Terror. The nuns’ martyrdom has been interpreted by French Catholics as hastening Robespierre’s demise, their sacrifice seen as a powerful act of intercession for a nation in turmoil.

Lessons on conviction and resilience

In 1906 Pope Pius X beatified the Martyrs of Compiègne. Beatification means the Church recognised their entrance to heaven, and that they could intercede on behalf of those who pray in their name.

Last December, Pope Francis canonised the women via equipollent canonisation. Also known as equivalent canonisation, this is a process by which the Pope declares a person to be a saint without the usual judicial procedures and formal attributions of miracles typical in the canonisation process.

This rare procedure is used for individuals who have been venerated since their death and whose sanctity and heroic virtues are already firmly established in Church tradition.

The Martyrs of Compiègne’s feast day is celebrated on July 17, the anniversary of their ultimate act of faith.

The Martyrs of Compiègne exemplify unwavering faith and courage. Their decision to offer their lives as a collective sacrifice underscores the transformative power of conviction. Faced with the threat of death, they demonstrated remarkable unity and spiritual fortitude, finding strength in their shared commitment to God and their community.

Their story challenges us to reflect on the nature of resilience and the values we uphold in times of crisis. By standing firm in their beliefs, they revealed the profound impact of faith and the capacity of the human spirit to endure adversity.

Darius von Guttner Sporzynski, Historian, Australian Catholic University

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

Journalist Simon Townsend has died aged 79 only a few months after being diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. A statement released by his family reported “In his final days, Simon was surrounded by his family and a mix of journalists, writers, actors, political activists and Italians”.

Townsend is best remembered for hosting the Logie-winning children’s show Wonder World from 1979 until 1987.

But it is equally important to focus on his time as a political activist and conscientious objector during the Vietnam War. When Townsend was a fledgling journalist in his early 20s, he fought fearlessly against the draft and was imprisoned twice for his pacifist beliefs.

Conscientious objection

On November 24 1964, Liberal prime minister Robert Menzies re-introduced conscription through the National Service Act. It became mandatory for men turning 20 to register for national service.

Of the more than 800,000 who registered, 64,000 eventually served.

Approximately 14,000 refused to register for a variety of reasons. Refusal was a crime punishable by up to two years in prison, unless an exemption was granted on the grounds of conscientious objection, generally connected to religious belief.

Others registered, but claimed conscientious objection before they attended their standard military medical examination. Townsend registered as required by law in 1965 and immediately attempted to claim conscientious objector status on the grounds of pacifism.

This was refused by a judge in 1966 who said he was “not sincere”. The judge ordered Townsend to attend his medical examination. Townsend refused. He was sent to serve a one month prison sentence at Sydney’s Long Bay Gaol in early 1967.

On his release, Townsend again applied for an exemption. Again, he was unsuccessful. In February 1968, he refused to attend his next medical. In March, Townsend disobeyed an order to report for military duty. He was charged in the Special Federal Court in Sydney on May 15 and imprisoned again.

The Abolish Conscription Campaign

Four days later, Townsend wrote a letter to the Sydney protest group Abolish Conscription Campaign, reporting eight prison guards constantly watched over him and woke him up every two hours for his “wellbeing”.

He said he was “pretty miserable”, but his brother had sought help from Labor politicians Gough Whitlam and Len Devine, who paid Townsend a visit in support.

On June 10 1968 the Abolish Conscription Campaign organised a “major protest” to “demonstrate for the release of all conscientious objectors and the abolition of conscription”. Activists marched from Liverpool Station to Ingleburn Military Camp, where Townsend was being held ahead of his June 14 court date.

On this date, Townsend’s application for conscientious objector status was accepted – the court no doubt influenced by the increasing public attention his case had attracted.

Townsend approached his legal difficulties with courage and generosity. Between his two stints in prison, he formed Sydney’s Conscientious Objectors’ Group. Townsend, along with fellow activists including Quakers, feminists and pacifists, used their time and energy providing information to conscientious objectors facing court.

‘The Unconscriptables’

After Townsend’s release, he continued to fight against the National Service Act.

In August 1968 he joined the Caravan Against Conscription, which saw Sydney activists travel through rural New South Wales to spread the anti-war message.

In the next month Townsend helped to form a group called The Unconscriptables, “open to all those young men who face civil gaol because of a responsible and conscientious decision not to comply with the National Service Act”.

Townsend later supported Unconscriptable Geoff Mullen when he unsuccessfully stood for the federal seat of Wentworth in the October 1969 election. In an act of resistance, Mullen was running against Liberal minister for labour and national service, Leslie Bury.

Selfless action

During my State Library of New South Wales Fellowship research into quiet protest during the Vietnam War, I came across a court summons addressed to teacher, activist and former NSW Teachers Federation President Samuel Phineas Lewis, signed by Simon Townsend.

I became fascinated not only by Townsend’s personal story, but also his willingness to selflessly act on behalf of other young men impelled to fight in a war they did not believe in.

This court summons represents one of many protest actions performed by Townsend as Secretary of the Committee in Defiance of the National Service Act, formed in July 1969.

At their first meeting in Sydney Town Hall, Townsend, along with Committee leader Ken Thomas (an activist and businessman who, in 1946, established KW Thomas Transport, later known as Thomas Nationwide Transport or TNT), and 70 others including barristers, academics, unionists, housewives and clergymen, publicly signed a Statement of Defiance proclaiming their ongoing support for men who evaded conscription.

In encouraging others to break the law, they intentionally contravened the Crimes Act in the hope the time taken to prosecute them in court would delay any legal action towards young conscientious objectors.

Eventually 8,000 Australians made Statements of Defiance, were reported by Committee members to authorities and were fined or summonsed to appear in court. The Liberal Government soon became wise to the Committee’s scheme and ceased reacting.

These relatively quiet protest acts were hugely impactful and incredibly brave.

Townsend continued to fight against the National Service Act until Prime Minister Gough Whitlam abolished conscription as his first order of business following his December 2 1972 election win. This was while working as a reporter for This Day Tonight, a position he held from 1970 until the launch of Wonder World.

The loss of Simon Townsend is deeply felt in this country, not only for his journalism but also for his fearless activism. Vale.

Effie Karageorgos, Senior Lecturer in History, University of Newcastle

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

Originally known as 2JJ, or Double Jay, when it launched in Sydney at 11am on January 19 1975, Triple J has since become the national youth network. The station now encompasses broadcast radio, live events, social media and a huge digital and cultural influence. It’s been the beating heart (or beating drum, as its logo depicts) of generations of young Australians.

With a target audience of 18–24-year-olds (ish), what does it mean when the national youth broadcaster hits middle age?

A station for young Australians

Triple J was born out of the Whitlam government’s commitment to young Australians. In addition to lowering the voting age from 21 to 18, the introduction of a dedicated space for young people provided by the national broadcaster allowed for greater cultural and civic participation.

The first song played on air was You Just Like Me ‘Cos I’m Good in Bed by Skyhooks. Banned by commercial networks for its explicit sex and drug themes, the ABC – not beholden to advertisers – pushed boundaries by starting with this song.

The station became known as Triple J in 1981 when it shifted to FM radio, and the move to become a national network started in 1990, rolling out across the decade.

A station for Australian talent

People like Mark Colvin, Wil Anderson, Zan Rowe, Myf Warhurst, Judith Lucy, Roy and HG and Dr Karl all got their start at Triple J, often moving beyond the right “look or sound” for the commercial networks.

Triple J’s influence on Australian musical culture is almost impossible to understate.

Playlists for Australian music have been consistently and significantly higher than commercial competition.

The station has long run programs designed to support local artists. Cooking with George, a new Australian music show in the early 1980s hosted by George Wayne, created a platform for new artists to connect with audiences.

The Long Live the Evolution campaign in the early 1980s encouraged audiences to buy Australian music by offering a free Australian music compilation record with purchase of any Australian album.

The new talent competition Unearthed began in 1995 and now counts among its alumni Missy Higgins, Flume and Grinspoon.

One Night Stand is a semi-regular festival the station takes to different regional or rural Australian towns. The station’s coverage of festivals like Big Day Out and Splendour in the Grass provided a way for audiences who couldn’t afford to attend to still listen along.

A station for chaos, and youth politics

The appeal has always been the energy, if not occasional chaos, of having young people in charge and on air.

Clashes with ABC management have been inevitable. A memo distributed internally in 1976, and redistributed in 1979, gave “a very stroppy reminder to all staff of our self-imposed rule – NO DOPE IN THE OFFICE OR STUDIO!!”

In 1989, presenters protested the censorship of N.W.A.’s Fuck Tha Police. To show their objections, staff played N.W.A’s Express Yourself – a song rallying against censorship, and also the only song on the album without swear words – repeatedly for an entire day.

This again played out in the early 2000s when the presenters played The Herd’s 77% in full, complete with explicit lyrics which target the government and commercial broadcasters, saying “these cunts need a shake up”. ABC management argued that the language was unacceptable. But announcer Steve Cannane instead used the song to spark a 90 minute talkback special.

Overwhelmingly, Triple J presenters felt the strength of the language reflected the strength of the artists’ activist feelings.

Tracing the station’s approach to social issues is a way to trace the priorities of many young people in Australia. In 2017 the Hottest 100 countdown was moved away from January 26, following a listener petition and survey.

Over the years the station has promoted activists standing up against racism and homophobia. In 2023 after the Voice referendum, announcer Nooky gave an impassioned personal statement, followed by Yothu Yindi’s Treaty on repeat for the rest of the show.

A station for audiences

As I found studying Triple J’s impact during COVID, providing listeners with a range of listening options remains vital.

In May 2020 listeners across the country took over the program grid and requested songs – literally anything – as part of a week-long “Requestival”.

Hilariously the audience trolled the broadcaster, requesting everything from The Antiques Roadshow theme to Beethoven, as well as local artists and international pop.

Triple J became a clear place where the pent up energy, fear and loneliness of the young audience could be shared.

Room to grow

There were rumours Triple J was on its last legs even before it completed its first year on air.

While general and music outlets seem to periodically publish “is Triple J still relevant?” opinion pieces, most often these pieces are written by people who have aged out of the station’s target.

But commentators past the target demographic, judging it from their nostalgic perspective, aren’t the right people to decide if Australians 18–25 are getting what they feel they need.

Generational battles over the role and importance of Triple J continue to rage.

This is not to say older audiences should stop caring about Triple J. Nostalgia is powerful and important, shown by audiences who attended the sold out 20 year anniversary show by former breakfast hosts Adam Spencer and Wil Anderson.

Since 2015, the digital station Double J has served the “former” Triple J audience, complete with former Triple J presenters, music specials and music aimed at an older demographic.

Triple J is etched in the memories and forms a legacy for older Australians. Those who remember that first broadcast in 1975 will even get to relive it this weekend on Digital Double J, but Triple J is still a vital resource for its target audience.

At a time when media outlets are increasingly concentrated, more regularly incorporating AI and moving away from rigorous fact checking, there is even more need to promote and protect an outlet that embraces the distinctiveness of young Australians making new work now.

Liz Giuffre, Senior Lecturer in Communication, University of Technology Sydney

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

Cycling, in its most familiar form, dates back to at least the 19th century. One example of an early bicycle was known as the “hobby horse”, and it later became the “Dandy horse” and then the “accelerator”. Early cycling was reserved for the upper-classes and was seen as highly fashionable and decorous – particularly for men.

Women’s cycling, on the other hand, was viewed as trivial and unbecoming. When women were portrayed cycling, they were often eroticised and undressed.

The early development of women’s bicycles and cycle-wear was impeded by debates on women’s morality and sexual innocence. The bicycle was said to cause “bicycle face” (a face of muscular tension), harm reproductive organs and diminish what supposedly little energy women had.

Cycling women were viewed as sexually promiscuous both for the “unnatural” straddling of the bicycle and for the freedom cycling offered them. Where were they all cycling to, men wondered.

New women

The development in 1885 of the Rover “safety bicycle” revolutionised women’s cycling. It featured a lower mounting position and inspired somewhat of a cycling craze. By the 1890s, several million women around the world were cycling.

The influx of female cyclists on the streets created a moral panic for the Victorians. The image of the cycling woman came to represent a new type of woman with feminist ambition. This led to a discourse known simply as the “woman question”.

The fear caused by this cycling “new woman” is made clear in postcards from the time. The new woman in the example above is abandoning her husband and children for a day out and charging her husband with domestic tasks – a highly provocative notion to a Victorian audience. God forbid, perhaps she is also on her way to a suffragist rally. Cycling women were seen as radicals who threatened the “natural order of things”.

Such was the symbiotic relationship between feminism and women’s cycling, that the bicycle became emblematic of the suffrage movement. This photograph, taken in 1897, was taken at the height of the “woman problem” debate.

An effigy of a cycling woman hangs above a crowd at Cambridge University, as they await the result of a vote on whether female students ought to receive a degree upon completion of study. The vote was defeated and the effigy triumphantly torn down. Women could not receive a degree from Cambridge University until 1948.

This photograph captures the cultural rejection of cycling, educated women.

The effigy, dressed in collegiate striped stockings, cap and rational dress is a stereotypical new woman. Akin to a Guy Fawkes dummy in November, during this time the cycling woman momentarily joined Britain’s long history of reviled figures of rebellion.

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Mobile women

In her book Women and the Machine (2001), art historian Julie Wosk documents the history of a “cultural longing to represent women as safely stationary” in visual culture.

At the turn of the century, cycling women were often depicted as incompetant, either falling off their bicycle, cycling into something or being attacked while cycling.

The intention behind these images was to showcase women’s supposed technical and physical inability. The Victorian equivalent of the sexist modern-day stereotype that “women can’t drive”. At the base of such claims is a fear of mobile women. Images like these served as visual warnings for women who wished to exercise their physical freedom on two wheels.

After 1900, women’s cycling went through another transition. While in its early years cycling was considered an upper-class pursuit, by the 20th century bicycles were becoming democratised as the motorcar became the in thing for the wealthy.

Bicycles became a form of functional transport for the working classes. The need for an expanded female workforce during the first world war had also helped to normalise women’s cycling.

As shown in the above special munitions edition of Cycling magazine, the bicycle was seen as the ideal “energy saving” mode of transport for female workers. While the advertisement copy shows that the 19th-century concerns over women’s “energies” endured during the war, the visual of a woman successfully cycling to her workplace confirms some progress.

By the 1930s, cycling manufacturers were offering women’s ranges more in line with men’s and leading brands offered speed and sports models to women. Marketing copy focused less on issues of morality and decorum and worries of “bicycle face” had long ceased to exist.

This was surely progress? Unfortunately, it isn’t so straightforward. The discourse around women cycling was still concerned with health and beauty more than sporting achievement. But now instead of being thought to damage femininity, cycling now supposedly ensured it.

In 1938 Billie Dovey was named British bicycle manufacturer Rudge-Whitworth’s “Keep Fit Girl” after she peddled almost 30,000 miles around Britain. But rather than focus on her remarkable achievement, the press described Dovey’s “fine physique”, “healthy” skin and “tan”.

Images of the past can tell us a lot about the culture which produced it. These images show a cultural discomfort with physically mobile women. And it’s a discomfort that hasn’t entirely disappeared.

A gender gap in British cycling persists. Nine in ten British women are reportedly “scared of cycling in towns and cities”. The UK’s poor cycling infrastructure matched with an increase in violence against women on the streets together make for an unappealing prospect for would-be female cyclists.

As well as safety fears, women have less leisure time – despite more flexible post-pandemic working structures – and societal pressures regarding their physical appearance when cycling still linger. That’s all despite the number of female cyclists adding to medal tallies for British teams in recent years which made household names of some athletes.

Whatever the future for women’s cycling, it is critical to understand and redress these long-held assumptions about women’s “paltry” abilities regarding technology, sports and cycling. It is important to recognise the bicycle as an agent for progress whilst acknowledging the historic and contemporary challenges facing female cyclists.

Tamsin Johnson, PhD candidate in visual cultures, Nottingham Trent University

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

This time of year, many of us love to get out and spend time in nature. This may include hiking through Australia’s many beautiful national parks.

Walking in nature is a wonderful activity, supporting both physical and mental health. But there can be risks and it’s important to be prepared.

You may have read the news about hiker, Hadi Nazari, who was recently found alive after spending 13 days lost in Kosciuszko National Park.

He reportedly survived for almost two weeks in the Snowy Mountains region of New South Wales by drinking fresh water from creeks, and eating foraged berries and two muesli bars.

So next time you’re heading out for a day of hiking, what foods should you pack?

Here are my three top foods to carry on a bushwalk that are dense in nutrients and energy, lightweight and available from the local grocery store.

1. Muesli bars

Nazari reportedly ate two muesli bars he found in a mountain hut. Whoever left the muesli bars there made a great choice.

Muesli bars come individually wrapped, which helps them last longer and makes them easy to transport.

They are also a good source of energy. Muesli bars typically contain about 1,500-1,900 kilojoules per 100 grams. The average energy content for a 35g bar is about 614kJ.

This may be a fraction of what you’d usually need in a day. However, the energy from muesli bars is released at a slow to moderate pace, which will help keep you going for longer.

Muesli bars are also packed with nutrients. They contain all three macronutrients (carbohydrate, protein and fat) that our body needs to function. They’re a good source of carbohydrates, in particular, which are a key energy source. An average Australian muesli bar contains 14g of whole grains, which provide carbohydrates and dietary fibre for long-lasting energy.

Muesli bars that contain nuts are typically higher in fat (19.9g per 100g) and protein (9.4g per 100g) than those without.

Fat and protein are helpful for slowing down the release of energy from foods and the protein will help keep you feeling full for longer.

There are many different types of muesli bars to choose from. I recommend looking for those with whole grains, higher dietary fibre and higher protein content.

2. Nuts

Nuts are nature’s savoury snack and are also a great source of energy. Cashews, pistachios and peanuts contain about 2,300-2,400kJ per 100g while Brazil nuts, pecans and macadamias contain about 2,700-3,000kJ per 100g. So a 30g serving of nuts will provide about 700-900kJ depending on the type of nut.

Just like muesli bars, the energy from nuts is released slowly. So even a relatively small quantity will keep you powering on.

Nuts are also full of nutrients, such as protein, fat and fibre, which will help to stave off hunger and keep you moving for longer.

When choosing which nuts to pack, almost any type of nut is going to be great.

Peanuts are often the best value for money, or go for something like walnuts that are high in omega-3 fatty acids, or a nut mix.

Whichever nut you choose, go for the unsalted natural or roasted varieties. Salted nuts will make you thirsty.

Nut bars are also a great option and have the added benefit of coming in pre-packed serves (although nuts can also be easily packed into re-usable containers).

If you’re allergic to nuts, roasted chickpeas are another option. Just try to avoid those with added salt.

3. Dried fruit

If nuts are nature’s savoury snack, fruit is nature’s candy. Fresh fruits (such as grapes, frozen in advance) are wonderfully refreshing and perfect as an everyday snack, although can add a bit of weight to your hiking pack.

So if you’re looking to reduce the weight you’re carrying, go for dried fruit. It’s lighter and will withstand various conditions better than fresh fruit, so is less likely to spoil or bruise on the journey.

There are lots of varieties of dried fruits, such as sultanas, dried mango, dried apricots and dried apple slices.

These are good sources of sugar for energy, fibre for fullness and healthy digestion, and contain lots of vitamins and minerals. So choose one (or a combination) that works for you.

Don’t forget water

Next time you head out hiking for the day, you’re all set with these easily available, lightweight, energy- and nutrient-dense snacks.

This is not the time to be overly concerned about limiting your sugar or fat intake. Hiking, particularly in rough terrain, places demands on your body and energy needs. For instance, an adult hiking in rough terrain can burn upwards of about 2,000kJ per hour.

And of course, don’t forget to take plenty of water.

Having access to even limited food, and plenty of fresh water, will not only make your hike more pleasurable, it can save your life.

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.

Obesity is linked to many common diseases, such as type 2 diabetes, heart disease, fatty liver disease and knee osteoarthritis.

Obesity is currently defined using a person’s body mass index, or BMI. This is calculated as weight (in kilograms) divided by the square of height (in metres). In people of European descent, the BMI for obesity is 30 kg/m² and over.

But the risk to health and wellbeing is not determined by weight – and therefore BMI – alone. We’ve been part of a global collaboration that has spent the past two years discussing how this should change. Today we publish how we think obesity should be defined and why.

As we outline in The Lancet, having a larger body shouldn’t mean you’re diagnosed with “clinical obesity”. Such a diagnosis should depend on the level and location of body fat – and whether there are associated health problems.

What’s wrong with BMI?

The risk of ill health depends on the relative percentage of fat, bone and muscle making up a person’s body weight, as well as where the fat is distributed.

Athletes with a relatively high muscle mass, for example, may have a higher BMI. Even when that athlete has a BMI over 30 kg/m², their higher weight is due to excess muscle rather than excess fatty tissue.

People who carry their excess fatty tissue around their waist are at greatest risk of the health problems associated with obesity.

Fat stored deep in the abdomen and around the internal organs can release damaging molecules into the blood. These can then cause problems in other parts of the body.

But BMI alone does not tell us whether a person has health problems related to excess body fat. People with excess body fat don’t always have a BMI over 30, meaning they are not investigated for health problems associated with excess body fat. This might occur in a very tall person or in someone who tends to store body fat in the abdomen but who is of a “healthy” weight.

On the other hand, others who aren’t athletes but have excess fat may have a high BMI but no associated health problems.

BMI is therefore an imperfect tool to help us diagnose obesity.

What is the new definition?

The goal of the Lancet Diabetes & Endocrinology Commission on the Definition and Diagnosis of Clinical Obesity was to develop an approach to this definition and diagnosis. The commission, established in 2022 and led from King’s College London, has brought together 56 experts on aspects of obesity, including people with lived experience.

The commission’s definition and new diagnostic criteria shifts the focus from BMI alone. It incorporates other measurements, such as waist circumference, to confirm an excess or unhealthy distribution of body fat.

We define two categories of obesity based on objective signs and symptoms of poor health due to excess body fat.

1. Clinical obesity

A person with clinical obesity has signs and symptoms of ongoing organ dysfunction and/or difficulty with day-to-day activities of daily living (such as bathing, going to the toilet or dressing).

There are 18 diagnostic criteria for clinical obesity in adults and 13 in children and adolescents. These include:

• breathlessness caused by the effect of obesity on the lungs

• obesity-induced heart failure

• raised blood pressure

• fatty liver disease

• abnormalities in bones and joints that limit movement in children.

2. Pre-clinical obesity

A person with pre-clinical obesity has high levels of body fat that are not causing any illness.

People with pre-clinical obesity do not have any evidence of reduced tissue or organ function due to obesity and can complete day-to-day activities unhindered.

However, people with pre-clinical obesity are generally at higher risk of developing diseases such as heart disease, some cancers and type 2 diabetes.

What does this mean for obesity treatment?

Clinical obesity is a disease requiring access to effective health care.

For those with clinical obesity, the focus of health care should be on improving the health problems caused by obesity. People should be offered evidence-based treatment options after discussion with their health-care practitioner.

Treatment will include management of obesity-associated complications and may include specific obesity treatment aiming at decreasing fat mass, such as:

• support for behaviour change around diet, physical activity, sleep and screen use

• obesity-management medications to reduce appetite, lower weight and improve health outcomes such as blood glucose (sugar) and blood pressure

• metabolic bariatric surgery to treat obesity or reduce weight-related health complications.

Should pre-clinical obesity be treated?

For those with pre-clinical obesity, health care should be about risk-reduction and prevention of health problems related to obesity.

This may require health counselling, including support for health behaviour change, and monitoring over time.

Depending on the person’s individual risk – such as a family history of disease, level of body fat and changes over time – they may opt for one of the obesity treatments above.

Distinguishing people who don’t have illness from those who already have ongoing illness will enable personalised approaches to obesity prevention, management and treatment with more appropriate and cost-effective allocation of resources.

What happens next?

These new criteria for the diagnosis of clinical obesity will need to be adopted into national and international clinical practice guidelines and a range of obesity strategies.

Once adopted, training health professionals and health service managers, and educating the general public, will be vital.

Reframing the narrative of obesity may help eradicate misconceptions that contribute to stigma, including making false assumptions about the health status of people in larger bodies. A better understanding of the biology and health effects of obesity should also mean people in larger bodies are not blamed for their condition.

People with obesity or who have larger bodies should expect personalised, evidence-based assessments and advice, free of stigma and blame.

Louise Baur, Professor, Discipline of Child and Adolescent Health, University of Sydney; John B. Dixon, Adjunct Professor, Iverson Health Innovation Research Institute, Swinburne University of Technology; Priya Sumithran, Head of the Obesity and Metabolic Medicine Group in the Department of Surgery, School of Translational Medicine, Monash University, and Wendy A. Brown, Professor and Chair, Monash University Department of Surgery, School of Translational Medicine, Alfred Health, Monash University

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

Over the past two years, generative artificial intelligence (AI) has captivated public attention. This year signals the beginning of a new phase: the rise of AI agents.

AI agents are autonomous systems that can make decisions and take actions on our behalf without direct human input. The vision is that these agents will redefine work and daily life by handling complex tasks for us. They could negotiate contracts, manage our finances, or book our travel.

Salesforce chief executive Marc Benioff has said he aims to deploy a billion AI agents within a year. Meanwhile Meta chief Mark Zuckerberg predicts AI agents will soon outnumber the global human population.

As companies race to deploy AI agents, questions about their societal impact, ethical boundaries and long-term consequences grow more urgent. We stand on the edge of a technological frontier with the power to redefine the fabric of our lives.

How will these systems transform our work and our decision-making? And what safeguards do we need to ensure they serve humanity’s best interests?

AI agents take the control away

Current generative AI systems react to user input, such as prompts. By contrast, AI agents act autonomously within broad parameters. They operate with unprecedented levels of freedom – they can negotiate, make judgement calls, and orchestrate complex interactions with other systems. This goes far beyond simple command–response exchanges like those you might have with ChatGPT.

For instance, imagine using a personal “AI financial advisor” agent to buy life insurance. The agent would analyse your financial situation, health data and family needs while simultaneously negotiating with multiple insurance companies’ AI agents.

It would also need to coordinate with several other AI systems: your medical records’ AI for health information, and your bank’s AI systems for making payments.

The use of such an agent promises to reduce manual effort for you, but it also introduces significant risks.

The AI might be outmanoeuvred by more advanced insurance company AI agents during negotiations, leading to higher premiums. Privacy concerns arise as your sensitive medical and financial information flows between multiple systems.

The complexity of these interactions can also result in opaque decisions. It might be difficult to trace how various AI agents influence the final insurance policy recommendation. And if errors occur, it could be hard to know which part of the system to hold accountable.

Perhaps most crucially, this system risks diminishing human agency. When AI interactions grow too complex to comprehend or control, individuals may struggle to intervene in or even fully understand their insurance arrangements.

A tangle of ethical and practical challenges

The insurance agent scenario above is not yet fully realised. But sophisticated AI agents are rapidly coming onto the market.

Salesforce and Microsoft have already incorporated AI agents into some of their corporate products, such as Copilot Actions. Google has been gearing up for the release of personal AI agents since announcing its latest AI model, Gemini 2.0. OpenAI is also expected to release a personal AI agent in 2025.

The prospect of billions of AI agents operating simultaneously raises profound ethical and practical challenges.

These agents will be created by competing companies with different technical architectures, ethical frameworks and business incentives. Some will prioritise user privacy, others speed and efficiency.

They will interact across national borders where regulations governing AI autonomy, data privacy and consumer protection vary dramatically.

This could create a fragmented landscape where AI agents operate under conflicting rules and standards, potentially leading to systemic risks.

What happens when AI agents optimised for different objectives – say, profit maximisation versus environmental sustainability – clash in automated negotiations? Or when agents trained on Western ethical frameworks make decisions that affect users in cultural contexts for which they were not designed?

The emergence of this complex, interconnected ecosystem of AI agents demands new approaches to governance, accountability, and the preservation of human agency in an increasingly automated world.

How do we shape a future with AI agents in it?

AI agents promise to be helpful, to save us time. To navigate the challenges outlined above, we will need to coordinate action across multiple fronts.

International bodies and national governments must develop harmonised regulatory frameworks that address the cross-border nature of AI agent interactions.

These frameworks should establish clear standards for transparency and accountability, particularly in scenarios where multiple agents interact in ways that affect human interests.

Technology companies developing AI agents need to prioritise safety and ethical considerations from the earliest stages of development. This means building in robust safeguards that prevent abuse – such as manipulating users or making discriminatory decisions.

They must ensure agents remain aligned with human values. All decisions and actions made by an AI agent should be logged in an “audit trail” that’s easy to access and follow.

Importantly, companies must develop standardised protocols for agent-to-agent communication. Conflict resolution between AI agents should happen in a way that protects the interests of users.

Any organisation that deploys AI agents should also have comprehensive oversight of them. Humans should still be involved in any crucial decisions, with a clear process in place to do so. The organisation should also systematically assess the outcomes to ensure agents truly serve their intended purpose.

As consumers, we all have a crucial role to play, too. Before entrusting tasks to AI agents, you should demand clear explanations of how these systems operate, what data they share, and how decisions are made.

This includes understanding the limits of agent autonomy. You should have the ability to override agents’ decisions when necessary.

We shouldn’t surrender human agency as we transition to a world of AI agents. But it’s a powerful technology, and now is the time to actively shape what that world will look like.

Uri Gal, Professor in Business Information Systems, University of Sydney

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

The extinction of the megafauna – giant marsupials that lived in Australia until 60,000 to 45,000 years ago – is a topic of fierce debate. Some researchers have suggested a reliance on certain plants left some species susceptible to changes in climate.

Our research, published today in Science, indicates that for short-faced kangaroos, which comprise the bulk of the extinct megafauna, their diets were broad and comparable to many long-faced kangaroos which survived the extinction event.

Broad diets would have made short-faced kangaroos well adapted to the last ice age in Australia, bringing diet-based extinction scenarios into doubt.

What was the Australian megafauna?

Megafauna is a loose term referring to all the species present in the Pleistocene of Australia (2.6 million to 12,000 years ago) which haven’t survived until today.

Two features unite them: a generally large body size and being extinct. By 40,000 years ago, 90% of large species in Australia had died out.

This included giant flightless birds, the rhino-sized marsupial Diprotodon, marsupial lions and many others.

The cause of this extinction has been the subject of debate for some time. Some researchers argue megafaunal species were wiped out by climate change associated with the last ice age.

Others suggest the arrival of humans directly or indirectly led to their extinction. A third option also considers a combination of these two factors.

Different types of kangaroos

More than half of the extinct marsupial megafauna were kangaroos. Most, though not all of these, were sthenurines or short-faced kangaroos. Long-faced kangaroo species (macropodids) lived alongside sthenurines, and survive around Australia today.

Along with shorter faces, sthenurines had longer arms and a heavier build than their long-faced cousins. Many walked on two feet like a human or a Tyrannosaurus rex.

The short faces allowed sthenurines to crush plants with greater force, leading palaeontologists to suggest sthenurines were browsers – herbivores that specialise in consuming the leaves of shrubs and other plants.

If a change in climate then reduced the availability of these plants, this could have led to short-faced kangaroo extinction. Meanwhile the grazing (grass-eating) long-faced kangaroos were mostly able to survive.

Browsers, mixed feeders, grazers

To investigate this idea, we used a method called dental microwear texture analysis. When an animal chews its food, the food leaves microscopic scratches on its teeth. The shape of these scratches changes based on the physical properties of the food: grasses typically make thin scratches, while leaves create deeper gouges.

By scanning the teeth under a fancy microscope called a confocal profiler, we end up with a 3D-scan of a tiny area of the tooth surface, which can then be analysed using algorithms that quantify its texture.

To see how microwear relates to diet, we compiled a massive baseline of modern macropods whose diets we know really well.

This included 17 species, from browsers (like quokkas, mostly eating the leaves of shrubs), through mixed feeders (like red-necked wallabies, eating large contributions of browse and grass) to grazers (like red kangaroos, who mostly eat grass).

To understand diets in the Pleistocene, we looked at fossils from Victoria Fossil Cave in the Naracoorte Caves World Heritage Area.

We found overall there was a high degree of mixed feeding taking place at Naracoorte in the Pleistocene. Four species of short-faced kangaroos and three species of long-faced kangaroos all had very similar diets – they were mixed feeders.

This alone dispels the notion that all short-faced kangaroos were driven extinct as a direct result of a restricted diet. Mixed feeding is a common strategy among kangaroos today, especially in parts of Australia with more vegetation. It allows species to adapt their diets to changing conditions and mixed environments.

Some specialists too

Not everyone was a mixed feeder at Naracoorte. The swamp wallaby and three short-faced kangaroos all had browsing diets. Two of these sthenurines, both from the genus Simosthenurus, had very distinct “browsing signatures” – suggesting they had specialist diets.

Meanwhile, a now-extinct long-faced kangaroo known as Protemnodon had a specialised grazing diet.

These specialists also provide useful info. Since they were at separate ends of the dietary spectrum, they were unlikely to have been driven extinct by the same shift in climate.

This gels with recent evidence that shows Pleistocene climate changes were less dramatic in the southern hemisphere, compared to the northern hemisphere, where the true “ice ages” took hold with massive ice sheets forming across whole continents.

Where evolution meets practicality

So, if short- and long-faced kangaroos had overlapping diets, why are their heads so different? Essentially, this comes down to where evolution meets practicality.

Evolution has changed the shape of these two kangaroo species down different paths, adapted to eating different foods. But this adaptation doesn’t dictate that an animal only eats one type of food, especially in an environment with plentiful nutritious vegetation.

Mixed feeding among many kangaroos today shows long-faced roos are not bound to grazing. Our work suggests short-faced kangaroos were similarly not bound to browsing.

Instead, these adaptations define the “end-members” of diet: tough-to-process foods that are consumed in times or environments where other foods are unavailable.

Our work shows most kangaroos at Naracoorte, including sthenurines, had a high degree of mixed feeding. They were well adapted to Pleistocene environments.

Our work is just one piece of the megafaunal extinction puzzle, slowly taking shape as we learn more about the ecology of extinct species, and how they interacted with Pleistocene environments and the arrival of humans.

Sam Arman, Adjunct Associate, Palaeontology, Flinders University

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

On hot summer days, hitting the beach is a great way to have fun and cool off. But if you’re not near the salty ocean, you might opt for swimming in a freshwater stream, river, lake or pool.

These freshwater swimming holes are great, but they come with a hidden danger. While it’s very rare, it can be deadly – a brain infection by a microbe widely known as the “brain-eating amoeba”.

What is the brain-eating amoeba?

The pathogen in question is called Naegleria fowleri. The “brain-eating” part makes it sound like an unlikely creature of science fiction, but sadly it’s a real – and potentially deadly – organism.

The amoeba was first discovered by medical scientists in South Australia in the 1960s following several mysterious deaths from an unusual form of meningitis in the 1950s.

It can cause an often incurable infection called primary amoebic meningoencephalitis. This disease has caused hundreds of fatal infections across several countries. Young males are most commonly affected, and the average age of infections is 12 years old.

N. fowleri is a microscopic single-celled organism. It is commonly found in freshwaters and soil, thriving in warmer water temperatures ranging from 25°C to 40°C.

It doesn’t survive in saltwater or freshwater correctly disinfected with chlorine. This includes chlorinated municipal water supplies which are disinfected and thoroughly tested to ensure all pathogens, including N. fowleri, can’t survive. This water is safe for all uses including bathing and showering.

Infections are very rare. But they are deadly serious, as only a handful of people have survived the infection.

The United States has recorded more cases than any other country, not least due to the fact they keep stringent records and regularly provide reports on these types of infections. According to the US Centers for Disease Control, of the 164 reported cases (1962 to 2023) in the US, only four people have survived. This is a fatality rate of 97.5%.

Australia has recorded 22 cases up until 2018, according to a global review. Four confirmed cases have been reported from Queensland since 2000.

How does the amoeba get into the brain?

This disease has a highly unusual infection pathway. You can’t be infected by drinking contaminated water. It can only infect a person’s brain through water entering their nose and nasal passages. This allows the amoeba to pass through nasal tissue and infect the brain and central nervous system.

People have been fatally infected by rinsing their nasal passages with water that contained the amoeba. Such nasal rinses should only use suitably sterilised water.

Some of the early symptoms of the infection are headaches, nausea, vomiting, fever and neck stiffness. It may take several days for the infection to develop after exposure to the amoeba.

If someone suffers these symptoms after being exposed to potentially contaminated waters, urgent medical attention is needed. Although the survival rate is less than 5%, there are rare cases where prompt medical attention helped an infected person survive.

Although the amoeba generally survives in waters in warm climates, it has infected people in heated waters in cooler environments. In 1978, a girl was fatally infected after swimming in the geothermal baths built by Romans in the English city of Bath. The baths have been closed for swimmers ever since.

In Australia, Lake Liddell in the Hunter Valley, New South Wales, was closed to the public in 2016 after detection of the amoeba. The waters of the lake were artificially warm as they were used for cooling a coal-fired power station that’s now closed.

What can I do to avoid the amoeba?

Firstly, N. fowleri can’t survive in ocean saltwater. But it can live in warm freshwaters, rivers, hot springs, streams, pools or lakes.

If you are in any doubt, it is safest to assume the amoeba is present in these water sources. You can still swim, but don’t put your head under water. Take care to prevent any water entering your nose.

This might be difficult for children who often engage in games, lots of splashing, and jumping or diving into the water. It may be impossible for them to do this without risking water entering their noses.

If you are considering swimming in a freshwater swimming pool, make sure the pool is well maintained and disinfected with the correct amount of chlorine. This prevents the amoeba’s survival, and makes a well-maintained, disinfected pool safe to swim. (A clean, filtered and properly chlorinated swimming pool also protects swimmers from other water-borne pathogens.)

The chances of acquiring this disease are remote. But if infected, it’s likely to be fatal.

Remember that children under your care are particularly vulnerable. If possible, choose to swim in well-maintained and chlorinated swimming pools. In freshwater sources, just don’t put your head under the water.

Ian A. Wright, Associate Professor in Environmental Science, Western Sydney University

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

Children with traumatic experiences in their early lives have a higher risk of obesity. But as our new research shows, this risk can be reduced through positive experiences.

Childhood traumatic experiences are alarmingly common. Our analysis of data from nearly 5,000 children in the Growing Up in New Zealand study revealed almost nine out of ten (87%) faced at least one significant source of trauma by the time they were eight years old. Multiple adverse experiences were also prevalent, with one in three children (32%) experiencing at least three traumatic events.

Childhood trauma includes a range of experiences such as physical and emotional abuse, peer bullying and exposure to domestic violence. It also includes parental substance abuse, mental illness, incarceration, separation or divorce and ethnic discrimination.

We found children from financially disadvantaged households and Māori and Pasifika had the highest prevalence of nearly all types of adverse experiences, as well as higher overall numbers of adversities.

The consequences of these experiences were far-reaching. Children who experienced at least one adverse event were twice as likely to be obese by age eight. The risk increased with the number of traumatic experiences. Children with four or more adverse experiences were nearly three times more likely to be obese.

Notably, certain traumatic experiences (including physical abuse and parental domestic violence) related more strongly to obesity than others. This highlights the strong connection between early-life adversity and physical health outcomes.

Connecting trauma to obesity

One potential explanation could be that the accumulation of early stress in children’s family, school and social environments is associated with greater psychological distress. This in turn makes children more likely to adopt unhealthy weight-related behaviours.

This includes consuming excessive high-calorie “comfort” foods such as fast food and sugary drinks, inadequate intake of nutritious foods, poor sleep, excessive screen time and physical inactivity. In our research, children who experienced adverse events were more likely to adopt these unhealthy behaviours. These, in turn, were associated with a higher risk of obesity.

Despite these challenges, our research also explored a promising area: the protective and mitigating effects of positive experiences.

We defined positive experiences as:

• parents in a committed relationship

• mothers interacting well with their children

• mothers involved in social groups

• children engaged in enriching experiences and activities such as visiting libraries or museums and participating in sports and community events

• children living in households with routines and rules, including those regulating bedtime, screen time and mealtimes

• children attending effective early childhood education.

The findings were encouraging. Children with more positive experiences were significantly less likely to be obese by age eight.

For example, those with five or six positive experiences were 60% less likely to be overweight or obese compared to children with zero or one positive experience. Even two positive experiences reduced the likelihood by 25%.

How positive experiences counteract trauma

Positive experiences can help mitigate the negative effects of childhood trauma. But a minimum of four positive experiences was required to significantly counteract the impact of adverse events.

While nearly half (48%) of the study participants had at least four positive experiences, a concerning proportion (more than one in ten children) reported zero or only one positive experience.

The implications are clear. Traditional weight-loss programmes focused solely on changing behaviours are not enough to tackle childhood obesity. To create lasting change, we must also address the social environments, life experiences and emotional scars of early trauma shaping children’s lives.

Fostering positive experiences is a vital part of this holistic approach. These experiences not only help protect children from the harmful effects of adversity but also promote their overall physical and mental wellbeing. This isn’t just about preventing obesity – it’s about giving children the foundation to thrive and reach their full potential.

Creating supportive environments for vulnerable children

Policymakers, schools and families all have a role to play. Community-based programmes, such as after-school activities, healthy relationship initiatives and mental health services should be prioritised to support vulnerable families.

Trauma-informed care is crucial, particularly for children from disadvantaged households who face higher levels of adversity and fewer positive experiences. Trauma-informed approaches are especially crucial for addressing the effects of domestic violence and other adverse childhood experiences.

Comprehensive strategies should prioritise both safety and emotional healing by equipping families with tools to create safe, nurturing environments and providing access to mental health services and community support initiatives.

At the family level, parents can establish stable routines, participate in social networks and engage children in enriching activities. Schools and early-childhood education providers also play a key role in fostering supportive environments that help children build resilience and recover from trauma.

Policymakers should invest in resources that promote positive experiences across communities, addressing inequalities that leave some children more vulnerable than others. By creating nurturing environments, we can counterbalance the impacts of trauma and help children lead healthier, more fulfilling lives.

When positive experiences outweigh negative ones, children have a far greater chance of thriving – physically, emotionally and socially.

Ladan Hashemi, Senior Research Fellow in Health Sciences, University of Auckland, Waipapa Taumata Rau

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

Today the federal government released Australia’s first National Autism Strategy, with A$42 million of funding for the first stage of the strategy.

Many autistic Australians and their families struggle to get the right supports so they can do the things many people take for granted, such as going to a dance class or joining a footy club, going to school or work, and maintaining their physical and mental health.

People with autism have a life expectancy 20 to 36 years shorter than the rest of the population. Workforce participation among autistic adults is low, at around 38%.

People with autism want to live in a country that doesn’t just talk about inclusion, but delivers this through policy and reducing stigma. The seven-year autism strategy is an important step forward to achieving this aim.

But it’s unclear if the strategy will deliver for children and their families who are not eligible for National Disability Insurance Scheme (NDIS) funding and support. We need to ensure they don’t fall through the gaps.

What’s in the strategy?

The strategy sets out 22 recommendations across four key areas:

1. social inclusion: ensuring autistic people are valued and included in society, with initiatives such as peer-support programs and public awareness campaigns. Almost $20 million has been earmarked to fund peer-support programs designed to provide age-appropriate and culturally sensitive assistance, while $915,000 has been set aside over two years for community awareness and education initiatives to reduce stigma and foster inclusion.

2. economic inclusion: improving employment opportunities and workplace support, particularly for autistic adults. This includes increasing employment opportunities and supporting employers to hire and retain autistic employees.

3. diagnosis, services and supports: enhancing timely and accessible diagnostic pathways and neurodiversity-affirming services. The funding commitment includes $445,000 in 2025–26 for new resources supporting pre- and post-diagnosis stages.

4. health and mental health: addressing systemic gaps in health outcomes through a forthcoming roadmap focused on mental and physical wellbeing.

Ensuring children without NDIS support don’t fall through the gaps

At the time of diagnosis, children with autism are categorised at as either level one (requiring support), two (requiring substantial support) or three (requiring very substantial support).

Children classified as level one may have difficulty with social communication, the “to and fro” of conversation and making friends. These children face real and unique challenges as they operate in mainstream schools and communities with a silent disability that may go unrecognised by their peers.

But many children with level one autism will not receive individual NDIS support packages.

The NDIS review plans to fill this gap through “foundational supports”. The goal of foundational supports is to build individual, family and community capacity to reduce the barriers to participation in schools and communities.

But we are yet to see the full menu of opportunities that will be available from the NDIS foundational supports.

The hope is that the autism strategy and NDIS foundational supports will be complementary and also linked to broader clinical, hospital and school programs.

Investing in evidence

Today’s announcement also includes funding for research and translation, including:

• $12.2 million to establish a body that will translate autism-related research into practical tools and guidance

• $3.7 million to evaluate existing programs aimed at improving the lives of autistic Australians

• $2.8 million for an epidemiological study to assess the true prevalence of autism in Australia.

These funding commitments show we’re learning from the mistakes seen with the initial rollout of the NDIS. This failed to ensure the interventions and supports made available were evidence-based or at least underpinned by clinical expertise and endorsed by a co-design process with the autistic community.

The research evidence vacuum was quickly filled by a plethora of unverified programs or practices that emerged with a big price tag and no evidence.

Big challenges can only be solved with big research data. So it’s encouraging to see research evidence and data collection underpinning this strategy.

What needs to happen next?

The strategy is a significant step forward, offering hope and optimism. However, effective implementation will require:

• coordination across reforms. This will mean the strategy is integrated with state policies and funding and federal NDIS, disability and autism reforms. Coordinated implementation with the NDIS review’s foundational support recommendations is particularly important

• unified practices. Drawing on existing innovation and best practice from the autistic community, research, and clinical work to expand and scale effective programs and supports

• addressing the health and mental health of autistic Australians. The forthcoming health and mental health strategy must urgently address the needs of children and adults with complex and intersecting challenges. There is an urgent need for integrated and accessible support

• tailored support. Peer support and inclusion programs must provide tailored support for autistic children to help support their successful participation in social and recreational activities, and to help the community better understand and support autistic children and families.

This strategy has the potential to position the nation as a global leader in autism support. But success will depend on maintaining a clear focus on implementation, equity and inclusion. With the right actions, this can be the transformative framework to improve the lives of autistic people and their families and carers.

Nicole Rinehart, Nicole Rinehart, Professor, Clinical Psychology, Director of the Neurodevelopment Program, School of Psychological Sciences, Faculty of Medicine, Nursing and Health Sciences, Monash University and David Moseley, Associate Professor, Clinical Psychology, School of Psychological Sciences, Faculty of Medicine, Nursing and Health Sciences, Monash University

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

When we think of writing systems we likely think of an Alphabetic writing system, where each symbol (letter) in the alphabet represents a basic sound unit, such as a consonant or a vowel.

Those who first came to the shores of Australia during colonisation likely held a similar idea of written language. As such, Aboriginal peoples were quickly dismissed as lacking a written language.

But this view is wrong.

Aboriginal message sticks, traditional tools of communication, offer a glimpse into a sophisticated and unique form of communication.

A written and oral language

Aboriginal message sticks are hand-carved wooden objects traditionally used to send messages across long distances. While there is evidence of widespread use of message sticks across Australia, the current database is still mapping the different regions in which they are used and their messages deciphered.

Message sticks often feature engravings or painted symbols, lines, dots and shapes carefully crafted to convey specific meanings.

They aren’t standalone texts, like books or letters. Instead, they are complemented by oral messages delivered by an appointed messenger who, in some instances, would be painted in ochre and dressed according to the message being delivered.

This ensured the stick’s symbols were interpreted correctly by the recipient.

The messenger’s task was to deliver the stick and speak the words that gave the symbols life and meaning. A message stick might feature simple symbols representing the date, location and purpose of an event. While the symbols carry visual meaning, the oral storytelling supplies context.

Imagine you had to send a crucial message, perhaps an invitation to a wedding or news of a tragedy. When composing your message you carefully select the right words so that your intended meaning is interpreted correctly.

Similarly, the symbols carved by the sender into the message stick and the accompanying oral message provide the same function.

A long history of writing

Pictographic writing, a system where ideas, objects or sounds are represented through visual symbols, is a foundational stage in the evolution of writing.

Unlike writing systems that use letters to represent sounds, pictographic systems use pictures that directly resemble what they represent, while some systems mix symbols for whole words or parts of words.

Hieroglyphs from ancient Egypt originally started as a pictographic writing system before transitioning into a logosyllabic system.

An example of early Egyptian pictographic writing can be seen in the Narmer Palette, a ceremonial artefact that depicts King Narmer’s unification of Upper and Lower Egypt.

Its carvings include early hieroglyphic symbols that are primarily pictorial, representing objects like animals, tools, and body parts.

Likewise, writing from Aztecs from Mesoamerica also started as a pictographic system. The Aztecs used pictographs to record events, genealogies and religious rituals.

The Codex Borbonicus is a prominent example, created by Aztec priests before the Spanish conquest, conveying religious, calendrical and ritualistic information.

Like the Aztec and early Egyptian pictographs, the symbols on message sticks hold complex and culturally significant information.

These symbols vary depending on the region and the purpose of the message. Common symbols include straight lines, dots, concentric circles, cross hatching or geometric patterns, animal tracks and wavy lines.

The meaning of these symbols are dependent on the region they are from and the context supplied with the message.

For too long, pictographic systems have been dismissed as inferior or proto-writing within Eurocentric frameworks.

This perspective has contributed to the marginalisation of Indigenous knowledge systems. The claim that Aboriginal peoples lacked a written language is a misrepresentation borne of colonial agendas, designed to dehumanise and delegitimise Aboriginal cultural sophistication.

Message sticks and other forms of Aboriginal graphic expressions, such as rock art and carvings (petroglyphs) challenge this narrative.

These artefacts demonstrate that Aboriginal peoples developed complex systems of visual communication intertwined with oral traditions.

Recognising Aboriginal message sticks within the succession of pictographic communication legitimises their status as a form of written communication and honours their role in the diverse spectrum of human intellectual achievements.

Understanding the breadth of writing

The devaluation of Aboriginal graphic writing systems reflects a broader colonial bias that equates written language exclusively with alphabetic systems.

By acknowledging the legitimacy of pictographic writing, we validate the cultural practices of Aboriginal peoples and broaden our understanding of what it means to write.

Writing is not merely a mechanical act of inscribing symbols on a surface. It is a medium through which humans convey meaning, preserve knowledge and create connections across time and space.

Message sticks are compelling evidence of Aboriginal systems of knowledge and communication.

These artefacts demand a reevaluation of how we define and value writing. They also challenge us to confront the colonial legacies that have marginalised non-alphabetic systems of communication.

Writing is not a singular invention. It is a diverse, multifaceted human endeavour. Like the hieroglyphs of Egypt and the Aztec glyphs, message sticks are powerful symbols of the intellectual and creative capacities of their creators.

Athena Lee, Lecturer and Researcher, Centre for Indigenous Australian Education and Research, Edith Cowan University

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

Hot on the heels of a spectacular comet late last year, another celestial visitor is set to put on a show. And Southern Hemisphere observers have a ringside seat.

Comet C/2024 G3 (ATLAS) has just experienced a very close encounter with the Sun, and will become visible low in the western sky after sunset in the coming days. With luck, it will prove to be a spectacular sight.

It is often said that comets are like cats – their behaviour is notoriously hard to predict. So while astronomers have been awaiting the arrival of C/2024 G3 (ATLAS) for several months, they have been cautious of raising expectations too high.

Over the past couple of days, the comet has swung past the Sun, and survived its close encounter intact. The time has come for it to emerge to our evening skies.

A Sun-skirting snowball

At the heart of comet C/2024 G3 (ATLAS) is a dirty snowball or “cometary nucleus” only a few hundred metres to a couple of kilometres across. When it was discovered, in April 2024, it was still more than 600 million kilometres from Earth and the Sun.

In the days following the comet’s discovery, astronomers worked out its orbit – and it turned out to be a “Sun-skirter” that would pass less than 14 million kilometres from our star on January 13.

As a comet approaches the Sun, it begins to heat up. The ice on and near the surface “sublimes”, causing jets of gas and dust to erupt from the nucleus’ surface. This shrouds the nucleus in a vast cloud of gas and dust, which is then blown away from the Sun, creating the comet’s tails.

Comets that get particularly close to the Sun can become spectacular. This is what happened with comet C/2006 P1 (McNaught), which put on an incredible show for observers in the Southern Hemisphere in early 2007.

For that reason, astronomers often get excited when a new comet is found that will pass particularly close to the Sun. However, comets are also notoriously fragile and friable. Many small comets on Sun-skirting orbits simply fall apart in a puff of dust and disappointment.

When comet C/2024 G3 (ATLAS) was discovered it was very faint, which suggested its nucleus is relatively small. As a result, it seemed likely to fall apart during its close approach to the Sun.

One piece of evidence gave astronomers hope. The comet’s orbit indicated it had passed this way at least once before – and survived.

Now the time has come – as I write this, the comet has passed its closest approach to the Sun intact. It has already put on an incredible show as the third brightest comet ever observed by NASA’s space-based solar observatory SOHO, and even been imaged by keen astrophotographers in broad daylight. Over the coming days, it will move into the evening sky as it moves away from the Sun.

A bright comet, low in the west after sunset

Comet C/2024 G3 (ATLAS) will begin to appear in the evening sky, low to the west-southwest. For observers in the Northern Hemisphere, it will remain lost in the Sun’s glare. But for those south of the equator, it has the potential to be easily visible for the next few evenings, as the sky darkens after the Sun sets.

Unfortunately, the comet’s orbit is also taking it away from Earth, so it will fade relatively quickly. At its closest to the Sun, the comet was almost as bright as the planet Venus (currently a spectacular sight in the western evening sky). Within a couple of weeks, the comet will cease to be visible to the naked eye.

What does that mean? If you want to get the best possible view, you need to seize your chance in the next few days. Each evening, the comet will set later, and be farther from the Sun in the sky. But it will also be fainter from one night to the next.

So when, and where, should I look?

If you want to see comet C/2024 G3 (ATLAS), you’re going to need to find somewhere with a clear, unobstructed view of the horizon slightly to the south of due west. Using a planetarium app or website like Stellarium will allow you to work out what time the Sun and the comet will set from your location, so you can plan your observations.

The videos below show the comet’s location a little after sunset at three different latitudes (around Cairns, Brisbane and Melbourne/Auckland) over the evenings from January 16 to 23.

Note the position of the comet in these videos is just the location of the comet’s head. The tail will rise upwards from the comet into the sky, leaning a bit to the right. The videos also don’t give a real feel for how bright the comet will be – you’ll just have to go out and see.

Get to your chosen viewing location around sunset, to maximise your chances of spotting the comet. As soon as the Sun is below the horizon, you can start scanning for the comet with binoculars, your camera, or the naked eye.

At first, the sky will be too bright, but the comet should eventually reveal itself, low to the horizon, before it sets.

From my own experience with comet C/2023 A3 (Tsuchinshan-ATLAS) last year, seeing a comet low in the twilight sky can be challenging. I found it was easy to spot the comet through my camera. Once found, I could find it with the unaided eye.

The time-lapse video I shot, below, shows that comet rising in the morning sky in early October 2024. You can see how the comet gets easier to see the darker the sky becomes. For the new comet C/2024 G3 (ATLAS), imagine the video running backwards, with the comet setting as the sky becomes darker, to get a feel for how the comet might look.

Of course it is hard to say just how bright and easy to spot comet C/2024 G3 (ATLAS) will be.

With each night that passes, the comet will get higher in the sky, and so in theory be easier to spot. It will be dimming, however, so the best view will be had during the next week.

Jonti Horner, Professor (Astrophysics), University of Southern Queensland

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

As I write this, five people are dead and at least 1,000 buildings have been destroyed by wildfires that have swept across Los Angeles. Around 100,000 people have been ordered to evacuate.

We are not yet sure of the scale of the disaster, but maps show it is burning across many suburbs. That is shocking. We are looking at a disaster unfolding in real time.

But we knew this would happen eventually. We have moved from possible futures to these things now happening. The deferment has ended.

So, could something similar happen in major Australian cities – and how prepared are we? The answers are: yes, and not very.

Why is LA on fire?

The areas north of LA have always been at high fire risk. That’s because of the mix of the fuels from trees and plants and the uneven terrain; canyons and ridges can accelerate fire.

But in this situation, several things happened at once – all of which are bad.

We had the amazingly strong Santa Ana winds, in conjunction with a very dry landscape. The landscape was primed for fire, and then due to these winds, the fires grew extraordinarily fast. Fire suppression capacity was quickly overwhelmed.

In a place such as California, with its enviable aerial fire-fighting capacity, fires can usually be contained rapidly. But this one grew at a fantastic rate, driven by these terrible winds. It then got into the houses and all the way down the coast.

Shockingly, it crossed from the intermix housing on the border of bushland and city, and moved into suburban environments. It was an incredibly fast escalation.

All of these things aren’t unexpected. We know fires are burning faster and hotter and quicker, and fire seasons are getting longer. After all, these LA fires happened in the US winter.

The environment is being primed by climate change and we know there are limits to fire suppression.

So, we knew these things were going to happen – but it is still so confronting when they do.

Could this happen in a major city in Australia?

The short answer: yes.

We don’t have Santa Ana winds, of course, but we do have downslope winds (a wind that comes over a topographic barrier like a mountain range). They are often very dry and warm and can move quickly.

There is the possibility for fires to burn into Australian suburbs. It happened in Canberra in 2003. And it could happen again in a major city such as Sydney or Melbourne. We have all the ingredients.

If you have the wrong wind and the wrong fire and the wrong time, a fire can be driven very quickly into an urban area.

The degree to which it would spread depends on the suburban landscape and how well prepared the area is.

If a suburb has older housing stock with older gardens, for instance, it’s absolutely ripe for a fire to spread quickly. If you have more modern housing stock (which is usually better at defending against ember attack), and the houses are more spaced apart and the gardens are clearer, then you might be OK.

When fire gets into suburbs, the damage can be variable. Some houses might burn down and others may survive. But the worst case scenario is what we call “house-to-house ignition”, where the houses become the fuel.

The other frightening dimension is what happens if water supplies run out, which is reportedly happening in some parts of Los Angeles.

How ready are Australian cities for fires?

Australia is not well prepared for scenarios such as this. But rather than be fatalistic and assume urban areas are open game for wildfires, effort is needed from all levels of government and community to reduce the risk of fires impacting suburban and semi-suburban areas.

That means better boundaries between houses and keeping fuel loads low. It also means households, councils and fire authorities having a plan for when fires hit.

This may mean implementing planning rules to enforce safer gardens or the clearing of bushland behind homes. But such measures will be controversial in many cases.

Gaining public support will require designing landscape-scale firebreaks that are attractive and sympathetic to biodiversity.

Studies suggest that achieving fire-ready cities requires a mix of research, education, incentivisation and penalties.

We also need to ask: how bushfire-aware are city residents?

So much messaging around having a plan, knowing where to go and leaving early has been targeted at rural and bushland residents. Many people in suburban areas may not consider themselves vulnerable and might not have a plan at all.

Many regional and rural areas in Australia have bushfire places of last resort – safe places for the community to go when all other bushfire plans have failed. The LA tragedy shows we also need these places in cities. People also need a plan on how to get there (by walking or going on bike, where possible), so traffic jams don’t ensue as everyone tries to escape.

People should also be educated about what to expect at the evacuation point when you arrive. Where possible, they should take their own food, water and medicines and include pets in their plan.

And the planning discussion should include residents in fire-prone areas installing their own specially designed fire-shelters at home, if they can afford it.

Nowhere to hide

Global warming is making bushfires in Australia more frequent and severe. As bushfires become more prevalent, home insurance costs are increasing. That will affect the cost of living and the broader economy.

The LA fires show when it comes to climate change, there’s nowhere to hide. Around the world, authorities and communities must overhaul their assumptions about bushfire risk and preparedness. That includes people living in cities.

Kicking the can down the road won’t work. The crisis is already here.

David Bowman, Professor of Pyrogeography and Fire Science, University of Tasmania

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

In this month’s massive Los Angeles fires, so far 24 people have died, thousands of structures have been destroyed and approximately 16,308 hectares have been burned. The fires are already among the most destructive in California’s recorded history.

And as happens when major fires erupt in Los Angeles, radical (Marxist) urban historian Mike Davis’s 1998 book Ecology of Fear: Los Angeles and the Imagination of Disaster is being shared. Specifically: its controversial third chapter, The Case for Letting Malibu Burn.

Its publication sparked intense backlash. Certain journalists, a former real estate developer and a Malibu realtor masquerading as a neutral fact checker led attacks on Davis’ claims and character. Some minor errors (corrected in subsequent editions) were found in the book’s 831 footnotes.

But, as confirmed by Richard Walker (then chairman of the geography department at the University of California, Berkeley), Davis’ essential arguments were “completely accepted wisdom among scholars who work in the area of environmental hazards”.

Davis, who died in 2022, painted a vivid, if pessimistic picture of Los Angeles as both a real and imagined city perpetually on the brink of catastrophe. “No other city seems to excite such dark rapture,” he wrote. Its obliteration “is often depicted as, or at least secretly experienced as, a victory for civilisation”.

Indeed, in 2025, conservative commentators and influencers are taking a perverse pleasure in the challenges facing California, viewing the state as some sort of stand-in for elite or progressive values. Some right-wing media and pundits have eagerly framed the wildfires as proof of liberal mismanagement or flawed policy decisions.

High-risk housing

A Californian born 19 km outside Los Angeles, Davis was no government apologist. Nor, one of his former editors writes, would he have “celebrate[d] misery”. In fact, Davis’ daughter Róisín’s childhood home and school burned in this month’s fires. In 2020, Davis wrote:

After every fire emergency, [Governor of California, Gavin] Newsom and other liberals call for urgent action to reduce emissions. But in doing so, they deliberately elide the question of what needs to be done on the ground, here and now.

In the 20-odd years since his book was published, he continued, too much new housing in California had been built “profitably but insanely, in high-fire-risk areas”. Fire experts call these areas “the wildland-urban interface”.

In 2020, Davis reported, “by one estimate, a quarter of the state’s population now lives in these interface areas – with scores of new developments and master-planned communities in the pipeline”.

Experts say there is a “perfect storm” of factors at play in the current fires, including long-term climate change and extreme weather conditions playing out in a densely populated areas.

Davis’ politically strident, stylishly written book explores the interplay between urban development, natural disasters, man-made catastrophes and cultural narratives.

The Case for Letting Malibu Burn

In The Case for Letting Malibu Burn, Davis harrowingly described a 1930 Malibu fire unintentionally ignited by walnut pickers in the Thousand Oaks area. It “quickly grew into one of the greatest conflagrations in Malibu history”, driven by the region’s unique geological features and fierce Santa Ana winds.

Faced with a five-mile front of towering flames, 1,100 firefighters could do little except save their own lives. As the firestorm unexpectedly wheeled toward the Pacific Palisades, there was official panic.

A hundred patrolmen were posted at the Los Angeles city limits to tell residents to evacuate.

This was nearly 100 years ago – but Malibu had already long been subjected to rampant and unregulated property development, Davis wrote. Among other effects, this had drastically altered the chemical composition of the area’s soil. Malibu was spared from total annihilation only when “the fickle Santa Ana abruptly subsided”.

“In hindsight,” Davis argued, “the 1930 fire should have provoked a historic debate on the wisdom of opening Malibu to further development”. However, no such discussion ever took place.

Despite a series of subsequent fires between 1935 and 1938, which destroyed nearly 400 homes in Malibu and Topanga Canyon, public officials persisted in prioritising real estate expansion in environmentally sensitive areas where, as Davis notes, “wildfire is king”. They chose to ignore the growing risks to people, animals and the natural habitat.

Davis took a dim – and provocative – view of the levels of state expenditure and ecological costs required to maintain the lifestyles of affluent families who choose to “seek sanctuaries ever deeper in the rugged contours of the chaparral firebelt”.

An imagined urban dystopia

By 1998, Los Angeles had been destroyed in novels and films no fewer than 138 times, wrote Davis. The Thousand Oaks fire, he mused, “may have given Nathanael West the idea for the burning of Los Angeles in his novel” The Day of the Locust, published in 1939. (And adapted for film in 1975.)

In this darkly satirical masterpiece of modern American fiction, West presents the city as both a dream factory and a pressure cooker primed to explode. Ultimately, the simmering tensions of an urban dystopia overrun by disillusioned dreamers appear to erupt into a hallucinatory frenzy of chaos and violence. The lines between reality and fantasy dissolve.

The book concludes with West’s mentally unstable protagonist imagining Los Angeles ablaze:

as a great bonfire of architectural styles, ranging from Egyptian to Cape Cod colonial. Through the center, winding from left to right, was a long hill street and down it, spilling into the middle foreground, came the mob carrying baseball bats and torches.

These fictional destructions illustrate the city’s enduring role as the ultimate stage for cataclysm and reinvention in the collective cultural consciousness.

“The City of Angels is unique, not simply in the frequency of its destruction, but in the pleasure that such apocalypses provide to readers and movie audiences,” wrote Davis. “The entire world seems to be rooting for Los Angeles to slide into the Pacific or be swallowed by the San Andreas fault.”

Commercial greed over common sense

Davis’ Los Angeles is a place where – as he comprehensively details – commercial greed overrides common sense and the social good, where institutional racism marginalises vulnerable communities, and where wilful political inertia ensures history repeats itself with devastating consequences.

This lies at the heart of Ecology of Fear. The book, at its core, presents two central arguments. First, he argues America’s democracy is unsustainable, due to its growing disparity in wealth and power. His second argument emphasises the dominance of economic interests over environmental concerns, which inevitably spawns (or exacerbates) crises. When these crises erupt, they disproportionately affect those least prepared to handle the consequences.

Davis strikingly illustrates this in The Case for Letting Malibu Burn, by juxtaposing two very different kinds of government response to fires, in very different neighbourhoods.

In Malibu, government resources have historically been swiftly mobilised to rebuild the fire-damaged homes of the wealthy, he writes. However, the fires in Los Angeles’ downtown slum tenements, like the 1993 Burlington Apartment fire that killed ten people (including seven children), receive comparatively little support or media attention. For Davis, it’s just one example of how socioeconomic status determines how lives and properties are valued. It’s a convincing one.

He examines how existing power structures and social dynamics intensify the impact of natural disasters. At the same time, he explores how these disasters are further exacerbated by the city’s inherent vulnerability to such events, including susceptibility to fires, earthquakes, floods and an increasingly volatile climate. These historical, longstanding factors, which Davis covers in great detail, underscore how Los Angeles’ geographical and social configurations leave it especially exposed to danger.

If there has been “a fatal flaw in the design of Southern California as a civilisation”, he argues, it has been “the decision to base the safety of present and future generations almost entirely upon shortsighted extrapolations from the disaster record of the past half-century”.

In his book, he traces natural disaster and climate change in the region over centuries – and shows that LA’s urbanisation occurred “during one of the most unusual episodes of climactic and seismic benignity since the inception of the Holocene”.

Our thinking, he insists, is totally skewed as a result. “These spans are too short to serve as reliable proxies for ecological time or to sample the possibilities of future environmental stress,” he writes. “In effect, we think ourselves gods upon the land but we are still really just tourists.”

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.

When some of the biggest stars reach the end of their lives, they explode in spectacular supernovas and leave behind incredibly dense cores called neutron stars. Some of these remnants emit powerful radio beams from their magnetic poles.

As the star spins, these beams sweep past Earth and produce periodic pulses of radio waves, much like a cosmic lighthouse. This behaviour has earned them the name “pulsars”.

Pulsars typically spin incredibly fast, often completing a full rotation in just seconds – or even less. Over the last three years, some mysterious objects have emerged that emit periodic radio pulses at much slower intervals, which is hard to explain with our current understanding of neutron stars.

In new research, we have found the slowest cosmic lighthouse yet – one that spins once every 6.5 hours. This discovery, published in Nature Astronomy, pushes the boundaries of what we thought possible.

Our slow lighthouse also happens to be aligned with Earth in a way that lets us see radio pulses from both its magnetic poles. This rare phenomenon is a first for objects spinning this slowly and offers a new window into how these stars work.

An object that shouldn’t exist?

We discovered the object, named ASKAP J1839-0756, using CSIRO’s ASKAP radio telescope, located in Wajarri Yamaji country in Western Australia.

During a routine observation, ASKAP J1839-0756 stood out because no previously known object had been identified at its position. Its radio emission appeared as a fading burst, with its brightness plummeting by 95% in just 15 minutes.

At first, we had no idea the source was emitting periodic radio pulses. Only a single burst had been detected during the initial observation.

To uncover more, we conducted more observations with ASKAP as well as CSIRO’s Australia Telescope Compact Array on Kamilaroi country in Narrabri, NSW, and the highly sensitive MeerKAT radio telescope in South Africa. A long ASKAP observation eventually revealed two pulses separated by 6.5 hours, confirming the periodic nature of the source.

But here is the real surprise: according to what we know about neutron stars, ASKAP J1839-0756 shouldn’t even exist.

Neutron stars emit radio pulses by converting their rotational energy into radiation. Over time, they lose energy and slow down.

Standard theory says that once a neutron star’s spin slows beyond a certain point (about one rotation per minute), it should stop emitting radio pulses altogether. Yet here is ASKAP J1839-0756, lighting up the cosmos at a leisurely pace of one rotation every 6.5 hours.

A tale of two poles

Most pulsars, the faster-spinning cousins of ASKAP J1839-0756, are like one-sided flashlights. The axis they spin around is closely aligned to the axis of their magnetic field, which means we only see flashes from one magnetic pole.

But in about 3% of pulsars, the rotational and magnetic axes are almost at right angles to one another, which lets us see pulses from both poles. These rare double flashes, called interpulses, provide a unique window into the star’s geometry and magnetic field.

Whether a pulsar’s magnetic and rotational axes become more aligned or less aligned as it slows down is still an open question.

The interpulse from ASKAP J1839-0756 could provide clues to this question. About 3.2 hours after its main pulse, it emits a weaker pulse with different properties, strongly suggesting we’re seeing radio light from the opposite magnetic pole.

This discovery makes ASKAP J1839-0756 the first slowpoke in its class to emit interpulses, and it raises big questions about how such objects work.

Magnetar or something new?

So, what is powering this cosmic anomaly? One possibility is that it is a magnetar — a neutron star with a powerful magnetic field that makes Earth’s most powerful magnets look like featherweights.

Magnetars generate radio pulses through a different mechanism, which might allow them to keep shining even at slower spin rates. But even magnetars have limits, and their periods are usually measured in seconds, not hours.

The only exception is a magnetar named 1E 161348-5055, which has a period of 6.67 hours. However, it only emits X-ray and no radio pulses.

Could ASKAP J1839-0756 be something else entirely? Some astronomers wonder if similar objects might be white dwarfs – the leftover cores of less massive stars.

White dwarfs spin much more slowly than neutron stars, but no individual isolated white dwarfs have been observed to emit radio pulses. And so far, no observations in other wavelengths have found evidence of a white dwarf at this location in the sky.

A cosmic puzzle

Whatever ASKAP J1839-0756 turns out to be, it is clear that this object is rewriting the rulebook. Its strange combination of slow rotation, radio pulses and interpulses is forcing astronomers to rethink the limits of neutron star behaviour and explore new possibilities for what lies at the heart of this enigma.

The discovery of ASKAP J1839-0756 is a reminder that the universe loves to surprise us, especially when we think we have got it all figured out. As we continue to monitor this mysterious object, we’re bound to uncover more secrets.

Manisha Caleb, Senior Lecturer in Astrophysics, University of Sydney and Yu Wing Joshua Lee, PhD Student in Radio Astronomy, University of Sydney

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

In today’s volatile economy, job stability can often be found in unexpected places — like returning to the traditional role of shepherding. Solar shepherds, who manage sheep grazing under solar panels, are part of a growing movement that combines agriculture and renewable energy — and offers high incomes in the process.

My recent study, conducted with Ivey Business School alum Adam Gasch and professional shepherd Rafael Lara from The Lara Costa, found that modern solar shepherding businesses in places like Ontario can pull incomes equivalent to doctors, senior engineers or even lawyers.

These solar shepherds are the vanguard of a new type of farming called agrivoltaics — a portmanteau for agriculture and photovoltaics — where agricultural production is intertwined with solar electricity production. Agrivoltaics is gaining traction in Canada, thanks to organizations like Agrivoltaics Canada, of which I am a founding member.

Agrivoltaics has enormous potential to solve our climate and energy problems simultaneously. About one-quarter to one-third of Canada’s total electrical energy needs could be met by converting just one per cent of agricultural land to agrivoltaics. Expanding this to a slightly larger percentage could eliminate Canada’s need for fossil fuels entirely.

Agrivoltaics uses land far more efficiently than simple farming — it not only produces clean energy but also enhances agricultural output, yielding more food than traditional farming methods.

Business models for solar shepherds

Our study evaluated the profitability of agrivoltaic sheep grazing and lamb husbandry business models in Ontario using case studies at two scales: small solar projects (200 kilowatts) and large solar projects (465 megawatts).

We also looked at two types of solar shepherding business models: breeding ewes for lambs on the farm and purchasing lamb from auction every year. For each model, revenue streams, costs and investments were investigated using sensitivity analyses.

All the results showed a massive profit. Despite differences in operational approaches, earnings before interest, tax, depreciation and amortization margins were higher than typical agriculture industry values due to the increased and reliable revenue source of grazing services.

Return on investments for the breeding model ranged from 16 to 31 per cent, while the auction model ranged from 22 to 43 per cent for identical scenarios.

Given these results, all existing solar farms should have sheep working on them to cut the grass. This approach would increase local sheep production while lowering consumer costs.

Everyone benefits

Sheep-based agrivoltaics is a particularly good symbiotic system where every participant benefits, from the animals and farmers to the local community and environment.

The solar panels shade the sheep and make them more comfortable on hot days, while fences around the solar farms protect them from predators. The grass shaded by solar panels also grows faster than unshaded grass, so there is more food for the sheep and, in turn humans, than naked pastures with no solar shade.

The benefits extend to energy production as well. The grid enjoys more solar power, which is the least expensive electricity in history, because the grazing sheep keep the solar panels clear of weeds.

In addition, solar farm owners and investors save money on vegetation management by avoiding the risks of mowing (which can damage panels with flying debris) and the costs and environmental harms of herbicides.

Solar shepherds make more money than traditional shepherds do for three main reasons. According to Glassdoor, shepherds in Canada normally make $58,000/year, while solar shepherds can expect to make two to three times as much.

Solar shepherds benefit from increased grass for their sheep, they don’t have to lease pastures and, most importantly, they earn bonus pay for solar farm vegetation management, which comes from contracts with the solar farm owners.

The advantages of solar shepherding ripples out to local communities as well. Solar farms generate significant tax revenue, often enough to fully fund local schools in small farming communities. Residents also gain access to locally produced lamb and sheep meat, along with high-paying local employment.

There are also benefits from an environmental perspective. An earlier study I did with sustainability engineering professor Robert Handler showed that agrivoltaics sheep pastures were twice as land-use efficient than maintaining separate systems for solar energy and sheep grazing. They also outperformed conventional sheep farming and grid electricity systems by 280 to 894 per cent.

Complications to consider

While solar sheep grazing might seem like an easy win, there can be challenges, and shepherding is no easy task. The sheep need to regularly move to effectively control vegetation on the solar farm, which requires moving both the fences and the sheep themselves.

Profits from solar sheep grazing also can disappear if sheep are attacked by predators, which include wolves, coyotes, domestic dogs, bobcats, lions, bears and even eagles. To provide some protection, sheep are naturally equipped with rectangular pupils that allow them to see almost everything around them while they are grazing. Despite the rectangular eyes, practically this means sheep require better fencing than cattle or bison. The larger threat to sheep is disease and parasites that can kill the sheep.

In addition, some solar industry representatives shared concerns about potential complexities for setting up large projects. Sheep need water to drink, for example, and forward-thinking developers have started installing water sources for sheep on the solar farms. Others have changed their grass seed mix to provide more nutrition.

Most sheep farms, however, have sub-optimal grass and don’t have water on-site. Water can be trucked in, but this both detracts from the elegance and economics of the system. Overall, the logistics of bringing in what can be hundreds of sheep is more complicated than hiring conventional mowing.

In some regions, solar sheep farms include the added value of wool production, but some markets are too small to reach a profitable enough scale, and the value of the wool is lost.

In addition, although the carbon emissions per kilogram of mutton is much better than beef, plant-based food is still far more efficient. Even though solar sheep are green, plant-based agrivoltaics is a far more efficient use of land.

Expanding agrivolatics

Agrivoltaics isn’t limited to sheep — it works for other animals and livestock, too. I previously studied solar-pasture-fed rabbits in Texas. Not only did the system prove environmentally beneficial, but the solar panels also provided protection for the rabbits from predators like hawks and eagles.

In Canada, innovation in agrivoltaics is expanding compliments of Agrivoltaics Canada and its many members. Ranchers at Solar Sheep in Alberta are currently experimenting with pigs, while Sun Cycle Farms is experimenting with cows.

All of this is promising, but the potential goes even further. Agrivoltaics also works for many other crops than grass, such as broccoli, corn, lettuce, potatoes, spinach, tomatoes and even wheat, opening up a wide range of possibilities for agriculture and renewable energy. While Canada is only beginning to scratch the surface of agrivoltaics possibilities, early results suggest a promising future for it.

Joshua M. Pearce, John M. Thompson Chair in Information Technology and Innovation and Professor, Western University

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

Mark Zuckerberg’s recent decision to remove factcheckers from Meta’s platforms – including Facebook, Instagram and Threads – has sparked heated debate. Critics argue it may undermine efforts to combat misinformation and maintain credibility on social media platforms.

Yet, while much attention is directed at this move, a far more profound challenge looms. The rise of artificial intelligence (AI) that processes and generates human-like language, as well as technology that aims to read the human brain, has the potential to reshape not only online discourse but also our fundamental understanding of truth and communication.

Factcheckers have long played an important role in curbing misinformation on various platforms, especially on topics like politics, public health and climate change. By verifying claims and providing context, they have helped platforms maintain a degree of accountability.

So, Meta’s move to replace them with community-driven notes, similar to Elon Musk’s approach on X (formerly Twitter), has understandably raised concerns. Many experts view the decision to remove factcheckers as a step backward, arguing that delegating content moderation to users risks amplifying echo chambers and enabling the spread of unchecked falsehoods.

Billions of people worldwide use Meta’s various platforms each month, so they wield enormous influence. Loosening safeguards could exacerbate societal polarisation and undermine trust in digital communication.

But while the debate over factchecking dominates headlines, there is a bigger picture. Advanced AI models like OpenAI’s ChatGPT or Google’s Gemini represent significant strides in natural language understanding. These systems can generate coherent, contextually relevant text and answer complex questions. They can even engage in nuanced conversations. And this ability to convincingly replicate human communication introduces unprecedented challenges.

AI-generated content blurs the line between human and machine authorship. This raises ethical questions about authorship, originality and accountability. The same tools that power helpful innovations can also be weaponised to produce sophisticated disinformation campaigns or manipulate public opinion.

These risks are compounded by other emerging technology. Inspired by human cognition, neural networks mimic the way the brain processes language. This intersection between AI and neurotechnology highlights the potential for both understanding and exploiting human thought.

Implications

Neurotechnology is a tool that reads and interacts with the brain. Its goal is to understand how we think. Like AI, it pushes the limits of what machines can do. The two fields overlap in powerful ways.

For example, REMspace, a California startup, is building a tool that records dreams. Using a brain-computer interface, it lets people communicate through lucid dreaming. While this sounds exciting, it also raises questions about mental privacy and control over our own thoughts.

Meanwhile, Meta’s investments in neurotechnology alongside its AI ventures are also concerning. Several other global companies are exploring neurotechnology too. But how will data from brain activity or linguistic patterns be used? And what safeguards will prevent misuse?

If AI systems can predict or simulate human thoughts through language, the boundary between external communication and internal cognition begins to blur. These advancements could erode trust, expose people to exploitation and reshape the way we think about communication and privacy.

Research also suggests that while this type of technology could enhance learning it may also stifle creativity and self-discipline, particularly in children.

Meta’s decision to remove factcheckers deserves scrutiny, but it’s just one part of a much larger challenge. AI and neurotechnology are forcing us to rethink how we use language, express thoughts and even understand the world around us. How can we ensure these tools serve humanity rather than exploit it?

The lack of rules to manage these tools is alarming. To protect fundamental human rights, we need strong legislation and cooperation across different industries and governments. Striking this balance is crucial. The future of truth and trust in communication depends on our ability to navigate these challenges with vigilance and foresight.

Fiona Carroll, Reader in Human Computer Interaction, Cardiff Metropolitan University and Rafael Weber Hoss, PhD Candidate in Intelligence Technologies and Digital Design, Cardiff Metropolitan University

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

In addition to the annual parade of star pictures or constellations passing above our heads each night, there are always exciting events to look out for in the sky. The year 2025 is no exception and has its fair share of such events.

Though the night sky is more spectacular from a dark country sky, you can see the events outlined here even if, like many others, you live in a light-polluted city. For most events you do not need a telescope or binoculars.

Here are some of the highlights.

March and September: eclipses of the Moon

During the early morning of Monday 8 September, the full Moon will move into the shadow of Earth and be totally eclipsed. The Moon will turn a red or coppery colour, because sunlight is bent or refracted by Earth’s atmosphere onto the Moon. The bent light is red, as we are looking at the reflection of sunrises and sunsets from around the globe.

Total eclipses of the Moon are more common than those of the Sun. They can be seen from all the regions on Earth where it is night.

Unlike eclipses of the Sun, lunar eclipses are safe to watch with the unaided eye. They are also safe to photograph. A tripod will help, as will a camera or phone able to take timed exposures.

The eclipse starts with Earth’s shadow gradually covering the Moon over about an hour. Similarly, after totality the shadow takes about an hour to leave the Moon.

Seen from Australia’s east coast, the total eclipse will last from from 3:30am to 4:53am on September 8. From New Zealand, this will be from 5:30am to moonset; from South Australia or the Northern Territory, 3:00am to 4:23am, and from Western Australia 1:30am to 2:53am.

Earlier in the year, on the evening of Friday March 14, people in Aotearoa New Zealand will be able to see a totally eclipsed Moon as it rises above the horizon just after sunset. Watchers in eastern Australia will also get a brief glimpse of a partially eclipsed Moon after moonrise, for 34 minutes from Sydney, 43 minutes from Brisbane and 16 minutes from Cairns.

March: Saturn’s ‘disappearing’ rings

Gazing at Saturn and its rings through a telescope is always a thrill, whether you are seeing them for the first or the hundredth time. However, in early 2025 the rings will seem to vanish as Earth passes through the plane of the rings.

This phenomenon occurs twice during Saturn’s 29-year path around the Sun, that is, at roughly 15-year intervals. Unfortunately, on March 24, the date when this will occur, the planet will be too close to the Sun in the sky for us to observe.

However, in the evenings until mid-February and in the morning from late March we will be able to see Saturn with quite narrow, tilted rings.

Note that a small telescope is needed to see Saturn with or without its rings. If you don’t have one yourself, you can go on a night tour at a public observatory like Sydney Observatory or an observing session with a local astronomical group, such as those at Melbourne Observatory with the Astronomical Society of Victoria.

May and December: meteor showers

The two main meteor showers of the year are the Eta Aquariids and the Geminids.

In 2025, the Eta Aquariids are best seen on the morning of Wednesday May 7, while the Geminids will be most visible on the mornings of Sunday December 14 and Monday December 15.

This year, viewing conditions for both meteor showers are favourable, in the sense that there will be no bright Moon in the sky during those mornings. To see them, look towards the north-east (Eta Aquariids) and north (Geminids) before dawn starts brightening the sky.

The darker the sky you can find, the better. Keep away from street lights or any other light.

January, April and August: planets

The five planets you can see with the naked eye – Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn – move across the sky along a line called the ecliptic.

As the planets move, they sometimes appear to pass close to each other and take on interesting patterns. Of course, they only appear close from our point of view. In reality the planets are tens or hundreds of million kilometres apart.

In 2025, these patterns include:

• January 18–19: the brightest planet, Venus, is close to the ringed planet Saturn in the evening sky

• April 1–15: Mercury, Venus and Saturn form a slowly changing compact group in the eastern sky near sunrise

• August 12–13: Venus and Jupiter, the two brightest planets, are only separated by two moon-widths in the morning sky.

June and August: constellations

As the year progresses, different constellations appear in the evening sky. The perpetual chase of Orion and Scorpius (the hunter and the scorpion) across the sky was noted in 2024.

In 2025, keep an eye on the Southern Cross (known as Crux to astronomers) and Sagittarius (the archer).

The Southern Cross is the best-known constellation in the southern sky. It is easy to find, as it is made up of a compact group of bright stars in the shape of a cross.

Two pointer stars from the neighbouring constellation of Centaurus, the centaur, also help to show its position. From Sydney and further south, the Southern Cross is always above the horizon. However, in the evenings, it is best viewed around June, when it is high in the southern sky.

The constellation Sagittarius is next to Scorpius. In the evenings, it is best placed for observation in August, as at that time of the year it is directly overhead.

A join-the-dots look at the brightest stars of the constellation gives the impression of a teapot, and it is often referred to by that name. Sagittarius is an important constellation for Australian astronomers, as it contains the centre of the Milky Way galaxy.

The information in this article comes from the 2025 Australasian Sky Guide. The guide has monthly star maps and has much more information to help with viewing and enjoying the night sky from Australia and Aotearoa New Zealand.

Nick Lomb, Honorary Professor, Centre for Astrophysics, University of Southern Queensland

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

In recent years, the field of quantum computing has been experiencing fast growth, with technological advances and large-scale investments regularly making the news.

The United Nations has designated 2025 as the International Year of Quantum Science and Technology.

The stakes are high – having quantum computers would mean access to tremendous data processing power compared to what we have today. They won’t replace your normal computer, but having this kind of awesome computing power will provide advances in medicine, chemistry, materials science and other fields.

So it’s no surprise that quantum computing is rapidly becoming a global race, and private industry and governments around the world are rushing to build the world’s first full-scale quantum computer. To achieve this, first we need to have stable and scalable quantum processors, or chips.

What is a quantum chip?

Everyday computers – like your laptop – are classical computers. They store and process information in the form of binary numbers or bits. A single bit can represent either 0 or 1.

By contrast, the basic unit of a quantum chip is a qubit. A quantum chip is made up of many qubits. These are typically subatomic particles such as electrons or photons, controlled and manipulated by specially designed electric and magnetic fields (known as control signals).

Unlike a bit, a qubit can be placed in a state of 0, 1, or a combination of both, also known as a “superposition state”. This distinct property allows quantum processors to store and process extremely large data sets exponentially faster than even the most powerful classical computer.

There are different ways to make qubits – one can use superconducting devices, semiconductors, photonics (light) or other approaches. Each method has its advantages and drawbacks.

Companies like IBM, Google and QueRa all have roadmaps to drastically scale up quantum processors by 2030.

Industry players that use semiconductors are Intel and Australian companies like Diraq and SQC. Key photonic quantum computer developers include PsiQuantum and Xanadu.

Qubits: quality versus quantity

How many qubits a quantum chip has is actually less important than the quality of the qubits.

A quantum chip made up of thousands of low-quality qubits will be unable to perform any useful computational task.

So, what makes for a quality qubit?

Qubits are very sensitive to unwanted disturbances, also known as errors or noise. This noise can come from many sources, including imperfections in the manufacturing process, control signal issues, changes in temperature, or even just an interaction with the qubit’s environment.

Being prone to errors reduces the reliability of a qubit, known as fidelity. For a quantum chip to stay stable long enough to perform complex computational tasks, it needs high-fidelity qubits.

When researchers compare the performance of different quantum chips, qubit fidelity is one of the crucial parameters they use.

How do we correct the errors?

Fortunately, we don’t have to build perfect qubits.

Over the last 30 years, researchers have designed theoretical techniques which use many imperfect or low-fidelity qubits to encode an abstract “logical qubit”. A logical qubit is protected from errors and, therefore, has very high fidelity. A useful quantum processor will be based on many logical qubits.

Nearly all major quantum chip developers are now putting these theories into practice, shifting their focus from qubits to logical qubits.

In 2024, many quantum computing researchers and companies made great progress on quantum error corrections, including Google, QueRa, IBM and CSIRO.

Quantum chips consisting of over 100 qubits are already available. They are being used by many researchers around the world to evaluate how good the current generation of quantum computers are and how they can be made better in future generations.

For now, developers have only made single logical qubits. It will likely take a few years to figure out how to put several logical qubits together into a quantum chip that can work coherently and solve complex real-world problems.

What will quantum computers be useful for?

A fully functional quantum processor would be able to solve extremely complex problems. This could lead to revolutionary impact in many areas of research, technology and economy.

Quantum computers could help us discover new medicines and advance medical research by finding new connections in clinical trial data or genetics that current computers don’t have enough processing power for.

They could also greatly improve the safety of various systems that use artificial intelligence algorithms, such as banking, military targeting and autonomous vehicles, to name a few.

To achieve all this, we first need to reach a milestone known as quantum supremacy – where a quantum processor solves a problem that would take a classical computer an impractical amount of time to do.

Late last year, Google’s quantum chip Willow finally demonstrated quantum supremacy for a contrived task – a computational problem designed to be hard for classical supercomputers but easy for quantum processors due to their distinct way of working.

Although it didn’t solve a useful real-world problem, it’s still a remarkable achievement and an important step in the right direction that’s taken years of research and development. After all, to run, one must first learn to walk.

What’s on the horizon for 2025 and beyond?

In the next few years, quantum chips will continue to scale up. Importantly, the next generation of quantum processors will be underpinned by logical qubits, able to tackle increasingly useful tasks.

While quantum hardware (that is, processors) has been progressing at a rapid pace, we also can’t overlook an enormous amount of research and development in the field of quantum software and algorithms.

Using quantum simulations on normal computers, researchers have been developing and testing various quantum algorithms. This will make quantum computing ready for useful applications when the quantum hardware catches up.

Building a full-scale quantum computer is a daunting task. It will require simultaneous advancements on many fronts, such as scaling up the number of qubits on a chip, improving the fidelity of the qubits, better error correction, quantum software, quantum algorithms, and several other sub-fields of quantum computing.

After years of remarkable foundational work, we can expect 2025 to bring new breakthroughs in all of the above.

Muhammad Usman, Head of Quantum Systems and Principal Research Scientist, CSIRO

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

May Gibbs is a household name in Australia. Her most famous book, Tales of Snugglepot and Cuddlepie, published in 1918, has never been out of print. Chances are you have read her work, or had it read to you. You’ll almost certainly have seen her personified native flora illustrations, which these days adorn everything from tea towels to pyjamas.

But have you heard of her predecessor, Louisa Anne Meredith? Like Gibbs, who began to publish in the decades following Meredith’s death in 1895, she drew her literary inspiration from the Australian landscape and crafted her own “brand” in its image.

Unlike Gibbs, though, Meredith’s illustrations were naturalistic. She rendered native Australian flora and fauna as characters for children’s literature, arguably beginning this tradition. But she didn’t “cutesify” them, or give them human features.

As researchers, we believe Meredith’s work for children should be recognised today for its innovations in genre: blending science writing, travel writing, poetry, and fairy tale. It is also anchored in a desire to shape the Australian child into the ideal young colonialist, by framing the land as unoccupied and in need of European care and management.

Dedicated to her craft

Louisa Anne Meredith (born Twamley in 1812) was an author and illustrator, born to a precariously middle-class family in Birmingham. Her father, Thomas Twamley, was a hard-working corn miller and dealer. Louisa’s mother (who shares her name) married him much to the dismay of her prominent family, the Merediths. They were descended from Welsh nobility.

At 22, Twamley’s first collection, Poems (1835), was positively received. English critic Leigh Hunt sang her praises in his 1837 poem, Blue-Stocking Revels, or The Feast of the Violets:

Then came young Twamley,
Nice sensitive thing,
Whose pen and whose pencil
give promise like spring.

By her mid-20s, Twamley had a handful of books in print under her maiden name, as well as a series of prints, sketches, paintings, colour plates and miniatures. She was entirely dedicated to her craft. Her fresh style of publishing original poems alongside accomplished naturalistic illustrations was something new.

Tasmanian life, for English readers

Twamley’s accomplishments were numerous by the time she married her maternal cousin, Charles Meredith. The couple emigrated to Australia in 1839. Meredith’s first book published from the colony, Notes and Sketches of New South Wales (1844), offered readers a “small fund of information on common every-day topics relating to these antipodean climes”. Louisa’s prose was accompanied by her original illustrations of colonial life.

By 1840, she settled in Tasmania and made the island her chief literary concern. She published a series of books depicting Tasmanian life, intended for readers there and back in England. In addition to her writing, Louisa was an active conservationist, as a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

While Meredith is largely remembered for her botanical illustrations and travel writing, she was prolific as a children’s writer. She published a range of books for children set in Tasmania, created from her colonial perspective. Public knowledge of her contributions to Australian children’s literary history is scarce outside Tasmania.

Meredith’s writing for children includes Loved and Lost! The True Story of a Short Life (1860), Grandmamma’s Verse Book for Young Australia (1878), Tasmanian Friends and Foes, Feathered, Furred, and Finned (1880), and Waratah Rhymes for Young Australia (1891).

Her work found young readers in both Australia and England. Her writing often dramatises this connection. Waratah Rhymes, for example, features a dedication in which she signs off from London in 1891 “to the young Colonists of to-day”, inviting their “warm welcome”.

Meredith’s contribution to the history of Australian children’s literature rests in her desire to write an account of “island life” for the white Australian colonial child. On the one hand, she reconfigured familiar European genres, such as the adventure novel (she was a fan of Gulliver’s Travels) and fairy tale. On the other, her aesthetic was distinctively colonial, expressed through Tasmanian fauna and flora.

In these books, the settler child is positioned as inquisitor and mini colonialist. Their discovery of the landscape through fictional encounters positions them to craft the nation in their image.

They reflect the “recurring narratives of nation-building” identified by Goorie and Koori critic and poet, Evelyn Araluen, as typical of Australian children’s literature. Araluen actively dismantles those narratives in her Stella prize-winning collection, Dropbear.

‘Cutesifying the bush’ vs naturalism

There is a striking resemblance between the works and interests of Meredith and Gibbs, who was also a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Yet there are also significant differences.

Meredith was interested in science. She wanted to render scientific concepts legible for young readers by, as she explained in Our Wild Flowers (1839), giving “a little pleasant information, without any difficult terms, or unexplained names”.

While Gibbs had her own successful career as a botanical illustrator, in her writing for children she concocted a magic formula for cutesifying the bush. Her style exemplifies what Araluen calls “intricate forms of kitsch”. Where Meredith’s illustrations for children take inspiration from naturalists such as John Gould, Gibbs puts bums on gumnuts and reins on seahorses.

While their aesthetics are very different, the work of both Meredith and Gibbs reflects a settler-colonial view of the environment that aims to domesticate the bush and manage land.

Meredith does this by importing the British-colonial apparatus of taxonomy, scientific vocabulary and botanical illustration, to order and explain a landscape perceived as being both wild and ripe for cultivation.

Many scholars, including Araluen, have argued Gibbs’ work embodies some of the worst aspects of colonisation. Her imagery and narrative, argues childhood researcher Joanne Faulkner, “reimagined the bush as a ‘home’ for colonizers, essentially ‘indigenising’ them in the image of white gumnut babies”.

These national emblems, embraced by many non-Indigenous Australians, were crafted on stolen land.

Exporting Australia’s children’s stories

In 1884, the Tasmanian government awarded Meredith a pension of £100 (the equivalent of around A$17,000 today) for “distinguished literary and artistic services” to the island.

Since Meredith, Australian children’s books and media have become lucrative exports. Typically, they sell an optimistic image of the sun-drenched “lucky country” to local and international audiences.

Meredith was cannily attuned to the importance of trading a desirable image of her colonial setting. She referenced Australia’s “sunny clime” and “fertile hill[s] and glade” in Waratah Rhymes.

Both Meredith and Gibbs were successful in the business of their writing, explicitly considering their work’s marketability. Meredith had her own monogram branding. She advertised the availability of Grandmama’s Verse Book for international distribution.

Gibbs commissioned a set of Gumnut Babies postcards, anticipating what would become a merchandising empire (the royalties support the works of The Northcott Society and Cerebral Palsy Alliance). It now includes crockery, bedspreads, plushies, pyjamas, stationery and more.

Last year, the Royal Society of Tasmania established the Louisa Anne Meredith Medal to be awarded every four years to a “person who excels in the field of arts or humanities, or both, with outstanding contributions evidenced by creative outputs”.

The Australian children’s literary market is just as internationally saleable as it was in Meredith’s time. Today, the global phenomenon of Bluey continues her legacy of charming children (and adults) around the world through personified Australian animals.

Lauren A. Weber, Lecturer in Literature, Language and Literacy, University of Wollongong and Sara Fernandes, Lecturer in English and Theatre Studies, The University of Melbourne

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

Pompeii: Inside a Lost City at the National Museum of Australia in Canberra depicts life in the flourishing Roman city of Pompeii before it was destroyed by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 CE.

It pictures an ancient city frozen in time, eerily preserved by volcanic ash. It also tells the story of the city’s rediscovery in the late 16th century and the archaeological excavations that have been underway ever since.

The exhibition’s representation of a natural disaster that has reached timeless proportions has the potential to say a lot about the risks and costs of the urgent environmental crises facing humans today.

It offers a crucial opportunity for contemporary audiences to look at a lost city from the perspective of a world on the verge of collapse, but could have done more to consider what this level of destruction might mean now.

Ancient artifacts and technical precision

The exhibition’s main intention is to create human understanding across millennia. “Beauty and fashion were no less important in the 1st century CE than they are today”, says one wall-text.

A highlight for many visitors will be the authentic, vividly coloured frescoes recovered from the site. A wide curved screen plays a montage of digital images in situ near a selection of tiny clay pots holding the remains of pigments the painters used immediately before the eruption.

The exhibition is split into three parts. The first emphasises domestic life before the eruption. The second explores the remains of Pompeii and documents the work of researchers bringing the site and its fragments back to life.

These “before” and “after” sections are connected by a wide central corso (thoroughfare) reflecting the urban plan and textures of the ancient city. It provides a space of civic engagement and interaction between exhibition visitors and the residents of Pompeii.

The thoroughfare leads to a vast projection of Vesuvius that erupts every 15 minutes, giving the impression volcanic rain is falling across the exhibition. The panoramic area relies heavily on large-scale digital reconstructions and soundscapes to bring a contemporary treatment to an ancient story.

But it is more than a space of technical precision. Walking around in the crowd, the heat of visitors’ bodies moving around each other offers a nod to the unsettling and perhaps unspeakable experience faced by the 20,000 people estimated to live in Pompeii at the time of the eruption.

A small alcove to the side of the exhibition holds historical copies of faceless casts of four people and a dog in their moments of death.

Most Pompeiians survived by fleeing the city when the early tremors hit, but many did not. Over a thousand victims have been excavated. In 1863, a technique was developed to inject plaster into the ash cavities left by the eruption to create casts from those who perished. This process has been extensively developed and analysed in the centuries since, and laser scanners and 3D printers now make more accurate casts.

Beautiful, often ordinary

Exhibition designers and curators have relied as much on spectacle as they have on information to create an emotive atmosphere to accentuate the feeling of travelling through time and space.

This effect is not solely produced through media supplementation but by the objects on display – including the terrible casts but also by the decayed frescoes, from which ever-young faces return our gaze.

The excavated artifacts are beautiful, often ordinary: things like tweezers, cups, storage containers and lamps. Other everyday but less familiar items include small, mass-produced figurines of deities included in small shrines in a kitchen space or atrium.

Visitors can lean into displays to consider how similar – or different – the objects and the lifestyles they represent are from our own.

They complement the only existing eyewitness account of the eruption, written by Pliny the Younger:

People bewailed their own fate or that of their relatives, and there were some who prayed for death in their terror of dying. Many besought the aid of the gods, but still more imagined there were no gods left, and that the universe was plunged into eternal darkness for evermore.

This description is presented in large text in a small anteroom that has the purpose of helping visitors suspend disbelief as they enter the exhibition. There are no objects in this room.

The moment of pause it demands prepares visitors to:

Walk the city streets and immerse yourself in both the ancient city and the archaeological site – but beware the ever-present volcano.

Our own at-risk planet

There is a certain irony in being encouraged to step out of our everyday life to enter a past world in which we are directed to find common experiences. This is more a function of immersive blockbuster exhibitions in general than it is a complaint of Pompeii.

Pompeii is a polished, beautiful exhibition about an endlessly fascinating topic that will draw, enthral and enlighten crowds.

And yet, Pompeii misses an opportunity to demonstrate connections between a long dead civilisation and our own at-risk planet. Its approach to building human understanding across time could have been extended to ask visitors to consider how they would react to an equivalent catastrophe or what it might mean today.

We do not need to look far to generate a conversation about crises in different eras: last month, we saw the 50th anniversary of Cyclone Tracy; we are now five years on from the Black Summer bushfires.

These events are featured in the museum’s Great Southern Land exhibition, which shows the damage they caused to communities as well as their legacies. It also features salvaged artifacts with similar everyday characteristics to those included in Pompeii.

This exhibition makes the case that distant civilisations are not too far from our own. But by placing us in a highly immersive exhibition we are – despite its opposite intention – disconnected from our own daily lives, and the true connection we have to the past. This can weaken society’s collective will to take the urgent action required if we are to survive the next 2,000 years.

Pompeii: Inside A Lost City Package is at the National Museum of Australia, Canberra, until May 4.

Kylie Message, Professor of Public Humanities and Director of the ANU Humanities Research Centre, Australian National University

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

The Bob Dylan biopic “A Complete Unknown,” starring Timothée Chalamet, focuses on Dylan’s early 1960s transition from idiosyncratic singer of folk songs to internationally renowned singer-songwriter.

As a music historian, I’ve always respected one decision of Dylan’s in particular – one that kicked off the young artist’s most turbulent and significant period of creative activity.

Sixty years ago, on Halloween Night 1964, a 23-year-old Dylan took the stage at New York City’s Philharmonic Hall. He had become a star within the niche genre of revivalist folk music. But by 1964 Dylan was building a much larger fanbase through performing and recording his own songs.

Dylan presented a solo set, mixing material he had previously recorded with some new songs. Representatives from his label, Columbia Records, were on hand to record the concert, with the intent to release the live show as his fifth official album.

It would have been a logical successor to Dylan’s four other Columbia albums. With the exception of one track, “Corrina, Corrina,” those albums, taken together, featured exclusively solo acoustic performances.

But at the end of 1964, Columbia shelved the recording of the Philharmonic Hall concert. Dylan had decided that he wanted to make a different kind of music.

From Minnesota to Manhattan

Two-and-a-half years earlier, Dylan, then just 20 years old, started earning acclaim within New York City’s folk music community. At the time, the folk music revival was taking place in cities across the country, but Manhattan’s Greenwich Village was the movement’s beating heart.

Mingling with and drawing inspiration from other folk musicians, Dylan, who had recently moved to Manhattan from Minnesota, secured his first gig at Gerde’s Folk City on April 11, 1961. Dylan appeared in various other Greenwich Village music clubs, performing folk songs, ballads and blues. He aspired to become, like his hero Woody Guthrie, a self-contained artist who could employ vocals, guitar and harmonica to interpret the musical heritage of “the old, weird America,” an adage coined by critic Greil Marcus to describe Dylan’s early repertoire, which was composed of material learned from prewar songbooks, records and musicians.

While Dylan’s versions of older songs were undeniably captivating, he later acknowledged that some of his peers in the early 1960s folk music scene – specifically, Mike Seeger – were better at replicating traditional instrumental and vocal styles.

Dylan, however, realized he had an unrivaled facility for writing and performing new songs.

In October 1961, veteran talent scout John Hammond signed Dylan to record for Columbia. His eponymous debut, released in March 1962, featured interpretations of traditional ballads and blues, with just two original compositions. That album sold only 5,000 copies, leading some Columbia officials to refer to the Dylan contract as “Hammond’s Folly.”

Full steam ahead

Flipping the formula of its predecessor, Dylan’s 1963 follow-up album, “The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan,” offered 11 originals by Dylan and just two traditional songs. The powerful collection combined songs about relationships with original protest songs, including his breakthrough “Blowin’ in the Wind.”

“The Times They Are A-Changin’,” his third release, exclusively showcased Dylan’s own compositions.

Dylan’s creative output continued. As he testified in “Restless Farewell,” the closing track for “The Times They Are A-Changin’,” “My feet are now fast / and point away from the past.”

Released just six months after “The Times,” Dylan’s fourth Columbia album, “Another Side of Bob Dylan,” featured solo acoustic recordings of original songs that were lyrically adventurous and less focused on current events. As suggested in his song “My Back Pages,” he was now rejecting the notion that he could – or should – speak for his generation.

Bringing it all together

By the end of 1964, Dylan yearned to break away permanently from the constraints of the folk genre – and from the notion of “genre” altogether. He wanted to subvert the expectations of audiences and to rebel against music industry forces intent on pigeonholing him and his work.

The Philharmonic Hall concert went off without a hitch, but Dylan refused to let Columbia turn it into an album. The recording wouldn’t generate an official release for another four decades.

Instead, in January 1965, Dylan entered Columbia’s Studio A to record his fifth album, “Bringing It All Back Home.” But this time, he embraced the electric rock sound that had energized America in the wake of Beatlemania. That album introduced songs with stream-of-consciousness lyrics featuring surreal imagery, and on many of the songs Dylan performed with the accompaniment of a rock band.

“Bringing It All Back Home,” released in March 1965, set the tone for Dylan’s next two albums: “Highway 61 Revisited,” in August 1965, and “Blonde on Blonde,” in June 1966. Critics and fans have long considered these latter three albums – pulsing with what the singer-songwriter himself called “that thin, that wild mercury sound” – as among the greatest albums of the rock era.

On July 25, 1965, at the Newport Folk Festival, Dylan invited members of the Paul Butterfield Blues Band on stage to accompany three songs. Since the genre expectations for folk music during that era involved acoustic instrumentation, the audience was unprepared for Dylan’s loud performances. Some critics deemed the set an act of heresy, an affront to folk music propriety. The next year, Dylan embarked on a tour of the U.K., and an audience member at the Manchester stop infamously heckled him for abandoning folk music, crying out, “Judas!”

Yet the creative risks undertaken by Dylan during this period inspired countless other musicians: rock acts such as the Beatles, the Animals and the Byrds; pop acts such as Stevie Wonder, Johnny Rivers and Sonny and Cher; and country singers such as Johnny Cash.

Acknowledging the bar that Dylan’s songwriting set, Cash, in his liner notes to Dylan’s 1969 album “Nashville Skyline,” wrote, “Here-in is a hell of a poet.”

Enlivened by Dylan’s example, many musicians went on to experiment with their own sound and style, while artists across a range of genres would pay homage to Dylan through performing and recording his songs.

In 2016, Dylan received the Nobel Prize in literature “for having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition.” His early exploration of this tradition can be heard on his first four Columbia albums – records that laid the groundwork for Dylan’s august career.

Back in 1964, Dylan was the talk of Greenwich Village.

But now, because he never rested on his laurels, he’s the toast of the world.

This article was updated to correct the name of album “Blonde on Blonde.”

Ted Olson, Professor of Appalachian Studies and Bluegrass, Old-Time and Roots Music Studies, East Tennessee State University

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

Imagine a summer holiday at a seaside resort, with days spent sunbathing, reading books, exploring nature and chatting with friends.

Sounds like it could be anywhere in Australia or New Zealand in January, doesn’t it?

This is also how the Roman emperor Julian spent his summers in the 4th century CE. Towards the end of 357 CE, Julian wrote a letter to his friend Evagrius, telling him how he spent his holidays at his grandmother’s estate as a boy and young man:

Very peaceful it is to lie down there and glance into some book, and then, while resting one’s eyes, it is very agreeable to gaze at the ships and the sea.

When I was still hardly more than a boy I thought that this was the most delightful summer residence, for it has, moreover, excellent springs and a charming bath and garden and trees.

As Julian got older, though, he had less time for summer holidays. Work consumed him. Even when he was on a break, he couldn’t fully relax.

This might sound familiar, too. It seems very little has changed from the days of the ancient Greek and Roman empires when it comes to finding time to unwind – and being on holidays, too.

Finding time for a break

Taking time off was important in ancient Greek and Roman times. Even Greek and Roman slaves were permitted to take a few holidays each year.

Not everyone could enjoy their holidays, however.

In 162 CE, Marcus Aurelius, then emperor of Rome, took four days of holiday at a resort in Alsium, a city on the coast of modern-day Italy.

According to his friend Marcus Cornelius Fronto (c. 95-166 CE), though, the emperor could not stop working. In a letter, Fronto criticises Marcus for continuing to work hard rather than sleeping in, exploring the seaside, rowing on the ocean, bathing and feasting on seafood.

Fronto amusingly says that Marcus, rather than enjoy his holiday, has instead “declared war on play, relaxation, good living, and pleasure”.

Going to the seaside

Relaxing by the coast was one of the things people in ancient Greece and Rome most enjoyed doing in the summer.

The rich built summer residences on the coast, while people of all walks of life flocked to seaside resorts to enjoy the fresh air and cool water.

The orator Libanius (314-393 CE) wrote that the people who really enjoy life the most are those who have the freedom to “drive to their estates, visit other towns, buy land, and visit the seaside”.

Health tourism was also a popular reason why people came to the seaside. Many ancient doctors recommended sea water and air as cures for all kinds of health problems, especially those related to the skin and respiratory system.

For example, the doctor Aretaeus of Cappadocia (c. 150-200 CE) recommended bathing in sea water, wrestling on sand and living by the sea as therapies for those who get frequent headaches.

Travelling abroad

Visiting foreign places was another of the things people in ancient Greece and Rome most enjoyed doing on their summer holidays.

For the Romans, trips to see Greece – and in particular Athens – were especially popular.

The Roman general Germanicus (15 BCE–19 CE) went on a tour of Greece in 18 CE, travelling from Athens eastward to Euboea, Lesbos, the coast of Asia Minor and then to Byzantium and Pontus.

According to the Roman historian Tacitus, Germanicus was motivated by a desire to see famous ancient sites. Like many Romans, he was fascinated by the old stories of the Greek past, so he was “eager to make the acquaintance of those ancient and storied regions”.

Another popular destination for ancient Greeks and Romans was Egypt, which had always been regarded as a land of wonder.

Roman tourists could catch regular boats from Puteoli to the great Egyptian city Alexandria. The trip took anywhere from one to two weeks, stopping along the way in Sicily and Malta.

Once there, the highlights were typically the great Nile River and Pyramids. Tourists marvelled at the immense temples and walls of hieroglyphic writing.

When Germanicus visited Egypt in 19 CE, he was so curious about the meaning of the hieroglyphics that he asked an old Egyptian priest to translate some for him.

In Alexandria, another attraction was the tomb of Alexander the Great (356-323 BCE). His body was stored in honey in a coffin made of glass. Ordinary tourists were not allowed to visit it, but VIPs like Roman emperors were.

Tourists might also have enjoyed the different vibe in Alexandria. According to the Greek orator Dio of Prusa (c. 40-110/120 CE), the atmosphere in the coastal city was relaxed, with plenty of music, chariot racing and good food.

Lazy summer days

We can probably all relate to what the writer Pliny the Younger (61/62-112 BCE) said about his summer break.

Writing on a holiday in Tuscany, he said he can only work “in the lazy way to be expected during a summer holiday”. Working any other way was simply not possible. Many of us will be able to relate to that!

Konstantine Panegyres, McKenzie Postdoctoral Fellow, researching Greco-Roman antiquity, The University of Melbourne

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

Sunglasses, or dark glasses, have always guarded against strong sunlight, but is there more to “shades” than we think?

The pupils of our eyes are delicate and react immediately to strong lights. Protecting them against light – even the brilliance reflected off snow – is important for everyone. Himalayan mountaineers wear goggles for this exact purpose.

Protection is partly the function of sunglasses. But dark or coloured lens glasses have become fashion accessories and personal signature items. Think of the vast and famous collector of sunglasses Elton John, with his pink lensed heart-shaped extravaganzas and many others.

When did this interest in protecting the eyes begin, and at what point did dark glasses become a social statement as well as physical protection?

Ancient traditions

The Roman Emperor Nero is reported as holding polished gemstones to his eyes for sun protection as he watched fighting gladiators.

We know Canadian far north Copper Inuit and Alaskan Yupik wore snow goggles of many kinds made of antlers or whalebone and with tiny horizontal slits. Wearers looked through these and they were protected against the snow’s brilliant light when hunting. At the same time the very narrow eye holes helped them to focus on their prey.

In 12th century China, judges wore sunglasses with smoked quartz lenses to hide their facial expressions – perhaps to retain their dignity or not convey emotions.

Very early eyeglasses were produced in Venice with its longstanding skills in glass making concentrated on the still famous islands of Murano.

In the 18th century, noble Venetian ladies held green coloured glasses in tortoiseshell frames to their eyes, a design similar to a hand-held mirror. These vetri da gondola (glasses for gondola) or da dama (for ladies) were used to protect their eyes and those of their children from sunlight, as gondoliers paddled them through the Venetian canals.

Glasses, celebrity and war

Protection of the eye takes an interesting turn when movie making begins. Film stars’ eyes became strained as artificial studio set lights were very strong. They began to wear tinted glasses outside the studio as their eyes became sore.

As Hollywood began to make celebrities of these stars, they sought out privacy by wearing dark glasses on public occasions as well.

Their looks were crucial to the industry.

One thinks of the aloof Greta Garbo who hid behind her glasses to stop interaction with fans. Audrey Hepburn was another star well known for her Oliver Goldsmith dark glasses. She peered over these in many movies and also wore them as high fashion accessories.

The first anti-glare glasses, originally with green glass blocking U/V rays, were Ray-Bans, patented in 1939 as Aviators for the US Army Air Corps. Their shapes reduced light from any angle. They were taken up by the military and became the signature style of General Douglas MacArthur, Supreme Commander of US Forces in the Pacific, stationed in Brisbane during the second world war.

With these glasses, well-tailored khaki uniforms and peaked caps, wearers exuded a vigorous masculine attractiveness – although the outfits were not exactly fashion.

Dark glasses were to become increasingly popular accessories from the late 1920s. They took on new life as essential male and female fashions in the 60s and 70s. Men and women celebrities and style icons like Jacqueline Kennedy wore her huge designer outsize glasses as personal fashion items.

Rich with meaning

There are hundreds of different designs on the market today. Many can be picked up at any chemist.

Dark glasses are everywhere: worn on the street, for driving, on the beach and on the tennis court.

Sunglasses are rich with different meanings. They protect from harsh sunlight and shield wearers from close contact with others. They also allow users to observe others without detection. They are striking accessories loved by celebrities, movie stars and fashionable influencers of all kinds.

For some celebrities, sunglasses have become part of their character.

They project an almost powerful aura for someone like Anna Wintour of Vogue. For Stevie Wonder, who wears sunglasses because he is legally blind, they have come to symbolise his particular personality, his unique ability and his iconic status.

Margaret Maynard, Associate Professor, School of Communication and the Arts, The University of Queensland

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

It’s the morning after a big night and you’re feeling the effects of too much alcohol.

So it can be tempting to “refresh” and take the edge off a hangover with a swim at the beach, or a dip in the cool waters of your local river or pool.

But you might want to think twice.

The day after heavy drinking can affect your body, energy levels and perception of risk in many ways. This means you’re more likely to drown or make careless decisions – even without high levels of alcohol in your blood.

Alcohol + water + summer = drowning

Alcohol is one of the main reasons why someone’s more likely to die due to drowning. And Australians consume a lot of it, including around the water.

The risk of drowning, and injury, including incidents involving alcohol, dramatically increases over the summer festive period – in particular on public holidays and long weekends.

Among people aged 18 and over who drowned in rivers where alcohol was involved, we found some 40% had a blood alcohol concentration of at least 0.20%. That’s four times the upper legal limit of 0.05% when driving a car on a full licence.

When we breathalysed people at four Australian rivers, we found higher levels of blood alcohol with higher temperatures, and particularly on public holidays.

At the beach, intoxication due to alcohol and/or drugs is involved in 23% of drowning deaths with an average blood alcohol concentration of 0.19%.

How about if you’re hungover?

Getting alcohol out of your body is a relatively slow process. On average, alcohol is metabolised at a rate of 0.015% per hour. So if someone stops drinking at 2am with a blood alcohol concentration of 0.20%, their alcohol levels don’t drop to zero until 4pm the next day.

Although hangovers can vary from person to person, typical symptoms include headache, muscle aches, fatigue, weakness, thirst, nausea, stomach pain, vertigo, irritability, sensitivity to light and sound, anxiety, sweating and increased blood pressure.

As well as feeling a bit dusty, the day after an evening of heavy drinking, you’re not so good at identifying risks and reacting to them.

In a pool, this might mean not noticing it’s too shallow to dive safely. In natural waterways, this might mean not noticing a strong river current or a rip current at the beach. Or someone might notice these hazards but swim or dive in anyway.

In one study, we found that after a four-day Australian music festival where people drank heavily, even people who were sober (no longer had alcohol in their blood) were still affected.

Compared to baseline tests in the lab we ran three weeks before the festival, people who were sober the day after the festival had faster reaction times in a test to gauge their attention. But they made more mistakes. This suggests hangovers coupled with fatigue lead to quicker but more careless behaviour.

In and around water this could be the difference between life and death.

Positive blood alcohol readings, including of alcohol from the night before, are commonly implicated in drowning deaths as a result of risky behaviours such as jumping into the water, both at a river and along the coast. Jumping can cause physical injury or render you unconscious, leading to drowning.

Alcohol, including the day after drinking, can also make drowning more likely for a number of other reasons. It also reduces people’s coordination and reaction times.

What else is going on?

Alcohol makes the blood vessels near your skin open up (dilate). So more blood flows into them, making you feel hot. This means you may stay in colder water for longer, increasing your risk of hypothermia.

Alcohol can even make CPR (cardiopulmonary resuscitation) less effective, should you need to be resuscitated.

Normally, your body controls levels of certain minerals (or electrolytes) in the blood. But electrolyte imbalance is common after heavy drinking, including the day after. It’s the reason why hangover symptoms such as muscle pain can lead to cramps in your arms or legs. This can become dangerous when being in or on the water.

Low blood sugar levels the day after drinking is also common. This can lead to people becoming exhausted more quickly when doing physical activities, including swimming.

Other hazards include cold water, high waves and deep water, all of which your body may not be capable of dealing with if you’re feeling the effects of a big night.

What can we do about it?

Authorities regularly warn about the dangers of alcohol intoxication and being near the water. Young people and men are often targeted because these are the groups more likely to drown where alcohol is involved.

Beaches may have alcohol-free zones. Rivers rarely have the same rules, despite similar dangers.

How to stay safe around water if you’re drinking

So take care this summer and stay out of the water if you’re not feeling your best:

• do your swimming before your drinking
• look out for your mates, especially ones who may have had a few too many or are hungover
• avoid getting back into the water after you’ve drunk alcohol or if you’re not feeling your best the next day.

Amy Peden, NHMRC Research Fellow, School of Population Health & co-founder UNSW Beach Safety Research Group, UNSW Sydney; Emmanuel Kuntsche, Director of the Centre for Alcohol Policy Research, La Trobe University, and Jasmin C. Lawes, Adjunct Senior Lecturer, UNSW Beach Safety Research Group, UNSW Sydney

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

If you’re back in the job market, or looking for your first position after graduating, you’ll need to think about how to ace a job interview.

Getting shortlisted for interview is a significant achievement on its own, given managers routinely consider hundreds of other applicants for each position. But to interview well, you need to be prepared, confident (but not arrogant) and stand out from other applicants.

A good job interview means assuring a prospective employer you can fit into their company, have the skills to do or adapt to the job, and can work well with others.

So, how can you put your best foot forward in a job interview? Here are five tips.

1. Talk about your cultural and organisational fit

Explain how you would be a great fit in the new job.

Establishing your fit doesn’t mean talking up your skills, but convincing the panel you are the right person to join the company.

Make it clear you know what the company does well (more on that later), offer examples of where you’ve worked well in teams before, and explain how you could contribute to the organisation’s mission, goals and achievements.

2. Prepare answers for important questions

They will almost certainly ask: “why should we hire you?”

Variations of this question include: “why are you the best person for this job?” and “why do you want this job?”

You may be asked these kinds of questions right at the start of your interview.

It’s not an invitation to brag about what you have done or exaggerate your claims. It’s an opportunity to demonstrate how you would fit into the company with your skills, track record and personal values.

This is your chance to outline your skills and position yourself as the best person for the job.

But these questions also allow you to give an early indication about whether your working style and personal values align with the organisation’s values.

3. Show your enthusiasm and commitment

It is important to show you are enthusiastic and excited to be part of their organisation.

You are looking to give your employer a sense of your personality and your interest in not just the job but the company.

What is it about this company’s work that interests you? Can you name examples of things they’ve done well in the past? If you got the job, why would you be proud to work there?

4. Do your homework

Demonstrate you have read up on the company and people and be specific about what you can offer as a future employee.

Research the company and the person who is interviewing you. Make it clear you understand the business and its recent output, as well as the person and their preferences.

Don’t simply regurgitate information about the company from their website. Instead, come up with some interesting questions such as how they’ve managed a big change in the industry, or how they are adapting to a new technology.

The company will probably research or “cybervet” you. Ensure your public profile and other accessible information is professional and shows you at your best. Lose the wild party pics.

5. Give ‘I’ answers

“I” answers show how your skills would benefit the company and suit the position. You could talk, for example, about how you’re passionate about helping people, so you did an internship in aged care administration during your business studies and also volunteered at your local aged care home.

Or that you won an award in recognition of your contribution to your industry, and explain what you did that won you this award.

The story of you as a talented and committed job seeker should not only be compelling but have an internal narrative logic. For example:

In my university degree, I undertook training in project management software. As part of my internship, I was responsible for project scheduling, so I developed a very good working knowledge of this software. My experience supports me to effectively use project management software in this new role.

Research has also shown doing an internship gives you a better chance of winning a job.

If you’ve got gaps in your resume, fold them into your narrative about how you have built your experiences, education, skills and capacities. For example,

To gain experience in learning other languages and working in different countries, I travelled extensively for my gap year. I then started my full-time university studies in marketing while working part-time in the retail industry.

A job interview is not just about how well you did in your studies or your previous job but how you can build your skills and capabilities into a sustainable career in your new role. The interviewer is looking for how you can add value to the organisation.

Kerry Brown, Professor of Employment and Industry, School of Business and Law, Edith Cowan University

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

Eating rabbit, camel, carp, feral cat, deer and cane toad might sound extreme to some, but it’s gaining attention as a solution to tackle the growing impact of invasive species.

Now, Tony Armstrong hosts the ABC series Eat the Invaders, inspired by artist Kirsha Kaechele’s 2019 cookbook and MONA exhibition Eat the Problem.

Over the course of the series, Armstrong talks to chefs, conservationists, Indigenous Elders, researchers, food producers and the general public to explore the idea of eating these species to reduce their populations.

Over each of the six episodes, the show features a different invasive species, transforming them from something perceived as an unwanted pest into a desirable food you may order off a menu.

Invasive species in Australia

Episode one poetically begins at ground zero of the rabbit invasion, Barwon Park in Winchelsea, Victoria, where 24 rabbits were introduced in 1859.

Ever since, invasive species like the rabbit have caused significant harm in Australia, now impacting 82% of our threatened species – a rate much higher than global norms. Feral cats and foxes are responsible for the deaths of 2.6 billion native vertebrates annually.

Invasive species disproportionately affect Indigenous lands in Australia compared to the global average, emphasising their cultural toll.

In the agricultural sector, invasive species cause significant damage, and cost Australian producers up to A$5.3 billion in management costs and losses annually.

Cane toads have toxic skin that poisons native predators like goannas, crocodiles and quolls, who lack natural defences.

To combat this, researchers are testing innovative solutions, such as “cane toad sausages”, to train native mammals and reptiles to avoid the toxic toads.

Could invasive species belong on our plates too?

I’ll eat a cow, but not a camel

While we may accept animals like cows, chickens or pigs as food, species like rabbit, camel and carp remain off the menu for many Australians.

This is a form of cognitive dissonance, where we perceive some animals as pests but are also hesitant at the idea of turning them into food.

Adding invasive species back into culinary culture can increase public awareness of invasive species, assist in early detection and response efforts, and boost local economies.

Re-branding invasive species as a culinary opportunity isn’t a new concept. Carp is often sold in America under the name “copi”.

This idea is explored during episode three, as a marketing company is given an opportunity to re-brand cane toad meat. The final hypothetical product is a packaged “toad nugget” product called “Croaky Crunchers”.

Eating invasive species

A central theme of Eat the Invaders is that eating invasive species is good for the environment, while also being delicious.

Armstrong meets up with the Country Women’s Association to learn about how rabbits were once common on Australian dinner tables, while cooking a tomato and rabbit stew.

Carp is a staple food in China and Europe but is rarely found in Australian supermarkets.

Here, carp appears in fish and chips and as part of an experimental dish at MONA, served with invasive weeds and “edible plastic” made from corn flour and the invasive plant kudzu.

Bob Katter might not be the first person you’d expect to make a cameo, but it makes sense given far-north Queensland is one of the most densely populated regions for cane toads in Australia.

The main challenge with eating cane toads is the risk of bufotoxin, which is toxic to humans. Armstrong meets a former chef who prepares and eats cane toad – but Armstrong can’t get the meat safety-tested to try it himself.

Establishing safe processing, like Japan’s fugu system of safely processing the tetrodotoxin poison from puffer fish, could help to create an export market for toads. This might benefit conservation by reducing pressure on native frogs harvested in Indonesia and Vietnam.

The show stops short of serving feral cats on the menu at MONA.

Instead, Armstrong travels to Kiwirrkurra Country in the Gibson Desert and joins the Kiwirrkurra rangers and cat hunters who protect wildlife like the vulnerable greater bilby by hunting feral cats.

They show him how the feral cats are prepared as food. He told the Guardian “it tasted like the most delicious rotisserie chicken I’ve ever had”.

Worth the watch

Changing our diets is a simple yet powerful way to tackle Australia’s extinction crisis. Eat the Invaders creatively explores this idea.

Armstrong’s style is approachable and engaging for people who are unfamiliar with the impact of invasive species. Especially as he himself is trying many of these species for the first time.

The show balances perspectives on food, conservation, Indigenous knowledge, and consumer experiences, creating a well-rounded narrative.

Throughout the show, Armstrong highlights the profound impact of invasive species on Indigenous Australians’ connection to Country, and how these species disrupt ecosystems and threaten culturally significant totem species.

While eating invasive species is innovative, it’s not a standalone solution.

As invasive species spread, management often shifts from eradication to long-term control. Policy contradictions, like deer being protected under some laws but considered threats in others, complicate management efforts.

Promoting invasive species consumption through eating them could help, but risks creating a business case to maintain or even expand invasive populations, undermining eradication goals.

Eat the Invaders is on the ABC from tonight.

Carla Archibald, Research Fellow, Conservation Science, Deakin University

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

Anthony Sharwood’s Kościuszko: The Incredible Life of the Man Behind the Mountain is far more than a biography of an extraordinary historical figure. It is a trip through time, continents and cultural landscapes. It blends the life of Tadeusz Kościuszko (1746–1817) – a nobleman, military engineer, revolutionary and humanist – with contemporary debates about identity, reconciliation and memory.

Sharwood invites readers to join him on a journey to uncover who Kościuszko was, why his name sits atop Australia’s highest mountain, and whether it should remain there.

Review: Kosciuszko: The Incredible Life of the Man Behind the Mountain – Anthony Sharwoood (Hachette)

Kościuszko is an enigmatic figure to everyone but the citizens of his native Poland, though he is also celebrated as a hero in America, where he is known for his role in the American rebellion against the British.

His life was defined by his unwavering commitment to justice and human rights. In Poland, he led the 1794 Kościuszko Uprising against Russian domination and advocated for social reforms. He fought to end Polish serfdom. He dedicated his American estate to the education and emancipation of African American slaves, although his will was never fully executed.

Sharwood explores Kościuszko’s life with a unique narrative structure, inviting readers to explore his subject’s legacy as though they are travelling alongside him. The biography begins with a simple yet intriguing question: “Who was the Kosciuszko fella?”

Sharwood’s answer takes readers to the heart of the man who became a symbol of liberty and equality, earning the admiration of luminaries such as Thomas Jefferson and George Washington. Yet the book is as much about Australia and its Indigenous people as it is about Kościuszko himself. It offers a richly layered exploration of history, identity and the power of names.

A champion of liberty and equality

Sharwood’s approach is refreshingly unconventional. Rather than presenting a linear historical narrative, he embarks on a road trip through Kościuszko’s life and the places that shaped it. Along the way, we learn of Kościuszko’s early life in Lithuania and Poland, his education in France, and his commitment to Enlightenment ideals.

Starting in America, Sharwood traces Kościuszko’s rise as a military engineer during the American War of Independence. His account of the period Kościuszko spent in America, from 1776 to 1784, is vividly detailed. As a colonel in the Continental Army, Kościuszko played a critical role in fortifying Saratoga and West Point. He emerges as a man of principle, who not only fought for American independence, but sought to challenge the contradictions of its society.

His will, which directed his American assets to be used for freeing and educating enslaved people, becomes a focal point in the narrative. Sharwood uses it to explore Kościuszko’s unwavering commitment to human rights, painting him as a figure who transcended the cultural constraints of his time.

The narrative then moves to Poland, where Kościuszko’s leadership during the 1794 uprising against Russian and Prussian forces solidified his status as a national hero. Despite his military brilliance and political vision, Kościuszko’s efforts to preserve Polish independence were thwarted by the effects of successive partitions of Poland in 1772, 1793 and 1795, which erased the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth of his childhood from the map of Europe.

Sharwood vividly captures the drama and tragedy of this period, portraying Kościuszko as a charismatic leader whose vision for equality inspired soldiers and peasants alike. Despite his eventual defeat and imprisonment, Kościuszko’s ideals endured, making him a symbol of resistance against oppression. Sharwood’s storytelling shines in these sections, blending research with compelling prose that brings history to life.

History, identity, naming

What sets this biography apart is its integration of Kościuszko’s story with the contemporary debate over the naming of Mount Kosciuszko.

Kościuszko never set foot on the Australian continent. The mountain was named in 1840, long after his death, by Polish explorer Paul Strzelecki (1797-1873), who was inspired by Kościuszko’s ideals. The naming is now at the centre of discussions about Indigenous recognition.

Sharwood highlights the cultural significance of the Snowy Mountains for the Ngarigo people. He explores their ancient customs, their displacement during European colonisation, and their perspectives on the future of the mountain’s name. By engaging with traditional owners, such as Ngarigo elder Cheryl Davison, Sharwood adds depth to the narrative, situating the debate within broader questions of reconciliation and historical justice.

Sharwood’s ability to connect Kościuszko’s legacy with contemporary issues facing Australia is one of the book’s greatest strengths. He explores how names shape our understanding of history and identity, asking whether Kościuszko’s name should remain on the mountain or be replaced with an Indigenous name. His nuanced approach reflects the complexity of the question. He acknowledges the multiple names used by different Indigenous clans, such as Kunama Namadgi and Tar Gan Gil. He also considers what Kościuszko himself might have wanted.

Sharwood refrains from providing definitive answers. Instead, he encourages readers to reflect on the layers of history and meaning embedded in the mountain.

The book’s road-trip structure enhances its accessibility and emotional resonance. Sharwood takes readers from Poland to Switzerland, where Kościuszko spent his final years, and to the United States, where his ideals of liberty and equality continue to inspire. The journey extends to the town of Kosciusko, Mississippi (notably spelled without the “z”), the birthplace of Oprah Winfrey, adding a quirky yet meaningful connection to Kościuszko’s global legacy. Sharwood’s travels culminate in Australia, where he retraces Strzelecki’s footsteps and delves into the history of the Snowy Mountains.

This personal approach makes the biography feel intimate and relatable, as though readers are discovering Kościuszko’s story alongside the author. Sharwood’s writing is as engaging as it is informative. His journalistic background is evident in his ability to distil complex historical events into narratives that are both compelling and easy to follow.

At the same time, his passion for the Australian High Country, showcased in previous works From Snow to Ash and The Brumby Wars, enriches his exploration of Mount Kosciuszko. His vivid descriptions of the landscape, combined with his deep respect for its cultural significance, create a powerful sense of place that anchors the narrative.

Despite its many strengths, the book does have its limitations. Sharwood’s admiration for Kościuszko occasionally verges on romanticisation, portraying him as an almost flawless hero. While this approach underscores Kościuszko’s enduring appeal, it sometimes oversimplifies the complexities of his character and his historical context. Sharwood has crafted an unconventional biography that is as thought-provoking as it is inspiring, but his approach can be irritating, especially to a historian seeking greater detail.

Kościuszko’s will, for example, is celebrated as a bold statement of equality, but the practical challenges that prevented its execution receive less attention. Similarly, the book’s road-trip format, while engaging, can feel disjointed, with some of the transitions between historical and contemporary narratives lacking fluidity.

The book nevertheless succeeds in its primary goal. It illuminates the life and legacy of a remarkable figure, while prompting readers to consider the broader implications of his story. Sharwood’s exploration of Kościuszko’s ideals of liberty, equality and justice resonates deeply in a world still grappling with these issues. His engagement with the Indigenous history of the Snowy Mountains adds a vital layer of complexity to the narrative, reminding readers that history is never one-dimensional.

In celebrating Kościuszko, Sharwood invites Australians to reflect on their own values and history. The parallels between Kościuszko’s life and the Australian ethos – resilience, fairness, unity, the championing of the underdog – underscore why his name, carried by Australia’s highest mountain, continues to inspire. By framing Kościuszko within this cultural narrative, Sharwood not only honours the man himself, but affirms the enduring relevance of these ideals in contemporary Australian society.

For those interested in history and culture, or the intersections between the two, Sharwood’s biography is essential reading. Whether or not Kościuszko’s name remains on Australia’s highest mountain, his legacy as a champion of human rights and a symbol of resistance will endure.

Darius von Guttner Sporzynski, Researcher, Historian, Australian Catholic University

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

As the New Year festivities fade, each January reminds us of the passage of time. There is a tendency to look back with regret at roads not taken, and perhaps even despair at what the future holds.

Yet this time of year can also encourage more positive reflection. It was probably in early January of 44 BCE that Marcus Tullius Cicero, the Roman politician, orator, and philosopher, sat down to write On Old Age.

At 62, Cicero had endured personal and political losses. The year before, his daughter Tullia had died from complications from childbirth (the baby likely dying soon after), and Cicero had divorced his second wife, Publilia.

The Roman Republic was likewise in a dire state, in Cicero’s opinion, since Julius Caesar had recently been (or was about to be) named dictator for life.

Even amid this turmoil, and in the face of his own mortality, Cicero took pains to defend the experience of old age from its critics and to point out its many positive aspects.

He did so by adopting the persona of Cato the Elder, one of the most prominent statesmen of the third and second centuries, who lived from 234-149 BCE until his death at the age of 85.

While it was common in Greece and Rome for philosophical treatises to be written in the voice of a historical figure, Cicero makes clear in this book that the opinions of this character “Cato” represent his own views on old age.

The virtues of old age

Cicero addresses four criticisms of old age. The first two are that it forbids active pursuits and weakens the body. His forthright response is as applicable today as 2000 years ago:

It is not by muscle, speed, or physical dexterity that great things are achieved, but by reflection, force of character, and judgement; in these qualities old age is usually not only not poorer, but is even richer.

Cicero points out that the Roman senate derives its name from the fact that it was originally an assembly of old men, or senes in the original Latin. Older people have the wisdom, judgement, and experience necessary for good government.

Even the accusation that the memory dims with old age can be challenged, he suggests. Mental faculties only decline if they are unused; occupations such as language learning can help the mind stay sharp. (Cato talks about studying Greek in his twilight years).

As for strength, Cicero says that there are different kinds of vigour needed. An old man has already served his country in war, so that type of strength is no longer required (and in any case, a weak body can often be blamed on a dissolute youth!). But an old man’s voice can still resonate powerfully and make its point eloquently.

Landcare over lust

The third criticism of old age is that it lacks sensual pleasures. Lust, Cicero says, is the worst vice of youth and we should rejoice in its passing.

For carnal pleasure hinders deliberation, is at war with reason, blindfolds the eyes of the mind, so to speak, and has no fellowship with virtue.

The same goes for other types of indulgence, such as eating and drinking:

Old age lacks the heavy banquet, the loaded table, and the oft-filled cup; therefore it also lacks drunkenness, indigestion, and loss of sleep.

One can derive enjoyment from many activities in old age, such as studying science or the law, writing poetry, and similar pursuits that stimulate the mind. Cicero has the character of Cato discuss his own personal source of delight: tending to the land.

The real Cato did indeed write a work, On Agriculture, which was essentially a guide to estate management for the wealthy. The cultivation of vines is a particular joy, writes Cicero:

But, that you may know what affords the recreation and delight of my old age, I will say that vine-culture gives me a joy of which I cannot get too much. […] Are not the results obtained from mallet-shoots, sprouts, cuttings, divisions, and layers enough to afford wonder and delight to any man?

The final charge levelled against old age is that it means one is near to death. This can be easily dismissed, according to Cicero, because death can happen at any age.

Nay, even youth, much more than old age, is subject to the accident of death; the young fall sick more easily, their sufferings are more intense, and they are cured with greater difficulty. Therefore few arrive at old age, and, but for this, life would be lived in better and wiser fashion. For it is in old men that reason and good judgement are found, and had it not been for old men no state would have existed at all.

Life is transitory. We should make the best use of the time we have to live honourably, take delight in our good fortune, and face the inevitable with steadfastness. We can take comfort in the fact that our achievements will be remembered after we perish.

Lessons for today?

Throughout the treatise, Cicero successfully advocates for the dignity and value of growing old. He masterfully defends old age against many of the stereotypical charges still levelled against the elderly in the modern world.

But, the critics say, old men are morose, troubled, fretful, and hard to please; and, if we inquire, we shall find that some of them are misers, too. However, these are faults of character, not of age.

And yet we must remember that Cicero and his proxy character Cato were both extremely wealthy, aristocratic politicians who constituted a privileged minority in the Roman Republic. This criticism is addressed early on in the work:

For amid utter penury, old age cannot be a light thing, not even to a wise man; nor to a fool, even amid utmost wealth, can it be otherwise than burdensome.

This justification allows Cicero to develop his argument about the importance of virtue and good character extending well into old age. It reflects the fact that his intended audience was other wealthy men like him (the dedicatee of his book, his friend Titus Pomponius Atticus, was a fabulously rich businessman in his sixties).

Throughout the work, all the examples provided for the reader to emulate are great men from Greece, Rome, and neighbouring regions, such as the philosophers Plato and Pythagoras and the generals Scipio Africanus and Fabius Maximus, who fought against Hannibal in the Second Punic War.

This is a far cry from the world of the labourer or farmer working to feed his family. As classicist Tim Parkin has shown, there was no state support system for the elderly in ancient Rome and all assistance had to come from one’s relatives.

Silent on women and slaves

There is no discussion in On Old Age of the experience of women of any social status. We hear nothing about how the perils of childbearing cut many women down in their prime nor the situation of elderly widows, who were committed to looking after their children and grandchildren.

Though women were often traded and bartered as wives, Roman society still idolised the univira – literally the “one-man woman” – who never remarried after their husband’s death.

Nor is any mention made of the enslaved population who supported the leisurely retirement which Cicero so idolised or did all the hard labour on the estates owned by Cato. In his work On Agriculture, the real Cato wrote that “the old slave, the sick slave, and whatever else is superfluous” should be sold off, lest they compromise the workings of the estate.

Some enslaved people were able to buy their freedom, like Gaius Iulius Mygdonius, whose epitaph recorded that he was a Parthian, captured and enslaved by Romans in his youth. “From my boyhood onwards, I sought to reach old age”, he wrote on his tombstone, a poignant reminder of the adversity which he faced as human chattel.

Cicero’s work offers us salutary reminders about the joys of old age, but we should never forget that he represents the voice of privilege. For most Romans, men and women, free and enslaved, it was a daily struggle just to survive.

Caillan Davenport, Professor of Classics and Head of the Centre for Classical Studies, Australian National University

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

According to Britannica, “art” can be described as something “consciously created through an expression of skill or imagination” – whereas Wikipedia defines it more narrowly as a human activity. But are humans the only species that makes art?

If we take art to be something that is beautiful and consciously created – and animals consciously create things that look like art – shouldn’t we accept these productions as art, too? As Edgar Degas put it, “art is not what you see, but what you make others see”. Indeed, we see beautiful creations all across the animal kingdom.

Some of these works, such as the bowerbird’s nest, are defined in the eyes of their animal beholders. Others have a largely functional purpose, such as mating or feeding, yet manifest in patterns and/or colours that make them beautiful to behold.

On that note, here are some of our favourite animal “artworks”.

Molluscs

Walking on the beach, you can’t help but notice the beautiful patterns on seashells scattered across the sand.

Molluscs such as sea and land snails have delicate bodies, so they need protection. They create their shells by layering a calcium carbonate secretion that hardens once it leaves their bodies.

On these spiral shells, you will find all manner of stripes, swirls and oblique lines that resemble geometric abstraction in art.

Pufferfish

In 1995, some divers off the coast of Japan noticed intricate and beautiful circular patterns etched into the sea floor. These “underwater crop circles” remained a mystery for more than a decade. In 2011, it was finally discovered a pufferfish – in this case the white-spotted pufferfish (Torquigener albomaculosus) – was responsible.

Male pufferfish spend several days creating these circles by repeatedly swimming in and out while digging into the sand with their fins. The circles themselves have two uses. They help attract a mate – wherein the males that make the most beautiful circles are more likely to have success – while the centre of the circle functions as a nest for eggs.

Some of these circles have even been found off the coast of Western Australia.

Bowerbirds

Bowerbirds are found across Australia and Papua New Guinea. While it’s unclear what their nests looked like before the plastic era, today they are often dominated by blue plastic.

The male birds scavenge and steal all things blue to take back to their nest, where the objects are scattered around two walls of carefully formed sticks bending towards each other.

Beauty is definitely in the eyes of the beholder, as researchers have found these nest decorations are linked to mating success for male bowerbirds.

Other bird nests

Apart from the bowerbird’s uniquely bedazzled nests, a range of other bird species make nests that are as beautiful as they are functional.

Hummingbirds, for instance, will often make nests with contrasting green and white moss and lichen, thought to be added for camouflage.

Meanwhile, male weaver birds build intricately woven nests to attract potential mates. These are made using twigs or plant material (whichever is readily available) and can contain more than 1,000 strands of grass.

Whales

A humpback whale can eat up to one tonne of fish in a day. This includes shoaling fish such as herring and mackerel. Humans catch large amounts of these fish using nets. But how do whales catch them?

The answer is something called bubble-net feeding. This cooperative activity requires two or more whales which dive deep below schools of fish and blow bubbles through their blowholes to stun and trap the fish closer to the surface. As one whale blows the bubbles, the other/s follow the fish to the surface in spiral patterns to keep them trapped.

The patterns made in this process are stunning. One photo of bubble-net feeding by humpback whales (Megaptera novaeangliae) even won the 2024 Australian Geographic Nature Photographer of the Year competition.

Sticklebacks

Great art is sometimes made with innovative materials.

The three-spined stickleback (Gasterosteus aculeatus) is a small fresh-water fish that develops a bright red throat during breeding season. But that’s not enough to attract a mate, so it also creates an underwater nest made from weeds held together by spiggin, a secretion that comes from the kidneys.

The stickleback’s spiggin is highly adhesive and sticks the weeds together, even in water. As many teenage boys know, you can’t leave the house without hair gel.

But the displays don’t stop there. Once the nest is ready, the male will try and lure females to it through a rather erratic courtship dance.

Beavers

While many artists make sculpture from natural materials such as stones or wood, beavers are arguably the experts at this.

Beavers make dams using trees they fell using their large front teeth, as well as other branches, mud and stone. These dams change the flow of streams, converting them into slow-moving lakes that provide the beavers protection from land-based predators.

Beyond helping themselves, the new lakes also create an ecosystem for lots of other animals, and can even help reduce flooding in human habitats.

Whether you agree animals make “art” or not, you can’t deny they make plenty of beautiful and functional works.

Susan Hazel, Associate Professor, School of Animal and Veterinary Science, University of Adelaide and Jono Tuke, Senior Lecturer, School of Mathematical Sciences, University of Adelaide

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

Michael Leunig – who died in the early hours of Thursday December 19, surrounded by “his children, loved ones, and sunflowers” – was the closest thing Australian cartooning had to a prophet. By turns over his long career, he was a poet, a prophet and a provocateur.

The challenge comes in attempting to understand Leunig’s significance: for Australian cartooning; for readers of The Age and other papers past; and for the nation’s idea of itself.

On this day, do you remember the gently philosophical Leunig, or the savagely satirical one? Do you remember a cartoon that you thought absolutely nailed the problems of the world, or one you thought was terribly wrong-headed?

Leunig’s greatness lay in how intensely he made his audiences think and feel.

There is no one straightforward story to tell here. With six decades of cartooning at least weekly in newspapers and 25 book-length collections of his work, how could there be?

The light and the dark

One thread is an abiding fondness for the whimsical Leunig. Mr Curly and Vasco Pyjama live on in the imaginations of so many readers.

Particularly in the 1980s and 90s, Leunig’s work seemed to hold up a moral and ethical mirror up to Australian society – sometimes gently, but not without controversy, such as his 1995 “Thoughts of a baby lying in a childcare centre”.

Another thread is the dark satirist.

In the 1960s and 70s, he broke onto the scene as a wild man in Oz and the Nation Review who deplored Vietnam and only escaped the draft owing to deafness in one ear.

Then he apparently mellowed to become the guru of the Age, still with a capacity to launch the occasional satirical thunderbolt. Decidedly countercultural, together with Patrick Cook and Peter Nicholson, Leunig brought what historian Tony Moore has called “existential and non-materialist themes to the Australian black-and-white tradition”.

By 1999, he was declared a “national living treasure” by the National Trust, and was being lauded by universities for his unique contributions to the national culture.

But to tell the story of Leunig’s significance from the mid 90s on is to go beyond the dreamer and the duck. In later decades you could see a clear distinction between some cartoons that continued to console in a bewildering world, and others that sparked controversy.

Politics and controversy

Leunig saw 9/11 and the ensuing “War on Terror” as the great turning point in his career. He fearlessly returned to the themes of the Vietnam years, only to receive caution, rebuke and rejection from editors and readers.

He stopped drawing Mr Curly and Vasco Pyjama. The world was no longer safe for the likes of them.

Then there was a cartoon refused by the Age in 2002, deemed by editor Michael Gawenda to be inappropriate: in the first frame, a Jew is confronted by the gates of the death camp: “Work Brings Freedom [Arbeit Macht Frei]”; in the second frame an Israeli viewing a similar slogan “War Brings Peace”.

Rejected, it was never meant to see the light of day, but ABC’s Media Watch and Crikey outed it because of the constraint its spiking represented to fair media comment on the Middle East.

That the cartoon was later entered, without Leunig’s knowledge, in the infamous Iranian “Holocaust Cartoon” competition of 2006, has only added to its infamy and presaged the internet’s era of the uncontrollable circulation of images.

A decade later, from 2012, he reworked Martin Niemöller’s poetic statement of guilt over the Holocaust. The result was outrage, but also acute division within the Australian Jewish community.

Dvir Abramovich (chairperson of the Anti-Defamation Commission) made a distinction between something challenging, and something racist, believing it was the latter.

Harold Zwier (of the Australian Jewish Democratic Society) welcomed the chance for his community to think critically about Israel’s policies in Gaza and the West Bank.

From 2019 – a mother, distracted, looking at her phone rather than her baby. Cries of “misogyny”, including from Leunig’s very talented cartoonist sister, Mary.

Then from 2021 – a COVID-19 vaccination needle atop an armoured tank, rolling towards a helpless citizen.

Leunig’s enforced retirement (it is still debated whether he walked or was pushed) was long and drawn-out. He filed his last cartoon for the Age this August. By then, he had alienated more than a few of his colleagues in the press and the cartooning profession.

Support of the downtrodden

Do we speak ill of the dead? We hope not. Instead, we hope we are paying respect to a great and often angry artist who wanted always to challenge the consumer society with its dark cultural and geopolitical secrets.

Leunig’s response was a single line of argument: he was “Just a cartoonist with a moral duty to speak”.

You don’t have to agree with every provocation, but his purpose is always to take up the cause of the weak, and deploy all the weaponry at his disposal to support the downtrodden in their fight.

“The role of the cartoonist is not to be balanced”, said Leunig, but rather to “give balance”.