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Elizabeth Strout’s novels honour unrecorded lives: ordinary people marked by quiet resilience and daily grace. And when we reflect on these unrecorded lives, we find a kind of everyday heroism, with echoes of Lucy Barton’s question: what is the point of a life?
Faith, once a quiet undercurrent in Australian elections, is now entangled in questions of ethnic identity, foreign policy and cultural grievance. Religion has returned to the centre of political life, only to find itself more divided, and more contested, than ever before.
As we witness those wars that continue to rage, we might wonder, this Anzac Day, what were the effects on our First Nations people when their lands were first taken? We can now see only too clearly that it is difficult, if not impossible in the longer term, to defend one’s land when the invader has more powerful resources and shows no intention of negotiating peace.
As Australia moves through another federal election campaign, a quarter of a million new voters in the nation’s outer suburbs remain largely invisible in political discourse. These are not marginal communities in the cultural or economic sense; they are the nation’s most dynamic zones of growth, diversity, and aspiration.
By any measure of moral progress, a society should be judged by how it treats those who are most vulnerable. Yet in Australia, people with disabilities continue to be treated not as citizens with equal standing, but as problems to be managed; an inconvenience to be contained within a labyrinth of bureaucratic delay and economic rationalisation.
A cultural flashpoint disguised as a television drama, the four-part epic turns a teenage murder accusation into both high art and a bracing reckoning with sex, violence, and the internet’s moral void.
A growing number of female teachers in Australia are leaving the profession, citing daily sexual harassment from their own students. Fuelled by pornography and social media, the misconduct ranges from crude comments to deepfake abuse, raising urgent questions about safety, consent, and the culture festering inside today’s classrooms.
In cities that pride themselves on liveability, a quiet war is being waged against the homeless with urban design and tough bylaws. What appears as civic order is, in truth, a hardening of public conscience, where compassion gives way to concealment, and suffering is swept from view.
Immunisation has protected communities for centuries, from early smallpox prevention in 200 BC to the eradication of deadly diseases. Yet today, vaccine confidence is slipping. Misinformation, social media, and shifting parental anxieties are fuelling a quiet backlash, raising urgent questions about trust and public health in a changing world.
Covid offered a rare chance to reimagine the role of the state. What might have become a pivot to care and collective responsibility became a bonanza for entrenched interests. The crisis passed. Inequality returned. And the deeper reckoning that beckoned was quietly deferred, perhaps indefinitely.
When Cyclone Alfred swept through Queensland, the damage was swift, but its most enduring effects are harder to see. As the clean-up began, a quieter crisis emerged: disrupted care, rising health risks, and a fragile health system ill-equipped to cope.
As campus protests grow increasingly disruptive, universities face an uncomfortable choice: uphold students’ right to protest or ensure their safety and right to education. The debate over free speech and campus security has never been more urgent.
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