thesupercargo

This article was published in Lot's Wife on 20/3/2012.

In the 21st century, warfare can be a little hard to sell. Ours is a generation raised on Oliver Stone and Wikileaks; one in which the horrors of war are transparent and widely acknowledged. Pacifist sentiment, once seen as treacherous and cowardly, is now something close to the norm. It wasn't always this way. In 1914, millions of impressionable young men from Europe, Australia and elsewhere were seduced into signing up by fantasies of patriotism and gallantry. Even as the dreadful realities of that war became apparent, new myths emerged. Anzac Day—a day originally instituted in order to commemorate the futile massacre of Australian and New Zealander soldiers at Gallipoli—was immediately appropriated as a symbol of national pride and a recruitment device. The bravery of Australian soldiers became a vital component in the war propaganda of the day.

Today, we live in a more skeptical age; and yet, in some ways, little has changed. To this day, our country holds elaborate ceremonies in order to honour individual troops, who are duly ordained as ‘war heroes’ in media reportage. In towns and cities all over Australia, huge monuments commemorate the local war dead. But who, or what, do these symbols really celebrate? Are they a lamentation for senseless loss of life, or a tribute to the glory of fighting and dying for one’s country? Much like the contemporary celebration of Anzac Day, it’s probably a bit of both; regardless, as the recent controversy involving Victoria Cross winner Ben Roberts-Smith has demonstrated, war propaganda still exerts a significant influence on societal paradigms. The incident, if it can be called that, arose from an exchange on the television programme The Circle as the hosts and special guest George Negus discussed a photograph of the SAS corporal. Referring to the soldier’s muscular figure, presenter Yumi Stynes made a disparaging comment about his intelligence, while Negus followed up with an awkward joke about external hyper-masculinity and sexual performance. Neither of their comments were, really, specifically aimed at Roberts-Smith at all; even if they had been, the response would have still been absurdly disproportionate. “War hero mocked,” announced newspapers the next day, as talkback radio listeners demanded that the show be taken off air and sponsors duly withdrew their funding. Negus and Stynes were directed to make private and public apologies, which were apparently not sufficient to prevent the latter from receiving death threats.

How could such a minor incident have provoked such outrage? The answer lies in the phrasing employed by the media: 'war hero'. This is the paradigm that Stynes and Negus (rather unwittingly) undermined. To make fun of a decorated soldier, no matter how indirectly, is to challenge the last bastion of war propaganda. For if neither country, nor religion, nor soldier is to be deified, what justification for war can remain? In the days before the incident, Roberts-Smith was described positively in the News Limited papers as a “highly skilled killing machine”. The label is not wide of the mark. His Victoria Cross earning mission alone resulted in the deaths of 22 Afghani insurgents, men who may well have perceived themselves to be fighting against foreign invasion. These were, of course, armed combatants; still, it says a lot about our society’s capacity for doublethink that the taking of human life can be deemed reprehensible in most situations yet so admirable in others that a killer can be considered heroic. Despite popular sentiment to the contrary, armed combat does not have a tendency to produce heroes. Certainly, there are acts of individual bravery, sacrifice and endurance; by and large, however, the history of warfare is one of teenagers and conscripts sent to their deaths by governments more concerned about

territory or alliances than the lives of their citizens. It is right that we do not demonise soldiers for their actions when they are fighting at the behest of our democratically elected government. Nevertheless, it is equally crucial that we do not glorify armed conflict by deifying soldiers. Warfare, in general, is an appallingly horrific phenomenon which requires ordinary people like Ben Roberts-Smith to be trained to forgo compassion and empathy in order to kill more effectively. That is not something to be praised, but lamented. In the meantime, Stynes and Negus have well and truly learned their lesson. The Circle, if it survives at all, will be a much safer, more carefully scripted programme. Television and radio presenters elsewhere will be far warier of deriding military personnel. On this occasion, war propaganda has received a resounding endorsement. Until we as a society begin to respond more critically, it will remain unchallenged.

This article was published in Lot's Wife on 16/2/2012.

Censorship is an extraordinarily useful political tool. Almost all governments – fascist, communist, democratic, monarchist and theocratic alike – have embraced it to an extent at some point in their history. Morality, national security, childhood innocence and the protection of the vulnerable have all been called upon as justifications for censorship over time. In liberal democratic societies such as Australia, some minority advocacy groups have successfully campaigned for restrictions on perceived oppressive or harmful expression, resulting in what we know today as anti-vilification laws.

Freedom of expression has, of course, never been absolute. Even countries with a strong history of protecting freedom of speech, such as the United States, have traditionally recognised the need for some regulation of communication – anti-libel and slander laws being the most obvious examples. All but the most ardent libertarians accept this as reasonable.

Equally, freedom of speech – as a nebulous concept – is a value that many of us hold dear. In many countries, the absence of that liberty can entail criminalisation of dissent, restrictions on political reporting, limitations on artistic expression and, most worryingly, control of information flow. It is appropriate that protection of these rights is seen by many as fundamental to the maintenance of a free state.

A freedom that seems, however, to be taken less seriously today is that of humorous expression. While government intervention in the matter – at least in countries such as Australia – is minimal, the commercial sector has increasingly embraced a tendency to respond punitively to humour deemed (potentially) offensive. Such actions have tended to be prompted or endorsed by advocacy groups or the media and, often, condoned by the general public.

Last year, popular US sex blogger Violet Blue reported on the success of various feminist internet users in pressuring Facebook to remove its so-called ‘pro-rape’ pages. Most of the offending pages mentioned in her article were, in fact, single statement rape jokes, two being “Abducting, raping and violently murdering your friend, as a joke” and “You know she’s playing hard to get when you’re chasing her down an alley way”. Given the article’s polemical nature, it is reasonable to assume these were considered among the more ‘shocking’ pages campaigned against.

[It’s important to keep in mind here that Facebook pages are a complex phenomenon. Ostensibly, they exist in order to promote an organisation, person or group of some kind. In a significant proportion of cases, however, they consist solely of a single statement: serious (“Vote Greens in 2010”); whimsical (“I hate reading subtitles”) or humorous (“I like to eat vegemite on my corn flakes”). Many such pages are simply ‘liked’ en masse and rarely accessed again – as such, they are simply a circulated joke, comment or quotation that somebody wrote and other people found profound or briefly amusing. The two referred to in Violet’s article clearly belonged to the latter category.]

Both can be filed fairly comfortably within the category of black humour, however tasteless or unfunny they may seem. In this case, they were eventually deemed sufficiently offensive to be removed by Facebook.

Responses such as this have become commonplace, particularly here in Australia. ‘Offensive’ humour tends to have serious repercussions. Age columnist Catherine Deveny found herself out of a job over jesting on Twitter that “Bindi Irwin so needs to get laid”; The Chaser’s War on Everything was taken off air for two weeks for a skit involving children with cancer; the Collingwood Football Club directed one of its players to apologise for making an obscure sexual hand gesture in a team photograph; and so on. While the punitive actions themselves tend to be taken by employers or sponsors, they only come after aggressive talkback radio and media campaigns designed to stir up public outrage. The public response to these outcomes usually ranges from vindication to ambivalence: “rape/paedophilia/terrorism/cancer shouldn’t be made light of” is a common sentiment, as is agreement that the joke in question has “crossed the line”. But what line? Perhaps the position of the ‘line’ – presumably, that which the majority of the public finds tasteful – is less in question than what the response to such a transgression ought to be.

Two consecutive leaps in logic appear to be made in these cases. Firstly, that what one person finds offensive is what everybody finds (or should find) offensive; secondly, that such jokes should actually be banned from the public forum. For, in the end, censorship is the result of all such cases, with a heavy deterrent in place for any who would make the same mistake in the future. It matters little that the government or law enforcement often have little to do with it; rather, it is fitting, in this age of corporate/mass media dominance, that society’s censorship should also be facilitated by commercial forces.

It’s easy to see why there has been little public outcry about the way these cases have been handled: jokes, after all, are never going to be defended as ardently as freedom of political or artistic expression. Humour is seen primarily as entertainment; disposable. Ironically, one of the main defences against this kind of censorship – that a joke is just a joke and, as such, inherently harmless – actually aids that perception. It also misses the point entirely.

Jokes are no more meaningless than any other form of human expression. They have the power to be hurtful, malicious, slanderous or reckless. People can be genuinely and rightfully offended by what someone else perceives to be (or chooses to defend as) humour. In the case of the Facebook pages, there may well have been sexual assault victims who would have been distressed if they had seen them. Likewise, some people may be distressed or seriously offended by jokes about murder, AIDS, shark attacks, September 11, Sarah Palin or Christianity. How should that knowledge be dealt with? Ought the public have the right to be protected from jokes that might be offensive?

The answer must surely lie in context, place and self-regulation. If one’s friend is sensitive about their sexual performance, it will probably be insensitive or hurtful to make a joke about impotence in their presence. If one is giving a lecture to a local Muslim association, one might steer clear of blasphemous religious jibes. We do not, surely, require laws or formal disciplinary action to reinforce these principles: the alienation of a friend or audience dissatisfaction will surely be sufficient deterrent.
On a global forum such as the Internet, however, the social rules are different – likewise, television or a stand-up comedy show. Those who don’t like what they read, see or hear can switch off, write to the writer/presenter expressing dissatisfaction or discuss the incident critically in a public forum. This is, to quote former Media Watch host David Marr, the “right to be offended”.

We all have the right in this society to express our offence in any way we choose, short of damaging property or injuring people. However, to demand that a particular writer, television programme or comedian be censored (or punished to the extent that others will be deterred from following in their footsteps) is a deeply problematic response. To do so asks for a topic to not be joked about publically in a particular manner; says that it is, and must remain, taboo. Such is the ultimate goal of the anti-‘rape joke’ campaigners; of those who consider ‘crossing the line’ to have no place in our society.

To cater to that mentality is profoundly dangerous. Humour is not just a throwaway, meaningless form of entertainment. It’s a way we express ourselves, deal with our experiences and communicate with other people. The humour that is most likely to offend often tends to deal with subjects that we as a society find uncomfortable; and that, in many ways, is among its most positive functions. To surrender to taboo rather than allow it to be challenged makes us a more reticent, less open society. Censorship isn’t inappropriate in every case; but if we truly value free expression, we must be wary of any attempt to control it. Humour is no exception.

In the popular political terminology of privilege and oppression, it may seem counterintuitive to include professional sportspeople in the latter category. In terms of pure wage earnings, the best AFL players earn upwards of $1,000,000 a year, and even the lowest paid earn substantially more than an average retail, hospitality or even government employee. Their work, as it were, consists of one game a week from March through to September, regular training sessions and various media and sponsor-related commitments. In the football-obsessed cities of Melbourne, Adelaide and Perth, players can earn the adulation of tens of thousands of fans and receive praise for their talents from print, radio and television media. On these counts, they're not exactly doing it tough.

With such fame and wealth, however, comes the problem that all celebrities eventually encounter: media harassment. It is common practice for tabloids (along with their radio and television cousins) to seize on any personal information—preferably scandalous—about the extracurricular lives of footballers and present it as a 'news' item. While some celebrities deliberately seek out this kind of publicity for their own purposes, footballers generally have no say in whether or not these incursions into their privacy will take place. Thus, incidents ranging from drug use and drink-driving to consensual sex and private relationships can be exposed to the public with little opportunity for recourse.

Although criticism persists, media organisations defend their behaviour with a range of justifications: that footballers are public figures; that it is in the public interest; that to interfere in these practices is to suppress journalistic freedom.

By far the most insidious claim, and perhaps the one that has gained the most traction among the public and news media, is the 'role model' argument: that is, the concept that footballers' influential position in society means that they ought to be held to a higher degree of personal responsibility. It's a spurious argument—the very idea that footballers should be morally accountable to the public for their private decisions is a patent absurdity—but an extraordinarily effective one. This paradigm has become so widely accepted that any player misbehaviour is now viewed as a serious threat to the credibility and, crucially, marketability of their club and code.

This extends not just to serious criminal allegations such as assault or sexual abuse, but to traffic and drug offences, public drunkenness and writing controversial opinion pieces. The law of the land—let alone the humiliation of widespread media coverage and the accompanying consternation of self-righteous media commentators—is rarely deemed sufficient punishment by the AFL or its clubs. Sponsors and all-important public image must be protected; as such, one or both will inevitably do the (perceived) proper thing by levying further penalties upon the offending player.

Such responses have become so common that they are now expected and, indeed, demanded. The result is that the mere accusation of misconduct—in Geelong player Matthew Stokes' case, cocaine possession; in St. Kilda player Andrew Lovett's, rape—is sufficient to earn a hefty fine, suspension or, in the latter case, sacking. The fact that Lovett was later acquitted clearly pointed out the inappropriateness of his club's response, but it wasn't necessary: whatever the end result, pre-emptive justice is always wrong and clearly contradicts the principle of presumption of innocence that is enshrined in our legal system and wider society.

A deeper problem is the practically unquestioned presumption that non-football-related transgressions lie within the jurisdiction of the AFL or clubs at all. Every member of society is beholden to the same legal system, and all crimes are prosecuted equally before the courts; why, then, does the AFL choose to act as some form of supplementary judicial system, doling out penalties of its own for minor as well as serious incidents? It is arrogance beyond belief to think that a football suspension is an appropriate response to, say, a sexual assault; and yet, the AFL increasingly seeks to assert its own moral correctness by offering its own form of retribution. It and its players must be seen to exert a positive influence on society—'role models', as it were.

One of the worst recent instances of this mentality was the year-long suspension foisted upon West Coast Eagles star Ben Cousins for drug use. Drugs and sport have, of course, always had an uneasy relationship: the prospect of unfair advantage brought about through use of performance-enhancing drugs is understandably anathema to sporting codes dedicated to maintaining a level playing field and fair, healthy competitiveness. What was troubling about Cousins' treatment was that he was neither accused nor suspected of using performance-enhancers. Rather, he was found to have used illegal recreational drugs, a distinction that the AFL and other sporting bodies seem unable or unwilling to make, regardless of the fact that there is little to no logical reason for non-performance-enhancing drugs to be incorporated within anti-doping regulations. That, most likely, is a political imposition; regardless, the AFL grossly prioritised its public image and marketability over a player's career. Likewise, the recent fines and suspensions levied upon players for merely informing friends and family members of their playing position—thus potentially prejudicing the exotic betting market—show a disdain and disregard from the organisation towards the players that make it profitable.

All these decisions, some may argue, are entirely the AFL's prerogative—the rules of the game, as it were. Popular media organisations tend to be comfortable with that conclusion: the 'role model' doctrine, after all, is a key justification of their own muckraking and ethically questionable behaviour. What it does, most insidiously, is to permit a stratification in society, instituting a class that earns a disproportionate amount of money whilst being stripped of their right to privacy and held to a level of moral responsibility. The one neither justifies nor cancels out the other; both are, to different degrees, a blight on our society.

The fact that these are the established rules does not make them just. As football supporters, we need to remind the AFL that it is the players we go to watch, not the administrators, sponsors or betting agencies that profit from their competition and our patronage. Likewise, we have a choice as media consumers whether or not to support those sources which treat people contemptuously in the pursuit of profit. As long as the status quo remains unchallenged, footballers will be treated increasingly poorly by their own code and the news industry. Nothing but a major paradigm shift can reverse that trend.

People haven't said many nice things about me to my face, but one of the better compliments I've heard is "I think your mother did a good job". On face value, it's a little backhanded — after all, it gives all the credit for my virtues to another person, and seems to suggest that I haven't contributed a single thing to the final product.

On reflection, though, the anonymous flatterer has a point. Sure, I'm mostly nice to people, but it seems that that's just the way I am. If I had seen my entire family killed in a civil war at the age of five, I might be less of a nice person; come to think of it, I wasn't even bullied much as a child.

Similarly, on good days I think that I'm really intelligent. Most people would agree that that's a good and useful thing to be, and people tend to respect it as a trait. You're intelligent; good for you! Something that bothers me, though, is if I should really be accepting any credit for it. I didn't sign any forms before my conception requesting the ability to think laterally, and anyone who knows me would tell you I haven't really been working at it. Did Shane Warne do anything in his previous life to earn being a stupid oaf?

Far more comprehensive volumes than this have been written in pursuit of the central question in human behavioural studies: to what extent is behaviour (and the underlying psyche) the result of socialising forces as opposed to inbuilt psychological tendencies? I haven't bothered to read any of them, but I think my view on this issue is that of most sane people: it's a bit of each; not 50/50, necessarily, but both nature and nurture play significant roles. Together, along with environmental circumstances, they decide who I am, what I do, who I'm attracted to and what political party I vote for. What I can state with some certainty is that I didn't get a say in either facet. The biological is right there in my DNA, and I didn't get to choose my parents, primary school education or the media I was exposed to at a certain age. Nowadays, I get to choose my friends, what university subjects I fail at and what TV programmes I endure; but all of those choices have been made as a result of who I was to begin with, before I started making independent decisions. I, David Heslin, am in every facet a product of my society, upbringing, genes, prejudices and neuroses, and every choice I've ever made and will ever make will be a direct result of all that. I can go and, say, join a hippy commune, but the inclination has to be there in the first place, and that inclination has to come from somewhere.

Even a purely spontaneous decision — that is, an action taken with little or no forethought — is the combination of spontaneous tendencies and situation. Similarly, pigheaded contrariness requires a desire to be pigheaded and/or contrary. There is no way to escape.

Some people defend the existence of free will really ardently. I think that's a result of either the horror of powerlessness or the apparently empirical fact of choice. Of course I make choices. I made a choice to write this instead of playing video games. I have the desire to write and a functioning keyboard, just as I have a good secondhand PS2 and some games that have stood the test of time reasonably well. Some may be of the opinion that the latter would have been a more productive use of my time; in any case, I had inclinations to do both, but I consciously selected one over the other. My argument is that this decision, like every one I've ever made, was the only possible logical conclusion of a myriad of factors.

To drastically simplify my reasoning, I decided to write this because a) I want to be famous and critically acclaimed because of my low self-esteem and constant need for validation; b) I enjoy writing, particularly about myself; and c) I've come to notice that the more I play my PS2, the less I tend to achieve in general. There are many more underlying reasons, but what underlies every single one of them is intellectual reasoning on my part that this is what would make me happy.

It's important to clarify this point: I choose to do a lot of things that don't, under a narrow definition of the word, make me 'happy'. I do not, in any way, enjoy cleaning the bathroom. I do it because I don't want my housemates to get annoyed with me, because that would make me unhappy; and, perhaps, I get a small amount of pleasure from the idea of not standing in mould in the shower. I do other things simply because I perceive them to be my duty, and it makes me feel good to do things I'm supposed to. If I was religious, there'd be the carrot on the stick of eternal life. Even supposedly altruistic acts are only committed for people I like or, rarer, people who happen to be in my vicinity at the time, up to and including killing myself for a person or cause. In some contexts, I'd rather die for something than live in the knowledge that I chickened out. Everything I do, I do for a reason, and that reason is self-interest.

I don't really believe in altruism. I think I can do nice things for people, or society as a whole, in any number of ways. I can spend a year volunteering in Mozambique; I can donate half my savings to reputable charities; I can stop making sarcastic comments to my girlfriend. All of these things are helpful to other people, but not one provides obvious evidence of altruism. There are many reasons for being generous, but all of them are about personal fulfillment, or a desire to be part of something, or a way to contribute something meaningful, or the desire to be seen as a good person, or a way to alleviate Privileged Western Guilt. It'd always come back to me. Call that altruism if you like, but it's little more than a satisfying method of fulfilling self-interest, like going shopping or writing a poem, except with the added bonus of helping another person.

That's not to say that self-interest is something to be ashamed of. It's kind of universal, and extends to animals and single-celled organisms. The best thing to do is to accept it as a given and use it. Florence Nightingale and Martin Luther King Jr. were as self-interested as me or Colonel Gaddafi. This will probably bother some people concerned by the possibility that this logic can only result in sociopathy. I would counter by arguing that simply not accepting it doesn't make it not true, and obviously our dependency on social interaction means that most of us try not to alienate everybody by killing, raping and looting on a massive scale. You get people like Gaddafi in societal structures that allow people like Gaddafi to have absolute power.

If I've established that my choices are determined by my biology and upbringing, and that, within those limitations, I will always choose that which is in my perceived best interest (up to and including deliberately subverting that decision), then I've established that I carry no responsibility for my actions whatsoever. Whatever I do from here is an inevitable result of the way I am. Anyway, I can always say it seemed like a good idea at the time.

There are many scientific and academic fields devoted to the study of human existence. Psychology analyses our cognitive development; sociology, the relationship between human behaviour and societal structures; philosophy, questions of logic and metaphysics. All of these are complex, useful fields that have come up with a lot of interesting conclusions, and the study of any or all of these subjects is highly recommended.

Nevertheless, I have decided to pay little heed to the findings of any of these studies. I can't be bothered learning any of the terminology, and university courses usually sound a lot more enjoyable than they actually are. In any case, as a relatively self-aware 23 year old human being with eyes and a memory, I like to think I make a pretty good case study on my own. Sure, I'm not a blank slate – hell, I even took sociology for a couple of semesters and failed philosophy – but I'd say I have a fairly underwhelming academic understanding of such matters. On the most part, I can only write from experience and observation.

I can't, however, write about humanity in general. I can presume – under the general rule that all/most human beings need to eat, defecate and sleep and have similar brain structures – that many of my observations are relevant to most people, but I can't say that unequivocally. I don't know what it's like to be a boy growing up in a Gambian village or Sarah Palin. I'm not even terribly sure I know my mother all that well. All I know is that I know myself well enough – certainly better than anybody else – and I'm practically the only subject that I can write about with any semblance of authority.

It's quite likely that I'll come back to this in thirty years and feel terribly embarrassed by the whole thing; indeed, it's distinctly possible that by that time I'll be a National Party voting Christian monarchist with a subscription to Quadrant. As such, I think it's a pretty good idea that I write this now while I'm still young and arrogant and not spending my non-working hours tending to children or cheating on my wife whilst succumbing to my ever-expanding apathy about everything.

As a result of this sense of urgency – together with my (primarily lazy) decision not to do any relevant research or reference enlightening studies – I'm going to try to write in a mildly engaging manner so as to gloss over the fact that this has absolutely no chance of being peer-reviewed or taken seriously. I've noticed comedians get to say a lot of things to large audiences without any need for accountability or scientific reasoning. True, I'm not that funny, but that's never stopped most stand-up acts from pontificating about things.

As such, here are a few observations about myself that I've noticed over time. The conclusions I draw here are not supported by data or diagrams and cannot be validated by third parties. Nevertheless, this is more useful than an episode of The Brady Bunch, and some people still watch that. I don't think a laugh track really satisfies anybody in the long run.

This article was published in Esperanto on 20/10/2011.

Let's face it: our lives are boring. Sure, a small minority of us will go on to earn a living as musicians, film directors or hosts of Media Watch; sure, some of us might end up being famous for doing something really stupid; sure, some of us might end up starting an orgiastic sex cult that devolves into murder and cannibalism. Unfortunately, however, reality dictates that most of us will probably not achieve anything of the sort.

Rather, our futures point miserably towards office chairs and type 2 diabetes; emails and Christmas parties; worse, PR (and the accompanying loss of integrity and self-respect). Even the most initially 'challenging' jobs will seem depressingly repetitive after ten years; our home lives reduced to sexless, routine-inflicted dejection, set to a soundtrack of evening television. Through all this misery, just one precious, glimmering hope will remain: travel.

It's hard to know what makes travel so appealing to us. Is it the chance to interact with people from different cultures? That desire would seem a little variable, if our generosity towards asylum seekers is anything to go by. Is it the ability to see the Eiffel Tower? Sorry to break it to you, but it's a lot like it looks in the pictures. Is it the thrill of being in a plane for 24 hours? There's always the Melbourne to Sydney Tiger Airways flight.

And yet, it's all we talk about: New York. Paris. London. Tokyo. Cairo. If we're not saving to travel to some city or other, we're discussing anecdotes from past experiences. Remember the time we caught malaria in Phnom Penh and almost died? Ah yes, what fun. And the photos: endless Facebook albums full of location shots that we will never, ever look at again (except, perhaps, when we print them off and foist them upon unfortunate friends and relatives). The only thing more tedious than the photos you aren't in are the ones that you are in. Perhaps, some day, some wise traveller will impulsively throw his camera in the Sienne and not regret it at all.

Generally speaking, there's nothing inherently exotic about these places. For those who live there, they're undoubtedly as mundane as Melbourne is to us. We may well get to see larger metropolises, more spectacularly gorilla-infested jungles or more intensely soul-destroying holiday resorts, but in essence they're just backdrops for the standard walking, eating, fornicating or shopping. The bullet trains are fast and efficient, but you're just as likely to get mugged; the Himalayan ranges might look spectacular from the top of K2, but they probably look better at IMAX.

Some say it's eye-opening to experience a different way of life. It's amazing, however, to see how ardently we manage to avoid doing that. The ultimate destinations for many young Australians are countries like England, France and the U.S. — affluent Western destinations for affluent Westerners. Hipsters go to Berlin to hang out with hipsters. Obnoxious bogans go to Thai resorts to get drunk with other obnoxious bogans. Tourists stick to group tours. Familiarity is comfortable. Which is not to say that some travellers don't seek out the most exotic, strange and challenging destinations possible; but, even then, they're protected from the harsher realities of undeveloped nations. Western visitors to Malawi don't go without clean drinking water. Even in the midst of the most difficult experiences we subject ourselves to, there's always a bed waiting for us back home.

Travel means different things to different people. For many of us, its primary goal is being away from the mundanity of our regular lives. There's a Peanuts cartoon in which Charlie Brown proposes to Lucy that he'd like to get away from his surroundings. “See that plane up there?” he asks. “It's filled with people who are all going someplace. That's what I'd like to do: go off someplace and start a new life... maybe, when I got to this new place, the new people would like me better.” “Forget it,” she advises. “People are people, Charlie Brown.” Perhaps that's what travel offers us: a safe, limited period of escape in which we can feel refreshed, exotic, and, most of all, anonymous. With this experience, however, comes the comedown: we must, eventually, return home. And thus, a few months later (the anecdotes exhausted; the photos posted; the memories fading), we must once more confront the drudgery of our own city, comforted only by the prospect of the next trip.

Temperature is relative. 'Hot' and 'cold' are entirely subjective qualities. If the difference between our body temperature and that of another substance is severe, we get burned.

On a psychological level, child sexual abuse is somewhat analogous. We live in a society where the overarching stigma attached to sex has significant impact on our psychological response to sexual crimes, along with serious, rarely acknowledged consequences for the victims. 

Rape and other forms of sexual assault can be brutal and physically painful; it is important to realise that in some circumstances, they can be neutral or even pleasurable. Part of the grooming method of serial child sex offenders, for example, can be to make their victim complicit in their own abuse. This is not always the case: the 'rape' power initiative is a common motivation for many such acts; nevertheless, like most of us, many paedophiles prefer (perceived) mutual pleasure in sexual activity. This is why we have the concept of 'age of consent' (and corresponding existence of statutory rape in law): to prevent this kind of exploitation.

If, in some cases, victims can be willing or even active participants, the nature of the crime becomes more complex. This is where the 'burning' analogy becomes relevant: recipients of unforced sexual abuse are, by and large, purely psychological victims.

This is not to dismiss the damage involved; in fact, a case could be made that psychological sexual abuse carries far more long-term negative impacts than purely physical abuse ever could (taken in isolation of accompanying psychological impact). Trust, intimacy, self-esteem, and social as well as sexual functionality are often compromised by psychological abuse, and the degree to which this can occur can be devastating (with consequences ranging up to and including suicide).

This psychological damage is — as uncomfortable as it may be for us admit — entirely mediated by sociological circumstances. It is useful at this point for the reader to dispense with all preconceptions of natural and healthy behaviour, and temporarily take what might be described as a Descartean approach to these matters: that is, that we know nothing unequivocally, and thus, must assume nothing without sufficient proof. As elementary as it may seem to most rational people, we must ask ourselves: why is it this particular action, sexual contact with minors, that produces harmful consequences?

There are several obvious answers. Firstly, child sex abuse subverts the adult/child dynamic. The association of intimacy with sexual contact has profound consequences for current and future intimate relationships. Non-sexual intimacy is a crucial experience in childhood as well as adulthood; and, just as deprivation of this (particularly in formative stages) can lead to various emotional dysfunctions, the premature introduction of sexual contact into the realm of intimacy can have similarly negative effects. Likewise, it displaces the normal development of sexuality that occurs during puberty — it can be argued that prepubescent children are simply insufficiently intellectually formed to be able to cope with sexual interaction.

Although these are serious and substantial problems that carry far-ranging consequences (including, potentially, a sexual abuse domino effect; future distant parenting; and so on), they fail to, on their own, adequately explain the shame and guilt often felt by victims of sexual abuse — that which is the primary factor in resulting depression, self-harm, or suicide. 

This aspect is, essentially, a social construct. It is not hard-wired into us to have negative feelings about physically pleasurable or neutral experiences such as sexual activity (in cases where physical pain or discomfort are not involved); it is a learned response.

It could, perhaps, be argued that sexual guilt serves some positive purposes: to protect monogamy and the family unit, perhaps; and, even, in cases where normal suppression is absent, to prevent incestuous activity. Otherwise, it is a throwback to the sexual repression of religious societies, and, in 21st century Australia, this kind of guilt is still very much rife. In media, sex-related stories are particularly salacious, with news organisations catering to our voyeurism and fascination with sexual matters. In the less reputable organisations, even rape stories are presented with titillating headlines. Likewise, abnormal and perverse sexual behaviours are presented in a similar fashion.

It is not widely admitted, but much of media and wider social treatment of paedophilia focuses primarily on the abnormality of the offenders' sexual urges as opposed to the harm caused to victims. Much of the vilification leveled at pederasts carries uncomfortable similarities to the homophobic rhetoric of a recent era. What this seems to suggest is that a significant proportion of responses to paedophilia are at least infused with — if not primarily generated by — a culture of sexual discomfort and displacement of sexual shame onto 'perverts'. The fact that paedophilia causes such damage only serves to validate these responses in the minds of the majority.

The most obvious negative consequence of this tendency is that it stigmatises the victims, too. Sexual shame is a far, far bigger phenomenon than paedophile hysteria alone, but these responses (particularly when validated by the media) actively foster the guilt that, far too often, destroys victim's lives.

This is not to remove the responsibility from child sex offenders. Shame or no shame, child sex abuse causes significant, far-reaching problems. Although a program of treatment and open discourse would be far more useful and progressive than the current paradigm, it is imperative that child sex abuse is prevented in any way possible. It is important to realise, however, that there will always be victims. We cannot catch or treat every sex offender, and neither can the phenomenon be comprehensively erased from existence. What we can do, however, is alter the way sex as a whole is perceived and discussed in society. That, too, is crucial.

This article was published in Esperanto on 6th September 2011

Melbourne's a pretty cool place as cities go, but it can get dull after a while. There comes a time when one more picnic outside Captain Cook’s Cottage, the umpteenth gig on Brunswick Street and yet another visit to the Shot Tower Museum can all seem a miserable chore; a train trip to Lilydale just an exercise in pointless self-loathing. There, is, however, one light on the horizon that remains constant: the annual film festival.

The Melbourne International Film Festival (or MIFF, for people who like to pronounce their acronyms) is kind of like Christmas: it only happens once a year, there’s ice-cream, and lots of people enjoy it. In essence, it’s the one-event-on-the-cultural-calendar that makes the rest of the cultural calendar barely suitable for bottom wiping. There are lots of films, lots of them have subtitles and you can see as many as you like.  

You kind of either understand MIFF or you don’t. For the average moviegoer, the sight of Greater Union temporarily transformed into a Turkish bazaar must be fairly baffling; the concept of people queuing out into the street to see an obscure South Korean film completely inexplicable. It’s like opposite-land, where handfuls of Harry Potter fanboys slip shame-facedly into Cinema 3 whilst 500-odd people in cardigans discuss Béla Tarr's oeuvre in the foyer.

Of course, few could blame us for getting excited. Festivals aside, it’s not that easy to see good films at the cinema nowadays. Only Nova still carries something resembling the independent-movie-theatre torch; otherwise, Palace Brighton has  Glee: The Live Concert Experience (in 3D!), and Westgarth is nowadays less Valhalla than Infant Limbo. Sure, a few interesting things get put on over the course of the year, but a fair bulk of those are shown at the festival first anyway. Basically, MIFF is the place to be for any individual with insufferable-film-snob tendencies.

All that considered, it may seem somewhat ironic that the film everybody was looking forward to this year was Melancholia (a movie about the Earth getting smashed to bits by another planet). The likely explanation is that this was a film directed by Lars von Trier; a man who has — whilst inspiring cinephilic chin-scratching for almost three decades — single-handedly brought the art of trolling into the realm of the press conference. His latest amusing declaration (“I am a Nazi”, no less) kind of predictably got the underwear of the Paragons of Artistic Virtue at the Cannes Film Festival into a double-pirouette twist, resulting in his rather sanctimonious banning from the event. Thankfully, local film aficionados turned a blind eye to these shenanigans, and the film was completely sold out.

Although it had lots of good moments, most would agree the highlight of the screening occurred when my girlfriend arrived breathlessly five minutes in and proceeded to gratuitously change her outfit. Otherwise, the film was memorable for featuring the world’s most excruciatingly awful wedding, which thankfully culminated in everything being blown to smithereens.

Sadly, there was no such luck when it came to mildly unspeakable hipster comedy Tiny Furniture. Not only did the director play the lead role (like Woody Allen! But female!), the script seemed to be labouring under the misapprehension that there is anything interesting about people who post videos of themselves on YouTube. It made me wonder if DVD companies could consider adding a new special feature, in which, at any point of a really annoying film, Lars Von Trier’s planet could descend from outer space and obliterate everything. Just think about it: Sandra Bullock would become the world’s most prolific sci-fi short-film actor. Alas, the characters of this particular film were permitted to go about their self-indulgent, upper middle-class ways for 98 minutes without so much as being hit by a small piece of space debris.

Fortunately, most films at the festival were of more meritorious character. Attenberg featured strange Greek people making animal noises; Detroit Wild City was pornography for abandoned building lovers; and Czech collage-animated comedy Surviving Life had the best vomiting scene since Team America. 

Even better than these was Belgian drama The Kid with a Bike — a film in which an 11 year-old boy suffers (amongst other adversities) having his bicycle stolen about a hundred times, getting coldly rejected by his father, and being the unfortunate recipient of rocks being thrown in his direction. It’s more fun than it sounds, but there were nevertheless few dry-cheeked patrons in the stalls when the curtains closed.

Spanish movie Finisterrae was the clear candidate for the trying-to-be-really-weird-and-mostly-succeeding award, featuring people in sheets playing ghosts, amongst other hijinks. Korean film The Day He Arrives taught us the emotional dangers of being a narcissistic twat, and The Apple gave thorough lessons in how best to employ dubious methods as an Iranian social worker.

The films were mostly great, but some of the presentation verged a little towards ‘70s grindhouse. The indisputable debacle of the festival was the first screening of The Turin Horse, in which the Forum Theatre was plunged into an unworldly (and, mostly, unappreciated) light show during the last 20 minutes of the film. The fact that it was a really, really boring film wasn’t sufficient to placate the indignant ultra-arthouse audience, who launched an impromptu, enraged coup d’état upon the unfortunate festival volunteers’ pamphlet table. Although tempted by the prospect of an opportunistic refund, I left hurriedly to avoid being caught up in the fracas; unconfirmed reports after the event described looting, spilt chardonnay and trampled choc-tops. Needless to say, the second screening of the film a few nights later was, apparently, impeccable.

One potentially unfortunate trend in contemporary European art cinema is the widely-acknowledged agreement that music is, like, totally passé. The good thing about this is that viewers are spared the horrors of overbearing strings every time something vaguely emotive is happening on screen. The bad thing is that the resulting tranquility tends to plunge the buyer of edible refreshments into a veritable purgatory of shame and uncertainty.

In this case, I had nobody else to blame. As soon I had conned my begrudging viewing partner into buying me a choc-top at the Austrian Paedophile Movie, I knew that I had made a fatal error of judgement. Not only did it occur to me that this was the same gentleman who had viciously ranted against cinematic mastication mere days ago; my guilt was further compounded by the fact that my request caused him to miss the opening minute. I sat there, looking forlornly at my tasty, crisp choc-top, and wept inwardly as scene by scene dragged by of meditative stillness. After 30 minutes, I had managed to steal a few chomps here or there during traffic scenes, but it all eventually proved too much. I loudly, slatheringly devoured the now-melting ice-cream, ignorant to the looks of consternation I was undoubtedly receiving; hungry only for the few remaining drops of sweetness that hadn’t yet settled inextricably on my t-shirt. It was horrific, but satisfying. My situation thus resolved, I was able to sit back and try to figure out why I had ever thought a film about a man keeping a child locked in a basement would be a good choice.

My tribulations continued the next day with the questionable decision to see three films in a row. With the cruel jibes of my usually supportive girlfriend ringing in my ears (adamant that I would lack the sufficient mettle to endure the ordeal), I steeled myself for an afternoon of willful self-destruction.

Truth be told, the act of seeing three films in a row is little more than a brisk stroll for the more seasoned festivalgoers. Some diehards (claim to) have seen as many as seven films a day during their more impressionable youths, and such behaviour is not actually that unusual. For some, the act of seeing huge quantities of movies in a seventeen day period seems to be some kind of dubious pissing contest (in which the distance is the number of movies seen, and the urine is within their skulls). I won’t deny that, if I didn’t have other things to do with my time — like, say, work, eat or go to university — it might be tempting to spend whole days in the cinema. But something within me protests that that’s not how to watch films. Most of us would not (and for those who have seen Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life, I apologise for any memories triggered) go to an expensive eatery with the sole intention of consuming everything on the menu. Cinema, I would argue, ought to be treated with similar respect; thus, I consider my ten-film-mini-pass-with-a-few-extras-here-or-there to be the equivalent of a good, three-course meal at a fancy restaurant with dessert and a satisfyingly plump feeling. In contrast, I can only grimace in sympathy at — if you’ll excuse the mental image — the poor gluttons throwing up in the gutter outside the Forum.

After 17 days and 300-and-something films, the festival drew to a close; the cinephilic hordes vanishing back to their shadowy lairs and impressive DVD (and/or entirely legal download) collections. Greater Union was returned to the likes of Captain America, Friends with Benefits and Rise of the Planet of the Apes; ACMI and Kino reverted to their usual intermittent foot traffic; and Forum Theatre went back to doing whatever it is that it actually does for the other 11 ½ months of the year. For those of us who were there, MIFF was a time for panicked sprinting between sessions, laughter at the wrong moments, and obnoxious complaining about trivialities; in short, the sort of things Melbournians like to do most. I’m already looking forward to the next one.

Reading through my girlfriend's blog is a strange experience. It's mostly in Russian, so I have to keep Google Translate open in another tab, and the resulting translation comes through in fairly broken English. Some of the translations are obscure, but I usually end up getting the gist of what she was writing about and the feelings that she was trying to convey. Funnily enough, even through this blurred medium, I can tell that she is an eloquent, elegant writer.

I always find this an emotional experience. Why? Why do I love her like this from a distance, through poorly translated blog posts? And yet, it's here where my love for her feels purest. I want to read everything she's ever written; devour it; pore over it; discover the ups and downs of her life over the ten years she has kept this blog. I go back, back to when she met me, back to before she met me; a year before, two years, three; in some ways a different person to the woman I know, but in some ways an earlier, inner layer of what she is now.

It's not entirely coincidental that the one album that I have truly loved this year is Neutral Milk Hotel's In the Aeroplane over the Sea. The lyrical concept of that album revolves around the singer's youthful love affair with Anne Frank through reading her diary. There is something about that yearning for something impossible, wanting to connect to this person who died so many years before, longing for an idealised teenage love affair, that gives me a real connection to obtusely beautiful song lyrics like these:

Daddy, please, hear this song that I sing
In your heart there's a spark that just screams
For a lover to bring
A child to your chest that could lay as you sleep
And love all you have left like your boy used to be
Long ago wrapped in sheets warm and wet

And so on: memory; messy, wet adolescent sexuality; dreams; nightmares; obsession.

I've spent the last two hours reading my girlfriend's blog, whilst listening to the few Neutral Milk Hotel songs that I can find on Youtube; yet, it only struck me as I started to write this post that the two things are related. This concept of desire through writing is common to both - it strikes me that I am experiencing something akin to what is being described in these lyrics.

And then, I feel so small, so stupid for all the petty arguments, sulking, weeping, jealousies, fumbling sexual mishaps that mar our relationship. Why can't I give her one tenth of the tenderness I feel for her now? Why can't I help her escape her cage of no work, no art, no direction? I worry that I make it worse, that I shut her off from her friends; that I have trapped her -

But it is no use idealising. Yes, she is beautiful, and melancholy, and wise; but human beings are not deities or constantly kind, gentle or thoughtful. We are all flawed, prone to miscommunication and capable of hurting and being hurt. And I say all that without a trace of misanthropy. If we can love at all we must love what is, not hold ourselves or others up to some unreachable, unfair standard. That is cruel, and that breeds misery. Instead, I must love the way I can love, and love myself and love her and love all the people I can connect with as they are; as human beings.

Another thing that I felt powerfully whilst reading her blog was how much I wanted to write like that myself. And I realised that I haven't written like that for a long time. My first blog fell dormant years ago, and all other blogs have emerged as portfolios for essays, poetry or film criticism. There is nothing personal, or intimate. I keep everything I feel inside me, and if it doesn't come out in conversation, it lies dormant or ends up forgotten. Tonight, at least, that seems a tragedy to me. I must learn how to write again.