Academic literature on the topic 'Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander education not elsewhere classified'

The Remote Education Systems (RES) project within the Cooperative Research Centre for Remote Economic Participation (CRC-REP) has, over the last four years, gathered and analysed qualitative data directly from over 230 remote education stakeholders and from more than 700 others through surveys. The research was designed to answer four questions: (1) What is education for in remote Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities?; (2) What defines ‘successful’ educational outcomes from the remote Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander standpoint?; (3) How does teaching need to change in order to achieve ‘success’ as defined by the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander standpoint?; and (4) What would an effective education system in remote Australia look like? Based on this data, the paper reveals how perceptions differ for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people from remote communities compared with people who come from elsewhere. The analysis points to the need for some alternative indicators of ‘success’ to match the aspirations of local people living in remote communities. It also points to the need for school and system responses that resonate with community expectations of education, and to develop narratives of aspiration and success alongside community views.

Background: Genital herpes is one of the most common sexually transmitted infections (STIs) worldwide. In Australia, a population-based survey revealed that 16% of women and 8% of men over 25 had antibodies to HSV-2. The majority of people infected with HSV-2 are asymptomatic. With increasing availability of web-based technology for use as an information and education tool, we established a web-based survey to determine risk for genital herpes and encourage people who maybe at risk to attend a health care professional for HSV testing. Methods: A web-based genital herpes risk assessment quiz was established on the AHMF web page. The quiz was based on epidemiological data derived from a national population-based survey and other epidemiological studies and consisted of 16 questions, each with a numerical weighting. Factors were weighted according to age, country of origin, gender, sexual history, condom use, symptoms suggestive of herpes and whether the individual was of Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander (ATSI) origin. Scores were added up and individuals allocated a risk score of low, medium or high. Results: By the 24th May 2007, 2639 questionnaires had been completed, 52% were male and 48% female and 87% from Australia. 18% were classified as low risk for genital herpes, 46% as medium risk and 36% as high risk. Women had a higher mean risk score than men (p�<�0.001) and were less likely to report condom use than men (p�<�0.001), however, men were more likely than women to have had sex with someone they knew had herpes (p�=�0.018). ATSI participants had a higher mean risk score than non-ATSI participants. Detailed analyses of risk scores and comparisons between groups will be presented. Conclusions: On-line risk surveys are a useful way for individuals to determine their risk of genital herpes. Similar tools should be developed for other STIs.

Abstract Background Reproductive coercion and abuse (RCA) interferes with a person’s reproductive autonomy and can be classified into behaviours that are pregnancy promoting or pregnancy preventing (including coerced abortion). However, prevalence data are lacking, and little is known about whether particular forms of RCA are more or less common. The aims of our study were to explore how frequently people seeking pregnancy counselling reported RCA, the proportions reporting the different forms of RCA, and whether there were different trends based on a range of demographic factors. Methods Data were collected from 5107 clients seeking counselling support for their pregnancy between January 2018 and December 2020 from two leading providers of pregnancy counselling and sexual and reproductive health services in Australia, Marie Stopes Australia and Children by Choice. Counsellors identified and recorded the presence of RCA and whether the behaviour was pregnancy promoting and/or pregnancy preventing. Demographic factors included age, and whether the person identified as being from a migrant or refugee community or as an Aboriginal and/or Torres Strait Islander person. Results RCA was identified in 15.4% of clients, with similar proportions disclosing RCA towards pregnancy (6%) and towards pregnancy prevention or abortion (7.5%), and 1.9% experiencing RCA towards pregnancy and abortion concurrently. There were no differences based on age or whether the person identified as being from a migrant or refugee background, though people who identified as Aboriginal and/or Torres Strait Islander experienced RCA that was significantly more likely to be pregnancy promoting. Conclusions RCA is commonly disclosed by people seeking support in a pregnancy counselling context, and coercion and abuse is equally likely to be towards pregnancy promotion or pregnancy prevention/abortion. Given the prevalence and negative impacts of RCA, regardless of age and background, we recommend sensitive and culturally respectful enquiry around experiences of RCA be embedded in healthcare, health education, and health research.

While Young Adult dystopian texts commonly manipulate expectations of time and space, it is largely in a linear sense—projecting futuristic scenarios, shifting the contemporary reader into a speculative space sometimes only slightly removed from contemporary social, political, or environmental concerns (Booker 3; McDonough and Wagner 157). These concerns are projected into the future, having followed their natural trajectory and come to a dystopian present. Authors write words and worlds of warning in a postapocalyptic landscape, drawing from and confirming established dystopian tropes, and affirming the activist power of teenage protagonists in cultivating change. This article examines the intersections between dystopian Young Adult literature and Indigenous Futurisms, and the possibilities for sharing or encoding Indigenous Knowledge through the disruption or revision of genre, where the act itself become a movement of activism and survival echoed in text. Lynette James acknowledges the “ruptures” (157) Indigenous authors have made in the genre through incorporating Indigenous Knowledge into story as an embedded element – not only of narrative, but of structure. Ambelin Kwaymullina, of the Palyku people of the Pilbara region of Western Australia, exemplifies this approach in her disruption or rupture of the dystopian genre in her embodiment of Indigenous Knowledge in the Young Adult (YA) text The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf. Kwaymullina centres Indigenous Knowledge throughout the trilogy, offering a powerful revision of key tropes of the dystopian YA genre, creating a perspective that privileges Indigenous Knowledge. This is most significantly identified through her depiction of time as a non-linear concept, at once realised narratively, conceptually, and structurally in the text. The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf, the first of a trilogy of novels in “The Tribe” series, presents a futuristic post-apocalyptic world, set 300 years after the Reckoning, a cataclysmic environmental disaster. The protagonist, Ashala Wolf, is one of a number of people with supernatural abilities that are outlawed by their government and labelled Illegals. As the novel begins, Ashala is being interrogated by the villainous Neville Rose, held in a detention centre as she plots to escape, free her fellow detainees, and return to the Tribe in the Firstwood. The plot draws from historical and contemporary parallels in Australia, yet part of the text’s subversive power is that these parallels and connections are never made explicit on the page. The reader is invited to become an active participant in coding meaning by applying their own understandings of the context and connections, creating an inter-subjective dialogue between reader and text, and Indigenous and non-Indigenous knowing. This article looks to the first novel in the trilogy as the key exemplifier of the disruption of genre and knowledge through the representation of time. It is in this novel that these concepts are established and realised most clearly, being predominantly from Ashala’s perspective as a direct descendant of Indigenous Australians, with the following two novels divided between Ashala, Georgie, and Ember as polyphonic narrative focalisers. Acting as an introduction to the series, The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf presents a foundation for readers to challenge their perceptions on both genre and knowledge. Kwaymullina entangles the two, imbuing knowledge throughout narrative and structure which in turn disrupts genre. In her revisioning of narrative through genre and structural focus of time as a non-linear concept, Kwaymullina puts into practice Conrad Scott’s argument that “the potential healing of moments or processes of crisis in Indigenous dystopias is never possible without a strategic engagement with narrative itself, and even the formal aspects of the text” (73).While the series fits the conventions of the dystopian genre, it has been more commonly identified as speculative fiction, or Indigenous futurism, as Kwaymullina herself defines her work. James notes the significance of acknowledging a text as Indigenous futurism, writing, “identifying a work as Indigenous futurism rather than simply as YA dystopia asks readers, critics, and scholars to adjust their orientation in ways that may radically alter both their perception and reception of it” (153). For the purposes of this article, I acknowledge the clear value and importance of identifying the text as Indigenous futurism, but also find value in the movements that define the shift from dystopian literature to Indigenous futurism, in its engagement with and recasting of dystopian conventions in the text. In embedding Indigenous Knowledge in her worldbuilding and narrative, Kwaymullina actively rewrites dystopian expectations and tropes. These notions would be expected or normalised when grounded in Indigenous futurism, but are regarded as a subversion and revision when read in dystopian fiction. The text engages directly with the specific tropes and expectations of dystopian genre—its significance in rewriting the spaces, narratives, and structures of the genre cannot be overstated. The employment of the dystopian genre as both framework and space of revision speaks to larger debates of the value of dystopian fiction in examining socio-cultural issues over other genres such as realism. Critics argue the speculative nature of dystopian fiction that remains linked to concerns of the present and past allows audiences to envision and experience their own transformative experience, effecting political change (Kennon; Mallan; Basu, Broad, and Hintz; Sypnowich). Balaka Basu, Katherine Broad, and Carrie Hintz argue that serious issues presented in fantastic futuristic scenarios “may provide young people with an entry point into real-world problems, encouraging them to think about social and political issues in new ways, or even for the first time” (4-5). Kerry Mallan notes the “ability of dystopian fiction to open up to readers a dystopian social elsewhere serves a double function: On the one hand, it offers readers an opportunity to reflect on their current existence to compare the similarities and differences between the real and the fictional; on the other, these stories implicitly exhort young people to take responsibility for their own lives and the future of society” (16). Drawing on these metanarrative structures with the interweaving of Indigenous knowledge increases the active responsibility for the reader. It invokes Nnedi Okorafor’s labelling of Indigenous Futurisms as “the most truthful way of telling the truth” (279), creating opportunities for the Indigenous and non-Indigenous reader to engage with narratives of a real apocalypse on invaded land. The dystopian setting and expectations form a buffer between reader and text (Basu, Broad, and Hintz 4), making the narrative more accessible to the reader without shying away from the embedded trauma, while drawing on dystopian fiction’s balance of despair and optimism (Basu, Broad, and Hintz 2).The stakes and value of dystopian fiction are heightened when engaging with Indigenous narratives and knowledge; as Claire Coleman (a Noongar woman from the south coast of Western Australia) notes, Indigenous Australians live in a post-apocalyptic state as “all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people alive today are the descendants of people who survived an apocalypse” (n.p.). James, quoting Uppinder Mehan, concurs, writing “these narrators are ‘survivors—or the descendants of survivors’ [162], not just of broken dystopian worlds or post-cataclysmic events but of the real historical legacies of slavery, conquest, and oppression” (157). Writing on Indigenous futurisms in dystopian and utopian fiction, Mary Morrison argues “people outside Western hegemonic power structures would likely be well-placed to transform the utopian imagination, to decolonize it” (11), acknowledging the significance in the intersection of genre and lived experience by author and character.Kwaymullina expands on this, noting that for Indigenous authors the tropes of speculative fiction are familiar lived experiences. She writes thatmany of the ideas that populate speculative-fiction books – notions of time travel, astral projection, speaking the languages of animals or trees – are part of Indigenous cultures. One of the aspects of my own novels that is regularly interpreted as being pure fantasy, that of an ancient creation spirit who sung the world into being, is for me simply part of my reality. (“Edges” 27)Kwaymullina affirms Coleman and James in her approach, writing “Indigenous people lived through the end of the world, but we did not end. We survived by holding on to our cultures, our kin, and our sense of what was right in a world gone terribly wrong” (“Edges” 29). The Tribe series demonstrates survivance, with Kwaymullina’s approach forming possibilities for intersubjective dialogues across genre. The concept is reinforced through Ashala’s repeated, joyful cries of hope throughout the text: “I live! We live! We survive!” (197, 200, 279, 391).Sara K. Day, Miranda A. Green-Barteet, and Amy L. Montz note dystopian literature considers possible futures from the outlook and failures of the present (8), arguing “the label ‘dystopia’ typically applies to works that simultaneously imagine futures and consider the present, essentially occupying a liminal space between these times” (Day, Green-Barteet, and Montz 9). This sense of liminality is heightened with the engagement of time from an Indigenous perspective; as Scott writes, “Indigenous dystopian fiction presents not only the crisis of the future but the ongoing crisis of the present time, and that which is still resonant from the past” (73). In “Respect, Relationships, Renewal: Aboriginal Perspectives on the Worlds of Tomorrow”, Kwaymullina notes that linear time can “become a tool of ideology, with colonial characterisations of Indigenous peoples as being of an earlier (less ‘advanced’) time through the use of terms such as ‘primitive’, ‘prehistoric’ and ‘prehistory’” (“Respect” 126).In shifting to a dystopian world where Australia as a colonised or invaded country is no longer recognised, but Country is still alive and read by those who live on it, Kwaymullina recasts the use of linear time as a tool of ideology to reaffirm Coleman’s argument that Indigenous Australians already exist in a post-apocalyptic state. She draws from the past and present and casts it into the future, while simultaneously recognising that all three are linked and circular—events are repeating and being relived. Kwaymullina depicts numerous parallels between the dystopian world and a post-invasion Australia, populating her world with references to detention centres; othering and distinct labelling of a vilified minority deemed a threat or aberrant to the majority colonising community; the name and title of the series’ central villain Chief Administrator Neville Rose in a clear reference to A.O. Neville, WA Chief Protector of Aborigines.At the outset, the government uses labels to separate and denigrate the Other—individuals with Abilities are called Illegals, distinct from Citizens, although they can apply for Exemptions if their Ability is deemed useful and passive. The terminology of Exemption draws deliberate connections to the Exemption Certificate Indigenous Australians could apply for from the Aborigines Protection (Amendment) Act 1943. The text consistently operates in modes of survivance, as Ashala and the Tribe redefine their world through a distinctly Indigenous perspective (Murphy 179). Ashala gains power through the tool used to suppress her by claiming and embracing this status, identifying her friends and herself as the Tribe and choosing a forest name emblematic of the totems that each Tribe member has a particular connection to (e.g. Georgie Spider, Ember Crow, Ashala Wolf). Continual parallels are drawn to Indigenous Knowledge: Ashala’s Ability is Sleepwalking, where she enters a state in dreaming where she can alter reality, a liminal space that suggests connections to the Dreamtime. While the land is no longer called or recognised as Australia, and the tectonic plates have shifted land mass, it remains Country, as recognised in Ashala’s relationship with the Firstwood. The Balance, the inherent harmony between all life, animate and inanimate, is a clear reflection of an Indigenous understanding, positioning it as the mainstream ideology.Kwaymullina weaves Indigenous knowledge through the text as demonstrated through narrative, key thematic concepts, and structure, disrupting the tropes of dystopian fiction in a manner that subverts genre and presents new possibilities for both reader and writer while presenting a shift to Indigenous Futurisms. As an organic by-product of this ideological framework, regressive or gendered tropes are re-envisioned as feminist and ecologically centred, ultimately conveying a sense of hope and survivance. Key tropes of YA dystopian fiction include a female teenager protagonist oppressed by her government, often initially unknowingly so embedded is she in the system, potentially profiting from it in some way. She is often introduced to the reader in a setting that the character initially reads as utopian, but is revealed to be dystopian and authoritarian in its construction. As identified by Ann M.M. Childs, a common dynamic in the genre that reinforces gender roles in heterosexual relationships see the protagonist introduced to the concept of rebellion or dissent through a male love interest already embedded in a resistance movement, at the cost of losing or betraying a female friend (188). Childs notes the protagonist may be resistant to the idea of rebellion, but after falling for the love interest, grows to genuinely care for the cause. Technology is depicted as advanced, alien or dehumanising, and both belongs to and represents the repressive society the protagonist seeks to escape and change. The natural environment is depicted in binary opposition, with characters finding resilience, freedom, and personal agency in a return to nature (McDonough and Wagner 157). Society will have attempted to restrict, destroy, or otherwise mine the natural world, but this attempt for control will inevitably fail or backfire. Initially the environment is displayed as a potentially antagonistic element, wild and dangerous; however, after the character escapes their confining world, it becomes an ally. In her employment of a perspective framed by Indigenous Knowledge, Kwaymullina subverts each of these established tropes, offering an alternative reading of conventions often embedded in the genre. Ashala is introduced as already entrenched in a rebellion that she is both leader and pivotal figure of. Inverting the dynamic outlined by Childs, she is love interest Connor’s motivation for rejecting the government and joining the Tribe: “You are the reason I came here, Ashala Wolf” (Kwaymullina 263). Kwaymullina dismisses Childs’ concern over the removal of female friendship in favour of heterosexual romance by centering Ashala’s relationships with Georgie and Ember as fundamental to Ashala’s well-being, where sistahood is a key paradigm of hope: “I carry my friends with me” (Kwaymullina 39). For Ashala and the Tribe, nature as exemplified through the Firstwood is Country, not only sanctuary but an animate being that Ashala speaks with, asks permission to live within, and offers protection and apology for the harm down to it by humans in the past. The privileging of environment, and reading all animate or inanimate beings as living, extends to challenging the nature/technology dichotomy. Even the static or sterile environments of the detention centres are recognised for their connection to nature in their construction from recycled materials: “Nothing ever truly ends, only transforms” (Kwaymullina 141). In “Learning to Read the Signs: Law in an Indigenous Reality”, Ambelin Kwaymullina and Blaze Kwaymullina write thatsince everything must interconnect and interrelate to survive, if a pattern is fixed in time, it loses its ability to dynamically connect with other patterns. To be temporally fixed is therefore to be isolated; frozen. In an Indigenous worldview, it is, in fact, an impossibility – for that which cannot move, cannot interact, and that which cannot interact is inanimate. And there is nothing inanimate in country. (200)This can be read as representative of Kwaymullina’s rupture or revision of dystopian tropes and genre. When tropes are read as static or absolute, they run the risk of freezing or limiting the knowledge encoded in these stories. By integrating Indigenous Knowledge, new patterns can emerge and interact, extending to the reader’s own understanding of genre, time, and epistemology. Kwaymullina’s revisioning of dystopian tropes through an embedded and celebrated Indigenous perspective culminates in the successful thematic, narrative, and structural expression of time as a non-linear concept. Kwaymullina and Kwaymullina acknowledge the division between the reductionist and linear perspective of time through a Western worldview in comparison to the non-linear perception from that of an Indigenous Australian worldview. They acknowledge that their expression of time is not to be read as representative of all Indigenous Australians’ perspective of time, but one informed by their own Country and upbringing. Kwaymullina and Kwaymullina write,in an Aboriginal worldview, time—to the extent that it exists at all—is neither linear nor absolute. There are patterns and systems of energy that create and transform, from the ageing process of the human body to the growth and decay of the broader universe. But these processes are not ‘measured’ or even framed in a strictly temporal sense, and certainly not in a linear sense. (199)This is enacted through the narrative structure of The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf. The text is set across four days, yet spans years, shifting through narrative in a non-linear manner and reflecting the Indigenous understanding of time as a circular, evolving concept. These four days act as the containers for the text, as Kwaymullina distinguishes the departure from linear time for the uninitiated reader by including headings and subheadings in chapter titles, marked as “Day One”, “Day Two”, “Day Three”, and “Day Four”, before the final section, “The Escape”. Within these containers, themselves marked linearly, narrative ebbs and flows across time and space, taking Ashala away from the Detention Centre to different moments from her past, spanning years. These ‘flashbacks’ are not presented in a linear fashion; the text revisits and repeats key moments of Ashala’s life out of sequence, providing an immediate focus on these seemingly past moments. This is key in shaping the reader’s understanding of “the patterns and systems of energy that create and transform” (Kwaymullina and Kwaymullina 199)—as Ashala revisits or rediscovers memory through time, perceptions of character, motive, relationships, and key plot points are changed and transformed. Meaning is formed through this relationship of narrative and time in a manner not possible through a linear structure. Over the course of the novel, Ashala and the reader find she’s chosen to give herself false memories to protect the Tribe and complete a master plan to defeat Neville Rose. As such, as the novel begins the reader, aligned with Ashala as narrative focaliser, is positioned to read key points through a flawed perspective. Connor is presented as an enemy and betrayer of the Tribe, while Ashala denies her feelings towards him. The reader is aligned with Ashala’s perspective—she has already fallen in love with Connor, but neither she nor the reader knows it due to the displacement of knowledge through narrative structure and memory. This also speaks to identity formation in the text—Ashala is herself, and not herself until the novel reaches full circle, and she and the reader have experienced multiple points of time. As Ember explains, “it’s not about losing small pieces of information. This stuff shapes your entire understanding of reality” (Kwaymullina 167). If the reader revisits the text with this knowledge, they find further value in exploring the non-linear, circular narrative, finding subtext in characters’ interactions and decisions. The disruption in the non-linear narrative structure is twofold: to reflect the representation of time in an Indigenous epistemology, further rewriting the genre; and to create an intersubjective dialogue. As such, the narrative structure creates a space of invitation to the reader. Rather than positioning Ashala as embedded and aware of her status as a custodian of Indigenous knowledge, the text places her as ingrained in Indigenous epistemology, but unaware of it. In this way, the text effectively invites the reader in, mirroring Ashala’s journey of (re)discovery. The non-Indigenous reader enters the text alongside Ashala, with Indigenous knowledge embedded subtly throughout the text echoed in Kwaymullina’s engagement with dystopian tropes, and integrated Indigenous epistemology. By the time Ashala meets the Serpent, her Grandfather, and has her ancestry explained to her, the reader has already been immersed in Ashala’s own way of thinking, an inherently Indigenous one; for instance, throughout the text, she acknowledges the value and interconnectedness of all beings, human and non-human, animate and inanimate. The text leaves space for the reader to be active in their own construction of meaning and knowledge by never using the terms “Indigenous” or “Aboriginal”, themselves colonial inventions employed to control and label. Instead, the reader is encouraged to engage in the metatextual intersubjective dialogue introduced by Kwaymullina to acknowledge Indigenous epistemology—but by way of her approach, Kwaymullina further encourages the reader to “forget Aborigines” (Healy 219) by centring knowledge in its own right, rather than in direct opposition to Western epistemologies. That is, Kwaymullina disrupts Western perspectives framing of Indigenous knowledge as “other”, altering expectations of the norm as non-Indigenous. As Kwaymullina writes, to conceive of time in a non-linear way is at once a great gift and a great responsibility. The responsibility is that our individual actions matter powerfully, radiating out across relationships and affecting all that might be thought of in a linear sense as past, present and future. But the gift is that the passage of linear time has never moved us so far that we cannot take meaningful action to heal the wounds of colonialism. (“Respect” 126-127)In The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf, Kwaymullina realises this gift and responsibility. By framing structural, conceptual, and narrative time through an Indigenous epistemology, Kwaymullina privileges Indigenous Knowledge and effectively subverts and revises the genre through the rupture of dystopian conventions. Possibilities of hope and healing emerge in the text’s construction of time and genre as spaces of growth and change are emphasised; like Ashala, the reader finds themselves at the end and beginning of the world at once.ReferencesBasu, Balaka, Katherine R. Broad, and Carrie Hintz, eds. Contemporary Dystopian Fiction for Young Adults: Brave New Teenagers. New York: Routledge, 2013. Booker, M. Keith. Dystopian Literature: A Theory and Research Guide. Westport, CT: Greenwood P, 1994. Bradford, Clare, et al. New World Orders in Children’s Literature: Utopian Transformations. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011. Childs, Ann M.M. “The Incompatibility of Female Friendships and Rebellion.” Female Rebellion in Young Adult Dystopian Fiction. Eds. Sara K. Day et al. Farnham: Taylor & Francis, 2014. 187-201.Coleman, Claire G. “Apocalypses Are More than the Stuff of Fiction — First Nations Australians Survived One.” ABC News 8 Dec. 2017. 30 Sep. 2019 <https://www.abc.net.au/news/2017-12-08/first-nations-australians-survived-an-apocalypse-says-author/9224026>.Day, Sara K., Miranda A. Green-Barteet, and Amy L. Montz, eds. Female Rebellion in Young Adult Dystopian Fiction. Farnham: Taylor & Francis, 2014. Green-Barteet, Miranda A., and Meghan Gilbert-Hickey. “Black and Brown Boys in Young Adult Dystopias: Racialized Docility in ‘The Hunger Games Trilogy’ and ‘The Lunar Chronicles Feather Journal.’” Red Feather Journal 8.2 (2017). 30 Sep. 2019 <https://www.redfeatherjournal.org/volume-8-issue-2.html>.Harris, Anita. Future Girl: Young Women in the Twenty-First Century. New York: Routledge, 2004. Healy, Chris. Forgetting Aborigines. Sydney: U of NSW P, 2008.Hintz, Carrie, and Elaine Ostry, eds. Utopian and Dystopian Writing for Children and Young Adults. New York: Routledge, 2003.James, Lynette. “Children of Change, Not Doom: Indigenous Futurist Heroines in YA.” Extrapolation: A Journal of Science Fiction and Fantasy 57.1-2 (2016). 20 Sep. 2019 <https://online.liverpooluniversitypress.co.uk/doi/pdf/10.3828/extr.2016.9>.Kennon, Patricia. “‘Belonging’ in Young Adult Dystopian Fiction: New Communities Created by Children.” Papers: Explorations into Children's Literature 15.2 (2005). 28 Sep. 2019 <http://www.paperschildlit.com/pdfs/Papers_2005_v15no2_p40.pdf>.Kwaymullina, Ambelin. The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf. Newtown: Walker Books Australia, 2012.———. “Edges, Centres and Futures: Reflections on Being an Indigenous Speculative-Fiction Writer.” Kill Your Darlings 18 (2014): 22-33.———. “Respect, Relationships, Renewal: Aboriginal Perspectives on the Worlds of Tomorrow.” Westerly 64.1 (2019): 121-134. Kwaymullina, Ambelin, and Blaze Kwaymullina. “Learning to Read the Signs: Law in an Indigenous Reality.” Journal of Australian Studies 34.2 (2010). 21 Sep. 2019 <https://doi.org/10.1080/14443051003721189>.Mallan, Kerry. “Dystopian Fiction for Young People: Instructive Tales of Resilience.” Psychoanalytic Inquiry 37.1 (2017). 22 Sep. 2019 <https://doi.org/10.1080/07351690.2017.1250586>.McDonough, Megan, and Katherine A. Wagner. “Rebellious Natures: The Role of Nature in Young Adult Dystopian Female Protagonists’ Awakenings and Agency.” Female Rebellion in Young Adult Dystopian Fiction. Eds. Sara K. Day et al. Farnham: Taylor & Francis, 2014. 157-170.Montz, Amy L. “Rebels in Dresses: Distractions of Competitive Girlhood in Young Adult Dystopian Fiction.” Female Rebellion in Young Adult Dystopian Fiction. Eds. Sara K. Day et al. Farnham: Taylor & Francis, 2014. 107-121.Morrison, Mary. “Decolonizing Utopia: Indigenous Knowledge and Dystopian Speculative Fiction.” Dissertation. U of California, 2017.Murphy, Graham J. “For Love of Country: Apocalyptic Survivance in Ambelin Kwaymullina’s Tribe Series.” Extrapolation: A Journal of Science Fiction and Fantasy 57.1-2 (2016). 20 Sep. 2019 <https://online.liverpooluniversitypress.co.uk/doi/pdf/10.3828/extr.2016.10>.Okorafor, Nnedi. “Organic Fantasy.” African Identities 7.2 (2009). 22 Sep. 2019 <https://doi.org/10.1080/14725840902808967>.Scott, Conrad. “(Indigenous) Place and Time as Formal Strategy: Healing Immanent Crisis in the Dystopias of Eden Robinson and Richard Van Camp.” Extrapolation: A Journal of Science Fiction and Fantasy 57.1-2 (2016). 20 Sep. 2019 <https://online.liverpooluniversitypress.co.uk/doi/pdf/10.3828/extr.2016.6>.Sypnowich, Christine. “Lessons from Dystopia: Critique, Hope and Political Education.” Journal of Philosophy of Education 52.4 (2018). 22 Sep. 2019 <https://doi.org/10.1111/1467-9752.12328>.

The question of colour in architecture offers many potential points of entry. Taking an historical standpoint, one could discuss the use of bright colour in ancient Greek and Roman architecture, the importance of brilliantly coloured mosaic and stained glass to sacred architecture in the Byzantine and medieval periods, and the primacy of colour in non-Western architectural traditions both ancient and modern. It would be possible to trace prohibitions against the use of applied colour, derived from late 18th century notions of architectural morality—ideals demanding authenticity, honesty and directness in the expression of structure, function and materials. This puritan strand could be pursued into the modern movement, to its quasi-pathological attachment to whiteness.1 It would also be possible to note a trend which ran counter to dominant modernist attitudes to colour, in the eclectic 'neon historicism' of so-called 'post-modernist' architecture. But while it would be remiss of me not to acknowledge the history of colour in architecture in passing, it has been well addressed elsewhere, and is in any case outside the scope of this paper.2 What is significant is that this history is marked throughout by many of the same, largely unspoken, prohibitions against colour that can be traced across other cultural realms—that which David Batchelor has described as a history of 'chromophobia'. As Batchelor writes; 'Chromophobia manifests itself in the many and varied attempts to purge colour from culture, to diminish its significance, to deny its complexity…. [T]his purging of colour is usually accomplished in one of two ways. In the first, colour is made out to be the property of some 'foreign' body—usually the feminine, the oriental, the primitive, the infantile, the vulgar, the queer or the pathological. In the second, colour is relegated to the realm of the superficial, the supplementary, the inessential or the cosmetic. In one, colour is regarded as alien and therefore dangerous; in the other it is perceived merely as a secondary quantity of experience, and thus unworthy or serious consideration.'3 Numerous examples of the attempt to 'purge' colour can be identified throughout the history of architecture in the modern period. The mode of chromophobia particular to architecture may be summarised thus: colour in architecture has been associated with illusion and frivolity, and thus with decoration—it has been seen as being excess or supplementary to 'real' architecture.4 Discussions of colour in architecture can never be completely distinguished from discussions of ornament, or of materials and materiality. Colour is not necessarily a problem in itself—it is acceptable, for instance, when it is inherent to the material or to its weathering process, as in the bright green of copper verdigris. It is the application of colour, in the form of paint or stain, that raises questions of authenticity. The importance of surface and colour have been consistently made subordinate to architectural form; and the idea that colour is acceptable in interiors but not exteriors is merely the expression of another hierarchy, linking and demoting the trivial, contingent, feminised interior in favour of universal, masculinized, heroic external form. In the modern period, a work of 'serious' Architecture (as opposed to vernacular, commercial, or 'popular' architecture) has most often either been white, or coloured in the subdued palette afforded by the inherent characteristics of 'natural' materials.5 This is nowhere more true than in institutional architecture generally, and museum architecture in particular. Museums and their stake in the neutral monochrome The museum as an institution has traditionally functioned as a symbol of the establishment and its authority, a symbolic role often expressed in conventionally monumental architecture. This monumentality has, in turn, been reinforced by prestigious materials: much of the dignity and status of institutional architecture is taken from materials valued for their expense, rarity, or durability.6 Museum buildings are required to last, and thus they must not only use enduring materials, but materials which demonstrate their durability by being self-finishing in their natural, apparently neutral, state. The very idea that 'natural' materials are also somehow 'neutral' opens onto another, more ideological investment that the museum has in avoiding colour. Museums have long held a stake in the idea of an objective stance, and maintained the pretence of an unmediated presentation of historical fact. The notion of the museum as 'white cube' embodies all of this—the idea of the white cube, with its aformal form and achromatic colour, signifies purity and transcendence. Just as the whiteness of modern architecture was a continuation of the hygienic whiteness of doctor's coat, bathroom tiles, and hospital walls, the whiteness of the museum signifies clinical objectivity.7 It also, perhaps more significantly, stands for the ideal of the tabula rasa, the clean slate upon which the documentary evidence of art, history, or any other metanarrative could be methodically examined and arranged. For the museum, abandoning the neutrality of its public presentation may also mean a symbolic abandonment of objectivity. It would mean, if not a surrender to partiality, at least the admission of partiality—and the renunciation of universal whiteness for the specificities of colour. In the modern period, applied colour can never be neutral, but is read as mask, disguise, or stain. In the postmodern period, the discourse of the 'new museology' has challenged and discredited many of the ideological complicities of the idea of the museum as 'white box', linked as they are with a suspiciously absolutist rhetoric of abstract purity. Museums have increasingly begun to render explicit their role in the re-presentation of history, and to work at recontextualising ideas and artefacts. But even if a critical and self-reflexive stance is now more common in museological practice, it has taken much longer to begin to inform museum architecture. It would be a very courageous museum indeed that was willing to cash in all of the chips of its cultural authority, of which prestigious monumental architecture is a particularly powerful source. Most museums are still, if not white, at least respectably neutral, inside and out. But not so the National Museum of Australia (NMA). This museum, in its polychromatic formal complexity, could hardly be further from a 'white cube' museum. The National Museum of Australia: flirting with the flippant The NMA is housed in a loud and gregarious building. From its controversial strategy of literally appropriating elements from other canonical modernist works, through the coded messages of the Braille patterns on its surface, to the device of the extruded string and red 'knot' which passes through and around the building's form, it is relentless in its challenge to conventional institutional architecture. This is nowhere more true than in its colouration—there is hardly a neutral tone in sight. For that matter, there is hardly a 'natural' material in sight either—the majority of the building is constructed from pre-formed aluminium panelling in grey, yellow, red and khaki, crossed in places by sweeping calligraphic symbols.8 The dramatic aerial loop at the museum's entry is white and bright orange. There are walls of black dimpled pre-formed concrete, blue painted poles (get it?), a 'Mexican wave' of multicoloured steel sheets, and of course the richly cacophonous Garden of Australia Dreams. There are also some deliberate plays on colour symbolism—Le Corbusier's gleaming white modernist classic, the Villa Savoye, is reversed and reconstituted in black, corrugated steel. The fact that this forms part of the Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies is a hint of the building's clear, even dangerously frank, employment of colour symbolism. Given the architects previous work, we can safely assume that in this case, as elsewhere in the building, the choice of colours is calculated for maximum rhetorical effect. But I am less concerned here with the specific ploys of the architects than with the ways in which the building's reception has been conditioned by its employment of colour, specifically the ways in which it has been construed as populist. The NMA has polarised the architectural community in Australia. While much of the comment directed at the building has centred around its contravention of standards of taste and propriety in civic architecture, I would argue that this is only the symptom of a deeper reaction against its apparent frivolity, as signified most strongly by its colour. This is exemplified in a critique of the building by Stephen Frith, a respected Canberra academic. Concluding a polemical review in the Canberra Times, Frith asks: But why such tongue-lashings and breast-beatings over what has quickly established itself as a happy theme park to mediocrity? Surely its condoning of the ruthless kitsch of petty capitalism in its imagery and finishes provides for some spectre of merit? The problem becomes one of the civic domain in which architecture and its rhetoric is interpreted. For a supposedly public work, the museum is an intensely private building, privately encoded with in-jokes, and in the end hugely un-funny... The confection of cheap cladding and plasterboard is a spurious sideshow of magpie borrowings passing themselves off as cultural reference...9 Everything in this passage decries what Frith reads as the NMA's verisimilitude of popularity - the reference to theme-parks, sideshows, commercialism - a confection constructed with poor quality materials and finishes, which nevertheless flirts 'pretentiously' with the canon of modern architecture. To Frith the building reads not as a cheap and cheerful reflection of the Australian vernacular, but as a demeaning attempt to raise a laugh from the elite at the expense of the uncomprehending masses. His complaint is thus two-fold—that the building has insufficient gravitas, and that this is compounded rather than redeemed by the fact that it is not truly popular at all, but rather 'intensely private'. There is an important distinction to be made here, then, between 'populism' and 'popularity'. Populism has the negative connotation of deliberately seeking popular acceptance at the cost of quality, intellectual rigour, or formal aesthetic value. 'Popularity' still retains its more neutral modern sense, either of actual public involvement, or of things that are socially recognised as popular. In architecture, populism is already hedged about with prohibitions springing from the idea that a deliberately populist architecture is somehow fraudulent. A piece of serious, civic, monumental architecture should neither set out expressly to be popular, nor to look like it is, so the logic goes: if a work of high architecture happens to gain popular acclaim, then that is a happy accident. But there are significant reasons why such popularity must be seen to be incidental to other, more lofty concerns. Given that colour is seen to be 'popular', a highly coloured building is thus assumed to be 'lowering' itself in order to appeal to popular taste. Old systems of thought endure, and both museums and architecture are each subject to an unspoken hierarchy that still sees 'populism', if not actual popularity, as inferior. Conclusions: colour as the sign of a critical engagement But there is another possible reading of the NMA's apparent populism. I would argue that the building in fact presents and problematises the question of popularity in formal architectural terms. This leads to a proposition: that there is a 'look' of populism that exists independently of any intended or actual popularity, or even a connection with popular culture. I would argue that the NMA opens an elaborate play on this 'look' of the popular, and that it does so by manipulating certain key aesthetic devices: literal and figurative elements, visual jokes, non-orthogonal forms, and most significantly, bright and mixed colour. Such devices carry a weight of expectation and association, they cause a building to be read or socially recognised as being populist, largely as a result of pre-existing dichotomies between 'high' and 'low' art. In this conception the NMA, turning the modernist prohibition on its head, uses colour as the deliberately frivolous disguise of a profoundly serious intent. Rather than concealing the absence of meaning, it conceals an overabundance of meaning—a despairing accumulation of piled up allegories, codes and fragments. It is thus deeply ironic that the NMA has been read as a light, flippant, and populist confection, since I would argue that it could hardly be further from being those things. Rather than taking the usual path, of seeking cultural authority through allusion to traditional monumental architecture, the NMA makes perverse references to the seemingly trivial, commercial, and populist. The reasons why the architects might want the building to be (mis)read in this way are complex. But by renouncing the aesthetic trappings of a serious institution, the NMA reveals the very superficiality of such trappings. Furthermore, by renouncing the 'look of authority' in favour of colour, frivolity, and apparent populism, it introduces a note of doubt. Could the building, and thus the institution - a national museum, remember, charged with representing the nation and placed in the national capital - really be as flippant as it seems? Or is there some more subtle game afoot, a subversive questioning of accepted notions of Australian national history and national identity? I would argue that this is so. In the NMA, then, colour is the sign of a critical engagement. It positions the building itself as a discourse or discussion, not only of architectural colour as conferring inferiority and flippancy, but of a lack of colour as conferring authority and legitimacy. Of course, it is precisely because of architecture's history of chromophobia that colour can itself become a tool for subversiveness, provide an invitation to alternative readings, and collapse unspoken hierarchies. In this respect, the colour in and of the NMA provides an emblem of that which has long been marginalised in architecture, and in culture more generally. Notes 1. Mark Wigley writes that the primacy of whiteness in high modernist architecture (particularly the work of Le Corbusier) lies partly in the removal of decoration. '[The] erasure of decoration is portrayed [by Le Corbusier] as the necessary gesture of a civilized society. Indeed, civilization is defined as the elimination of the 'superfluous' in favour of the 'essential' and the paradigm of inessential surplus is decoration. Its removal liberates a new visual order. Echoing an argument at least as old as Western philosophy, Le Corbusier describes civilization as a gradual passage from the sensual to the intellectual, from the tactile to the visual. Decoration's 'caresses of the senses' are progressively abandoned in favour of the visual harmony of proportion.' Mark Wigley, White Walls, Designer Dresses: The Fashioning of Modern Architecture, MIT Press, Cambridge, Mass., 1995, pp. 2-3 2. See for example John Gage's superb and authoritative history of the use and meaning of colour, Colour and Meaning: Art, Science and Symbolism, Thames and Hudson, London, 1999. For a survey of the use of colour in architecture, see Tom Porter, Architectural Colour: A Design Guide to Using Colour on Buildings, Whitney Library of Design, New York, 1982, or the more recent Architectural Design Profile number 120: Colour in Architecture, AD, vol. 66, no 3/4, March/April 1996. These are only a few examples of the available literature. 3. David Batchelor, Chromophobia, Reaktion Books, London, 2000, pp. 22-23. 4. The notable exception to this - the architecture of schools is emblematic in itself: colour is appealing to children, so the logic would go, because they have undeveloped, 'primitive' tastes. 5. William Braham has perceptively examined the allure of 'natural' materials and colours in the modern period. He writes that 'the natural can only be understood as a somewhat flexible category of finishes, not by a single principle of use, manufacture, or appearance. The fact that a family of paint colours neutrals, ochres, and other earth colours fit within the definition of natural is only partly explained by their original manufacture with naturally occurring mineral compounds. Though they are opaque surface coatings, they resemble the tones produced in natural materials by weathering.' He goes on to say that the 'natural/neutral palette' is characterised by 'the difficult pursuit of authenticity', and this question goes indeed to the heart of the issue of colour in architecture. William W. Braham, 'A Wall of Books: The Gender of Natural Colours in Modern Architecture', JAE Journal of Architectural Education, vol. 53. No.1, September 1999, p. 10. 6. But perhaps more important than actual durability in institutional architecture is the appearance of durability, and this appearance is undermined by protective treatments like paint, whether coloured or not. Materials which are seen as flimsy or fragile may as well be coloured, so the logic goes, since they require constant re-painting anyway, and since it fits their low status. 7. Mark Wigley, White Walls, Designer Dresses: The Fashioning of Modern Architecture, MIT Press, Cambridge, Mass., 1995, p. 5. 8. Aluminium panelling is a new technology and a new material one that was unknown in the high modernist period but which is becoming increasingly ubiquitous today. The fact that aluminium panelling is coloured during the manufacturing process opens a new and interesting question: is this colour inherent, or is it simply applied earlier in the building process? Is it, in other words, an 'honest' or a 'dishonest' colour? Given that aluminium does have its own colour, and that it can be lacquered or anodised to retain that colour, it seems that the aluminium panelling of the NMA have been received as 'dishonest'. 9. Frith, 'A monument to lost opportunity', The Canberra Times, 20 March 2001 Citation reference for this article MLA Style Stead, Naomi. "White cubes and red knots" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.3 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0207/whitecubes.php>. Chicago Style Stead, Naomi, "White cubes and red knots" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 3 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0207/whitecubes.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Stead, Naomi. (2002) White cubes and red knots. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(3). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0207/whitecubes.php> ([your date of access]).

This thesis tells a story of the lands belonging to the Darumbal people located in the coastal region of Central Queensland, Australia, through the lives of a select number of young people connected to the Country as either Traditional Custodians or as members of other Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander groups who have relocated to this area. In particular, the research examines how ten young Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people experienced school and how they leveraged those experiences to transition into family and community roles as young leaders. The thesis concludes that participants actively pursued a process of ‘belonging and becoming’. School spaces were appropriated to facilitate their desire for ‘belongingness’ and skills, abilities and aspirations were developed consistent with the goal of ‘becoming’ the future of their families and communities. Their recent experiences of completing Year 12, working and studying on Darumbal country informed post-school pathways that are simultaneously professional and cultural by necessity. The findings illustrate the environment which young Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people studying and working on Darumbal country have identified as valuable in their pursuit of belonging and becoming at the core of their identities. Whilst this research examines a very specific group of young Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people in a particular location the learnings from this study could offer an insight into other groups of young Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people living on other Aboriginal and Torres Strait lands; and potentially extended to other First Nations’ people elsewhere.

Secondary education in remote Aboriginal communities is complex and multifaceted. Families and youth in communities sit at the interface between two cultures, navigating daily life and education in ways that are largely provided through a “one-size-fits-all approach”. Government policies for secondary education and learning are enacted through a standardised pedagogy, national curriculum and a boarding school pathway that, in its current form, does not work for all adolescents. For remote Aboriginal young people, the educational experience is more complex than just being present in a classroom. An Aboriginal worldview is holistic, meaning all facets of life are intertwined and engage with one another. The place and context, the land, the people, the interests of youth, the past and the future all intersect to make meaning in the present. This difference in worldviews must be considered when designing educational opportunities for youth in remote Aboriginal communities. Education is influenced by society and this thesis reminds us that education is reflected by how we interact at the cultural interface. This thesis was a collaborative co-produced study with the people from Pormpuraaw and Kowanyama. The thesis is situated at the cultural interface where together we sought to understand the educational needs of families and youth in these two Aboriginal communities on Cape York Peninsula. We sought to answer the question: “what learner-centred alternate model of education could meet the unique developmental needs of remote Indigenous adolescents who do not fit mainstream educational opportunities?” We asked this from a community-based perspective that recognised community members’ voices are not always heard or understood. The unique context and histories of each place meant it was appropriate to work from a community-based participatory approach informed by decolonising methodologies. This way of operating enabled working relationally through the Indigenous method of Yarning across five fieldwork visits. Yarning is a comfortable method of data collection for Indigenous people and requires the outside researcher to meet people where they are at in ways that might not be culturally comfortable for the non-Indigenous person. Yarning allowed me to sit with the tensions of engaging at the interface to build new knowledges and understandings about youth and education through shared conversations. Embedded processes of thematic analysis, co-design techniques and observations within four cycles of research facilitated a shared understanding of the problem, checking of the data collected and building a co-produced story about youth and education in both communities. What we found did not elicit a succinct model of education ready for implementation by the community and service providers, but rather a co-produced story that includes potential enablers and barriers to inform future design and implementation. The findings show that educating the youth of Pormpuraaw and Kowanyama is about more than classroom-based learning through specific secondary school subjects. The youth are lost and living on the “bad side of community life” or “running on a treadmill” with nothing to anchor them. Families know their youth and want an education that is “both ways”. A tree growing out of firm foundations in the ground, was the metaphor used to depict the co-produced story formed during this research. The findings are situated around principles of learning that involve a strong foundation of relationships connected with land, place and context, and a program directed and governed by local people. These embedded principles are consistent with the findings of the systematic literature review that identified the attributes of alternate models of education as well as literature speaking to Aboriginal ways of teaching and learning. The principles illustrate that the people and context of Pormpuraaw and of Kowanyama desire a community-based approach to learning both ways – mainstream and “Culture way” built together, based on recognition of each other as equals engaging at the interface. This thesis acknowledges that this is not occurring. “We are already heard, we just want someone to listen.” The final focus of the study illuminates the obstacles that are present in every day practice. At first glance, what this thesis raises seems simple. Yet, the co-produced story evidences otherwise. The “problem” of education for youth in remote Aboriginal communities’ will not be solved by a single stand-alone approach as mainstream provision assumes. We need to broaden our understanding of the interface between cultures and include the lived realities of community members and their responses. All of us, youth, families, service providers and government bureaucrats in Cairns, Brisbane and Canberra hold responsibility to sit with the tensions of engaging in dialogue at the interface and building together opportunities for these young people. This thesis provides advice on “listening” and working relationally in order to understand what a learner-centred alternate model of education that meets the developmental needs of remote Aboriginal learners could be.

Education delivery and outcomes in remote Australia frequently feature in political, educational and research discourses. In particular, improving educational outcomes for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander students, who are largely achieving at lower levels than non-Indigenous, urban students, has been a priority for decades. Recently, boarding schools are being increasingly viewed as a ‘solution’ to the complexities and purported failure of remote education. However, the discourse supporting boarding school models has developed from a limited evidence base. Further, little space has been awarded in such discussions to the voices of those who work in, send their children to, and who access boarding. Therefore, this thesis explored the expectations, experiences and outcomes of boarding for remote Aboriginal students, their families and their communities. The research focus was developed collaboratively alongside boarding providers, community members and past boarding students from the Anangu Pitjantjatjara Yankunytjatjara (APY) lands, and employed a case study approach to a residential program in South Australia. The research was conducted from a Grounded Theory approach, with qualitative methods combining ethnography, narrative and semi-structured interviews. 55 interviews were conducted with families (11), past students (11), community members (9), and boarding staff (24) across six APY communities, Alice Springs, and Adelaide. Findings fall broadly into three meta-themes; (1) the residence, (2) family and communication, and (3) post-boarding life. While boarding staff were clearly able to articulate the goals for the program, Critical Race Theory provided a useful lens through which to highlight underlying tensions between race, rules and relationships. Strategies for communicating with families were also identified, however it was clear that despite useful technologies, families often relied on relationships with local remote schools to support their communication with the boarding program. Further, while many families made an active choice to send their children to board, for some, lack of alternative options or the knowledge and resources to access alternative options restricted their capacity to make informed choices. Many students were found to have left boarding prior to graduating from high school, making transitions post-boarding difficult and dependent on community, family and personal contexts. This thesis makes a significant contribution to a small but growing field, and is the first to holistically explore the implications of boarding for staff, families, remote communities, and for past boarding students. It explores novel applications of theory in the space, and links findings to implications for future research, policy and practice. Key recommendations include; (1) valuing and building unstructured time into residences to create informal learning opportunities and enhance relationships between staff and students, (2) bridging differences between community and residence life through introducing Anangu mentors and staff into the residence, (3) increased efforts for staff to physically visit communities for longer periods of time (for example through exchanges with remote community teachers or youth workers), (4) providing an external supports to help families to make informed choices about boarding and to navigate application processes, and (5) integrating community educators, family support and employment networks to support transitions beyond boarding.

"This research aimed to discover the underlying reasons for the decisions by selected Indigenous Australian male undergraduates aged 18-24 attending the Rockhampton Campus of Central Queensland University to remain in their studies" -- abstract.

This dissertation explores race relations between Cairns and the Yarrabah Anglican Mission between 1891 and 1910. Yarrabah is situated south of Cairns and is about 40 kilometres distant by road. Before the road was built in the 1930s the only access was by boat; which took about two hours from Cairns. It was founded in 1892 by the Anglican Church in spite of trenchant opposition by the citizens of Cairns. As it struggled through its formative years, this criticism became increasingly muted. By 1910 there was a general acceptance by Cairns residents of the mission and its role in looking after Aborigines.

"When compared to other women Australia Aboriginal women are considered the most socially and economically disadvantaged and have the poorest health status. Aboriginal women in Rockhampton, Central Queensland are not excluded from this lived reality. This research has explored Aboriginal women's perceptions and experiences of health and health services in Rockhampton. Drawing on these experiences, and centring the voices of these women, the study reports on findings concerning cross-cultural issues, communication, policy, practice and service delivery. Importantly, the study has built new knowledge identifying the complex relationship between identity, body and well-being." -- abstract.

"Shut the Gate" was a project initiated and sponsored by the Beef Cattle sub-Committee of the Mackay and District Agricultural, Pastoral and Industrial Association Inc., in collaboration with Central Queensland University. Its goal was to research, write and publish an attractive, engaging and informative account of the history of cattle showing in Mackay, with particular emphasis on the relationship between the regional industry and the 123 year old annual Mackay Show. While the project throws considerable light on the influence that cattle showing has had on the development ofthe beef industry, and the important role it plays in generating and maintaining a positive awareness of the industry among town folk, it is essentially about people. The book celebrates the trials, tribulations and triumphs of those who breed, raise, and compete with beef cattle in the Mackay district. "Shut the Gate" was a commissioned work, with the Beef Cattle sub-Committee its primary sponsor. The essential brief was to prepare 'a readable social history' for possible publication. This in effect meant that the book needed to be written in a style accessible to its anticipated target audience, such as participants in the beef industry, rural primary producers, regular patrons of the Mackay Show, and local history enthusiasts. Its content and tone therefore, reflects this audience. It is a work ofacademic scholarship presented in the form of a textually accessible local history that is not only informative but also a pleasurable experience for the intended reader. The book is introduced by a dissertation that reflects on the research and writing process.

"... Through the lenses of an original creative work, an historical detective novel titled 'Blood on their hands', and an accompanying theoretically informed critical reflection, this thesis refracts the changing representations of class, gender and some of the ethical questions occasioned by the act of murder within the pages of Australian crime fiction between 1830 and 1980. This thesis also explores key aspects of the craft of the detective novel including some of the issues associated with balancing an imagined plot line and characters with an historically accurate account of a well-known series of events and important historical figures. The results of this research demonstrate that historical crime fiction, in addition to providing entertainment, has the capacity to engage with serious social and moral issues and critically revisit historical events of continuing significance"--Abstract.

Background: A randomised control trial (RCT) was conducted in the Torres Strait and Northern Peninsula Area (NPA) Health Service District (HSD) during the period 1998-2000. The main intervention strategy for this trial was the introduction of a simple recall/patient reminder system in Primary Health Care Centres (PHCCs) in an attempt to improve the organisation and management of diabetes care. After a twelve-month period, there was a significant reduction (40 per cent) in the number of patients admitted in the intervention sites between baseline and followup. However, as hospitalisation data was derived from the PHC clinic records, it has been suggested that this methodology may have underestimated both the number of patients and hospital episodes captured in the RCT study population.

Aim: To conduct a retrospective re-evaluation study of the hospitalisation component of the original RCT in an attempt to better assess the impact of the clinic recall system for patients with diabetes in the Torres Strait and NPA, 1998-2000. All patients from the RCT were to be tracked manually through three local public hospitals for hospitalisation episodes in a bid to validate the total number of admissions for these Torres Strait Islanders (TSIs) with diabetes.

Methods and Subjects: Subjects included all those patients suffering with diabetes living in the Tones Strait and NPA whose PHC records had been audited during the original RCT. Instead of using PHC clinic patient files, hospital -based patient information systems were used (as a different data source) in order to validate the number of admissions for each individual from the trial. Analysis of the data used the same methodology as the RCT (that is, communities were clustered into intervention and control sites) in order to interpret results in terms of whether or not the implementation of a recall system in the intervention sites had any impact on the hospitalisation rates of patients with diabetes in the Torres Strait.

Results: In comparison with the RCT, the new hospitalisation study found some degree of underestimation in the number of patients identified as having hospitalisations and secondly, considerable underestimation in terms of the number of hospital episodes found. At baseline, the hospital -checking methodologyidentified one extra person and 102 additional episodes of care. At followup, this new methodology found an extra 30 persons and an additional 119 episodes of care. In comparison to the RCT, the new study showed an overall 6.7 per cent increase in the number of individual patients detected having had an admission in the study period. However, there was a large 47.1 per cent increase in extra hospital episodes detected across both audit timeframes.

Discussion: This study supports the main findings of the original RCT. That is, the new study also found a reduction in the proportion of patients hospitalised for any kind of `diabetes -related condition' in the intervention sites between baseline and followup. This reduction was slightly less at 29 per cent in the intervention sites (compared to 40 per cent in RCT across intervention sites) for 'total diabetes -related conditions,' however this new study finding was not statistically significant. The re-evaluation study also found that at followup, those in the intervention sites were 19 per cent significantly less likely to be hospitalised for a diabetes -related condition than those in the control sites (compared with a significant 40 per cent in the RCT). Therefore, admissions for diabetes -related conditions can be reduced or avoided through better organisation and a systematic approach to the management of PHCCs. Although hospital -based information systems may have been more sensitive in detecting patients with hospitalisation episodes and additional episodes for known patients, the tracking of individuals through the public hospital system (without a unique identifier) was problematic and time consuming.

Conclusion: The main aim of the RCT was to improve the organisation and management of PHC in the Tones Strait, in terms of clinical management for the large number of diabetic clients that are served. The original RCT findings suggested that improvements in diabetes care in the intervention sites such as the introduction of a patient recall system was successful in reducing the numbers of patients subsequently admitted to hospital. The re-evaluation study of hospitalisations using a different methodology has also been successful in recording a reduction in the number of people with diabetes being hospitalised from the intervention sites despite a 47 per cent increase in the number of hospital episodes being detected overall.