On 12 June, Israel initiated a devastating series of strikes on Iran — the goal of which was evidently to diminish the nation’s increasingly problematic nuclear program and to “decapitate” the nation’s top military leaders and nuclear scientists. There is no doubt these attacks were meticulously planned and represent the culmination of a long-term strategy: to neutralise the threat posed by Iran and its proxies in Lebanon, Yemen and Gaza.

The timing and urgency of the strikes, however, have puzzled many. After all, they came little more than a week prior to the scheduled latest round of talks between the United States and Iran on the future of the latter’s nuclear program. The precipitating event seems to have been the release of a recent report by the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA), which found that “Iran can convert its current stock of 60 percent enriched uranium into 233 kg of WGU in three weeks … enough for 9 nuclear weapons”, and that “Iran is undertaking the near-final step of breaking out, now converting its 20 percent stock of enriched uranium into 60 percent enriched uranium at a greatly expanded rate”.

Such findings would certainly have been central to US-Iran talks. But they were taken by Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu as posing a clear and imminent threat to the State of Israel, and therefore as justifying a preventive attack.

Iran then unleashed a series of missile strikes of its own, citing justification on the grounds of “self-defence”. We have, in other words, two nations claiming to be acting in self-defence. But this isn’t peculiar to this specific conflict between historically hostile nations. Prior to the 2003 invasion of Iraq, the United States asserted a right to “pre-emptive self-defence”. Vladimir Putin justified Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022 as an act of “self-defence” against a future attack.

“Self-defence” thus seems to have become a legally and politically promiscuous term, and can thus be used to justify actions in which no imminent threat is present and for which alternatives are available. What, then, are the legal and philosophical limits to claims that one is acting in “self-defence”, particularly when that entails pre-emptive violence?

Between 1996 and 2022, for all but a brief and tumultuous six-year hiatus, the Coalition has governed Australia. Over this period, not only did the Liberal and National parties dominate federal politics, they defined the terrain upon which the political contest itself would be fought. On any number of policy fronts — from border security and immigration through to taxation, fiscal management and the US alliance — the Coalition staked out what would constitute the new political “centre”.

But over the last two federal elections, the Coalition has seen its numbers in Parliament dramatically reduced — losing more than 30 seats to Labor and Teal independents, nearly all of them from Liberal ranks.

It was hardly surprising, then, that the Coalition would find itself in jeopardy. After a brief separation, the Liberals and Nationals decided to carry on together. But the underlying tensions between the Parties remain. And yet these tensions are perhaps not as significant as those within the Liberal Party itself:

• between Liberal members/preselectors and the majority of Liberal voters;
• between the ideologically liberal and philosophically conservative forces;
• between the political moderates and aspirational multiculturalists, on the one hand, and those wanting to emulate the more extreme, divisive politics of the likes of Donald Trump, on the other.

A divorce from the Nationals could have presented a welcome opportunity to resolve the Liberal Party’s own internal tensions, its lack of identity, its philosophical incoherence. Has the mended political relationship now made that impossible? During an extended period in opposition, can the Liberal Party fashion a truly Australian version of conservatism — one that eschews the more divisive, atavistic, bellicose traits that define it elsewhere?

It is a problem many people increasingly feel they can neither avoid nor ignore: we could characterise it as the problem of loving the art, but being unsettled by the behaviour or the beliefs of the artist who created it.

This is a perfectly serviceable way of grasping the outline of the matter, but, on further reflection, it fails to get to its heart. For it’s not that we are merely put off by or disappointed with the artist — as though they have somehow failed to live up to an ethical ideal or have adopted a way of living that is a bit too outré for our liking.

What is at issue is not so much disappointment as it is betrayal: we’ve come to know something about the artist so distressing that it cannot help but plunge us into a state of either deprivation (we still value the art, maybe even love it, but no longer know how to enjoy it) or dissonance (we go on pretending that what is essentially private doesn’t matter, and that the art can continue to be enjoyed in its own right). In either case, we are left longing for a lost innocence when we did not know what we now know.

Whatever it is that ruins our appreciation of these artists and intellectuals, it is something that threatens to permeate the whole. Call it a kind of monstrousness. In her book Monsters: A Fan’s Dilemma, Claire Dederer perfectly captures the affective dimension of the dilemma concerning great artists:

“They were accused of doing or saying something awful, and they made something great. The awful thing disrupts the great work; we can’t watch or listen to or read the great work without remembering the awful thing. Flooded with knowledge of the maker’s monstrousness, we turn away, overcome by disgust. Or … we don’t. We continue watching, separating or trying to separate the artist from the art. Either way: disruption.”

It would be a mistake, however, to see the problem of “tainted artists” as just an ethical problem — like wearing affordable clothes that are manufactured under exploitative conditions, or eating chocolate that is not ethically sourced, or buying cage eggs, or a principled refusal to eat meat that otherwise tastes good. It is also an aesthetic problem. Because knowing what we know causes us to see the work differently.

You can read an excerpt from Anna Funder’s book Wifedom, on George Orwell’s domestic monstrousness, here.

Fresh from a commanding victory at the federal election, Anthony Albanese began to bundle his campaign policy offerings together in a new package — not just to give these political commitments a kind of internal coherence, but also to stake out what could be distinctive about his premiership as a whole.

The term he reached for to sum it all up is “progressive patriotism”. In a conversation with David Crowe for the Nine papers, the Prime Minister explained what he means:

“We spoke about doing things the Australian way, not looking towards any other method or ideology from overseas. At a time where there’s conflict in the world, where people are often divided on the basis of race or religion, here in Australia, we can be a microcosm for the world.

That says that we’re enriched by our diversity, that we have respect for people of different faith, that we try to bring people together, that we don’t bring turmoil overseas and play out that conflict here, either, and that’s really important.

This is a project, if you like, that’s not just about strengthening Australia, but also being a symbol for the globe in how humanity can move forward.”

Hearing a Labor leader talk in terms of “patriotism” should not be terribly strange to our ears. Bob Hawke did it in his own vernacular, and Paul Keating was able to combine a certain confidence over Australia’s place in the region with an irrepressible economic self-assurance that was his trademark style — a national confidence, moreover, that needn’t be undermined by a frank acknowledgement of what “we” Australians had done to the First Peoples of this land.

But left-leaning patriotism can lay claim to a longer, more noble lineage. It was, after all, the British Labour government of Prime Minister Clement Atlee (1945–1951) and his Minister for Health, Aneurin Bevan, that established the NHS and embarked on an unprecedented public housing program — a welfare state borne along by the winds of post-war patriotic sentiment.

For his part, Albanese seems to be invoking a notion of patriotism largely devoid of ideology and exceptionalism, and that is grounded in an enlarged idea of welfarism and social provision. It is a promising and undeniably noble sentiment. But in times like ours, can “patriotism” really shed its exclusivist undertones?

Can patriotism be reoriented as a horizontal attachment to our fellow citizens through the shared principles that govern our common life — or must it always involve a form of vertical loyalty, a civic religion that binds some of us together insofar as we swear fealty to a necessarily exclusionary ideal?

Over the last two years, many in Australia and around the world have watched in horror as Sudan, Gaza and other zones of mass violence descend into humanitarian crises of devastating proportions.

And while the cause of each crisis is unique, the consequences tend to share common characteristics — for especially civilians: millions of people are displaced and left without homes to return to; basic social infrastructure, hospitals and schools are reduced to ruins; tens of thousands of men, women and children are targeted for killing or die due to fighting, disease and the lack of food; sexual violence and torture are widespread; and starvation is deliberately employed as a weapon of war.

The scale and sheer desperation of the humanitarian crises in Sudan and Gaza ought to sear the souls of anyone committed to the notion of human dignity and the belief in a common humanity. But the tendency of so many in Australia — though we are by no means unusual in this regard — is to permit humanitarian concern and moral attentiveness to the plight of others to pass in and out of focus.

Is there a moral imperative on citizens to remain attentive, to enlarge their capacity for sympathy, to make democratic “noise” in the policy deliberations of our elected representatives? If so, how might the capacity for that attentiveness be cultivated, and in what ways should it manifest in order to serve the people we are trying to protect?

“Joy” is a strange kind of word. It describes a feeling that we all know, but do not know exactly how to value. It’s not happiness — which can, after all, be interior, quiet and express itself as a kind of contentment — nor is it merely pleasure (even though, in many languages, “pleasure” and “joy” are etymologically related). Joy is not only more exuberant than happiness, it is also weightier than pleasure. Montaigne was onto something when he wrote, “Profound joy has more seriousness than gaiety about it …”

In what circumstances, then, do we find that it is fitting to use the word “joy”? It is almost always when it is coupled with a sense of struggle, the experience of coming through disappointment and failure, the attempt to achieve something that is inherently difficult. That’s why it does not strike us as inappropriate when joy is tinged with sorrow (as when a loved one is not present to experience it) or when sorrow is lightened by joy (the same way that lamentation, for instance, can be an expression of an underlying hopefulness).

All of which is to say, whatever “joy” is, it isn’t easy.

But then there’s one additional element that invariably seems to be present when we reflect on the nature of “joy”: the fact that it seems to require companionship, or at least company. It needs to be shared.

After any election, a narrative of sorts must be woven out of the disparate threads of the votes of so many individuals in so many seats. Which is to say, there has to be an act of discernment to hear what “the people” are trying to communicate — to make their will legible, as it were.

Despite a relatively modest increase in Labor’s primary vote, the Albanese government added between 15 and 18 seats to its majority in the Lower House, while the Coalition has been reduced to a parliamentary rump.

The election outcome, then, was decisive — but what does it mean? Was this simply a matter of the electorate wanting the stability of incumbency in uncertain times, overshadowed by an increasingly unpredictable US president? Was it about punishing the Coalition for its flirtations with Trumpism-down-under and its incoherent policy offerings? All of the above?

Was it also a sign that voters have wearied of “culture war” politics, and desire the centrism and modesty of responsible governance? Did the prime minister reflect the better angels of Australians’ nature back to them with his humility and emphasis on kindness? Or is Labor’s parliamentary majority less significant than it seems?

Democracy is often lauded as a peculiarly just and effective form of government — one that enjoys the benefits that flow from twin virtues of popular engagement and political accountability. And yet the effectiveness and resilience of democratic politics depends on the trust voters have in political institutions.

When those institutions are felt not to be responsive to the needs and fears of citizens, when politicians seem not to represent those who voted for them (and seem instead to serve their own interests or the interests of ulterior “others”), or when governments seem impotent in the face of geopolitical tensions, global supply chains or complex market realities, such conditions can provide a breeding ground for disillusionment.

In such circumstances, voters may be more inclined to punish incumbents than to invest their replacements with some democratic mandate — so beginning the electoral cycle of organised popular disaffection.

Can a democracy like Australia break that cycle, or is democratic disillusionment an inevitability?

This year marks the 100th anniversary of the first federal election to be held in Australia after the passage of Senator Herbert Payne’s private member’s bill, which made voting compulsory. In 1922, only 57.95 per cent of registered voters turned out. Payne’s home state of Tasmania had the poorest showing (45.93 per cent), whereas Queensland — where voting in state elections had been compulsory since 1914 — saw the highest (82.66 per cent). As Judith Brett writes:

“It was clear that Queensland’s compulsory voting for state elections had carried over to the federal sphere, perhaps from habit, perhaps because Queenslanders didn’t distinguish between state and federal elections and thought they would be fined for not voting. Or perhaps, as advocates of compulsory voting hoped, it was because being forced to vote made people more politically aware and engaged.”

Whichever reason best accounts for the enviable voting behaviour on the part of Queenslanders, the prospect of making Australia’s federal elections more truly representative — and therefore, ideally, endow its governance with greater legitimacy — overcame lingering fears in some quarters about the violation of individual liberties.

When Australians went to the polls on 14 November 1925, not only did voter turnout jump to 91.39 per cent, but the requirement to vote did not lead to a rise in informal voting.

 Voting is part of our cultural fabric, and compulsory voting — along with preferential voting and a non-partisan election commission —  has saved Australia from some of the anti-democratic distortions we’ve seen in other nations.

But because voting is what Australians do, how often to we reflect on what we’re doing when we vote, and what we’re communicating about power, accountability, ourselves and our aspirations for Australia?

If there is ever a time when politicians should be able to expect a fair share of the public’s attention, it’s during an election campaign. After all, this triennial event is when they can demonstrate to the Australian public that they’ve been attentive to their aspirations and concerns for the future, and have developed a series of policies able to address those hopes and fears.

And yet Donald Trump’s reckless bluster and punitive tariffs have sucked most of the air out of Australia’s federal election, and the unpopularity of the US President has succeeded in blowing the campaign of at least one political party off course.

Trump may well be unavoidable, but is the attention he garners inevitable? Are the differences between US-style politics and Australia’s well-functioning democracy now so vast that we can better appreciate the preciousness of our own rather more modest democratic way of life?