Journal articles on the topic 'Government lawyers; Solicitor-General; constitutional law'

On June 24, 2022, the U.S. Supreme Court decided in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization that the Constitution does not confer a right to abortion, which had been upheld since Roe v. Wade in 1973. Roe, overruled by Dobbs, had represented constitutional revolution led by liberal Justices starting from the Warren Court. Conservative lawyers have tried to put an end to judicial activism since early 1980s. This paper reviews the conservative judicial movement in terms of constitutional interpretation as well as social movement. Originalism, conservative theory of constitutional interpretation based upon the text of the Constitutional and original meaning of the text, has been developed to criticize the Warren and Burger Court’s decisions of making constitutional rights based upon a theory of living constitutionalism. Originalists argue that incorporation of current values is the obligation of the representative, not the job of the court. In Dobbs the Supreme Court delivered an opinion that Roe was egregiously wrong and on a collision course with the Constitution. Six Justices in majority opinion in Dobbs are members of, or otherwise affiliated with the Federalist Society. The Society, which was founded to promote conservative and libertarian beliefs such as limited government and judicial restraint in 1982, has grown to be the most influential legal network. Though the Society is accused of making the Court politicized, what we as foreign scholars should learn from the Society is the intellectual culture that the Society is focusing on. The Society has accumulated intellectual capital by way of reasoned debate and robust discussion.

Although constitutional originalism has attracted a remarkable degree of public and professional attention over the past several decades, little research has been conducted on the intellectual roots of modern originalism. This Article finds that American law schools housed few originalist theorists through much of the 1970s and early 1980s. However, after Edwin Meese III became U.S. Attorney General in 1985, the Department of Justice constructed a vibrant academy in exile, with government lawyers leading the way in the early development, theorization, and exercise of originalism. In addition to becoming the official mode of constitutional interpretation for Meese and the DOJ, originalism started to gain followers on the federal bench and within conservative social movements during the second half of the 1980s. As constitutional originalism grew in influence and professional use, academic interlocutors began engaging with and reimagining originalism more intently.

History might have stopped for the Polish Constitutional Court in 2015–2016. After thirty years of building an impressive resume as one of the most influential and successful European constitutional courts and living proof of ‘the rule of law in action’, the Court has fallen under the relentless attack of a right-wing populist government and succumbed to it. This paper moves beyond the hitherto dominant perspective of ‘here and now’ and lawyers’ fixation on ‘the boat’, and instead focuses more on the journey and important lessons the journey might teach us and enhance the understanding of ‘our boat’. The Polish case (‘the boat’) is much more than just an isolated example of yet another government going rogue. An important European dimension colors what has transpired in Poland over the last twenty months. To understand what has happened in Poland and why, one has to take a longer view and revisit not only its 2004 accession, but also its 1989 constitutional moment. The constitutional debacle in Poland must be but a starting point for a more general analysis of the processes of the politics of resentment and constitutional capture that strike at core European principles of the rule of law, separation of powers and judicial independence.

The process of formation of the Austrian judicial system on the basis of the Basic Constitutional Laws «On the Judiciary» and «On the Establishment of the State Tribunal» of December 21, 1867, is considered. The order of formation and functioning of the State Tribunal of Austria during 1867–1918 is studied. The functions, powers of the State Tribunal and the procedure for considering court cases are analyzed. The main attention is paid to the analysis of the formation of the professional composition of the State Tribunal of Austria. In particular, it is found that under § 1 of the Basic Constitutional Law «On the Establishment of the State Tribunal» the purpose of this body was to resolve disputes with various branches of government and local government, claims of provinces, legal entities and individuals to kingdoms, regions as well as the state as a whole, if such claims did not fall within the competence of courts of general jurisdiction, citizens' complaints about the violation of their constitutional rights, after consideration of these complaints in an administrative manner. The members of the State Tribunal were highly educated and highly professional persons of Austria at that time. About one-fifth of the members of the State Tribunal were law professors who worked at the universities of Vienna, Prague, Krakow, as well as Lviv. Judges and lawyers had a strong representation in the State Tribunal. The State Tribunal made the final decision in cases between the judiciary and the public authorities as to whose jurisdiction these powers belonged to. It consisted of a president, a vice-president, 12 permanent members and 4 deputies, appointed for life by the Austrian emperor from among the candidates recommended by the Chamber of Deputies and the House of Lords (Reichsrat/Council of State). Positions at the State Tribunal were considered honorable among Austrian civil servants and lawyers. Meetings of the State Tribunal were held every three months and their beginning was reported in the national newspapers. The Austrian judicial system operated on the basis of the Constitution of 1867. It provided for the functioning of the courts of general jurisdiction, Administrative and State Tribunals. The establishment of the State Tribunal gave the right to additional protection of the constitutional rights of citizens in case of abuse of public authorities or their officials.

Constitutional law in the United States is, for most practical purposes, the product of ‘judicial review’, the power of judges to disallow policy choices made by other officials or institutions of government, ostensibly because those choices are prohibited by the Constitution. This extraordinary and unprecedented power, America's dubious contribution to the science of government, has made American judges the most powerful in the world, not only legislators but super-legislators, legislators with virtually the last word. Because lawmaking power divorced from popular will is tyranny, most states have attempted to reconcile the lawmaking power of judges with representative self-government by subjecting all or some judges to some form of popular election. In all but four such states, judges, encouraged and supported by their fellow lawyers in the organized bar—would-be judges and beneficiaries of judicial power—have responded by adopting codes of judicial ethics that limit what candidates for election to judicial office are permitted to say. The effect is to undermine elections as a control on judicial power by limiting criticism of judicial activism, the misuse of judicial power.

The first thing for European lawyers to understand about American law is that the distinction between public and private law is in America seldom noticed. American judicial institutions, unlike those in most other countriees, were not designed merely to resolve civil disputes, but were fashioned for the additional purpose of facilitating private enforcement of what in other nations would generally be denoted as public law. This purpose reflects widespread mistrust of the political institutions and government officials upon whom American citizens would have to depend if private law enforcement were not available, as generally it is. That shared mistrust has ancient roots and is reflected in state and federal constitutional provisions assuring the weakness and ineptitude of American political institutions other than courts, and in the habit of Americans, observed in 1835 by the French observer de Tocqueville, to litigate issues they care most about. As a consequence of these conditions, substantial reliance for the regulation of business is placed on private plaintiffs. Much regulation is done ex post the regulated business conduct in the form of civil money judgments rather than ex ante in the form of official approval or disapproval. It is provided by lawyers serving as private attorneys general. Its aim is to keep business executives alert to the risks their business decisions may impose on others.

Konstitusiya - dövlətin əsas qanunu, insan və vətəndaşların hüquq və azadlıqlarını bəyan edən və təmin edən, sosial sistemin əsaslarını, idarəetmə formasını və ərazi quruluşunu, mərkəzi və yerli hakimiyyət orqanlarının təşkilinin əsaslarını müəyyən edən hüquqi aktdır. Konstitusiya bütün mövcud qanunvericiliyin əsasını təşkil edir. [Nikulin.V.V|2012|6] Formal mənada konstitusiya ən yüksək hüquqi qüvvəyə malik olan qanun və ya qanunlar toplusudur. Konstitusiya - konstitusiya quruluşunun dəyərlərinin, institutlarının və normalarının, dövlət orqanlarının dövlət-hüquqi tənzimlənməsinin əsaslarının rəsmi şəkildə təsbit olunduğu ali hüquqi formadır. Hüquqşünaslar konstitusiya anlayışını hüquqi və faktiki olaraq fərqləndirirlər.[Y.İ.Leibo|2004|8] Azərbaycan Respublikası Konstitusiyası 12 noyabr 1995-ci ildə ümümxalq səsvermə əsasında qəbul edilmiş, 27 noyabr 1995-ci il tarixindən qüvvəyə minmişdir. Azərbaycan Respublikası Konstitusiyası 5 bölmə, 12 fəsil və 158 maddədən ibarətdir. AR Konstitusiyasının ümumi xüsusiyyətləri ilə yanaşı, mübahisəli məsələləri də qaldırılmalıdır. Məsələn: “Bizim konstitusiyamız mükəmməldirmi?”, və ya “Konstitusiyamıza dəyişikliklər edilməlidirmi?” Düzgün qurulmuş Konstitusiya, düzgün qurulmuş Konstitusiya Qurululuşunun elementlərindən biridir. Bugün biz Azərbaycan Respublikasının Konstitusiya təhlilinə keçmədən öncə, müxtəlif ölkələrin Konstitusiya quruluşu ilə milli Konstitusiya quruluşumuzun oxşar cəhətlərini göstərəcəyik. Açar sözlər: konstitusiya, konstitusiya müqayisəsi, konstitusiya təhlili, azadlıqlar, hüquq və öhdəliklər Ayan Vugar Manafova Common features and comparative analysis of the constitution of the Republic of Azerbaijan and its constitutional structure with foreign countries Abstract The Constitution is the basic law of the state, a legal act that declares and guarantees the rights and freedoms of man and citizens, determines the foundations of the social system, form of government and territorial structure, the organization of central and local authorities. The Constitution is the basis of all existing legislation. In a formal sense, a constitution is a law or set of laws that has the highest legal force. The Constitution is the highest legal form in which the values, institutions and norms of the constitutional system, the foundations of state and legal regulation of state bodies are officially established. Lawyers distinguish between legal and factual notions of constitution. The Constitution of the Republic of Azerbaijan was adopted on November 12, 1995 on the basis of a nationwide vote, and entered into force on November 27, 1995. The Constitution of the Republic of Azerbaijan consists of 5 sections, 12 chapters and 158 articles. Along with the general features of the Constitution of the Republic of Azerbaijan, controversial issues should also be raised. For example: "Is our constitution perfect?", Or "Should our constitution be changed?" A well-established Constitution is one of the elements of a well-established Constitutional Structure. Today, before moving on to the constitutional analysis of the Republic of Azerbaijan, we will show the similarities between the constitutional structure of different countries and our national constitutional structure. Key words: constitution, constitutional comparison, constitutional analysis, freedom, rights and responsibilities

On April 25-29, 2022, an All-Russian conference with international participation “Problems and Prospects for the Development of Local Self-Government in the Russian Federation and Foreign Countries” was held at the Law Institute of the Peoples’ Friendship University of Russia on the basis of the Department of Municipal Law. More than 200 scientists and practicing lawyers from the Russian Federation and foreign countries took part in the Conference. The Conference has acquired a traditional character and is being held for the sixth time. The 2022 conference was marked by a significant increase in the number of participants from different Russian regions, mostly by state and municipal employees. The additional relevance of the conference was caused by the ongoing municipal reform in Russia, designed to concretize the provisions of the 2020 constitutional reform. Besides reports by leading scientists and practitioners, the Conference included a student section “Young Scientist”, as well as a scientific seminar in Spanish on the topic “Decentralization in the framework of Peruvian constitutionalism”. Presents a general description of the conference, and the contents of the plenary meetings and sessions.

The 2007 joint National Association of Muslim Lawyers (NAML) andNationalMuslimLawStudentsAssociation (NMLSA) conference took placeon 9-11 November in San Francisco. Both NAML and NMLSA are rapidlygrowing organizations with many young Muslim students now deciding toenter the legal profession, a field in which they have been historically underrepresented.This year’s theme, “Protecting America’s Promise,” could nothave been more appropriate.The conference was kicked off by an electrifying talk by Jameel Jaffer,co-author of Administration of Torture: A Documentary Record from Washingtonto Abu Ghraib and Beyond (Columbia University Press: 2007) anddirector of the ACLU’s National Security Program. He detailed the mannerin which the Bush administration has implemented a systematic program oftorture since 9/11, and how it has done this without significant challengefrom the other two branches of government: Congress and the judiciary.The first plenary session, which addressed the topic of “Investigatingand Prosecuting Terrorism Cases: Seeking Justice while Upholding ConstitutionalPrinciples,” focused on the tension between bringing alleged terroriststo justice and upholding core constitutional rights and protections,including the accused’s rights to counsel, a speedy trial, and to confront theevidence presented by the plaintiff. The second plenary session, “The Impactand Legality of U.S. CounterterrorismPolicies Overseas,” discussedwhetherthe United States has accurately framed the terror threat and how its policieshave inflamed or diminished that threat. The session also explored the legalityand effectiveness of arbitrary detention, torture, extraordinary rendition,and other counterterrorism policies.The various parallel sessions throughout the conference addressed amyriad of topics germane to the legal profession in general, as well as toMuslims and the law in particular. In a session entitled “Leveraging LegalResources for the Benefit of the Muslim American Community: A TrainingSession for Lawyers,” attendees learned some of the basic laws and challengesfacing Muslim Americans from experienced criminal defense andwith pdfFactory ...

Abstract The promulgation of the new Italian Law for the protection of competition and the market urges a comparison with the corresponding Spanish legislation, taking also account of its evolution.In 1963 a first competition law was introduced in Spain as a consequence of a request by the United States, whose intention was to increase its business activities in Spain. Another justification of the interest of Spain for introducing this law was the idea that it could be a step forward the European Common Market.This law was not very effective and, furthermore, its life has not been very easy, though it included the main legal definitions of the EEC Treaty, in particular provisions for cartels and for abuse of a dominant position. In addition, the Spanish law introduced a definition for «dominant position».In order to implement the law, two organisms have been created: the «Service for the Defence of Competition” and the Tribunal having the same name.Both the law and the administrative system organized on its basis became almost useless, because for the first two decades very few decisions had been taken and the only proposal by the Tribunal to the Government for inflicting a sanction was not approved. By consequence, the Tribunal made no other attempts to propose measures to the Government.The revival came after the introduction in Spain of the Constitution, which was promulgated in 1978 and which established, in art. 38, a free-enterprise system in the framework of a market economy to be protected by the public authorities.A judgement by July 1st, 1986, of the Constitutional Court, confirmed that competition is a component of the market economy which protects rather than restrict the freedom of enterprise.By the end of 1985 the Service for the Defence of Competition started a new life. The same happened with the activities of the Tribunal. The number of examinations increased and after 1988 the Tribunal tried again to inflict sanctions, and it was successful.A new law for the protection of the competition was approved by the Parliament on July 17th, 1989 and is in force in Spain since that time. It is founded on the EEC Treaty and it also benefits from the experience with the previous law.Cartels and abuse of dominant position are the main objects of the law which introduced, in addition, the case of «unfair competition».The Tribunal can injunct to the undertakings to suspend their action and to eliminate its consequences. Another innovation of the law was the attribution to the Tribunal of the power to inflict fees up to 150 million pesetas (about 1,7 billion Italian lire), to be increased until the 10 per cent of the turnover.As it was with the first law, two organs are committed to the safeguard of competition: the Service for the Defence of Competition and the Tribunal. The Service has the assignment to start preliminary investigations, to supervise the enforcement of the judgements of the Tribunal, to keep the register with the annotations of authorizations, prohibitions and concentrations and to make studies on the economic system.The Tribunal is an organ of the Ministry for Economy and Finances, but is functionally independent. Its eight members (economists and lawyers) and the president are appointed by the Government for six years and can be confirmed. The president is Secretary of State and the members have the rank of general directors. Decisions are taken by the Tribunal with a majority of six votes (including that of the president or of the vicepresident).Apart from its judiciary powers, the Tribunal can express opinions and give advices upon request by the Parliament, by the Government or by Ministers, as well as by local governments, by unions and by organizations of producers and consumers.The Tribunal has also the power to authorize agreements and other actions prohibited by the competition legislation, on the basis of these reasons: 1) productive improvements or better wholesalers’ organization, technical or technological progress; 2) partecipation by the consumers to the resulting benefits.No limitations to competition can be introduced in order to obtain such results. Competition cannot be eliminated from the market or from a relevant part of it.Such authorizations are not retroactive and can be renewed or revoked.On the subject of economic concentrations, the Tribunal can take action only on request by the Minister for Economy and Finances. The notification by undertakings is voluntary. The advice provided by the Tribunal to the Minister is not binding, since the power to decide on concentrations is entirely under the responsibility of the government.The rules of procedure adopted by the Tribunal and the Service are flexible and effective in order to guarantee the rights of the citizens. The judgements of the Tribunal can be taken to the Civil Courts. Also damage compensation is decided by the Civil Courts.At the moment, there are not yet cases on the basis of the new law and those pending follow the rules of the old law.Some authorizations, instead, have been decided already by the Tribunal whose advice has been requested twice on cases of concentration.New regulations for authorizations by category will be issued in the next future. Other rules for cases of individual authorization will also be provided.The number of cases submitted to the Tribunal increases and the number (as well as the amount) of fees goes up as the public opinion realizes how beneficial can be competition for the general welfare.

Abstract Spain according to the Constitution of 1978 is a unitary state, but its whole territory is divided into autonomous communities that have the widest rights from equivalent territorial units in other European countries. The Constitution restored the possibility of creating regional autonomies, which were abolished earlier during the Franco dictatorship. However, the basic law was adopted before the foundations of regional structures were fully developed, so norms concerning the issues of autonomy were dictated in a general way. Only later legal acts regulated the situation in detail, but often their content depended on the political situation and was not always homogeneous. The creators of the Constitution did not foresee the subsequent forming of autonomous communities in the entire state territory. For over four decades of validity of the Spanish constitution, differences in the way the individual autonomous communities were established and differences in the competences of different regions have emerged. Some autonomous governments have also begun to expand their rights at the expense of the central authorities. The above factors caused a lively discussion among lawyers and politicians over the necessity of constitutional reform in the scope of the territorial system of Spain.

Public trusts for natural resources incorporate both limits and duties on governments in their stewardship of those natural resources. They exist in every state in the United States—in constitutional provisions, statutes, and in common law. Yet the law recognizing public trusts for natural resources may contain only the most basic provisions—often just a sentence or two. The purpose and terms of these public trusts certainly answer some questions about the limits and duties of trustees, but they do not answer all questions. When questions arise that the body of law creating or recognizing a public trust for natural resources does not fully answer, trustees, lawyers, and courts often look to trust law for help. In fact, they have been doing so for more than a century, including in the U.S. Supreme Court’s landmark 1892 public trust decision, Illinois Central Railroad Co. v Illinois. In this sense, trust law provides a set of background or underlying principles for interpreting and applying public trusts. Using cases from around the country, this Article sets out a four-step methodology for determining when and how to use trust law principles to help interpret public trusts. This methodology can be applied in any case involving the use of specific trust principles to help interpret any particular public trust. This Article also explains that the relevant trust law should not be limited to private trust law, but rather it should include general trust principles, charitable trust law principles, and private (or noncharitable) trust law principles. This Article uses a 2019 Commonwealth Court of Pennsylvania decision, Pennsylvania Environmental Defense Foundation v. Commonwealth, as a case study. The case applies article I, section 27 of the Pennsylvania Constitution, which requires that public natural resources be conserved and maintained for the benefit of present and future generations. In that case, the court used an interpretation of private trust law to decide that the state could spend some bonus and rental payment money from oil and gas leasing on state forest and park land, which is constitutional public trust property, for non-trust purposes. This Article applies the four-part methodology to the case, explains general trust law and charitable trust law principles that the Commonwealth Court of Pennsylvania did not address, and argues that the use of these principles better fits the constitutional public trust. It concludes that the money from bonus and rental payments should be spent entirely for the purposes of the trust. This Article draws attention to both the potential value of trust law principles and also to their potential danger in the interpretation and application of public trust laws for natural resources. Trust law has the potential to enhance the protectiveness of public trusts by imposing various fiduciary duties on trustees. It also has the potential to undermine public trusts, particularly through rules requiring or encouraging that trust assets be financially productive. To vindicate public trusts for natural resources, environmental and natural resources lawyers need to become better trust lawyers.

Circumstances of the 19th century drew attention to the issues related to the regulation of emergency situations. The success of the state in solving its tasks is often determined by the effectiveness of the legal regime employed. This is especially clearly demonstrated in the case of emergencies and situations that, as modern practice has shown, can be caused not only by socio-political factors and natural disasters, but also by the spread of a viral or infectious disease acquiring the status of a pandemic and endangering the lives of not only citizens of a certain state, but of humanity as a whole. The implementation of the emergency legal regime is always associated with a number of restrictions on the constitutional rights and freedoms of citizens: the introduction of additional administrative and legal obligations and prohibitions; granting emergency powers to authorities to maintain the regime; the introduction of special administration of the territory on which this regime is established, including the creation of temporary special agencies; suspension of the activities of certain state authorities and local government, etc. This article analyses the heritage of theoretical studies regarding the limits of the state restriction of freedom of speech in the conditions of an emergency legal regime. A historiographic analysis of the role of censorship in ensuring national security in Russia under the emergency legal regime indicates that issues related to the possibility and necessity of applying censorship under the emergency legal regime were the subject of research by the most prominent Russian legal scholars at the end of the 19th century: I. E. Andreevsky, N. N. Belyavsky, E. N. Berendts, V. M. Gessen, V. F. Deryuzhinsky, A. I. Elistratov, V. V. Ivanovsky, I. T. Tarasov, P. N. Sheimin and others. In their works, lawyers in the end of the XIX century recognized the important role of the media in the development of society and emphasized the importance of freedom of thought, speech and the press as necessary conditions for social development. However, under the emergency legal regime, they justified the need for state-supervisory regulation of the activities of print publications as one of the ways to neutralize the socio-political situation. The measures taken by the state in relation to censorship during the state of emergency, despite their rigidity, were assessed positively by Russian lawyers, since they made it possible to avoid unnecessary unrest among the population and the dissemination of seditious information. The main methods of scientific research were general scientific methods namely: historical and systematic, as well as special ones: historical-legal and comparative-legal. The author applied a method of reconstruction and interpretation of legal ideas as well. As a result of the study, the author concludes that in the modern conditions in order to govern effectively consistent with the principles of the rule of law, both researchers and authorities should pay attention to the theoretical heritage of domestic political and legal thought and properly analyze the past practice of applying emergency legal regimes, comprehending the effectiveness of the application of the mentioned measures, since this is of great importance for determining the prospects for the development of the state-legal system of Russia, and for determining the optimal model of the state mechanism obeying the principle of legality.

Abstract Late twentieth-century tort theory was dominated by scholars who regarded tort law as primarily a means employed by government to deter anti-social conduct. On this model, tort plaintiffs are cast as private attorneys general whose lawsuits promote safety. Tort theorists today better appreciate that this approach obscures crucial respects in which tort law is private law–law that empowers persons who have been wronged to redress the wrongs done to them. But in practice there is a continued failure to perceive the ways in which the deterrence model has shaped and distorted views of tort law, as evidenced by the terms on which both the ‘right’ and the ‘left’ critique modern mass tort litigation. More troublingly, the problem extends beyond the field of torts. Indeed, we contend that the lawyerly loss of feel for distinctions between public law and private law explains the inability of the United States Supreme Court Justices, in Whole Woman’s Health v. Jackson, to capture why S.B. 8–Texas’s radical anti-abortion statute–really is a private attorney general statute and why, as such, it should be subject to preenforcement constitutional review.

In April 1938 New York's first constitutional convention since 1915 convened in Albany. When it adjourned in late August, one of the amendments slated for a referendum that fall was an “anti-bureaucracy clause,” a provision that would greatly increase the New York courts' oversight of the state's agencies. Although voters rejected it, contemporaries saw the anti-bureaucracy clause as a harbinger of a national campaign against the New Deal. In September 1938 Charles Wyzanski, a former member of the Solicitor General's office, warned Attorney General Homer Cummings that the anti-bureaucracy clause was “the advance signal of an approaching partisan attack on a national scale.” Wyzanski was right: in early 1939 a bill endorsed by the American Bar Association's House of Delegates was introduced in Congress by Representative Francis Walter and Senator Marvel Mills Logan. Just as the New York provision “would have almost certainly destroyed the effectiveness of the state administrative agencies,” the New Dealer Abe Feller warned Cummings's successor, so would the Walter-Logan bill hamstring the federal government. When President Franklin Roosevelt vetoed the bill in December 1940, he declared it part of a national campaign that had begun with the anti-bureaucracy clause.

Many of the new states that emerged or reconstituted themselves after the First World War used declarations of independence or preliminary constitutions, or both, as organic law until the adoption of a permanent constitution. The majority of those documents did not address the civil and political rights of citizens (e.g. Germany, Ireland) or did so very briefly (e.g. Austria, Czechoslovakia, Georgia, Latvia). Estonia stood out by having a whole chapter dedicated to civil rights in its preliminary constitution. The Preliminary Constitution of Estonia (valitsemise ajutine kord) was adopted by the Constituent Assembly (Asutav Kogu) on 4 June 1919, only six weeks after the Assembly first convened on 23 April 1919. The Constituent Assembly was elected and worked on the Preliminary Constitution at the time of the War of Independence between Estonia and Soviet Russia. Strong left-wing sentiment in the country’s society was reflected in the composition of the Assembly: social democrats held 41 seats, the Labour Party (tööerakond) held 30 seats, and Socialist-Revolutionaries (esseerid) held seven seats, together accounting for 65 per cent of the total 120 seats. The centrist People’s Party (rahvaerakond) led by the journalist and renowned politician Jaan Tõnisson had 25 seats, the centre-right Rural League (maaliit) led by another prominent politician and lawyer Konstantin Päts had only seven seats, the Christian People’s Party had five seats, three seats belonged to representatives of the German minority, and one seat went to the Russian minority. Similar proportions were reflected in the 15-member Constitution Committee that was elected on 24 April 1919. The first draft of the Preliminary Constitution, and of the Civil Rights Chapter as part of it, was allegedly prepared by a young legal scholar named Jüri Uluots. Uluots was a member of the Special Committee that was already convened by the Provisional Government in March of 1919 before the election of the Constituent Assembly. The Special Committee was composed of eight lawyers, each of whom was appointed by one of the major political parties. It was assigned the task to provide first drafts of the provisional and permanent constitutions. The Committee fulfilled only the first task. Due to disagreements in the Special Committee, the draft Preliminary Constitution was submitted to the Assembly without the Civil Rights Chapter. The Constituent Assembly processed the Preliminary Constitution Bill very quickly. The Assembly and its committees worked six days a week. It took about three weeks for the Constitution Committee to modify the Bill and submit it to the plenary session of the Assembly on 18 May 1919. The plenary session read the Bill three times and adopted it on 4 June 1919. The Preliminary Constitution entered into force on 9 July 1919 and was in force until 21 December 1920, when Estonia’s first Constitution entered into full force. The Committee spent considerable time on discussing the Civil Rights Chapter. Although concerns were expressed that the Committee was losing time with such discussions and suggestions were made to develop the chapter later as part of the permanent Constitution, the majority of the Committee deemed it important to also address civil rights in the Bill. Uluots, who had been elected to the Assembly as a candidate of the Rural League and was also a member of the Committee, submitted his draft Civil Rights Chapter to the Committee. Four out of eight sections in the Uluots draft found their way into the Chapter. These included equality before the law, civil and political rights and freedoms, and extraordinary restrictions. Sections regarding the right to participate in politics and the duty to obey the law (including military duty and the duty to pay taxes) were rejected at the plenary session, and the section regarding the right to private property was already omitted by the Committee. Also, the Committee preferred the social security provision proposed by the leader of the Socialist-Revolutionary Party, the schoolmaster Hans Kruus, to the one included in the Uluots draft. The Committee added a new provision concerning education and rejected the right to choose occupations and engage in business proposed by a People’s Party member, the military officer Karl Einbund, and a provision entitling citizens to bring criminal charges against corrupt officials proposed by the social democrat, lawyer and journalist Johan Jans. The first section of the Uluots draft declared all citizens equal before the law. Disputes arouse over the second sentence of the provision. Uluots had proposed that all property and other rights relating to social ranks (the privileges of the nobility) should be abolished. The social democrats (Jans, the writer Karl Ast and others) demanded that privileges and titles should be abolished immediately. Their more moderate opponents (Uluots, Tõnisson, Westholm and others) feared that this would create a legal vacuum in property, inheritance and matrimonial rights. The majority of the Assembly supported the more radical approach and declared that there are no privileges and titles relating to ranks in Estonia. The law implementing the abolition was adopted a year later, in June of 1920. The school headmaster Jakob Westholm, a member of the People’s Party, and Villem Ernits, a social democrat, proposed that the Committee should include a provision concerning education. Their original proposal was scaled back by omitting the duration of mandatory elementary education and by deleting the right to free secondary and university education for talented students. The Preliminary Constitution eventually stipulated (§ 5) that education is compulsory for school age children and is free in elementary schools, and that every citizen is entitled to education in his/her mother tongue. The Committee combined civil and political rights, which were originally in two separate provisions in the Uluots draft, into one section (§ 6) stipulating that the inviolability of the person and home, secrecy of correspondence, freedom of conscience, religion, expression, language, press, assembly, association, and movement can only be restricted in accordance with the law. There were no disputes over the provision in the Committee or at the plenary session. The Committee preferred the proposal made by Kruus as the basis for further discussions on social security: “Every citizen will be guaranteed a decent standard of living according to which every citizen will have the right to receive the goods and support necessary for the satisfaction of his/her basic needs before less urgent needs of other citizens are satisfied. For that purpose, citizens must be guaranteed the obtaining of employment, the protection of motherhood and work safety, and necessary state support in the case of youth, old age, work disability and accidents.” While the last part of Kruus’ proposal was similar to Uluots’ draft and the term “decent standard of living” resembled the German menschenwürdiges Dasein (later adopted in Article 151 of the Weimar Constitution), the origin of the middle part of the provision remains unclear. The social security provision was by far the most extensively debated provision of the Chapter. The main issue was the state’s ability to fulfil its promises and whether social security should take the form of direct allowances or mandatory insurance.Views diverged even within the same parliamentary groups. The Committee replaced “will be guaranteed” with the less imperative “must be guaranteed in accordance with the law”. As a compromise, it deleted the middle part guaranteeing satisfaction of basic needs since it was deemed ‘too communist’ for many members. The plenary session supported adding the right to acquire land for cultivation and dwelling in the second sentence of the provision (§ 7) just before the adoption of the Bill. The last section in the Chapter (§ 8) provided that extraordinary restrictions of the rights and freedoms of citizens and the imposition of burdens come into force in the event of the proclamation of a state of emergency on the basis and within the limits of the corresponding laws. In the course of the discussions led by the lawyer and member of the Labour Party, Lui Olesk, the Committee turned the original general limitations clause into an emergency powers clause resembling similar provisions in the Russian Constitution of 1906 (Article 83) and the Austrian Basic Law on the General Rights of Nationals of 1867 (Article 20). Uluots urged the Committee to include protection of private property in the Bill as a safeguard against tyranny. The provision caused long and heated debates on the limits to nationalisation of private property, especially the principle of fair compensation. The provision was rejected by the majority of both the Committee and the plenary session. In anticipation of land reform, the deputies did not want to narrow down legal options for the expropriation of large estates owned mostly by the German nobility. After their defeat on the protection of private property, the right-wing members wished to protect freedom to choose an occupation and engage in business, trade, industry and agriculture. The majority refused again, arguing that during the war, there had been too much profiteering, and speculators do not deserve protection, and also that the government should have free hands to regulate industry. Without any long deliberations, the Committee also rejected the proposal to allow citizens to sue civil servants in criminal courts. Jans defended his proposal by pointing out the high level of corruption among officials and the need to provide the people with a means for self-defence. His opponents argued that Estonia had already set up administrative courts in February of 1919, providing citizens with an avenue for challenging the corrupt practices of officials. Committee and Assembly members also discussed the legal nature of the fundamental rights and freedoms included in the Bill. Some social democrats deemed it important to craft the provisions as guarantees that citizens can enforce against the state (Jans), but the majority deemed the provisions as political guidance for the legislator. Supporters of the latter view were afraid that direct enforceability of the Civil Rights Chapter would saddle the government with an unsurmountable economic burden. The state’s only directly binding obligation was probably the right to free elementary education.

David Cole, a professor at the Georgetown University Law Center, is a brilliantconstitutional attorney and an outstanding advocate of civil liberty. InEnemy Aliens, he articulates the case that Attorney General John Ashcroft’sabridgements of the civil liberties of non-citizens and alleged “enemy combatants”in the name of the war on terrorism is at once part of an old strategyof establishing such constitutionally questionable actions against thosepeople least politically able to defend themselves and, at the same time, thefirst step to expanding such incursions against civil rights into the populationat large.Cole writes with the meticulous care appropriate to a legal mind ofthe first caliber and with a graceful and literate rhetorical style. “The linebetween citizen and foreigner, so natural during wartime,” he writes (p.5), “is not only easy to exploit when restrictive measures are introduced,but also easy to breach when the government later finds it convenient todo so.” Cole writes with authority on facts of which too many Americansare completely ignorant: selective detention and deportation based onreligion or national origin, secret trials (or no trials), prolonged interrogation“under highly coercive, incommunicado conditions ... and withoutaccess to lawyers,” and “indefinite detention on the attorney general’ssay-so” (p. 5).Cole presents the historical precedents that justify his thesis. In 1988,President Ronald Reagan signed a bill apologizing for the appalling detentionof Japanese-Americans during World War II. However, that internmentwas an extension of the Enemy Alien Act of 1798, “driven by nativist fearsof radical French and Irish immigrants” (p.7), but still on the books. The“Palmer Raids” of the early twentieth century, wherein thousands of for ...

The DebateQuestion 1: Various commentators have frequently invoked the importance of moderate Muslims and the role that they can play in fighting extremism in the Muslim world. But it is not clear who is a moderate Muslim. The recent cancellation of Tariq Ramadan’s visa to the United States, the raids on several American Muslim organizations, and the near marginalization of mainstream American Muslims in North America pose the following question: If moderate Muslims are critical to an American victory in the war on terror, then why does the American government frequently take steps that undermine moderate Muslims? Perhaps there is a lack of clarity about who the moderate Muslims are. In your view, who are these moderate Muslims and what are their beliefs and politics? AC: I would like to say from the outset that I am neither a Muslim nor a sociologist. Therefore, my remarks should be taken as those of an interested and sympathetic outsider. I do not believe at all that the American government “undermines” moderate Muslims. The problem is more complicated. Many American officials abhor engagement in religion or the politics of religion. They believe that the American Constitution separates religion and state and does not allow them to make distinctions when it comes to different interpretations of Islam. For some of them, Salafiya Islam is as good as Sufi Islam. Others do not have a sufficient knowledge base to sort out the moderates from the radicals, identify the retrograde fundamentalists, or recognize modernizers who want political Islam to dominate. This is wrong. Radical ideologies have to do more with politics and warfare than religion, and, in some extreme cases, should not enjoy the constitutional protections of freedom of religion or free speech. There is a difference between propagating a faith and disseminating hatred, violence, or murder. The latter is an abuse and exploitation of faith for political ends, and should be treated as such. For example, the racist Aryan Nation churches were prosecuted and bankrupted by American NGOs and the American government. One of the problems is that the American government allows radical Muslims who support terrorism to operate with impunity in the United States and around the world, and does very little to support moderate Muslims, especially in the conflict zones. To me, moderate Muslims are those who do not view the “greater jihad” either as a pillar of faith or as a predominant dimension thereof. A moderate is one who is searching for a dialogue and a compromise with people who adhere to other interpretations of the Qur’an, and with those who are not Muslim. Amoderate Sunni, for example, will not support terror attacks on Shi`ahs or Sufis, or on Christians, Jews, or Hindus. Moderate Muslims respect the right of individuals to disagree, to worship Allah the way they chose, or not to worship – and even not to believe. Amoderate Muslim is one who is willing to bring his or her brother or sister to faith by love and logic, not by mortal threats or force of arms. Amoderate Muslim decries suicide bombings and terrorist “operations,” and abhors those clerics who indoctrinate toward, bless, and support such atrocities. The list of moderate Muslims is too long to give all or even a part of it here. Shaykh Muhammad Hisham Kabbani (chairman of the Islamic Supreme Council of America) and Sheikh Abdul Hadi Palazzi (secretarygeneral of the Rome-based Italian Muslim Association) come to mind. Ayatollah Ali Sistani may be a moderate, but I need to read more of his teachings. As the Wahhabi attacks against the Shi`ah escalate, Shi`i clerics and leaders are beginning to speak up. Examples include Sheikh Agha Jafri, a Westchester-based Pakistani Shi`ah who heads an organization called the Society for Humanity and Islam in America, and Tashbih Sayyed, a California-based Pakistani who serves as president of the Council for Democracy and Tolerance. I admire the bravery of Amina Wadud, a female professor of Islamic studies at Virginia Commonwealth University who led a mixed-gender Friday Islamic prayer service, according to Mona Eltahawy’s op-ed piece in The Washington Post on Friday, March 18, 2005 (“A Prayer Toward Equality”). Another brave woman is the co-founder of the Progressive Muslim Union of America, Sarah Eltantawi. And the whole world is proud of the achievements of Judge Shirin Ebadi, the Iranian human rights lawyer who was awarded the Nobel peace prize in 2003. There is a problem with the first question, however. It contains several assumptions that are debatable, to say the least, if not outright false. First, it assumes that Tariq Ramadan is a “moderate.” Nevertheless, there is a near-consensus that Ramadan, while calling for ijtihad, is a supporter of the Egyptian Ikhwan al-Muslimin [the Muslim Brotherhood] and comes from that tradition [he is the grandson of its founder, Hasan al-Banna]. He also expressed support for Yusuf al-Qaradawi (and all he stands for) on a BBC TVprogram, and is viewed as an anti-Semite. He also rationalizes the murder of children, though apparently that does not preclude the European Social Forum from inviting him to be a member. He and Hasan al-Turabi, the founder of the Islamic state in Sudan, have exchanged compliments. There are numerous reports in the media, quoting intelligence sources and ex-terrorists, that Ramadan associates with the most radical circles, including terrorists. In its decision to ban Ramadan, the United States Department of Homeland Security was guided by a number of issues, some of them reported in the media and others classified. This is sufficient for me to believe that Ramadan may be a security risk who, in the post-9/11 environment, could reasonably be banned from entering the United States.1 Second, the raids on “American Muslim organizations” are, in fact, a part of law enforcement operations. Some of these steps have had to do with investigations of terrorist activities, such as the alleged Libyan conspiracy to assassinate Crown Prince Abdullah of Saudi Arabia. Others focused on American Islamist organizations that were funding the terrorist activities of groups on the State Department’s terrorism watch list, such as Hamas. To say that these criminal investigations are targeting moderate Islam is like saying that investigating pedophile priests undermines freedom of religion in the United States. Finally, American Muslims are hardly marginalized. They enjoy unencumbered religious life and support numerous non-governmental organizations that often take positions highly critical of domestic and foreign policy – something that is often not the case in their countries of origin. There is no job discrimination – some senior Bush Administration officials, such as Elias A. Zerhouni, head of the National Institutes of Health (NIH), are Muslims. American presidents have congratulated Muslims on religious holidays and often invite Muslim clergymen to important state functions, such as the funeral of former president Ronald Reagan.

An interesting question for constitutional lawyers arises around the legality of some of the so-called “independent tribunals” or forums that are established to make quasi-judicial decisions. Sometimes the tribunals are designed to only perform administrative functions and other times they are designed to perform purely judicial functions – perhaps on issues of compensation or to make decisions that resolve disputes. The point of this note is not to examine the legality of any specific tribunal but rather to discuss some general considerations that ought to drive any debate on the legality thereof. It sometimes happens that, for reasons of control, the state envisages creating a tribunal that will be part of the executive arm of government. The consequence of this may be that decisions taken by the tribunal effectively remove the resolution of a dispute referred to that tribunal from the judiciary and place it instead in the hands of the executive. This kind of arrangement immediately raises at least two significant constitutional concerns:(a) First, the separation of powers doctrine, given that the Constitution requires a functional divide between executive and judiciary; and (b) Second, the right of access to a court of law that all people have in terms of section 34 of the Constitution.

Taxpayers and their lawyers frequently express displeasure with tax regulations. Some go further and litigate the regulations' validity. The result of such challenges often depends on the degree of deference that reviewing courts give to the regulations. The degree of judicial deference to administrative decision-making in turn raises questions about the division of labor between courts and agencies. It "implicates constitutional concerns about the role of the courts in a government of separated powers," perhaps most importantly, about the ability of courts to serve "as a balance for the peoples' protection against abuse of power by other branches of government."In recent years, courts facing questions of judicial deference to agency decisions have had to struggle with Chevron U.S.A., Inc. v. National Resources Defense Council, a 1984 Supreme Court decision that has been described as creating a "revolution in administrative law" by giving controlling effect to administrative decisions. This article examines the extent to which Chevron has influenced judicial review of tax regulations. It concludes that, if Chevron has had any effect in this context, it may have been to decrease marginally, rather than increase, deference to Treasury regulations. The article also argues that judicial review of tax regulations provides a model for a revised Chevron.

Introduction In 2017, 250 Indigenous delegates from across the country convened at the National Constitution Convention at Uluru to discuss a strategy towards the implementation of constitutional reform and recognition of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples (Referendum Council). Informed by community consultations arising out of 12 regional dialogues conducted by the government appointed Referendum Council, the resulting Uluru Statement from the Heart was unlike any constitutional reform previously proposed (Appleby & Synot). Within the Statement, the delegation outlined that to build a more equitable and reconciled nation, an enshrined Voice to Parliament was needed. Such a voice would embed Indigenous participation in parliamentary dialogues and debates while facilitating further discussion pertaining to truth telling and negotiating a Treaty between Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples. The reforms proposed are based on the collective input of Indigenous communities that were expressed in good faith during the consultation process. Arising out of a government appointed and funded initiative that directly sought Indigenous perspectives on constitutional reform, the trust and good faith invested by Indigenous people was quickly shut down when the Prime Minster, Malcolm Turnbull, rejected the reforms without parliamentary debate or taking them to the people via a referendum (Wahlquist Indigenous Voice Proposal; Appleby and McKinnon). In this article, we argue that through its dismissal the government treated the Uluru Statement from the Heart as a passing phase or mere “thought bubble” that was envisioned to disappear as quickly as it emerged. The Uluru Statement is a gift to the nation. One that genuinely offers new ways of envisioning and enacting reconciliation through equitable relationships between Indigenous and non-Indigenous populations. Indigenous voices lie at the heart of reconciliation but require constitutional enshrinement to ensure that Indigenous peoples and cultures are represented across all levels of government. Filter Bubbles of Distortion Constitutional change is often spoken of by politicians, its critics, and within the media as something unachievable. For example, in 2017, before even reading the accompanying report, MP Barnaby Joyce (in Fergus) publicly denounced the Uluru Statement as “unwinnable” and not “saleable”. He stated that “if you overreach in politics and ask for something that will not be supported by the Australian people such as another chamber in politics or something that sort of sits above or beside the Senate, that idea just won't fly”. Criticisms such as these are laced with paternalistic rhetoric that suggests its potential defeat at a referendum would be counterproductive and “self-defeating”, meaning that the proposed changes should be rejected for a more digestible version, ultimately saving the movement from itself. While efforts to communicate the necessity of the proposed reforms continues, presumptions that it does not have public support is simply unfounded. The Centre for Governance and Public Policy shows that 71 per cent of the public support constitutional recognition of Indigenous Australians. Furthermore, an online survey conducted by Cox Inall Ridgeway found that the majority of those surveyed supported constitutional reform to curb racism; remove section 25 and references to race; establish an Indigenous Voice to Parliament; and formally recognise Indigenous peoples through a statement of acknowledgment (Referendum Council). In fact, public support for constitutional reform is growing, with Reconciliation Australia’s reconciliation barometer survey showing an increase from 77 per cent in 2018 to 88 per cent in 2020 (Reconciliation Australia). Media – whether news, social, databases, or search engines – undoubtedly shape the lens through which people come to encounter and understand the world. The information a person receives can be the result of what Eli Pariser has described as “filter bubbles”, in which digital algorithms determine what perspectives, outlooks, and sources of information are considered important, and those that are readily accessible. Misinformation towards constitutional reform, such as that commonly circulated within mainstream and social media and propelled by high profile voices, further creates what neuroscientist Don Vaughn calls “reinforcement bubbles” (Rose Gould). This propagates particular views and stunts informed debate. Despite public support, the reforms proposed in the Uluru Statement continue to be distorted within public and political discourses, with the media used as a means to spread misinformation that equates an Indigenous Voice to Parliament to the establishment of a new “third chamber” (Wahlquist ‘Barnaby’; Karp). In a 2018 interview, PM Scott Morrison suggested that advocates and commentators in favour of constitutional reform were engaging in spin by claiming that a Voice did not function as a third chamber (Prime Minister of Australia). Morrison claimed, “people can dress it up any way they like but I think two chambers is enough”. After a decade of consultative work, eight government reports and inquiries, and countless publications and commentaries, the Uluru Statement continues to be played down as if it were a mere thought bubble, a convoluted work in progress that is in need of refinement. In the same interview, Morrison went on to say that the proposal as it stands now is “unworkable”. Throughout the ongoing movement towards constitutional reform, extensive effort has been invested into ensuring that the reforms proposed are achievable and practical. The Uluru Statement from the Heart represents the culmination of decades of work and proposes clear, concise, and relatively minimal constitutional changes that would translate to potentially significant outcomes for Indigenous Australians (Fredericks & Bradfield). International examples demonstrate how such reforms can translate into parliamentary and governing structures. The Treaty of Waitangi (Palmer) for example seeks to inform Māori and Pākehā (non-Maori) relationships in New Zealand/Aotearoa, whilst designated “Māori Seats” ensure Indigenous representation in parliament (Webster & Cheyne). More recently, 17 of 155 seats were reserved for Indigenous delegates as Chile re-writes its own constitution (Bartlett; Reuters). Indigenous communities and its leaders are more than aware of the necessity of working within the realms of possibility and the need to exhibit caution when presenting such reforms to the public. An expert panel on constitutional reform (Dodson 73), before the conception of the Uluru Statement, acknowledged this, stating “any proposal relating to constitutional recognition of the sovereign status of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples would be highly contested by many Australians, and likely to jeopardise broad public support for the Panel’s recommendations”. As outlined in the Joint Select Committee’s final report on Constitutional Recognition relating to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples (Referendum Council), the Voice to parliament would have no veto powers over parliamentary votes or decisions. It operates as a non-binding advisory body that remains external to parliamentary processes. Peak organisations such as the Law Council of Australia (Dolar) reiterate the fact that the proposed reforms are for a voice to Parliament rather than a voice in Parliament. Although not binding, the Voice should not be dismissed as symbolic or something that may be easily circumvented. Its effectiveness lies in its ability to place parliament in a position where they are forced to confront and address Indigenous questions, concerns, opinions, and suggestions within debates before decisions are made. Bursting the ‘Self-Referential Bubble’ Indigenous affairs continue to be one of the few areas where a rhetoric of bipartisan agreement is continuously referenced by both major parties. Disagreement, debate, and conflict is often avoided as governments seek to portray an image of unity, and in doing so, circumvent accusations of turning Indigenous peoples into the subjects of political point scoring. Within parliamentary debates, there is an understandable reservation and discomfort associated with discussions about what is often seen as an Indigenous “other” (Moreton-Robinson) and the policies that a predominantly white government enact over their lives. Yet, it is through rigorous, open, and informed debate that policies may be developed, challenged, and reformed. Although bipartisanship can portray an image of a united front in addressing a so-called “Indigenous problem”, it also stunts the conception of effective and culturally responsive policy. In other words, it often overlooks Indigenous voices. Whilst education and cultural competency plays a significant role within the reconciliation process, the most pressing obstacle is not necessarily non-Indigenous people’s inability to fully comprehend Indigenous lives and socio-cultural understandings. Even within an ideal world where non-Indigenous peoples attain a thorough understanding of Indigenous cultures, they will never truly comprehend what it means to be Indigenous (Fanon; de Sousa Santos). For non-Indigenous peoples, accepting one’s own limitations in fully comprehending Indigenous ontologies – and avoiding filling such gaps with one’s own interpretations and preconceptions – is a necessary component of decolonisation and the movement towards reconciliation (Grosfoguel; Mignolo). As parliament continues to be dominated by non-Indigenous representatives, structural changes are necessary to ensure that Indigenous voices are adequality represented. The structural reforms not only empower Indigenous voices through their inclusion within the parliamentary process but alleviates some of the pressures that arise out of non-Indigenous people having to make decisions in attempts to solve so-called Indigenous “problems”. Government response to constitutional reform, however, is ridden with symbolic piecemeal offerings that equate recognition to a form of acknowledgment without the structural changes necessary to protect and enshrine Indigenous Voices and parliamentary participation. Davis and her colleagues (Davis et al. “The Uluru Statement”) note how the Referendum Council’s recommendations were rejected by the then minister of Indigenous affairs Nigel Scullion on account that it privileged Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander voices. They note that, until the Referendum Council's report, the nation had no real assessment of what communities wanted. Yet by all accounts, the government had spent too much time talking to elites who have regular access to them and purport to speak on the mob's behalf. If he [Scullion] got the sense constitutional symbolism and minimalism was going to fly, then it says a lot about the self-referential bubble in which the Canberra elites live. The Uluru Statement from the Heart stands as testament to Indigenous people’s refusal to be the passive recipients of the decisions of the non-Indigenous political elite. As suggested, “symbolism and minimalism was not going to fly”. Ken Wyatt, Scullion’s replacement, reiterated the importance of co-design, the limitations of government bureaucracy, and the necessity of moving beyond the “Canberra bubble”. Wyatt stated that the Voice is saying clearly that government and the bureaucracy does not know best. It can not be a Canberra-designed approach in the bubble of Canberra. We have to co-design with Aboriginal communities in the same way that we do with state and territory governments and the corporate sector. The Voice would be the mechanism through which Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander interests and perspectives may be strategically placed within parliamentary dialogues. Despite accusations of it operating as a “third chamber”, Indigenous representatives have no interest in functioning in a similar manner to a political party. The language associated with our current parliamentary system demonstrates the constrictive nature of political debate. Ministers are expected to “toe the party line”, “crossing the floor” is presented as an act of defiance, and members must be granted permission to enter a “conscience vote”. An Indigenous Voice to Parliament would be an advisory body that works alongside, but remains external to political ideologies. Their priority is to seek and implement the best outcome for their communities. Negotiations would be fluid, with no floor to cross, whilst a conscience vote would be reflected in every perspective gifted to the parliament. In the 2020 Australia and the World Annual Lecture, Pat Turner described the Voice’s co-design process as convoluted and a continuing example of the government’s neglect to hear and respond to Indigenous peoples’ interests. In the address, Turner points to the Coalition of the Peaks as an exemplar of how co-design negotiations may be facilitated by and through organisations entirely formed and run by Indigenous peoples. The Coalition of the Peaks comprises of fifty Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander community-controlled peak organisations and was established to address concerns relating to closing the gap targets. As Indigenous peak organisations are accountable to their membership and reliant on government funding, some have questioned whether they are appropriate representative bodies; cautioning that they could potentially compromise the Voice as a community-centric body free from political interference. While there is some debate over which Indigenous representatives should facilitate the co-design of a treaty and Makarrata (truth-telling), there remains a unanimous call for a constitutionally enshrined Voice to Parliament that may lead negotiations and secure its place within decision-making processes. Makarrata, Garma, and the Bubbling of New Possibilities An Indigenous Voice to Parliament can be seen as the bubbling spring that provides the source for greater growth and further reform. The Uluru Statement from the Heart calls for a three-staged approach comprising of establishing an Indigenous Voice, followed by Treaty, and then Truth-Telling. This sequence has been criticised by some who prioritise Truth and Treaty as the foundation for reform and reconciliation. Their argument is based on the notion that Indigenous Sovereignty must first be acknowledged in Parliament through an agreement-making process and signing of a Treaty. While the Uluru Statement has never lost sight of treaty, the agreement-making process must begin with the acknowledgment of Indigenous people’s inherent right to participate in the conversation. This very basic and foundational right is yet to be acknowledged within Australia’s constitution. The Uluru Statement sets the Voice as its first priority as the Voice establishes the structural foundation on which the conversation pertaining to treaty may take place. It is through the Voice that a Makarrata Commission can be formed and Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples may “come together after a struggle” – the translation of the word’s Yolngu origins (Gaykamangu; Pearson). Only then may we engage in truth telling and forge new paths towards agreement-making and treaty. This however raises the question as to how a Voice to Parliament may look and what outcomes it aims to achieve. As discussed in the previous section, it is a question that is often distorted by disinformation and conjecture within public, political, and news-media discourses. In order to unpack what a Voice to Parliament may entail, we turn to another Yolngu word, Garma. Garma refers to an epistemic and ontological positioning in which knowledge is attained from a point where differences converge and new insights arise. For Yolngu people, Garma is the place where salt and fresh water intersect within the sea. Fresh and Salt water are the embodiments of two Yolngu clans, the Dhuwa and Yirritja, with Garma referring to the point where the knowledge and laws of each clan come into contact, seeking harmonious balance. When the ebb and flow of the tides are in balance, it causes the water to foam and bubble taking on new form and representing innovative ideas and possibilities. Yolngu embrace this phenomenon as an epistemology that teaches responsibility and obligations towards the care of Country. It acknowledges the autonomy of others and finds a space where all may mutually benefit. When the properties of either water type, or the knowledge belonging a single clan dominates, ecological, social, political, and cosmological balance is overthrown. Raymattja Marika-Munungguritj (5) describes Garma as a dynamic interaction of knowledge traditions. Fresh water from the land, bubbling up in fresh water springs to make waterholes, and salt water from the sea are interacting with each other with the energy of the tide and the energy of the bubbling spring. When the tide is high the water rises to its full. When the tide goes out the water reduces its capacity. In the same way Milngurr ebbs and flows. In this way the Dhuwa and Yirritja sides of Yolngu life work together. And in this way Balanda and Yolngu traditions can work together. There must be balance, if not either one will be stronger and will harm the other. The Ganma Theory is Yirritja, the Milngurr Theory is Dhuwa. Like the current push for constitutional change and its rejection of symbolic reforms, Indigenous peoples have demanded real-action and “not just talk” (Synott “The Uluru statement”). In doing so, they implored that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples be involved in all decision-making processes, for they are most knowledgeable of their community’s needs and the most effective methods of service delivery and policy. Indigenous peoples have repeatedly expressed this mandate, which is also legislated under international law through the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. Coming together after a struggle does not mean that conflict and disagreement between and amongst Indigenous and non-Indigenous communities will cease. In fact, in alignment with political theories such as agonism and pluralism, coming together within a democratic system necessitates a constructive and responsive embrace of different, competing, and in some cases incommensurable views. A Voice to Parliament will operate in a manner where Indigenous perspectives and truths, as well as disagreements, may be included within negotiations and debates (Larkin & Galloway). Governments and non-Indigenous representatives will no longer speak for or on behalf of Indigenous peoples, for an Indigenous body will enact its own autonomous voice. Indigenous input therefore will not be reduced to reactionary responses and calls for reforms after the damage of mismanagement and policy failure has been caused. Indigenous voices will be permanently documented within parliamentary records and governments forced to respond to the agendas that Indigenous peoples set. Collectively, this amounts to greater participation within the democratic process and facilitates a space where “salt water” and the “bubbling springs” of fresh water may meet, mitigating the risk of harm, and bringing forth new possibilities. Conclusion When salt and fresh water combine during Garma, it begins to take on new form, eventually materialising as foam. Appearing as a singular solid object from afar, foam is but a cluster of interlocking bubbles that gain increased stability and equilibrium through sticking together. When a bubble stands alone, or a person remains within a figurative bubble that is isolated from its surroundings and other ways of knowing, doing, and being, its vulnerabilities and insecurities are exposed. Similarly, when one bubble bursts the collective cluster becomes weaker and unstable. The Uluru Statement from the Heart is a vision conceived and presented by Indigenous peoples in good faith. It offers a path forward for not only Indigenous peoples and their future generations but the entire nation (Synott “Constitutional Reform”). It is a gift and an invitation “to walk with us in a movement of the Australian people for a better future”. Through calling for the establishment of an Indigenous Voice to Parliament, a Makarrata Commission, and seeking Truth, Indigenous advocates for constitutional reform are looking to secure their own foothold and self-determination. The Uluru Statement from the Heart is more than a “thought bubble”, for it is the culmination of Indigenous people’s diverse lived experiences, outlooks, perspectives, and priorities. When the delegates met at Uluru in 2017, the thoughts, experiences, memories, and hopes of Indigenous peoples converged in a manner that created a unified front and collectively called for Voice, Treaty, and Truth. Indigenous people will never cease to pursue self-determination and the best outcomes for their peoples and all Australians. As an offering and gift, the Uluru Statement from the Heart provides the structural foundations needed to achieve this. It just requires governments and the wider public to move beyond their own bubbles and avail themselves of different outlooks and new possibilities. References Anderson, Pat, Megan Davis, and Noel Pearson. “Don’t Silence Our Voice, Minister: Uluru Leaders Condemn Backward Step.” Sydney Morning Herald 20 Oct. 2017. <https://www.smh.com.au/national/don-t-silence-our-voice-minister-uluru-leaders-condemn-backward-step-20191020-p532h0.html>. Appleby, Gabrielle, and Megan Davis. “The Uluru Statement and the Promises of Truth.” Australian Historical Studies 49.4 (2018): 501–9. Appleby, Gabrielle, and Gemma Mckinnon. “Indigenous Recognition: The Uluru Statement.” LSJ: Law Society of NSW Journal 37.36 (2017): 36-39. 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Preface In the last twelve years of following copyright developments, I have witnessed an accelerating growth in the agitation over its application and increasing cries for reform. This was triggered by a mounting corporate hysteria for strengthening copyright which seems to mask other anxieties and other issues of bad faith beside the one at hand. This is in contrast with the more reasonable stance of the U.S. government in the 1980s when Congress refused to regulate video rentals and the Courts refused to cite the video recorder for ‘contributory infringement.’ In the 1990s, the Republican-controlled Congress passed several pieces of legislation extending copyright and punishing reverse engineering. Congressional giveaways and corporate shrillness has inspired a progressive movement to defend the intellectual ‘commons.’ The reality is that intellectual property is not owned by intellectuals, and so people are realising that further extensions of copyright no longer benefits the sciences and useful arts. Developments in copyright are driven by the challenges of new technologies of communication. This is a problem for the law, which does not like surprises and certainly proceeds by analogising new situations to old ones in order to build continuity. Case law (which is law that is developed by judges’ decisions and interpretations) proceeds by precedent. Yet old technologies are not the accurate precedents for new technology and this is particularly the situation today. The new technologies have a particular impact on the situation since they change not just one variable in the earlier balance of copyright, but all the variables. While the courts and the corporations have concentrated on the one variable of easy reproduction of content, we should also pay attention to how the new technologies have changed the very balance between the so-called ‘real world’ and cultural expression. The material world is now composed to a significant extent by cultural expression. We walk through physical landscapes dominated by billboards and other totems of the marketplace, while our mentalscapes are filled with trademarks and other commodity bits. This was not the case as copyright law developed; it is the case now, and the various underpinnings of copyright law have become embarrassingly ineffective in this new world. Edelman Bernard Edelman pushes back to find the moment of embarrassment. He finds it in photography. As Paul Hirst points out, ‘[Edelman’s title] Le Droit saisi par la photographie puns on the law being seized or caught by photography, surprised or caught out by it. Photography, a technical innovation developing independently of law, contradicts the existing formulations of property right in representations of things’ (Hirst 1-2). Prior to photography, representation inherently had stamps of personality that allowed such representation (painting, drawing, engraving et alia) to be easily and significantly distinguished from that part of the material world it was representing, as well as from other artistic representations (even of the same referent). The earliest French legal pronouncements on photography were reluctant to grant it copyright protection, precisely because it was thought to have no personality and to be a mechanical copy of nature. When the court did extend copyright protection to photography and admitted its personality, it was faced with how to distinguish it from the natural. The camera could no longer be interpreting as transparently reproducing the real. Edelman calls this the subjectivisation of the machine. The camera can no longer be both a transparent reproducer of the real; it has been found always to invest the real with the personality of its subject (the photographer). This has resulted in a number of ad hoc decisions to prevent ‘over-appropriation’ of the real. Anglo-American versus French Law Anglo-American writing about copyright has never wasted much time on subjectivisation of the machine. The basis of British copyright was pragmatic and economic to begin with, having originated with the Tudors’ desire to encourage printing by granting monopoly rights to printers, and to control and censor printing. The relocation of copyright ownership from printer to author in the 18th century was also an economically driven consideration reflecting the new spirit of competitive capitalism. Certainly the language of the U.S. Constitution that authorised the federal prerogative in setting copyright law was very pragmatic in its emphasis on promoting the progress of science and the ‘useful’ arts (Article 1 Section 8). The French tradition, which is somewhat paralleled by the German and those of other continental nations, was born out of a more courtly regard for the rights of genius. Although France recognised that works ‘made for hire’ were owned by the employer, it vested certain inalienable moral privileges in the real person of the artist. This legal doctrine is known as droit d’auteur. (see Ginsburg) Idea/Expression Yet the American tradition is not totally pragmatic. The balance between copyright and the First Amendment commitment to an absolute freedom of speech calls for a certain degree of abstraction. It was Thomas Jefferson who cautioned about the chilling effect copyright law might have with the spread of ideas. Fortunately in written language it was rather easy to work out that the way to protect ideas from property claims was to distinguish between the expression, which can be copyrighted, and the idea, which cannot. Siva Vaidhyanathan (109-15) goes over Judge Learned Hand’s development of the test to distinguish the idea from the expression in the 1920s and 1930s as particularly instructive for striking the balance. In Nichols v. Universal (1929), Hand develops the theme of ‘patterns of increasing generality’ as more incident is left out. At some point the abstraction is too great to be protected, since it now is more in the realm of idea then of particular expression. (45 F.2d 120) But Edelman’s work poses the question whether this works, as we move from machines of writing to machines of visual reproduction. Doesn’t Apply to Mechanical Mimetic Reproduction Photographs can be taken of the imaginary world and indeed the subjectivisation model holds that every photograph is determined by the imagination of the author. But it is commonsensical that photographs begin as traces of the material world. This is not analogous to the written word. The structural nature of language removes the written word from a direct relationship with its physical referent. Indeed, the entire linguistic turn in post-war philosophy is premised on the lack of any transparent or even determined relationship between language and things. Even in pre-war jurisprudence it was this lack of coincidence that allowed the easy split of the idea from its expression. As the expression floats above the idea, the word floats above the physical. Vincent Porter argues that in contrast to language, visual and audio recordings do not have this split, they do not float above the physical. He noted sound/image recordings have presented a problem in that they are speech acts without a language system, or in a distinction borrowed from Saussure ‘a series of paroles without a langue.’ (Porter 12) After all does a photograph fit into a grammar of images? Are there photographs that are ‘patterns of increasing generality?’ Where is the photograph that is the same idea as another photograph without being the same photograph? Is there a photograph that can do the same work as the word ‘mother?’ No. Every photograph will be of a particular mother of a particular age and particular ethnic group and the same difficulty applies even if we photograph a group of mothers or edit a montage of mothers. This has the effect of making the idea the same as the expression. If you protect one you have protected the other. At this point I was not certain how decisive an intervention these concepts could make in the current copyright ferment. Certainly the most exciting argument was the one mounted at the Berkman Institute at Harvard by several lawyers and argued before the Supreme Court by Lawrence Lessig in Eldred v. Ashcroft (2003). This presented the argument that the government had strayed from the original Constitutional mandate to allow exclusive rights only for a limited time. But as I read Lessig’s Free Culture and as I re-read Edelman, it strikes me that the idea/expression test does not adequately help the First Amendment rights of technologies of mimetic reproduction (film, audio recordings). It is that these technologies allow reproductions to easily re-enter the material world. When these reproductions do re-enter they will naturally become part of the domain of creative expression. Our artists must be allowed to freely comment on the world in which we live and the world in which we live is now visually and aurally full of copyrighted material. This image came to mind forcefully when Lessig explained the difficulties of documentarians when they film their subjects watching TV and then have to edit out the TV image rather than deal with the risk of being sued for infringement (Aufderheide and Jaszi 95-8). This image also comes to mind when reading of farmers who are not allowed to harvest their seed because they come from patented plants. But I will defer to patent philosophers on that apparent travesty of natural rights. I wish to stay focused on the argument that is the corollary of Edelman’s subjectivisation of the camera. The camera records the physical world and in turn that recording enters that world. This is to say that the genius of copyright is in the literary domain because written language never re-enters the material world. When copyright was extended beyond the literary, policy makers should have noticed that earlier tests were no longer capable of maintaining balance between our divine right to express our lives and the practical right to own our own expressions (for a limited time). The new test is almost already present in the law: it is the protection of parody from copyright infringement violation. The courts recognise that parody positions the original expression as an artifact of the world in order to comment on it. If only the policy makers could extend that view to documentarians and others who film the world and include in their film the physical fact of other videos being displayed in the world. Just as in parody they ought to consider the intent of the video makers is to comment on the original, not to plagiarise it. References Aufderheide, P., and P. Jaszi. Untold Stories: Creative Consequences of the Rights Clearance Culture for Documentary Filmmakers. 2004. 25 April 2005 http://www.centerforsocialmedia.org/rock/index.htm>. Edelman, B. Ownership of the Image: Elements for a Marxist Theory of Law. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1979. Eldred v. Ashcroft, Attorney General. United States Supreme Court decision, 15 January 2003. http://www.supremecourtus.gov/opinions/02pdf/01-618.pdf>. Ginsburg, J. C. “A Tale of Two Copyrights: Literary Property in Revolutionary France and America.” Tulane Law Review 64.5 (1990): 991-1032. Hirst, P. Q. “Introduction.” In Bernard Edelman, Ownership of the Image: Elements for a Marxist Theory of Law. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1979. Lessig, L. Free Culture. 2004. 8 April 2005 http://free-culture.org/get-it>. Porter, V. “Copyright: The New Protectionism.” InterMedia 17.1 (1989): 10-7. Vaidhyanathan, S. Copyrights and Copywrongs: The Rise of Intellectual Property and How It Threatens Creativity. New York: NYU Press, 2001. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Wasser, Frederick. "When Did They Copyright the World Without Us Noticing?." M/C Journal 8.3 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0507/05-wasser.php>. APA Style Wasser, F. (Jul. 2005) "When Did They Copyright the World Without Us Noticing?," M/C Journal, 8(3). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0507/05-wasser.php>.

Introduction How do we measure intimacy? What are its impacts on our social, political and personal lives? Can we claim a politics to our intimate lives that escapes the normative confines of archaic institutions, while making social justice claims for relationship recognition? Negotiating some of these disparate questions requires us to think more broadly in contemporary public debates on equality and relationship recognition. Specifically, by outlining the impacts of the popular "gay marriage" debate, this paper examines the impacts of queer theory in association with public policy and community lobbying for relationship equality. Much of the debate remains polarised: eliminating discrimination is counterposed to religious or reproductive narratives that suggest such recognition undermines the value of the "natural" heterosexual family. Introducing queer theory into advocacy that oscillates between rights and reproduction problematises indexing intimacy against normative ideas of monogamy and family. While the arguments circulated by academics, lawyers, politicians and activists have disparate political and ethical impacts, when taken together, they continue to define marriage as a public regulation of intimacy and citizenship. Citizenship, measured in democratic participation and choice, however, can only be realised through reflexive politics that value difference. Encouraging critical dialogue across disparate areas of the marriage equality debate will have a significant impact on how we make ethical claims for recognising intimacy. (Re)defining Marriage In legislative terms, marriage remains the most fundamental means through which the relationship between citizenship and intimacy is crystallised in Australia. For example, in 2004 the Federal Liberal Government in Australia passed a legislative amendment to the Marriage Act 1961 and expressly defined marriage as a union between a man and a woman. By issuing a public legislative amendment, the Government intended to privilege monogamous (in this case understood as heterosexual) intimacy by precluding same-sex or polygamous marriage. Such an exercise had rhetorical rather than legal significance, as common law principles had previously defined the scope of marriage in gender specific terms for decades (Graycar and Millbank 41). Marriage as an institution, however, is not a universal or a-historical discourse limited to legal or political constructs. Socialist feminist critiques of marriage in the 1950s conceptualised the legal and gender specific constructs in marriage as a patriarchal contract designed to regulate female bodies (Hannam 146). However, Angela McRobbie notes that within a post-feminist context, these historical realities of gendered subjugation, reproduction or domesticity have been "disarticulated" (26). Marriage has become a more democratic and self-reflexive expression of intimacy for women. David Shumway elaborates this idea and argues that this shift has emerged in a context of "social solidarity" within a consumer environment of social fragmentation (23). What this implies is that marriage now evokes a range of cultural choices, consumer practices and affective trends that are incommensurable to a singular legal or historical term of reference. Debating the Politics of Intimacy and Citizenship In order to reflect on this shifting relationship between choice, citizenship and marriage as a concept, it is necessary to highlight that marriage extends beyond private articulations of love. It is a ritualised performance of heterosexual individual (or coupled) citizenship as it entrenches economic and civil rights and responsibilities. The private becomes public. Current neo-liberal approaches to same-sex marriage focus on these symbolic and economic questions of how recognising intimacy is tied to equality. In a legal and political context, marriage is defined in s5 Marriage Act as "the union between a man and a woman to the exclusion of all others, voluntarily entered into for life." While the Act does not imbue marriage with religious or procreative significance, such a gender dichotomous definition prevents same-sex and gender diverse partners from entering into marriage. For Morris Kaplan, this is a problem because "full equality for lesbian and gay citizens requires access to the legal and social recognition of our intimate associations" (201). Advocates and activists define the quest for equal citizenship by engaging with current religious dogma that situates marriage within a field of reproduction, whereby same-sex marriage is seen to rupture the traditional rubric of monogamous kinship and the biological processes of "gender complementarity" (Australian Christian Lobby 1). Liberal equality arguments reject such conservative assertions on the basis that desire, sexuality and intimacy are innate features of human existence and hence always already implicated in public spheres (Kaplan 202). Thus, legal visibility or state recognition becomes crucial to sustaining practices of intimacy. Problematising the broader social impact of a civil rights approach through the perspective of queer theory, the private/public distinctions that delineate citizenship and intimacy become more difficult to negotiate. Equality and queer theory arguments on same-sex marriage are difficult to reconcile, primarily because they signify the different psychic and cultural investments in the monogamous couple. Butler asserts that idealisations of the couple in legal discourse relates to norms surrounding community, family and nationhood (Undoing 116). This structured circulation of sexual norms reifies the hetero-normative forms of relationships that ought to be recognised (and are desired) by the state. Butler also interrogates this logic of marriage, as a heterosexual norm, and suggests it has the capacity to confine rather than liberate subjects (Undoing 118-20). The author's argument relies upon Michel Foucault's notion of power and subjection, where the subject is not an autonomous individual (as conceived in neo liberal discourses) but a site of disciplined discursive production (Trouble 63). Butler positions the heterosexuality of marriage as a "cultural and symbolic foundation" that renders forms of kinship, monogamy, parenting and community intelligible (Undoing 118). In this sense, marriage can be a problematic articulation of state interests, particularly in terms of perpetuating domesticity, economic mobility and the heterosexual family. As former Australian Prime Minister John Howard opines: Marriage is … one of the bedrock institutions of our society … marriage, as we understand it in our society, is about children … providing for the survival of the species. (qtd. in Wade) Howard's politicisation of marriage suggests that it remains crucial to the preservation of the nuclear family. In doing so, the statement also exemplifies homophobic anxieties towards non-normative kinship relations "outside the family". The Prime Ministers' words characterise marriage as a framework which privileges hegemonic ideas of monogamy, biological reproduction and gender dichotomy. Butler responds to these homophobic terms by alluding to the discursive function of a "heterosexual matrix" which codes and produces dichotomous sexes, genders and (hetero)sexual desires (Trouble 36). By refusing to accept the binary neo-liberal discourse in which one is either for or against gay marriage, Butler asserts that by prioritising marriage, the individual accepts the discursive terms of recognition and legitimacy in subjectifying what counts as love (Undoing 115). What this author's argument implies is that by recuperating marital norms, the individual is not liberated, but rather participates in the discursive "trap" and succumbs to the terms of a heterosexual matrix (Trouble 56). In contradistinction to Howard's political rhetoric, engaging with Foucault's broader theoretical work on sexuality and friendship can influence how we frame the possibilities of intimacy beyond parochial narratives of conjugal relationships. Foucault emphasises that countercultural intimacies rely on desires that are relegated to the margins of mainstream (hetero)sexual culture. For example, the transformational aesthetics in practices such as sadomasochism or queer polyamorous relationships exist due to certain prohibitions in respect to sex (Foucault, History (1) 38, and "Sex" 169). Foucault notes how forms of resistance that transgress mainstream norms produce new experiences of pleasure. Being "queer" (though Foucault does not use this word) becomes identified with new modes of living, rather than a static identity (Essential 138). Extending Foucault, Butler argues that positioning queer intimacies within a field of state recognition risks normalising relationships in terms of heterosexual norms whilst foreclosing the possibilities of new modes of affection. Jasbir Puar argues that queer subjects continue to feature on the peripheries of moral and legal citizenship when their practices of intimacy fail to conform to the socio-political dyadic ideal of matrimony, fidelity and reproduction (22-28). Puar and Butler's reluctance to embrace marriage becomes clearer through an examination of the obiter dicta in the recent American jurisprudence where the proscription on same-sex marriage was overturned in California: To the extent proponents seek to encourage a norm that sexual activity occur within marriage to ensure that reproduction occur within stable households, Proposition 8 discourages that norm because it requires some sexual activity and child-bearing and child-rearing to occur outside marriage. (Perry vs Schwarzenegger 128) By connecting the discourse of matrimony and sex with citizenship, the court reifies the value of marriage as an institution of the family, which should be extended to same-sex couples. Therefore, by locating the family in reproductive heterosexual terms, the court forecloses other modes of recognition or rights for those who are in non-monogamous relationships or choose not to reproduce. The legal reasoning in the case evinces the ways in which intimate citizenship or legitimate kinship is understood in highly parochial terms. As Kane Race elaborates, the suturing of domesticity and nationhood, with the rhetoric that "reproduction occur within stable households", frames heterosexual nuclear bonds as the means to legitimate sexual relations (98). By privileging a familial kinship aesthetic to marriage, the state implicitly disregards recognising the value of intimacy in non-nuclear communities or families (Race 100). Australia, however, unlike most foreign nations, has a dual model of relationship recognition. De facto relationships are virtually indistinguishable from marriage in terms of the rights and entitlements couples are able to access. Very recently, the amendments made by the Same-Sex Relationships (Equal Treatment in Commonwealth Laws - General Reform) Act 2008 (Cth) has ensured same-sex couples have been included under Federal definitions of de facto relationships, thereby granting same-sex couples the same material rights and entitlements as heterosexual married couples. While comprehensive de facto recognition operates uniquely in Australia, it is still necessary to question the impact of jurisprudence that considers only marriage provides the legitimate structure for raising children. As Laurent Berlant suggests, those who seek alternative "love plots" are denied the legal and cultural spaces to realise them ("Love" 479). Berlant's critique emphasises how current "progressive" legal approaches to same-sex relationships rely on a monogamous (heterosexual) trajectory of the "love plot" which marginalises those who are in divorced, single, polyamorous or multi-parent situations. For example, in the National Year of Action, a series of marriage equality rallies held across Australia over 2010, non-conjugal forms of intimacy were inadvertently sidelined in order to make a claim for relationship recognition. In a letter to the Sydney Star Observer, a reader laments: As a gay man, I cannot understand why gay people would want to engage in a heterosexual ritual called marriage … Why do gay couples want to buy into this ridiculous notion is beyond belief. The laws need to be changed so that gays are treated equal under the law, but this is not to be confused with marriage as these are two separate issues... (Michael 2) Marriage marks a privileged position of citizenship and consumption, to which all other gay and lesbian rights claims are tangential. Moreover, as this letter to the Sydney Star Observer implies, by claiming sexual citizenship through the rubric of marriage, discussions about other campaigns for legislative equality are effectively foreclosed. Melissa Gregg expands on such a problematic, noting that the legal responses to equality reiterate a normative relationship between sexuality and power, where only couples that subscribe to dyadic, marriage-like relationships are offered entitlements by the state (4). Correspondingly, much of the public activism around marriage equality in Australia seeks to achieve its impact for equality (reforming the Marriage Act) by positioning intimacy in terms of state legitimacy. Butler and Warner argue that when speaking of legitimacy a relation to what is legitimate is implied. Lisa Bower corroborates this, asserting "legal discourse creates norms which universalise particular modes of living…while suppressing other practices and identities" (267). What Butler's and Bower's arguments reveal is that legitimacy is obtained through the extension of marriage to homosexual couples. For example, Andrew Barr, the current Labor Party Education Minister in the Australian Capital Territory (ACT), noted that "saying no to civil unions is to say that some relationships are more legitimate than others" (quoted in "Legal Ceremonies"). Ironically, such a statement privileges civil unions by rendering them as the normative basis on which to grant legal recognition. Elizabeth Povinelli argues the performance of dyadic intimacy becomes the means to assert legal and social sovereignty (112). Therefore, as Jenni Millbank warns, marriage, or even distinctive forms of civil unions, if taken alone, can entrench inequalities for those who choose not to participate in these forms of recognition (8). Grassroots mobilisation and political lobbying strategies around marriage equality activism can have the unintentional impact, however, of obscuring peripheral forms of intimacy and subsequently repudiating those who contest the movement towards marriage. Warner argues that those who choose to marry derive pride from their monogamous commitment and "family" oriented practice, a privilege afforded through marital citizenship (82). Conversely, individuals and couples who deviate from the "normal" (read: socially palatable) intimate citizen, such as promiscuous or polyamorous subjects, are rendered shameful or pitiful. This political discourse illustrates that there is a strong impetus in the marriage equality movement to legitimate "homosexual love" because it mimics the norms of monogamy, stability, continuity and family by only seeking to substitute the sex of the "other" partner. Thus, civil rights discourse maintains the privileged political economy of marriage as it involves reproduction (even if it is not biological), mainstream social roles and monogamous sex. By defining social membership and future life in terms of a heterosexual life-narrative, same-sex couples become wedded to the idea of matrimony as the basis for sustainable intimacy and citizenship (Berlant and Warner 557). Warner is critical of recuperating discourses that privilege marriage as the ideal form of intimacy. This is particularly concerning when diverse erotic and intimate communities, which are irreducible to normative forms of citizenship, are subject to erasure. Que(e)rying the Future of Ethics and Politics By connecting liberal equality arguments with Butler and Warner's work on queer ethics, there is hesitation towards privileging marriage as the ultimate form of intimacy. Moreover, Butler stresses the importance of a transformative practice of queer intimacy: It is crucial…that we maintain a critical and transformative relation to the norms that govern what will not count as intelligible and recognisable alliance and kinship. (Undoing 117) Here the author attempts to negotiate the complex terrain of queer citizenship and ethics. On one hand, it is necessary to be made visible in order to engage in political activism and be afforded rights within a state discourse. Simultaneously, on the other hand, there is a need to transform the prevailing hetero-normative rhetoric of romantic love in order to prevent pathologising bodies or rendering certain forms of intimacy as aberrant or deviant because, as Warner notes, they do not conform to our perception of what we understand to be normal or morally desirable. Foucault's work on the aesthetics of the self offers a possible transformational practice which avoids the risks Warner and Butler mention because it eludes the "normative determinations" of moralities and publics, whilst engaging in an "ethical stylization" (qtd. in Race 144). Whilst Foucault's work does not explicitly address the question of marriage, his work on friendship gestures to the significance of affective bonds. Queer kinship has the potential to produce new ethics, where bodies do not become subjects of desires, but rather act as agents of pleasure. Negotiating the intersection between active citizenship and transformative intimacy requires rethinking the politics of recognition and normalisation. Warner is quite ambivalent as to the potential of appropriating marriage for gays and lesbians, despite the historical dynamism of marriage. Rather than acting as a progressive mechanism for rights, it is an institution that operates by refusing to recognise other relations (Warner 129). However, as Alexander Duttmann notes, recognition is more complex and a paradoxical means of relation and identification. It involves a process in which the majority neutralises the difference of the (minority) Other in order to assimilate it (27). However, in the process of recognition, the Other which is validated, then transforms the position of the majority, by altering the terms by which recognition is granted. Marriage no longer simply confers recognition for heterosexual couples to engage in reproduction (Secomb 133). While some queer couples may subscribe to a monogamous relationship structure, these relationships necessarily trouble conservative politics. The lamentations of the Australian Christian Lobby regarding the "fundamental (anatomical) gender complementarity" of same-sex marriage reflect this by recognising the broader social transformation that will occur (and already does with many heterosexual marriages) by displacing the association between marriage, procreation and parenting (5). Correspondingly, Foucault's work assists in broadening the debate on relationship recognition by transforming our understanding of choice and ethics in terms of "queer friendship." He describes it as a practice that resists the normative public distinction between romantic and platonic affection and produces new aesthetics for sexual and non-sexual intimacy (Foucault, Essential 170). Linnell Secomb argues that this "double potential" alluded to in Foucault and Duttman's work, has the capacity to neutralise difference as Warner fears (133). However, it can also transform dominant narratives of sexual citizenship, as enabling marriage equality will impact on how we imagine traditional heterosexual or patriarchal "plots" to intimacy (Berlant, "Intimacy" 286). Conclusion Making an informed impact into public debates on marriage equality requires charting the locus of sexuality, intimacy and citizenship. Negotiating academic discourses, social and community activism, with broader institutions and norms presents political and social challenges when thinking about the sorts of intimacy that should be recognised by the state. The civil right to marriage, irrespective of the sex or gender of one's partner, reflects a crucial shift towards important democratic participation of non-heterosexual citizens. However, it is important to note that the value of such intimacy cannot be indexed against a single measure of legal reform. While Butler and Warner present considered indictments on the normalisation of queer intimacy through marriage, such arguments do not account for the impacts of que(e)rying cultural norms and practices through social and political change. Marriage is not a singular or a-historical construction reducible to state recognition. Moreover, in a secular democracy, marriage should be one of many forms of diverse relationship recognition open to same-sex and gender diverse couples. In order to expand the impact of social and legal claims for recognition, it is productive to rethink the complex nature of recognition, ritual and aesthetics within marriage. 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