Still the lucky country

Julianne Schultz introduces a special report on Australia - a nation anxious to recover its old conf

On the April morning I was due to start the punishing journey back to Australia, I woke with a minor ailment, one quickly cured with antibiotics. "Don't put yourself under pressure waiting here," the hotel concierge advised. "See a doctor and get a prescription when you get to Heathrow."

This sounded sensible. Airports these days are towns, where you can shop and eat and drink. But not, I soon discovered, see a doctor - at least at the world's busiest airport.

"There are doctors at Australian airports. Even third world airports have medical centres," I fumed later to the steward.

"Yes, that's one of the reasons I want to leave this country," he said. "It doesn't work any more. My wife and I want to migrate to Australia, but we haven't got family there, enough points to get in or a spare A$100,000 to invest."

The price of entry to Australia has risen over the past 220 years. Once a dumping ground for criminals and ne'er-do-wells, it became home in the decades after the Second World War to nearly seven million immigrants, many of them "ten-pound Poms" wanting to start over in a sunny new country with a promising future. Tens of thousands still want to go. Last year more than 130,000 migrants arrived, a fifth of them from Britain. Australian cafes, shops, offices and hospitals are filled with British backpackers working their way around the country, undeterred by gruesome tales of murder in remote locations. But the traffic is not all one-way. More than a million Australians - one in 20 - live abroad, at least 300,000 of them in Britain.

The force field connecting the two countries is magnetic - it both attracts and repels. The pull of the cosmopolitan centre, for those living in a country that the former prime minister Paul Keating once described as the "arse-end of the earth", is nothing new. It has operated since settlement.

Yet the scale of the current Australian diaspora is unprecedented, drawing happy-go-lucky youngsters, the best and brightest graduates, high achievers and retirees seeking new challenges. Researchers find only a tenuous link between the political climate and emigration, but undoubtedly many have left disappointed by the direction the country has taken since 1996. Intercontinental moves need a push to amplify the pull.

Over the past decade under John Howard's leadership, Aus tralia has become a much more cynical, unimaginative and materialistic place. Gone is the sense of crafting a unique environment, characterised by cultural diversity, openness, inclusiveness, Aboriginal reconciliation and a creative yet pragmatic approach to policymaking. The spirit captured by the Sydney Olympics and beamed to the world in 2000 has dissipated. That outward-looking, self-confident Australia has become defensive, socially and culturally divided and domestically complacent. It still works better than most places, but it is no longer a demonstration project on the future.

Instead, Australians have jettisoned much of their carefree larrikinism and learned to be fearful, seeking solace in perfectly appointed homes bursting with appliances.

Lost confidence

The country has grown fat on China's insatiable appetite for minerals and energy, repaid in ever-cheaper consumer goods purchased with ballooning credit cards and mortgage redraws. The wealth generated by the long-running boom - the quantum of tax revenue is unprecedented, and even the treasury regularly revises its projections upwards - has not been directed into renewing social or economic infrastructure, or building social, educational and cultural capital. It has not been evenly distributed, although almost everyone is better off. As in most countries that have adopted a neoliberal economic agenda, the rich have got richer than they could have imagined, but more than a million households still live in relative poverty. And as interest rates and petrol prices rise, so do the numbers in financial stress.

After an unimpressive first two terms, the post-2001 world suited Howard. He is not afraid of being divisive: indeed, he has made an art of targeting those he casts as "elites" in a series of culture wars aimed at imposing his narrowly nationalistic view of what it means to be Australian. He has learned how to appear empathetic when necessary.

Despite widespread opposition, Howard has pulled Australia into ever closer lockstep with George W Bush's America since 11 September 2001, when by mischance he was in Washington, DC, not far from the Pentagon, as one of al-Qaeda's piloted planes crashed into it. Australia's membership in 2003 of the "coalition of the willing" was trenchantly opposed with large rallies and widespread activism. Yet, when the troops departed for the Gulf, the opposition appeared to fade away, in part because the involvement, though costly, is only a notch above the symbolic. As other countries have withdrawn troops, Australia has maintained its small commitment of about 1,500 troops in the region, most engaged in training, logistics and support in southern Iraq. Only one Australian soldier, Jacob Kovco, has died: a result of "skylarking" on the base, not enemy fire.

In consequence, Iraq does not generate the same passion in Australia as in Britain or America. Australians are accustomed to deal with great and powerful allies, and prepared to accommodate them so long as the cost is not too high, the action not too close to home and the benefits tangible - a pragmatic, if unattractive national trait.

The cynicism that marks this engagement has been repeated time and again during the past decade, in immigration, Aboriginal affairs, foreign relations, security, climate change and education. Mapped on a flow chart, the pattern would be boxed as denial, followed by distraction and finally belated action. As this year's election approaches, we have moved to the belated action frame, with (uncosted) initiatives announced daily on education, Aboriginal affairs, climate change, broadband and health. While this cynical style has enabled many to feel "relaxed and comfortable" - Howard's stated ambition - it has had a corrosive impact on the character and confidence of the nation, sapping initiative, stifling creativity and undermining public engagement.

Immigration is a good example. Successful management of mass immigration has been central to the creation of the ethos of contemporary Australia, once at the international forefront with policies that integrated new arrivals while respecting cultural and religious differences. This was built into every facet of public life, from language classes and anti-discrimination laws to a dedicated national television network with an explicitly multicultural mission. Its success could be measured in many ways, the most tangible being very high rates of intermarriage between people of different backgrounds.

A new spirit

Howard was never comfortable with multiculturalism, a concept he had branded "politically correct", and once elected he set about dismantling the mechanisms that ensured - until December 2005, when thousands of drunken "Aussies" fought equal numbers of louts "of Middle Eastern appearance" at Sydney's Cronulla Beach - that Australia stayed free of ethnic violence. In January 2007, Howard signalled it was dead when he renamed the Department of Immigration and Multicultural Affairs the Department of Immigration and Citizenship and started drafting multiple-choice questions to test would-be citizens' understanding of Australian values.

Yet immigration has been at record levels for five years. Typically of the bait-and-switch trick that has characterised Howard's premiership, the very real impact of this increase has been deflected by public focus on the plight of some refugees. Howard has made political hay for years by sowing the seeds of social distrust and then declaring, like the authoritarian father he often resembles: "We will decide who comes into this country" - and then suggesting a judgement based on ethnic characteristics.

But the mood of the country is changing, as shown by the strong public reaction that forced the release late last month of Dr Mohamed Haneef, after he was wrongly charged with recklessly supporting terrorism. Every week, polls provide evidence of less support for the government, a trend that has left many mystified. Never before when the economy has boomed has the electorate been so ungrateful. "It is as if they are no longer listening," senior ministers say. It is clear most people are no longer convinced that "father knows best". Instead, according to internal Liberal Party polling, they consider the 68-year-old premier an "old, tricky and dishonest" liability.

Polls now show that, beneath the complacency fostered by strong economic growth, dissatisfaction is real, and not confined to core Labor supporters. Some of the prime minister's most strident critics are former leaders of the Liberal Party, affronted by the reactionary insularity that has been encouraged by his willingness to foster an "us and them" mentality, targeting Muslims and refusing to apologise for past injustices to Aboriginal people or, most recently, to Dr Mohamed Haneef for his "crime" of association.

Just as British Labour learned how to develop and implement an inclusive modernisation agenda from the Hawke-Keating years, John Howard learned from Margaret Thatcher, his political heroine. A photo of them together is on proud display in each of his offices. Howard mastered the code words that ensured sufficient numbers responded "quickly, effortlessly, automatically and emotionally" to his agenda. He skilfully pitched his message to a media that had been bullied and wooed and used his favourite medium - talk-back radio - to reach lower middle-class and working-class "battlers" whom he rewarded with a complex system of family income support, noisy nationalism and force-fed fear. In this he became the "stealth bomber of libertarian politics".

The competing visions at the heart of the Australian story were categorised by the historian Manning Clark as the battle between the "enlargers" and the "punishers and straiteners". The past decade has not belonged to the enlargers.

In 1964, the writer and academic Donald Horne sought to jolt the complacency of another era when punishers and straiteners prevailed. He famously described Australia as "a lucky country run mainly by second-rate people who share its luck". There is still a lot of luck in the country; there are fewer second-rate people; things work and life is good. But the spark of creativity and flair has not burned brightly for a long time.

Even if the polls are wrong and Labor does not win the 16 seats it needs to form a government later this year, a new spirit is budding. It promises to displace the fearful cynicism that has prevailed and pushed many people abroad. Over the past year more than 300,000 people have flocked to see Keating: the Musical, a witty, high-camp political cabaret that celebrates Paul Keating's bold vision, his flamboyant language and personal style.

It's a sure bet that in 2017 Howard: the Musical will not be the sell-out show of the year.

Julianne Schultz is editor of The Griffith Review

This article first appeared in the 20 August 2007 issue of the New Statesman, The most important protest of our time

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An English tragedy: how Boris, Dave and Brexit were formed by Eton college

It's said that the Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton. Was Britain's relationship with Europe wrecked there?

The brief window in which it was cool to be an Etonian has closed. That period was marked not just by Etonian success and visibility – in politics, on the stage, in the media, even on the balcony of Buckingham Palace – but also by a new-found unabashedness in expressing pride at having attended King Henry VI’s Thames-side ­college, founded for 70 poor scholars in 1440. David Cameron summed it up when he said he was “not embarrassed” that he had gone to “a fantastic school . . . because I had a great education and I know what a great education means”.

All this was quite strange and ­perturbing to me, as an alumnus of an older era, the 1970s, when being an Etonian seemed decidedly uncool. When asked which school we had attended, my contemporaries and I muttered that we had been to a comprehensive near Slough. It was perturbing because I always had my doubts about Etonian confidence, or arrogance.

The closing of this window can be dated precisely to the early hours of the morning of 24 June. At that moment, it became clear that David Cameron had taken an insouciant, arrogant and disastrous gamble, in the interests of maintaining Conservative Party unity, by calling an unnecessary referendum on Britain’s membership of the European Union that he believed he was sure to
win. The window closed even more tightly a week later, when Boris Johnson, having helped to lead the Leave campaign, suddenly declared that he was no longer standing for the Tory leadership – the glittering prize for which he had apparently abandoned his principles and betrayed his friends.

If the Battle of Waterloo had been won on the playing fields of Eton, it now appeared that Britain’s relationship with Europe, and even its continued integrity as a nation, had been wrecked there. It was no surprise that there should be a turning against Eton, with gleeful opinion pieces from the left-leaning commentariat mocking everything from Tom Hiddleston’s backside to the commitment to public service of one of our ablest MPs, Jesse Norman.

I find this reaction as shallow as the ­excessive pride that preceded it. Maybe that is not surprising, as I both love and feel dissatisfied, even disappointed, by the school where I spent five years of my boyhood and then two and a half years teaching English literature as a young adult. The feeling of let-down is more than personal. Eton has something to answer for, at a national level. A few years ago, I wrote these words: “I’ve often wondered whether this famous Eton confidence could be skin-deep: certainly people such as Boris Johnson and David Cameron do not lack chutzpah, but the confidence to believe you deserve the high position does not necessarily mean you possess the other talents – humility, for instance, and the ability to listen to others – needed to honour it.” Now the 11 Eton pupils who managed to secure an interview with Vladimir Putin have trumped even Cameron and Johnson
in the chutzpah department, but not necessarily added lustre to their alma mater.

I had a chance to reassess the ambivalence I feel about Eton, and to reflect on the role that this ancient and eccentric place has played in our national crisis, when I attended a reunion at my old school just three days after the dark night of 23 June.

This was not a reunion of old boys but a celebration of the 50th anniversary of the Eton English department, an institution for which I feel affection and profound gratitude. As a boy, I was inspired not only to read voraciously and widely – the novels of Thomas Hardy, Henry James, Dickens, William Faulkner; the poetry of Coleridge, Wordsworth, Emily Dickinson, T S Eliot, Charles Causley, Louis MacNeice, Henry Vaughan; Shakespeare at his most intense – but also to analyse, think and feel simultaneously. Alan Paton’s Cry, the Beloved Country and Dickens’s Hard Times opened my eyes to conditions as far from my comfortable Home Counties upbringing as you could imagine, to the realities of racial segregation and working-class ­deprivation; opened my heart, too, I hope.
I was being challenged to reflect on my privilege, even be discomfited by it – not just blindly perpetuate it.

For those reasons, I was honoured to be invited back to teach, initially for just a year, in the department that had given me so much mind-and-soul nourishment. I was not the most confident or organised of teachers, but pupils I bumped into years later said they had enjoyed and gained something from classes in which discipline was not always the tightest. A debate I set up to discuss the miners’ strike turned into a riot. Above all, I enjoyed directing motivated and talented boys in productions of Journey’s End and Death of a Salesman which moved audiences.

***

Inspiration, warmth and a streak of anarchy are, perhaps, not the qualities you associate with Eton. But they were present in the English department, which started as a sort of anti-establishment challenge to the hegemony of classics. Angus Graham-Campbell, my laconic head of department, summed up the department’s signature virtues as scholarship, exuberance and irreverence.

The English department was not exactly typical of Eton as a whole. It was, I suppose, the haven for sensitive and artistic souls, for subversives and mavericks. Eton had other, for me less attractive, sides. I particularly disliked Pop, the self-elected club of prefects who strutted their stuff and lorded it over underlings in brightly embroidered waistcoats – the club to which Boris Johnson (but not David Cameron) belonged. This was more Game of Thrones than “The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock”.

Eton, above all, was intensely male, intensely hierarchical and intensely competitive. Like Boris, I was a King’s Scholar; successors of the original 70 poor scholars, we lived apart from other Etonians in ancient quarters close to the 15th-century chapel, wore gowns and competed more for academic honours than for social kudos. Like Boris, I won the Newcastle Scholarship in classics and divinity, a strange 19th-century leftover that involved composing verses in Greek iambics, reading the Gospel of Matthew and the Acts of the Apostles in Greek and answering a paper on the doctrine of the Atonement – all in the term before A-levels.

I was proud of my academic achievements. But having had a chance to reflect on the Etonian male culture of competition from the outside, and then seeing it from a different angle when I went back to teach there, I began to doubt how healthy it was. I realised that coming top of the form and winning prizes had mattered far too much to me. It had even affected my choice of A-levels; I was good at classics and felt fairly confident of being the biggest fish in that smallish pond, rather than swimming in the broader waters of history and modern languages. Surely what mattered was finding yourself, your passion and your vocation?

I was artistically minded and Eton provided wonderful opportunities in drama (the groundwork was being laid for the flowering of acting talent we have seen recently) and music; but “creative writing” and painting, encouraged up to the age of 14, were suddenly put away as childish things when you reached adolescence (this, mind you, is not unique to Eton). From the age of 15, I never even considered choosing to go to music, art or drama school rather than taking the well-worn path to an Oxbridge scholarship. Achieving that seemed to be the pinnacle of Etonian success, and the only thing my worldly housemaster ever cared about.

Certainly no one talked much about happiness or emotional health. Eton’s pastoral care seemed close to non-existent. I kept my unhappiness to myself, with unhelpful consequences. For four of my contemporaries in college, who committed suicide in their late teens or twenties, the consequen­ces were more dire.

This may be sounding too much like a personal lament, or a reprise of Cyril Connolly’s theory of permanent adolescence in Enemies of Promise. I found my way eventually to what I wanted to be and do (it involved a lot of psychotherapy and a wonderfully liberating year in Barcelona). But I think my criticisms of Eton have a bearing on our national tragedy.

The atmosphere at the Eton English department celebration a few weeks ago did not lack the appropriate exuberance and irreverence, and the setting in the provost’s garden, surrounded with sculptures by Rodin, Jacob Epstein and Henry Moore, was exquisitely beautiful. Yet I could not help sensing the unquiet ghosts of Dave and Boris stalking the corridors behind us. I imagined them locked in an immature male rivalry that has ended up inflicting incalculable damage on a nation. Now Dave has decided to quit the political stage, leaving rather little in the way of legacy behind him.

Perhaps Boris, the King’s Scholar, could not forgive Dave for winning the ultimate prize. However, in taking revenge, he found himself hoist with his own petard, before somehow managing to emerge with a lesser prize, which some see as a ­poisoned chalice.

It all made me think of that supremely pointless sport, the Eton wall game. I played once or twice before giving up, repelled by the sheer unpleasantness of being ground into either brick or mud, and the tedium of a game in which the last goal had been scored in 1909. As a Colleger, though, I supported our team of brainboxes, drawn from the 70 scholars to play against the brawn of the Oppidans (the rest of the school, 1,200 of them). No doubting that it was antler-to-antler stuff, or like the contests of male musk oxen that knock each other senseless.

Eton remains archaic in its attitude towards women. It is still a boys-only boarding school (though a small number of girls, mainly the daughters of teachers, have been pupils there), and the staff are overwhelmingly male. Being largely cut off from women and girls for much of your boyhood and adolescence does not seem to me an ideal recipe for emotional health, or for regarding women as equals.

The school that has educated 19 prime ministers may provide a brilliant academic education and countless other opportunities, but it can leave its pupils emotionally floundering behind a façade of polish and charm. The effects of that emotional impoverishment can be far-reaching indeed. I am encouraged that the new headmaster, Simon Henderson, has signalled a change of tone at Eton, with more stress on “emotional intelligence” and “mental health”. That change is long overdue.

Harry Eyres is the author of “Horace and Me: Life Lessons from an Ancient Poet”, published by Bloomsbury

This article first appeared in the 15 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The fall of the golden generation