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?

This is the second of two episodes recorded in front of a live audience as part of a special “Week with Students”, a collaboration between Radio National and ABC Education.

Over a short period of time, AI has become pervasive. Immensely powerful platforms have placed artificial intelligence at our fingertips, and more than two-thirds of Australian students admit to using AI chatbots like OpenAI’s ChatGPT and Microsoft’s Copilot.

But as with any technology, alongside the convenience and new capabilities come certain risks and unforeseen consequences. The debate is raging over what it would take to ensure that AI’s power can be made to serve the common good.

Is education and greater technological literacy part of the solution?

This is the first of two episodes recorded in front of a live audience as part of a special “Week with Students”, a collaboration between Radio National and ABC Education.

Of the three great dystopian novels published on either side of the Second World War — Aldous Huxley’s “Brave New World” (1931), George Orwell’s “Nineteen Eighty-Four” (1949) and Ray Bradbury’s “Fahrenheit 451” (1953) — it is Bradbury’s vision of a future without books that can lay legitimate claim to being the most prescient. It is certainly the most relevant to us.

“Fahrenheit 451” is, ultimately, a story about education. It tracks the moral awakening of an unthinking, drone-like fireman named Guy Montag, whose occupation it is not to protect properties against flames but to incinerate books.

And yet the disappearance of books did not happen, in the first instance, because of state action. It all started with the steady reduction of the size of texts and a rapid increase in the rate of publication. (Bradbury might as well have been describing social media.) After that, it didn’t take much for books to be permitted to disappear altogether due to their irrelevance to the way people live. Why would you need censorship when distraction and disinterest will do the trick?

But after a series of encounters with witnesses, teachers and guides, Montag is led out of darkness and into enlightenment; away from the flames that burn and toward the fire that gives warmth, companionship, sociability; away from distraction and inner-emptiness and toward contemplation, curiosity and wonder.

We arrive, at last, at the end of our Ramadan series — and the second of our pair of positive responses to radical disappointment with the world. For some, hope is untrustworthy, amounting to little more than dreaming or wish-fulfilment. For others, hope can turn into kind of bad faith demand, leading to dishonest politics (in the name of being up-beat or staying positive) or even to habituated practices of avoidance.

But hope can also galvanise a community to work together for an otherwise uncertain future, in a way that mere optimism cannot. One immediately thinks of someone like Martin Luther King. Jr. But there is another example to draw upon. In his book Radical Hope: Ethics in the Face of Cultural Devastation, about the last great Chief of Crow Nation, Plenty Coups (1848 – 1932), the philosopher Jonathan Lear writes:

“Plenty Coups was able to lead himself and his people forward into an unimaginable future committed to the idea that something good would emerge. He carried himself and his people forward, committed to the idea that it was worthwhile to do so, even while acknowledging that his own local understanding of the good life would vanish. This is a daunting form of commitment: to a goodness in the world that transcends one’s ability to grasp what it is … There may be various forms of ethical criticism one might be tempted to level at this form of hopefulness: that it was too complacent; that it didn’t face up to the evil that had been inflicted on the Crow tribe. But it is beyond question that the hope was a remarkable human accomplishment — in no small part because it avoided despair.”

Hope, then, can emerge from loss, from mourning, from the experience of devastation. But this raises the further question of whether an anchor “out there” is necessary to sustain communal action. Can the impetus not also come from inherent value of the work itself — work that would be good and right to do, regardless of the outcome?

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Upcoming live events:

In the first week of April, as part of a special “Week with Students” — a joint initiative by Radio National and ABC Education — Waleed Aly and Scott Stephens will be recording two episodes of The Minefield with an audience of Year 11-12 students, parents and teachers.

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1. ARE WE ON THE BRINK OF A WORLD WITHOUT BOOKS?

The irony is unavoidable: a novel that imagines a world in which books are banned — and in which entertainment has swallowed up education — has earned a stable place on the Australian high school curriculum. For this live recording of The Minefield, Waleed Aly and Scott Stephens are leaning all the way into that irony and will discuss Ray Bradbury’s novel “Fahrenheit 451” with students, parents and teachers at the Parramatta Library. The future Bradbury imagined in 1953 has never felt closer; is it too late to heed his warning?

• WHEN: Friday, 4 April 2025. Arrive at 5:30pm for a 6:00pm start.
• WHERE: Parramatta Library, 5 Parramatta Square, NSW.
• Register your interest on Eventbrite.

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2. IS AI A TECHNOLOGY TO BE FEARED OR A TOOL TO BE TAUGHT?

Over a short period of time, AI has become pervasive. Immensely powerful platforms have placed artificial intelligence at our fingertips, and more than two-thirds of Australian students admit to using AI chatbots like OpenAI’s ChatGPT and Microsoft’s Copilot. But as with any technology, alongside the convenience and new capabilities come certain risks and unforeseen consequences. The debate is raging over what it would take to ensure that AI’s power can be made to serve the common good. Is education and greater technological literacy part of the solution?

• WHEN: Saturday, 5 April 2025. Arrive at 10.30am for an 11:00am start.
• WHERE: ABC Ultimo, 700 Harris Street, Ultimo, NSW.
• Register your interest on Eventbrite.