The Minefield

What do we mean when we talk about freedom of expression? Despite the attempts of free speech advocates to point to the noble pedigree of this core democratic right, those instances of self-assertion in which the right to ‘free speech’ is most vigorously invoked are decidedly ignoble. So what future can freedom expression have when it is associated, not with higher democratic ideals or intellectual inquiry or moral courage, but with bigotry, banality and mendacity? Is free speech worth the price?

Freedom of expression is often invoked today in order to contrast the values and virtues of the West with the fascism, religious tyranny or brutal dictatorship of the unenlightened ‘rest’. But some argue that when free speech becomes an end in itself, it thereby becomes meaningless – a mere pretence for bigotry and intolerance. So what is the future of free speech? Does it even exist, or is it little more than a hollow mantra?

Anzac Day is the high point of Australia's civil religion. On it we confess who we are, give thanks for sacrifices that constitute our nation, and profess our allegiance to a higher ideal. But the kind of collective historical memory that Anzac commemorations claim to safeguard is highly problematic: such collective memory is always selective, usually self-serving and factually dubious. Some argue, then, that we have a moral duty to forget, in order to see the realities and responsibilities of the present more clearly.

Against all predictions of an increasingly listless, disconnected generation of Australians, Anzac commemorations now inspire unprecedented levels of devotion and nationalist fervour. Even if we assume that such celebrations of collective historical memory have a mythic quality about them, we tend to think it a rather harmless indulgence. But what if national remembrance is morally problematic, or detrimental to our civic life and our capacity to life peacefully in the wider world?

The anti-vaccination campaign may be quickly dismissed as a fringe issue, but it is bound up with crucial moral questions that concern us all.  What is the moral status of ‘conscientious objection’? Can the state force someone to violate their conscience?

What is the moral authority of conscience? Can the state force someone to violate their conscience? Can deeply held personal convictions be balanced with the public good? These questions are in many respects central to liberal democratic political orders, and yet we seem increasingly incapable of providing satisfactory answers. The phenomenon of conscientious objection - from Vietnam to anti-vaxxers - presents an intriguing test case, one that might just bring us to the heart of the matter.

Modern life is awash with images—some of them serious, most of them trivial. But are increasingly graphic images the best way of cutting through the infotainment fog and getting us to take notice?

‘It used to be thought, when candid images were not common, that showing something that needed to be seen, bringing painful reality closer, was bound to goad viewers to feel – feel more. In world in which photography is brilliantly at the service of consumerist manipulations, this naive relation to poignant scenes of suffering is much less plausible,’ so wrote renowned critic Susan Sontag in 2002. Can it help to overcome indifference, if we expose ourselves to graphic images of human devastation? How can we keep moral vision from turning into pornographic voyeurism?