Brunswick Heads is an idyllic town perched between a river and the sea near Byron Bay. It was once best known for its abundance of caravan parks and cheap fibro holiday houses. The houses now sell for millions, but the ethos remains.
A few weeks ago, an old piano materialised in the riverside Soundshell near the kids’ swings. Local people wondered who had put it there, but it soon became a source of delight, a sign that Brunz had joined the ranks of other faraway places with pianos in public places.
The manager of one of the caravan parks saw it differently and a notice was stuck on the instrument’s burnished timber: “This piano has been illegally dumped … if you know the owner, ask them to collect it by Monday 4 December. If not collected it will be removed …”
The local Facebook group erupted. Hundreds of people reported how much they enjoyed hearing the piano played as they prepared for a swim, how the presence of the piano had changed the vibe of the Soundshell from a dumping ground to a place of joy, how little kids brought up in an age of digital music loved touching the keys and learning how to tap out chopsticks.
Ah but … one or two argued, what about the risks. It was hard to imagine what risk a feral piano may present. But risk assessment has become something of a national preoccupation, and soon there were suggestions: it could lead to vandalism, it may fall on someone, what if sand got in the keys, who would be liable, and the big one, was it safe?
We have been hearing variations of this all year. Risk versus imagination, principle versus fear.
The reaction to the unanimous high court decision that people could not be held in indefinite detention on the whim of a minister was a classic example. At one level this was not remarkable. The high court upheld an application that had its roots in the foundational legal principle of habeas corpus. Arbitrary detention by the king, or his underlings, has been unlawful since the adoption of Magna Carta in Britain in 1215. As most constitutional experts agreed this decision had only been a matter of time.
But within days of the mandated release of refugee NZYQ, and others who had been held indefinitely in detention, the fearful mantra was repeated and amplified: who would keep us safe?
Even the minister quickly declared that if it were her choice, and she could do so legally, she would redetain them immediately. The words sounded no better coming from her mouth than they had centuries earlier when people deemed criminals were deported to the antipodean convict outposts for the term of their natural lives.
The search for ways of incarcerating “hardened criminals” could be defined as a national characteristic – remote islands and ankle restraints have proved enduringly popular.
In February 1788 two convicts, Joseph Hall and Henry Lovell, were found guilty of stealing butter, peas and pork from the larder. Their lives were saved by a petition, but Lovell was sent to Norfolk Island. Hall was detained for a week in irons on Sydney’s Pinchgut Island, with just water and bread, but within sight of the other convicts. The policy position came with a heading that has been practised ever since: punish one as a “Dreadful and Awful Example to Others”.
Life in the colony was often cruel, brutal and arbitrary, but something unexpected happened. Charles Darwin reported in 1836 that as a place of punishment the colony had failed but as “a means of converting vagabonds, most useless in one hemisphere, into active citizens of another and thus given birth to a new and splendid country – a grand centre of civilisation – it has succeeded to a degree perhaps unparalleled in history.”
The story of rehabilitation and renewal should be a defining one; instead in the incarceration nation, lock ’em up is preferred.
The fear that the proposed Indigenous voice to parliament would cause division became a self-fulfilling prophecy during the campaign, thanks to the proponents of the fear.
A taste for division and racism has flourished ever since. Only the loudest voices are heard.
Nations, like people in bad relationships, can get stuck. Repeating patterns that they are barely aware of, tolerating the bullying, threats and silences because on balance the good days outweigh the bad. Until they don’t.
A positive, expansive assertion of national identity has proved too hard. It is generally only defined in the negative: unAustralian and left to judges to determine what Australian values might really include.
Those with an imaginative scope might prefer to echo Timothy Garton Ash’s description: “Membership of a nation is defined in civic not ethnic terms … an open positive, warm-hearted nation is capable of appealing not only to dry reason, but the deep human need for belonging and the moral imperative of solidarity.”
It only took a couple of days to resolve the feral piano standoff in Brunswick Heads. The mayor reported on Monday that the piano would remain. Everyone agreed, he noted, that the piano added value. There were just a few issues to resolve, which would ensure “responsible use of this great asset”.
Within days a piano tuner had fixed the sticky F sharp, replaced a broken key and organised a concert. Imagination beat risk.
The piano didn’t need an ankle bracelet.
Julianne Schultz is the author of The Idea of Australia: a search for the soul of the nation
