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Cancer diagnosis can be devastating, but for some it gives permission to live more radically

<a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/kevin-dew-577291">Kevin Dew</a>, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/te-herenga-waka-victoria-university-of-wellington-1200">Te Herenga Waka — Victoria University of Wellington</a>; <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/alex-broom-121063">Alex Broom</a>, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/university-of-sydney-841">University of Sydney</a>; <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/chris-cunningham-1534054">Chris Cunningham</a>, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/te-kunenga-ki-purehuroa-massey-university-806">Te Kunenga ki Pūrehuroa – Massey University</a>; <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/elizabeth-dennett-1532423">Elizabeth Dennett</a>, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/university-of-otago-1304">University of Otago</a>; <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/kerry-chamberlain-103714">Kerry Chamberlain</a>, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/te-kunenga-ki-purehuroa-massey-university-806">Te Kunenga ki Pūrehuroa – Massey University</a>, and <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/richard-egan-400188">Richard Egan</a>, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/university-of-otago-1304">University of Otago</a> A diagnosis of life-limiting cancer can be overwhelming and cause feelings of panic and anxiety. But for some people, it provides a license to live life differently, including quitting toxic jobs and becoming more adventurous. In our <a href="https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/1467-9566.13797">recently published research</a>, we sought to understand the impact of a cancer diagnosis and subsequent experiences for cancer survivors. We talked with 81 New Zealanders (23 Māori and 58 non-Māori) who had lived longer than expected with a life-limiting or terminal diagnosis of cancer (four to 32 years since first diagnosis), and 25 people who were identified as their supporters. We found there are vastly different ways in which people experience and respond to a cancer diagnosis, but for some it’s a prompt to make significant changes. Of the 81 participants, 26 expressed the view, unsolicited, that cancer had some positive impact on their lives – without downplaying the negative impacts it could have as well. <h2>A licence to change</h2> Being told you only have limited time left to live can undoubtedly be a shock. But it can lead to profound change. It’s not uncommon for people who receive a serious diagnosis to draw up a “<a href="https://theconversation.com/paris-in-spring-bali-in-winter-how-bucket-lists-help-cancer-patients-handle-life-and-death-225682">bucket list</a>”. Some people in our study took the opportunity to travel or move to a new home. For others, the diagnosis provided a chance to rethink their lives and make more significant changes to the way they lived. They decided to be culturally more adventurous and to take up new skills. Many of these people quit their jobs or changed to jobs that suited them better. Many changed their relationships with the people around them. One talked about showing more affection for his children, another was kinder and stopped fretting over small things. Some decided to be more selective and no longer be around people who were negative. Others took up new hobbies or crafts which they felt were healing. For one person, the cancer diagnosis provided the impetus to look at things and people differently, which they thought would not have happened otherwise. Individuals could also undergo a transformation to become what they felt they were meant to be in life. One person, given two months to live, embraced rongoā (Māori traditional healing), including its spiritual side. They now love their “journey” and feel this was what they were “supposed to do”. For many, a diagnosis of cancer gave them license to be different people and to resist conforming to social norms, including having a job, being thrifty or not taking risks. <h2>Disrupting diagnoses</h2> One person, given only months to live, moved out of her flat, gave away her possessions, quit her job that she described was toxic, and returned home to say goodbye to her family. Most importantly for her, she worked on experiencing “joy” – after receiving the diagnosis, she realised she had lost it. But she continues to live many years later. After a while, she had to find a new flat, get a new job and the recovery of her joy was challenged: <blockquote> I had to start working again. And, of course, with working again, joy goes down, time goes down, rest goes down, spirituality goes down. </blockquote> But not everyone has the opportunity to change. Some peoples’ lives were limited because of the physical effects of the cancer, its treatment, or because of their personal, social or financial resources. Some go to great lengths to ensure their lives change as little as possible after diagnosis to maintain a sense of normality. <h2>Why we need to know</h2> Given the fear a cancer diagnosis can elicit, it is important to see there are different ways of responding. It is also worth knowing there are people who live longer than expected. Many people in our study were given just months to live, but one woman was still alive 12 years after being told she had a year left. Beyond that, this research documents how the disruption produced by a cancer diagnosis can prompt people to breach social norms. Where people have the capacity and resources to change, those around them and their health professionals can support them in taking opportunities to live life differently. We heard people say they think of their cancer as a friend or an amazing opportunity. Some even felt thankful. The possibility of cancer providing opportunities for some in no way diminishes the grief or a sense of loss, fear and anxiety that can accompany such diagnoses. Our research supports a reframing of cancer narratives, to consider ways of tempering the negative impacts of a diagnosis – while remaining cognisant of the struggle that can follow such news, and the variability in people’s capacity to engage with that struggle.<img style="border: none !important; box-shadow: none !important; margin: 0 !important; max-height: 1px !important; max-width: 1px !important; min-height: 1px !important; min-width: 1px !important; opacity: 0 !important; outline: none !important; padding: 0 !important;" src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/233782/count.gif?distributor=republish-lightbox-basic" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" /> <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/kevin-dew-577291">Kevin Dew</a>, Professor of Sociology, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/te-herenga-waka-victoria-university-of-wellington-1200">Te Herenga Waka — Victoria University of Wellington</a>; <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/alex-broom-121063">Alex Broom</a>, Professor of Sociology & Director, Sydney Centre for Healthy Societies, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/university-of-sydney-841">University of Sydney</a>; <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/chris-cunningham-1534054">Chris Cunningham</a>, Professor of Maori & Public Health, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/te-kunenga-ki-purehuroa-massey-university-806">Te Kunenga ki Pūrehuroa – Massey University</a>; <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/elizabeth-dennett-1532423">Elizabeth Dennett</a>, Associate Professor in Surgery, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/university-of-otago-1304">University of Otago</a>; <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/kerry-chamberlain-103714">Kerry Chamberlain</a>, Professor of Social and Health Psychology, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/te-kunenga-ki-purehuroa-massey-university-806">Te Kunenga ki Pūrehuroa – Massey University</a>, and <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/richard-egan-400188">Richard Egan</a>, Associate Professor in Health Promotion, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/university-of-otago-1304">University of Otago</a> Image credits: Shutterstock This article is republished from <a href="https://theconversation.com">The Conversation</a> under a Creative Commons license. Read the <a href="https://theconversation.com/cancer-diagnosis-can-be-devastating-but-for-some-it-gives-permission-to-live-more-radically-233782">original article</a>.

Body

From radical to reactionary: the achievements and legacy of the influential artist John Olsen

After media outlets breathlessly described the late John Olsen as a “<a href="https://fb.watch/jSdCoR-2GN/">genius</a>”, I found myself humming The Chasers’ <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dXHleozgQ18">Eulogy Song</a>. This is perhaps a bit unfair, but the hyperbole surrounding Olsen’s death seems to have crowded out any assessment of his real and lasting achievements as an artist. There is a danger here. Hyperbole invites a reaction, which is not always kind. It is still hard to have a dispassionate discussion on the merits (and otherwise) of <a href="https://www.smh.com.au/national/nsw/from-the-archives-1969-norman-lindsay-dies-20191112-p539sa.html">Norman Lindsay</a>, an artist often called a genius in his lifetime. <h2>John Olsen and Australian art</h2> To understand Olsen, and his importance to Australian art, it is important to give some context. He emerged from that generation of Australians whose childhood was coloured by the deprivations of the second world war, and whose adolescent experience was of an expanding, changing Australia. War meant that he finished school as a boarder at St Josephs Hunters Hill, while his father fought in the Middle East and New Guinea and his mother and sister moved to Yass in rural New South Wales. His ability to draw meant that he escaped the tedium of a clerical job by becoming a freelance cartoonist while moving between a number of different art schools, including Julian Ashtons, Dattilo Rubio, East Sydney Tech and <a href="https://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/orban-desiderius-dezso-14658">Desiderius Orban</a>’s studio. As with other young artists of his generation, he was especially influenced by the experimental approach and intellectual rigour of <a href="https://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/passmore-john-richard-15023">John Passmore</a>. He found visual stimulation in <a href="https://www.carlplate.com/">Carl Plate</a>’s Notanda Gallery in Rowe Street, a rare source of information on modern art at the time. Rowe Street was the creative hub for many artists, writers and serious drinkers who later became known as “The Push”. The informal exposure to new ideas on art, literature, food, wine and great conversation was more effective than a university. He learned about Kandinsky, Klee, the beauty of a wandering line, the poetry of Dylan Thomas and T.S. Eliot. Olsen’s first media exposure was as the spokesman for art students protesting at the rigid conservatism of the trustees judging the <a href="https://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/18514782?searchTerm=John%20Olsen%20art%20student%20National%20Art%20Gallery">Archibald Prize</a>. There were no complaints about the Wynne Prize, which had exhibited his work. <h2>The ‘first’ Australian exhibition of Abstract Expressionism</h2> The friendship between Olsen and fellow artists William Rose, Robert Klippel, Eric Smith and their mentor John Passmore, led to the exhibition <a href="https://www.artgallery.nsw.gov.au/collection/works/ARC409.1.147/">Direction 1</a> in December 1956. An art critic’s over enthusiasm led to it being proclaimed as the first Australian exhibition of Abstract Expressionism, and its artists as pioneers of modern art. As a consequence, Robert Shaw, a private collector, paid for Olsen to travel and study in Europe. This was a transformational gift, coming at a time before Australia Council Grants, when travel was expensive. He travelled first to Paris, then Spain where he based himself in Majorca and supported himself by working as an apprentice chef. The fluid approach to learning he had acquired in Sydney was enhanced in Spain. He saw, and appreciated the <a href="https://www.tate.org.uk/art/art-terms/t/tachisme">Tachiste</a>artists, but took his own path, remembering always Paul Klee’s dictum that a drawing is “taking a line for a walk”. That Spanish experience was distilled in the exuberant works he painted after his return to Sydney in 1960. <a href="https://www.artgallery.nsw.gov.au/collection/works/OA29.1960.a-c/">Spanish Encounter</a>paid tribute to the impact of this culture that continued to intrigue him, its energy and its apparent irrationality. But he also found himself enjoying the “honest vulgarity” he found in the Australian ethos, leading to a series of paintings which incorporated the words <a href="https://www.ngv.vic.gov.au/explore/collection/work/6124/">you beaut country</a> in their title. Olsen’s confident paintings of the 1960s easily place him as the most influential Australian artist of that decade. <h2>Five Bells and landscape</h2> In 1972, Olsen was commissioned to paint a giant mural for the foyer of the concert hall at the Sydney Opera House. <a href="https://www.abc.net.au/radionational/archived/booksandarts/my-salute-to-five-bells:-john-olsen/6721222">Salute to Five Bells</a> takes its name from Kenneth Slessor’s poem of death on the Harbour, but is more about elements of subterranean harbour life. The heroic scale of the work meant that he worked with a number of assistants to paint the dominant blue ground. When the mural was unveiled in 1973, it received a <a href="https://www.abc.net.au/radionational/archived/booksandarts/my-salute-to-five-bells:-john-olsen/6721222">mixed response</a>. It was too muted in tone to cope with the Opera House lighting, too sparse in content, too decorative. In the following years, Olsen turned towards painting the Australian landscape and the creatures that inhabited it. In 1974, he visited Lake Eyre as the once dry giant salt lake flooded to fill with abundant life. He made paintings, drawings and prints of the abundance – both intimate views and overviews from flying over. Lake Eyre and its environs was to be a recurring motif in the art of his later years. While these works were commercially successful, and many were acquired by public galleries, Olsen was no longer seen as being in the avant garde. He was, however, very much a part of the art establishment and his art was widely collected. <h2>A man of his generation</h2> The aerial perspective of many of his later decorative paintings could seem to have echoes of Aboriginal art. Indeed, when the young <a href="https://abdulabdullah.com/home.html">Abdul Abdullah</a> first saw Olsen’s paintings in 2009 he at first assumed Olsen was an Aboriginal artist. It was therefore a surprise to many when in 2017 Olsen mounted a <a href="https://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/art-and-design/john-olsen-says-archibald-prize-win-is-the-worst-decision-ive-ever-seen-20170728-gxl4ze.html">trenchant attack</a> on the Wynne Prize after it was awarded to Betty Kunitiwa Pumani for Antara, a painting of her mother’s country. Despite some visual similarities to his own approach to landscape he claimed her painting existed in “a cloud cuckoo land”. In the same interview, he attacked Mitch Cairns’ Archibald-winning portrait of his wife, Agatha Gothe-Snape, as “just so bad”. While it is not unusual for the radical young to become enthusiastic reactionaries in prosperous old age, there was a particular lack of grace in Olsen’s response to artists who were not a part of his social circle or cultural background. He was in this very much a man of his generation, with attitudes and prejudices that reflect the years of his youth. Looking at Olsen’s paintings of the 1950s and ‘60s is a reminder that there was a time in Australia when brash young men could prove their intellectual credentials by quoting Dylan Thomas while making a glorious multi-coloured paella in paint. Image credits: Getty Images This article originally appeared on <a href="https://theconversation.com/from-radical-to-reactionary-the-achievements-and-legacy-of-the-influential-artist-john-olsen-203677" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Conversation</a>.

Art

Dame Helen Mirren lets her “radical” hair down

Dame Helen Mirren has put her foot down over the idea that older women are meant to keep their hair short. While chatting to Lorraine Kelly on the UK breakfast TV show Lorraine, the award-winning actress - who has openly spoken out in the past against ‘beauty standards’ and the unfair stereotypes imposed on her generation - shared her latest take on the matter. “You’re not supposed to have longer hair after a certain age,” the 77-year-old stated. “But during Covid, I started growing my hair and I hadn’t actually had long hair since I was in my 20s,” she continued. “And it sort of grew and grew and grew, and I couldn’t be bothered to cut it, basically. “I thought, ‘do you know what? It’s pretty cool, I think I’ll stick with it for a little while. It will come off eventually’. “But I’m kind of enjoying it, it’s quite radical.” And when it came to the idea that Helen was “fly[ing] the flag” for women over 60, the actress shared that “life doesn’t stop. And creativity doesn’t stop and passion doesn’t stop and energy doesn’t stop, unless you decide to stop it. “So it’s just [to] be self-motivated, really, and never give up. And find enjoyment, if it’s possible in your life.” Helen has been stunning with her long hair and natural glow for years, on film sets and red carpets alike, and speaking out against ageism in life and the industry alike for many before that. In a 2021 interview with The Cut, she confessed she was opposed to the term ‘anti-ageing’, and that she found it to be quite “demeaning”. “We age. It happened. I’m really sorry, but you know what? It happens, and there’s no way out,” she explained. “It’s a part of the human condition. So to talk about ‘anti-ageing’ is like saying ‘anti-human’, ‘anti-real’, ‘anti-wisdom’, ‘anti-experience’, and so on, you know? “But you can put on your best possible face. It doesn’t mean you have to go, ‘oh my God, it’s all over for me!’ because it’s not all over for you … in a way, with each era, it’s the start of something new, so I absolutely believe in beauty products for all ages, and all skin types, but I don’t like the word ‘anti-ageing’. I think it’s demeaning, actually.” Similarly, in 2019, she told Grazia that ageism had been forced upon her generation for “far too long”. “It’s extremely annoying to women of my generation and others following mine to have beauty products sold on a 15-year-old face,” she said. Helen went on to explain in the interview that she didn’t feel comfortable using terms like “beauty” in that context, as it led those who are insecure about their appearance feel “immediately excluded” from the conversation. As she explained, “they’ll think ‘well, I’m not very beautiful. It’s all very well for these beautiful women, but I don’t feel beautiful’. “I don’t want to exclude these people from feeling fabulous about themselves.” Images: Getty

Beauty & Style

Can ideology-detecting algorithms catch online extremism before it takes hold?

Ideology has always been a critical element in understanding how we view the world, form opinions and make political decisions. However, the internet has revolutionised the way opinions and ideologies spread, leading to new forms of online radicalisation. Far-right ideologies, which advocate for ultra-nationalism, racism and opposition to immigration and multiculturalism, have proliferated on social platforms. These ideologies have strong links with violence and terrorism. In recent years, <a href="https://www.asio.gov.au/sites/default/files/2022-02/ASIO_Annual_Report_2020-21.pdf">as much as 40%</a> of the caseload of the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation (ASIO) was related to far-right extremism. This has <a href="https://www.abc.net.au/news/2023-02-13/right-wing-terror-threat-declines-says-asio/101965964">declined</a>, though, with the easing of COVID restrictions. Detecting online radicalisation early could help prevent far-right ideology-motivated (and potentially violent) activity. To this end, we have developed a <a href="https://arxiv.org/abs/2208.04097">completely automatic system</a> that can determine the ideology of social media users based on what they do online. <h2>How it works</h2> Our proposed pipeline is based on detecting the signals of ideology from people’s online behaviour. There is no way to directly observe a person’s ideology. However, researchers can observe “ideological proxies” such as the use of political hashtags, retweeting politicians and following political parties. But using ideological proxies requires a lot of work: you need experts to understand and label the relationships between proxies and ideology. This can be expensive and time-consuming. What’s more, online behaviour and contexts change between countries and social platforms. They also shift rapidly over time. This means even more work to keep your ideological proxies up to date and relevant. <h2>You are what you post</h2> Our pipeline simplifies this process and makes it automatic. It has two main components: a “media proxy”, which determines ideology via links to media, and an “inference architecture”, which helps us determine the ideology of people who don’t post links to media. The media proxy measures the ideological leaning of an account by tracking which media sites it posts links to. Posting links to Fox News would indicate someone is more likely to lean right, for example, while linking to the Guardian indicates a leftward tendency. To categorise the media sites users link to, we took the left-right ratings for a wide range of news sites from two datasets (though many are available). One was <a href="https://reutersinstitute.politics.ox.ac.uk/our-research/digital-news-report-2018">based on a Reuters survey</a> and the other curated by experts at <a href="https://www.allsides.com/media-bias/ratings">Allsides.com</a>. This works well for people who post links to media sites. However, most people don’t do that very often. So what do we do about them? That’s where the inference architecture comes in. In our pipeline, we determine how ideologically similar people are to one another with three measures: the kind of language they use, the hashtags they use, and the other users whose content they reshare. Measuring similarity in hashtags and resharing is relatively straightforward, but such signals are not always available. Language use is the key: it is always present, and a known indicator of people’s latent psychological states. Using machine-learning techniques we found that people with different ideologies use different kinds of language. Right-leaning individuals tend to use moral language relating to vice (for example, harm, cheating, betrayal, subversion and degradation), as opposed to virtue (care, fairness, loyalty, authority and sanctity), more than left-leaning individuals. Far-right individuals use grievance language (involving violence, hate and paranoia) significantly more than moderates. By detecting these signals of ideology, our pipeline can identify and understand the psychological and social characteristics of extreme individuals and communities. <h2>What’s next?</h2> The ideology detection pipeline could be a crucial tool for understanding the spread of far-right ideologies and preventing violence and terrorism. By detecting signals of ideology from user behaviour online, the pipeline serves as an early warning systems for extreme ideology-motivated activity. It can provide law enforcement with methods to flag users for investigation and intervene before radicalisation takes hold. Image credits: Getty Images This article originally appeared on <a href="https://theconversation.com/can-ideology-detecting-algorithms-catch-online-extremism-before-it-takes-hold-200629" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Conversation</a>.

Technology

Shanty towns and eviction riots: the radical history of Australia’s property market

Skyrocketing property prices and an impossible rental market have seen growing numbers of Australians struggling to find a place to live. Recent images of families pitching tents or living out of cars evoke some of the more enduring scenes from the Great Depression. Australia was among the hardest hit countries when global wool and wheat prices plummeted in 1929. By 1931, many were feeling the effects of long-term unemployment, including widespread evictions from their homes. The evidence was soon seen and felt as shanty towns – known as dole camps – mushroomed in and around urban centres across the country. How we responded to that housing crisis, and how we talk about those events today, show how our attitudes about poverty, homelessness and welfare are entwined with questions of national identity. Shanty towns and eviction riots Sydney’s Domain, Melbourne’s Dudley Flats and the banks of the River Torrens in Adelaide were just a few places where communities of people experiencing homelessness <a href="https://catalogue.nla.gov.au/Record/1106767" target="_blank" rel="noopener">sprung up</a> in the early 1930s. Some <a href="https://catalogue.nla.gov.au/Record/1106767" target="_blank" rel="noopener">lived in tents</a>, others in makeshift shelters of iron, sacking, wood and other scavenged materials. Wooden crates, newspapers and flour and wheat sacks were put to numerous inventive domestic uses, such as for furniture and blankets. Camps were rife with lice, fevers and dysentery, all treated with home remedies. <figure class="align-center zoomable"><a href="https://images.theconversation.com/files/469663/original/file-20220620-23-cm58ov.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=1000&fit=clip"><img src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/469663/original/file-20220620-23-cm58ov.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&fit=clip" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/469663/original/file-20220620-23-cm58ov.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=837&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/469663/original/file-20220620-23-cm58ov.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=837&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/469663/original/file-20220620-23-cm58ov.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=837&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/469663/original/file-20220620-23-cm58ov.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=1052&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/469663/original/file-20220620-23-cm58ov.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=1052&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/469663/original/file-20220620-23-cm58ov.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=1052&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" alt="" /></a><figcaption>Some people lived in tents in the Domain during the Depression of the 1930s. <a class="source" href="http://search.slv.vic.gov.au/primo-explore/fulldisplay?vid=MAIN&search_scope=Everything&tab=default_tab&lang=en_US&context=L&isFrbr=true&docid=SLV_VOYAGER1713846" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Knights, Bert/State Library of Victoria</a></figcaption></figure> But many Australians fought eviction from their homes in a widespread series of protests and interventions known as the <a href="https://commonslibrary.org/lock-out-the-landlords-australian-anti-eviction-resistance/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">anti-eviction movement</a>. As writer Iain McIntyre outlines in his work <a href="https://commonslibrary.org/lock-out-the-landlords-australian-anti-eviction-resistance/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Lock Out The Landlords: Australian Anti-Eviction Resistance 1929-1936</a>, these protests were an initiative of members of the Unemployed Workers Movement – a kind of trade union of the jobless. As <a href="https://rahu.org.au/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/Sydneys-Anti-Eviction-Movement_-Community-or-Conspiracy_.pdf" target="_blank" rel="noopener">explained</a> by writers Nadia Wheatley and Drew Cottle, <blockquote> With the dole being given in the form of goods or coupons rather than as cash, it was impossible for many unemployed workers to pay rent. In working class suburbs, it was common to see bailiffs dumping furniture onto the footpath, pushing women and children onto the street. Even more common was the sight of strings of boarded up terrace houses, which nobody could afford to rent. If anything demonstrated the idiocy as well as the injustice of the capitalist system it was the fact that in many situations the landlords did not even gain anything from evicting people. </blockquote> The Unemployed Workers Movement <a href="https://rahu.org.au/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/Sydneys-Anti-Eviction-Movement_-Community-or-Conspiracy_.pdf" target="_blank" rel="noopener">goal</a> was to <blockquote> Organise vigilance committees in neighbourhoods to patrol working class districts and resist by mass action the eviction of unemployed workers from their houses, or attempts on behalf of bailiffs to remove furniture, or gas men to shut off the gas supply. </blockquote> Methods of resistance were varied in practice. Often threats were <a href="https://rahu.org.au/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/Sydneys-Anti-Eviction-Movement_-Community-or-Conspiracy_.pdf" target="_blank" rel="noopener">sufficient</a> to keep a landlord from evicting a family. If not, a common <a href="https://rahu.org.au/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/Sydneys-Anti-Eviction-Movement_-Community-or-Conspiracy_.pdf" target="_blank" rel="noopener">tactic</a> was for a large group of activists and neighbours to gather outside the house on eviction day and physically prevent the eviction. Sometimes this led to street fights with <a href="https://commonslibrary.org/lock-out-the-landlords-australian-anti-eviction-resistance/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">police</a>. Protestors sometimes <a href="https://catalogue.nla.gov.au/Record/1106767" target="_blank" rel="noopener">returned</a> in the wake of a successful eviction to raid and vandalise the property. Protestors went under armed siege in houses barricaded with sandbags and barbed wire. This culminated in a <a href="http://www5.austlii.edu.au/au/journals/ANZLawHisteJl/2007/2.pdf" target="_blank" rel="noopener">series</a> of bloody battles with police in Sydney’s suburbs in mid-1931, and numerous arrests. It’s not just what happened – it’s how we talk about it Narratives both reflect and shape our world. Written history is interesting not just for the things that happened in the past, but for how we tell them. Just as the catastrophic effects of the 1929 crash were entwined with the escalating struggle between extreme left and right political ideologies, historians and writers have since taken various and even opposing viewpoints when it comes to interpreting the events of Australia’s Depression years and ascribing meaning to them. Was it a time of quiet stoicism that brought out the best in us as “battlers” and fostered a spirit of mateship that underpins who we are as a nation? Or did we push our fellow Australians onto the streets and into tin shacks and make people feel ashamed for needing help? As Wendy Lowenstein wrote in her landmark work of Depression oral history, <a href="https://catalogue.nla.gov.au/Record/69032" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Weevils in the Flour</a>: <blockquote> Common was the conviction that the most important thing was to own your own house, to keep out of debt, to be sober, industrious, and to mind your own business. One woman says, ‘My husband was out of work for five years during the Depression and no one ever knew […] Not even my own parents.’ </blockquote> This part of our history remains contested and narratives from this period - about “lifters and leaners” or the Australian “dream” of home ownership, for example – persist today. As Australia’s present housing crisis deepens, it’s worth highlighting we have been through housing crises before. Public discussion about housing and its relationship to poverty remain – as was the case in the Depression era – emotionally and politically charged. Our Depression-era shanty towns and eviction protests, as well as the way we remember them, are a reminder that what people say and do about the housing crisis today is not just about facts and figures. Above all, it reflects what we value and who we think we are.<img style="border: none !important; box-shadow: none !important; margin: 0 !important; max-height: 1px !important; max-width: 1px !important; min-height: 1px !important; min-width: 1px !important; opacity: 0 !important; outline: none !important; padding: 0 !important;" src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/185129/count.gif?distributor=republish-lightbox-basic" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" /> <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/helen-dinmore-1000747" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Helen Dinmore</a>, Research Fellow, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/university-of-south-australia-1180" target="_blank" rel="noopener">University of South Australia</a> This article is republished from <a href="https://theconversation.com" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Conversation</a> under a Creative Commons license. Read the <a href="https://theconversation.com/shanty-towns-and-eviction-riots-the-radical-history-of-australias-property-market-185129" target="_blank" rel="noopener">original article</a>. Image: <a href="https://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-160054430/view" target="_blank" rel="noopener">NLA/Trove</a>

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