Добірка наукової літератури з теми "Sailing ships Australia"

A brief review is given of the papers presented at the 7th International Conference on the Stability of Ships and Ocean Vehicles, held 7–12 February 2000 in Launceston, Australia. The review covers the following stability-related subjects: human factors, stability standards, operational aspects, influence of water on deck, damage stability, stability in following and quartering seas, stability of high-speed craft and sailing yachts, nonlinear dynamics of ships, test procedures, roll stabilization and cargo shift, waves and the environment, rolling in beam seas and stability of particular types of ships.

In her contribution to our Special Issue in 2003, Estelle Jorgensen called for ongoing conversations between university lecturers and school teachers, to avoid the danger of music educators, historians and theorists being ‘like ships sailing past each other in the night’. We believe that one of the functions of BJME is to develop such collegial relationships and thus help to establish a strong music education community at all levels, both nationally and internationally. Certainly this present issue reflects a range of contexts from nursery schools to universities, with papers from researchers in Australia, England, France, Italy and Scotland.

Brisbane's World Expo '88 changed people's lives, and the memories of Expo '88 are revered more than 20 years on from the event itself. We are very much looking forward to celebrating the anniversary of this very special event with the people of Brisbane, and recreating the unique atmosphere and sense of wonder that Expo '88 created in Brisbane. (Malcolm Snow, South Bank Corporation CEO, in Hoey 2008a)World Expo ‘88, also widely known as ‘Expo '88’ and locally simply as ‘Expo’, was held in Brisbane from April to October 1988, as a key event of the national Bicentennial celebrations commemorating the 200 years of European settlement of Australia. Other major components of the Bicentennial year – such as the symbolic re-enactment of the voyage of the First Fleet that culminated in the Parade of Tall Ships sailing into Sydney Harbour on Australia Day – together with other significant national events such as the 1956 and 2000 Olympic Games, have generated historically focused interest, which has been manifested and disseminated in the usual way in articles, books and museum exhibitions. Brisbane's World Expo '88, however, appears to be one of the few Australian so-called ‘signature’ events that has also generated its own long-lived series of commemorative memorials and festivals.

Multiple providers have spent $75 billion building upstream CSG to LNG production facilities in Australia during the past decade. Heretofore, their focus has been on completing construction on budget and on time to first gas sailing in tankers. Large project delivery-focused organisations were created at great cost. Meanwhile, during this construction period, oil prices (to which LNG prices are tied) have fallen by ~50%. The challenge now for CSG to LNG providers is to transition from a one-time project delivery focus to an ongoing, efficient operation focus—at lower than expected costs. This case study describes how one CSG to LNG provider is successfully transitioning from project delivery to operations excellence by: Optimising gas flow from wells to ships—transitioning from a vertical focus on one-time construction of a chain of facilities (wells, compression, pipelines, liquefaction) to a horizontal focus on continuous operation of a production chain. Maximising uptime and optimising performance— recognising that a significant percentage of thousands of wells/kilometres of pipelines, dozens of field compression stations, and numerous support (power and water treatment) facilities will have problems at any one time; operations and maintenance crews and equipment must be continuously targeted at highest priorities. Maximising internal and contractor labour productivity—realising that the largest variable cost is operations and maintenance labour, LNG producers must drive productivity by systematically maximising tool time, as well as being continually focused on the right wells/facilities at the right times. Across such vast geographies, optimised planning and scheduling is essential.

The history of Indonesian labour activism as seen from an Australian perspective is best known in the context of World War Two when the presence of Asian seamen in Australia sparked a flourish of internationalism and anticolonial protest under the umbrella organization of the Seamen's Union of Australia. But the story of Malay maritime worker protest has a deeper history, reaching back to the early years of the pearl-shelling and trepang industries when Malay workers from the Dutch East Indies were brought to work off the northern Australian coast. Before the advent of a seamen's union, these workers faced harsh working conditions and had little recourse to legal forms of protest. Their refusal to accept poor conditions was met with reprisals which included physical punishment, gaol sentences and detention on board ships without shore leave. There is evidence that in the late nineteenth century the most common form of protest was mutiny, with Malay crews seizing vessels and sailing to the Dutch East Indies. By the twentieth century there was more scope for negotiation, with increasing support from Australian unions and improved government regulation. The milder forms of more recent protests and the willingness of Indonesians to take their cue from Australian unionists has somewhat obscured the nature of early Malay protest. This paper takes a longer view of worker activism in order to highlight the deep roots of maritime protest in the Indian Ocean region.

In an interview, which was originally published in 1975 in Dialectiques, French philosopher Luce Irigaray was asked about her claim that there is a ‘feminine’ style of writing which can be traced in language. She replied that women’s discourse needed to be listened for outside of the readymade grids that we have already inherited, that a new way of listening and understanding language was needed: In other words, the issue is not one of elaborating a new theory of which women would be the subject or the object, but of jamming the theoretical machinery itself, of suspending its pretension to the production of a truth and of a meaning that are excessively univocal. Which presupposes that women do not aspire simply to be men’s equals in knowledge. (Irigaray 78) She goes on to suggest that a female writing, or écriture féminine, is a style marked by disruptive excess, which goes off, as she does, in all directions, which is reminiscent of female sexuality, a style that ‘resists and explodes every firmly established form, figure, idea or concept’ (79). While écriture féminine was part of the feminist debates of the 1980s, this was also a style in which Irigaray wrote and was deeply appealing to me in the early 1990s as a doctoral student. I was bravely reading ‘French’ theory, French feminist theory, in a remote regional university in tropical Queensland in the far north of Australia, in the humidity and the sweat and the saltwater. I read by the university swimming pool, so add chlorine to that. Reading French feminist theory in the tropics was like greasing the machinery, gearing my brain into some intellectual engagement that counteracted the lethargy of the body in heat. Jamming the machinery has remained an appealing phrase partially because of its disruptive tenancy but also because of a pervasive image that never ceases to haunt me: of jam all over the machinery. The machine I imagine being jammed is a printing press, a massive machine that generates words, texts, theory. It’s a dirty black metal giant. The jam is strawberry: pink and glassy with bits of pieces held in suspension amid the transparent spread, remnants of another organic lifetime. The stickiness of the jam on the cold steal is appealing, and the idea of food bringing down a machine is somehow deeply satisfying. In the end, the quotidian rules; everyday domesticity overwhelms modernist industrialisation. Jam in the machinery shifts the focus from the noisy, dirty, gruesome conditions of the workers who risk catching a digit or an arm in the conveyer and being dragged along after it, to a more subversive agent: jam. If the former imagines the soft flesh of corporeality gobbled up by the greedy capitalist machine in a struggle for control, then the latter values the fleshy red substance that insinuates itself between the mettle of work culture. On reflection, though, the machinery of my imagination is archaic, industrial, modernist. Printing presses are the stuff of museums now that there is digital technology. It is actually difficult to insert jam between binaries, somewhere between the keyboard and the printer, the zeros and ones. Irigaray’s metaphoric jam comes into its own with digitisation, so that its tempting literal image is wiped clean (deleted) in favour of a radical metaphoricity that comes into jamming the theoretical machinery itself, the machinations of capitalism, consumerism, patriarchy and colonisation. Only last week I was teaching students about culture jamming, about consumers-as-producers and citizen-journalists as the tools of production multiply and become affordable, and desirable. There’s no need to make jam, when jam is a verb. Neither subject nor object, jam escapes the grammatical grids and oozes over the side of language. But the effectiveness of the verb is haunted by its affect as noun. It’s slippery, jam, and delicious. On toast on a rainy day. Toast and marmalade for tea, sailing ships upon the sea. ‘It’s comfort food’, says the domestic goddess, and we believe her while we’re sweating under the fans, going to the little radiator-toaster to warm our bread. Buying jam at school fetes and markets reminds us of a time when there was ‘time’. It’s an excess of domesticity, a gift of bottled loving kindness. It is reading French feminists in the tropics: slippery, delicious, a bit of a treat. And sticky. The machinery Irigaray refers to in the heyday of theory is the very stuff of representation, writing, knowledge and univocal truths. It is the upstanding and unbending patriarchal academy, embodied in the voice of the male professor pronouncing and professing, or the psychoanalyst seeing himself re/produced in theory. To stage his downfall, Irigaray performs a more slippery trick, a counter-strategy sourced in the bodies of women: l’écriture féminine. Writing is produced through the lived experience of being socially positioned as (among other things) women, so those effects will be inscribed in what is written, she argues. Writing as a woman, rather than through the narrative machinery of patriarchy, is a style: a disruption to conventional reading and representational practices that resists the steely authority of linearity and logic arguing instead from subjective and historical specificity. It’s the jam of theory, having to locate yourself in your writing. Which is all very well, as a young white woman in Australia imagining philosophy in France (I buy croissants and brew coffee and play Grace Jones when I’m writing). In Vicennes at the Ecole Freudienne de Paris, though, Irigaray is spectacularly ejected after her second doctoral dissertation, Speculum of the Other Woman. She rejects the theories of the Father, upsets the dominance of the phallus in psychoanalysis, in writing. She wipes jam all over herself, over their texts. And Jacques Lacan is not amused. She jammed up that opportunity, but made others. Irigaray prefers to idolise fluids rather than firmness, movement from one slippery form to another in writing and in theory: strawberry to jam, jam to machinery, woman to theory. Dreaming of making such a rebellious impact in the shimmering hot world around me, I take up Irigaray’s call to arms and write myself into my text, proliferating voices and lips, sexualities and discursive grids. But how excessive can a girl be writing a PhD? Playing around the edges, opening up gaps and pockets for extracurricular discourse, and modelling narrative on doubleness if not duplicity rather than phallic univocality takes a lot of energy. It gets sticky. The weather, the thesis, the whole jam thing. I’m in a pickle when I want to be in a jam. Sticky strawberry jam, like the blossoming mouths of prickly roses rimmed with glossed lips, like the voices of feminism in the 1980s. In Western Australia where I now live, the acacia trees blossom twice a year, in autumn and spring. There’s an abundant species called Acacia acuminata that’s known as ‘raspberry jam’ because of the smell when the wood is freshly cut. Qué? References Luce Irigaray. This Sex Which Is Not One. Trans. Catherine Porter with Carolyn Burke. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1985. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Bartlett, Alison. "‘Irigaray Makes Jam’." M/C Journal 9.6 (2006). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0612/07-bartlett.php>. APA Style Bartlett, A. (Dec. 2006) "‘Irigaray Makes Jam’," M/C Journal, 9(6). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0612/07-bartlett.php>.

1909–22: Turkey exterminated over 1.5 million of its ethnically Armenian, and hundreds of thousands of its ethnically Greek and Assyrian, citizens. Most died in 1915. This period of decimation in now widely called the Armenian Genocide (Balakian 179-80).1910: Siamanto first published his poem, The Dance: “The corpses were piled as trees, / and from the springs, from the streams and the road, / the blood was a stubborn murmur.” When springs run red, when the dead are stacked tree-high, when “everything that could happen has already happened,” then time is nothing: “there is no future [and] the language of civilised humanity is not our language” (Nichanian 142).2007: In my novel The Edge of the World a ceramic bowl, luminous blue, recurs as motif. Imagine you are tiny: the bowl is broken but you don’t remember breaking it. You’re awash with tears. You sit on the floor, gather shards but, no matter how you try, you can’t fix it. Imagine, now, that the bowl is the sky, huge and upturned above your head. You have always known, through every wash of your blood, that life is shockingly precarious. Silence—between heartbeats, between the words your parents speak—tells you: something inside you is terribly wrong; home is not home but there is no other home; you “can never be fully grounded in a community which does not share or empathise with the experience of persecution” (Wajnryb 130). This is the stubborn murmur of your body.Because time is nothing, this essay is fragmented, non-linear. Its main characters: my mother, grandmother (Hovsanna), grandfather (Benyamin), some of my mother’s older siblings (Krikor, Maree, Hovsep, Arusiak), and Mustafa Kemal Ataturk (Ottoman military officer, Young Turk leader, first president of Turkey). 1915–2013: Turkey invests much energy in genocide denial, minimisation and deflection of responsibility. 24 April 2012: Barack Obama refers to the Medz Yeghern (Great Calamity). The use of this term is decried as appeasement, privileging political alliance with Turkey over human rights. 2003: Between Genocide and Catastrophe, letters between Armenian-American theorist David Kazanjian and Armenian-French theorist Marc Nichanian, contest the naming of the “event” (126). Nichanian says those who call it the Genocide are:repeating every day, everywhere, in all places, the original denial of the Catastrophe. But this is part of the catastrophic structure of the survivor. By using the word “Genocide”, we survivors are only repeating […] the denial of the loss. We probably cannot help it. We are doing what the executioner wanted us to do […] we claim all over the world that we have been “genocided;” we relentlessly need to prove our own death. We are still in the claws of the executioner. We still belong to the logic of the executioner. (127)1992: In Revolution and Genocide, historian Robert Melson identifies the Armenian Genocide as “total” because it was public policy intended to exterminate a large fraction of Armenian society, “including the families of its members, and the destruction of its social and cultural identity in most or all aspects” (26).1986: Boyajian and Grigorian assert that the Genocide “is still operative” because, without full acknowledgement, “the ghosts won’t go away” (qtd. in Hovannisian 183). They rise up from earth, silence, water, dreams: Armenian literature, Armenian homes haunted by them. 2013: My heart pounds: Medz Yeghern, Aksor (Exile), Anashmaneli (Indefinable), Darakrutiun (Deportation), Chart (Massacre), Brnagaght (Forced migration), Aghed (Catastrophe), Genocide. I am awash. Time is nothing.1909–15: Mustafa Kemal Ataturk was both a serving Ottoman officer and a leader of the revolutionary Young Turks. He led Ottoman troops in the repulsion of the Allied invasion before dawn on 25 April at Gallipoli and other sites. Many troops died in a series of battles that eventually saw the Ottomans triumph. Out of this was born one of Australia’s founding myths: Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZACs), courageous in the face of certain defeat. They are commemorated yearly on 25 April, ANZAC Day. To question this myth is to risk being labelled traitor.1919–23: Ataturk began a nationalist revolution against the occupying Allies, the nascent neighbouring Republic of Armenia, and others. The Allies withdrew two years later. Ataturk was installed as unofficial leader, becoming President in 1923. 1920–1922: The last waves of the Genocide. 2007: Robert Manne published A Turkish Tale: Gallipoli and the Armenian Genocide, calling for a recontextualisation of the cultural view of the Gallipoli landings in light of the concurrence of the Armenian Genocide, which had taken place just over the rise, had been witnessed by many military personnel and widely reported by international media at the time. Armenian networks across Australia were abuzz. There were media discussions. I listened, stared out of my office window at the horizon, imagined Armenian communities in Sydney and Melbourne. Did they feel like me—like they were holding their breath?Then it all went quiet. Manne wrote: “It is a wonderful thing when, at the end of warfare, hatred dies. But I struggle to understand why Gallipoli and the Armenian Genocide continue to exist for Australians in parallel moral universes.” 1992: I bought an old house to make a home for me and my two small children. The rooms were large, the ceilings high, and behind it was a jacaranda with a sturdy tree house built high up in its fork. One of my mother’s Armenian friends kindly offered to help with repairs. He and my mother would spend Saturdays with us, working, looking after the kids. Mum would stay the night; her friend would go home. But one night he took a sleeping bag up the ladder to the tree house, saying it reminded him of growing up in Lebanon. The following morning he was subdued; I suspect there were not as many mosquitoes in Lebanon as we had in our garden. But at dinner the previous night he had been in high spirits. The conversation had turned, as always, to politics. He and my mother had argued about Turkey and Russia, Britain’s role in the development of the Middle East conflict, the USA’s roughshod foreign policy and its effect on the world—and, of course, the Armenian Genocide, and the killingof Turkish governmental representatives by Armenians, in Australia and across the world, during the 1980s. He had intimated he knew the attackers and had materially supported them. But surely it was the beer talking. Later, when I asked my mother, she looked at me with round eyes and shrugged, uncharacteristically silent. 2002: Greek-American diva Diamanda Galas performed Dexifiones: Will and Testament at the Perth Concert Hall, her operatic work for “the forgotten victims of the Armenian and Anatolian Greek Genocide” (Galas).Her voice is so powerful it alters me.1925: My grandmother, Hovsanna, and my grandfather, Benyamin, had twice been separated in the Genocide (1915 and 1922) and twice reunited. But in early 1925, she had buried him, once a prosperous businessman, in a swamp. Armenians were not permitted burial in cemeteries. Once they had lived together in a big house with their dozen children; now there were only three with her. Maree, half-mad and 18 years old, and quiet Hovsep, aged seven,walked. Then five-year-old aunt, Arusiak—small, hungry, tired—had been carried by Hovsanna for months. They were walking from Cilicia to Jerusalem and its Armenian Quarter. Someone had said they had seen Krikor, her eldest son, there. Hovsanna was pregnant for the last time. Together the four reached Aleppo in Syria, found a Christian orphanage for girls, and Hovsanna, her pregnancy near its end, could carry Arusiak no further. She left her, promising to return. Hovsanna’s pains began in Beirut’s busy streets. She found privacy in the only place she could, under a house, crawled in. Whenever my mother spoke of her birth she described it like this: I was born under a stranger’s house like a dog.1975: My friend and I travelled to Albany by bus. After six hours we were looking down York Street, between Mount Clarence and Mount Melville, and beyond to Princess Royal Harbour, sapphire blue, and against which the town’s prosperous life—its shopfronts, hotels, cars, tourists, historic buildings—played out. It took away my breath: the deep harbour, whaling history, fishing boats. Rain and sun and scudding cloud; cliffs and swells; rocky points and the white curves of bays. It was from Albany that young Western Australian men, volunteers for World War I, embarked on ships for the Middle East, Gallipoli, sailing out of Princess Royal Harbour.1985: The Australian Government announced that Turkey had agreed to have the site of the 1915 Gallipoli landings renamed Anzac Cove. Commentators and politicians acknowledged it as historic praised Turkey for her generosity, expressed satisfaction that, 70 years on, former foes were able to embrace the shared human experience of war. We were justifiably proud of ourselves.2005: Turkey made her own requests. The entrance to Albany’s Princess Royal Harbour was renamed Ataturk Channel. A large bronze statue of Ataturk was erected on the headland overlooking the Harbour entrance. 24 April 1915: In the town of Hasan Beyli, in Cilicia, southwest Turkey, my great grandfather, a successful and respected businessman in his 50s, was asleep in his bed beside his wife. He had been born in that house, as had his father, grandfather, and all his children. His brother, my great uncle, had bought the house next door as a young man, brought his bride home to it, lived there ever since; between the two households there had been one child after another. All the cousins grew up together. My great grandfather and great uncle had gone to work that morning, despite their wives’ concerns, but had returned home early. The women had been relieved to see them. They made coffee, talked. Everyone had heard the rumours. Enemy ships were massing off the coast. 1978: The second time in Albany was my honeymoon. We had driven into the Goldfields then headed south. Such distance, such beautiful strangeness: red earth, red rocks; scant forests of low trees, thin arms outstretched; the dry, pale, flat land of Norseman. Shimmering heat. Then the big, wild coast.On our second morning—a cool, overcast day—we took our handline to a jetty. The ocean was mercury; a line of cormorants settled and bobbed. Suddenly fish bit; we reeled them in. I leaned over the jetty’s side, looked down into the deep. The water was clear and undisturbed save the twirling of a pike that looked like it had reversed gravity and was shooting straight up to me. Its scales flashed silver as itbroke the surface.1982: How could I concentrate on splicing a film with this story in my head? Besides the desk, the only other furniture in the editing suite was a whiteboard. I took a marker and divided the board into three columns for the three generations: my grandparents, Hovsanna and Benyamin; my mother; someone like me. There was a lot in the first column, some in the second, nothing in the third. I stared at the blankness of my then-young life.A teacher came in to check my editing. I tried to explain what I had been doing. “I think,” he said, stony-faced, “that should be your third film, not your first.”When he had gone I stared at the reels of film, the white board blankness, the wall. It took 25 years to find the form, the words to say it: a novel not a film, prose not pictures.2007: Ten minutes before the launch of The Edge of the World, the venue was empty. I made myself busy, told myself: what do you expect? Your research has shown, over and over, this is a story about which few know or very much care, an inconvenient, unfashionable story; it is perfectly in keeping that no-one will come. When I stepped onto the rostrum to speak, there were so many people that they crowded the doorway, spilled onto the pavement. “I want to thank my mother,” I said, “who, pretending to do her homework, listened instead to the story her mother told other Armenian survivor-women, kept that story for 50 years, and then passed it on to me.” 2013: There is a section of The Edge of the World I needed to find because it had really happened and, when it happened, I knew, there in my living room, that Boyajian and Grigorian (183) were right about the Armenian Genocide being “still operative.” But I knew even more than that: I knew that the Diaspora triggered by genocide is both rescue and weapon, the new life in this host nation both sanctuary and betrayal. I picked up a copy, paced, flicked, followed my nose, found it:On 25 April, the day after Genocide memorial-day, I am watching television. The Prime Minister stands at the ANZAC memorial in western Turkey and delivers a poetic and moving speech. My eyes fill with tears, and I moan a little and cover them. In his speech he talks about the heroism of the Turkish soldiers in their defence of their homeland, about the extent of their losses – sixty thousand men. I glance at my son. He raises his eyebrows at me. I lose count of how many times Kemal Ataturk is mentioned as the Father of Modern Turkey. I think of my grandmother and grandfather, and all my baby aunts and uncles […] I curl over like a mollusc; the ache in my chest draws me in. I feel small and very tired; I feel like I need to wash.Is it true that if we repeat something often enough and loud enough it becomes the truth? The Prime Minister quotes Kemal Ataturk: the ANZACS who died and are buried on that western coast are deemed ‘sons of Turkey’. My son turns my grandfather’s, my mother’s, my eyes to me and says, It is amazing they can be so friendly after we attacked them.I draw up my knees to my chest, lay my head and arms down. My limbs feel weak and useless. My throat hurts. I look at my Australian son with his Armenian face (325-6).24 April 1915 cont: There had been trouble all my great grandfather’s life: pogrom here, massacre there. But this land was accustomed to colonisers: the Mongols, the Persians, latterly the Ottomans. They invade, conquer, rise, fall; Armenians stay. This had been Armenian homeland for thousands of years.No-one masses ships off a coast unless planning an invasion. So be it. These Europeans could not be worse than the Ottomans. That night, were my great grandfather and great uncle awoken by the pounding at each door, or by the horses and gendarmes’ boots? They were seized, each family herded at gunpoint into its garden, and made to watch. Hanging is slow. There could be no mistakes. The gendarmes used the stoutest branches, stayed until they were sure the men weredead. This happened to hundreds of prominent Armenian men all over Turkey that night.Before dawn, the Allies made landfall.Each year those lost in the Genocide are remembered on 24 April, the day before ANZAC Day.1969: I asked my mother if she had any brothers and sisters. She froze, her hands in the sink. I stared at her, then slipped from the room.1915: The Ottoman government decreed: all Armenians were to surrender their documents and report to authorities. Able-bodied men were taken away, my grandfather among them. Women and children, the elderly and disabled, were told to prepare to walk to a safe camp where they would stay for the duration of the war. They would be accompanied by armed soldiers for their protection. They were permitted to take with them what they could carry (Bryce 1916).It began immediately, pretty young women and children first. There are so many ways to kill. Months later, a few dazed, starved survivors stumbled into the Syrian desert, were driven into lakes, or herded into churches and set alight.Most husbands and fathers were never seen again. 2003: I arrived early at my son’s school, parked in the shade, opened The Silence: How Tragedy Shapes Talk, and began to read. Soon I was annotating furiously. Ruth Wajnryb writes of “growing up among innocent peers in an innocent landscape” and also that the notion of “freedom of speech” in Australia “seems often, to derive from that innocent landscape where reside people who have no personal scars or who have little relevant historical knowledge” (141).1984: I travelled to Vancouver, Canada, and knocked on Arusiak’s door. Afraid she would not agree to meet me, I hadn’t told her I was coming. She was welcoming and gracious. This was my first experience of extended family and I felt loved in a new and important way, a way I had read about, had observed in my friends, had longed for. One afternoon she said, “You know our mother left me in an orphanage…When I saw her again, it was too late. I didn’t know who they were, what a family was. I felt nothing.” “Yes, I know,” I replied, my heart full and hurting. The next morning, over breakfast, she quietly asked me to leave. 1926: When my mother was a baby, her 18 year-old sister, Maree, tried to drown her in the sea. My mother clearly recalled Maree’s face had been disfigured by a sword. Hovsanna, would ask my mother to forgive Maree’s constant abuse and bad behaviour, saying, “She is only half a person.”1930: Someone gave Hovsanna the money to travel to Aleppo and reclaim Arusiak, by then 10 years old. My mother was intrigued by the appearance of this sister but Arusiak was watchful and withdrawn. When she finally did speak to my then five-year-old mother, she hissed: “Why did she leave me behind and keep you?”Soon after Arusiak appeared, Maree, “only half a person,” disappeared. My mother was happy about that.1935: At 15, Arusiak found a live-in job and left. My mother was 10 years old; her brother Hovsep, who cared for her before and after school every day while their mother worked, and always had, was seventeen. She adored him. He had just finished high school and was going to study medicine. One day he fell ill. He died within a week.1980: My mother told me she never saw her mother laugh or, once Hovsep died, in anything other than black. Two or three times before Hovsep died, she saw her smile a little, and twice she heard her singing when she thought she was alone: “A very sad song,” my mother would say, “that made me cry.”1942: At seventeen, my mother had been working as a live-in nanny for three years. Every week on her only half-day off she had caught the bus home. But now Hovsanna was in hospital, so my mother had been visiting her there. One day her employer told her she must go to the hospital immediately. She ran. Hovsanna was lying alone and very still. Something wasn’t right. My mother searched the hospital corridors but found no-one. She picked up a phone. When someone answered she told them to send help. Then she ran all the way home, grabbed Arusiak’s photograph and ran all the way back. She laid it on her mother’s chest, said, “It’s all right, Mama, Arusiak’s here.”1976: My mother said she didn’t like my boyfriend; I was not to go out with him. She said she never disobeyed her own mother because she really loved her mother. I went out with my boyfriend. When I came home, my belongings were on the front porch. The door was bolted. I was seventeen.2003: I read Wajnryb who identifies violent eruptions of anger and frozen silences as some of the behaviours consistent in families with a genocidal history (126). 1970: My father had been dead over a year. My brothers and I were, all under 12, made too much noise. My mother picked up the phone: she can’t stand us, she screamed; she will call an orphanage to take us away. We begged.I fled to my room. I couldn’t sit down. I couldn’t keep still. I paced, pressed my face into a corner; shook and cried, knowing (because she had always told us so) that she didn’t make idle threats, knowing that this was what I had sometimes glimpsed on her face when she looked at us.2012: The Internet reveals images of Ataturk’s bronze statue overlooking Princess Royal Harbour. Of course, it’s outsized, imposing. The inscription on its plinth reads: "Peace at Home/ Peace in the World." He wears a suit, looks like a scholar, is moving towards us, a scroll in his hand. The look in his eyes is all intensity. Something distant has arrested him – a receding or re-emerging vision. Perhaps a murmur that builds, subsides, builds again. (Medz Yeghern, Aksor, Aghed, Genocide). And what is written on that scroll?2013: My partner suggested we go to Albany, escape Perth’s brutal summer. I tried to explain why it’s impossible. There is no memorial in Albany, or anywhere else in Western Australia, to the 1.5 million victims of the Armenian Genocide. ReferencesAkcam, Taner. “The Politics of Genocide.” Online Video Clip. YouTube. YouTube, 11 Dec. 2011. 6 Mar. 2013 ‹http://www.youtube.com/watchv=OxAJaaw81eU&noredirect=1genocide›.Balakian, Peter. The Burning Tigress: The Armenian Genocide. London: William Heinemann, 2004.BBC. “Kemal Ataturk (1881–1938).” BBC History. 2013. 6 Mar. 2013 ‹http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/historic_figures/ataturk_kemal.shtml›.Boyajian, Levon, and Haigaz Grigorian. “Psychological Sequelae of the Armenian Genocide.”The Armenian Genocide in Perspective. Ed. Richard Hovannisian. New Brunswick: Transaction, 1987. 177–85.Bryce, Viscount. The Treatment of the Armenians in the Ottoman Empire. London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1916.Galas, Diamanda. Program Notes. Dexifiones: Will and Testament. Perth Concert Hall, Perth, Australia. 2001.———.“Dexifiones: Will and Testament FULL Live Lisboa 2001 Part 1.” Online Video Clip. YouTube, 5 Nov. 2011. Web. 6 Mar. 2013 ‹http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mvVnYbxWArM›.Kazanjian, David, and Marc Nichanian. “Between Genocide and Catastrophe.” Loss. Eds. David Eng and David Kazanjian. Los Angeles: U of California P, 2003. 125–47.Manne, Robert. “A Turkish Tale: Gallipoli and the Armenian Genocide.” The Monthly Feb. 2007. 6 Mar. 2013 ‹http://www.themonthly.com.au/turkish-tale-gallipoli-and-armenian-genocide-robert-manne-459›.Matiossian, Vartan. “When Dictionaries Are Left Unopened: How ‘Medz Yeghern’ Turned into a Terminology of Denial.” The Armenian Weekly 27 Nov. 2012. 6 Mar. 2013 ‹http://www.armenianweekly.com/2012/11/27/when-dictionaries-are-left-unopened-how-medz-yeghern-turned-into-terminology-of-denial/›.Melson, Robert. Revolution and Genocide. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1996.Nicholson, Brendan. “ASIO Detected Bomb Plot by Armenian Terrorists.” The Australian 2 Jan. 2012. 6 Mar. 2013 ‹http://www.theaustralian.com.au/in-depth/cabinet-papers/asio-detected-bomb-plot-by-armenian-terrorists/story-fnbkqb54-1226234411154›.“President Obama Issues Statement on Armenian Remembrance Day.” The Armenian Weekly 24 Apr. 2012. 5 Mar. 2013 ‹http://www.armenianweekly.com/2012/04/24/president-obama-issues-statement-on-armenian-remembrance-day/›.Polain, Marcella. The Edge of the World. Fremantle: Fremantle Press, 2007.Siamanto. “The Dance.” Trans. Peter Balakian and Nervart Yaghlian. Adonias Dalgas Memorial Page 5 Mar. 2013 ‹http://www.terezakis.com/dalgas.html›.Stockings, Craig. “Let’s Have a Truce in the Battle of the Anzac Myth.” The Australian 25 Apr. 2012. 6 Mar. 2013 ‹http://www.theaustralian.com.au/national-affairs/opinion/lets-have-a-truce-in-the-battle-of-the-anzac-myth/story-e6frgd0x-1226337486382›.Wajnryb, Ruth. The Silence: How Tragedy Shapes Talk. Crows Nest: Allen and Unwin, 2001.

Thesis (M.Mar.Archaeol.) -- Flinders University, Department of Archaeology, 2006.
"A thesis submitted in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Maritime Archaeology, Department of Archaeology, Flinders University". "May 2006". Includes bibliographical references (leaves 101-105). System requirements for remote version: Adobe Acrobat Reader to view PDF file.

This chapter examines the key roles played by Australia’s offshore prison islands in the British Empire. It begins with the arrival of the First Fleet at Botany Bay in 1788, and ends in 1868, when the last Antipodean colony, Western Australia, stopped accepting convicts. It builds on the volume’s focus on islands as integral to the imperial project, but foregrounds the specific role played by prison labourers. Paradoxically, islands embodied both isolation and connection, prison islands especially so. The British government strategically deployed isolation, by exiling populations resistant to frontier expansion to islands, and connection, by exploiting convict labour on islands to tap into imperial networks of communication and commerce. The Australian colonies were Britain’s most remote imperial possessions, with sailing ships journeying several months to reach their shores. The position of islands enabled them to act as prisons, trading outposts, Aboriginal ‘reserves’, hubs of infrastructure, and natural laboratories.

Abstract Prior to sustained contact with Europeans, Aboriginal people in parts of northern Australia—coastal regions of the Kimberley, Arnhem Land, and the Gulf of Carpentaria—interacted with people from South Sulawesi and other parts of eastern Indonesia, especially Makassar. The visitors (often called ‘Macassans’) arrived on Australian shores annually in sailing ships (praus) to harvest trepang (also called sea cucumber, bêche-de-mer) and to exchange things and ideas with Aboriginal people. Within Australia, evidence for these interactions can be seen in Macassan trepang processing sites (often associated with introduced tamarind trees); the inclusion of Indonesian borrow words in local Aboriginal languages; paintings of praus in Aboriginal rock art sites; and Aboriginal archaeological deposits containing Asian pottery, metal, and glass. More broadly, the histories of these interactions are found within oral traditions from either side of the Arafura and Timor Seas. Archaeology has begun to show that Aboriginal people selectively engaged in exchange with Indonesian people, using traded items to sustain customary exchange and new maritime technology to transform how they engaged with coast and sea. Macassan trepanging visits to northern Australia date from the eighteenth century to c. CE 1907, though some archaeological and oral historical evidence suggests that initial encounters occurred before CE 1664. Yet key questions remain regarding the nature of Macassan-Aboriginal interactions, and, fundamentally, the chronology of cross-cultural contact in northern Australia.

The human population of the earth took the whole of its existence until 1800 to build to 1 billion. By 2000 it had exceeded 6 billion, more than doubling in the twentieth century alone. In 1800, the time taken to navigate the globe by sailing ship was about a year. Today, no two cities served by commercial aircraft are more than a couple of days apart. Since this is less than most disease incubation times, infected people can travel undetected—a concern noted from the early days of commercial air travel. Within developed countries, the rate of individual circulation (in terms of average distances travelled) has increased 1,000-fold in the last 200 years. While the processes of population growth and geographical churn have been at work for the whole of human history, it is in the last two centuries that the momentum of change has gathered increasing pace. As described in Section 2.1, McMichael (2004) recognizes four separate stages. (i) Early human settlements from c.5,000 to c.10,000 years ago enabled enzootic pathogens to enter Homo sapiens populations. Some of these encounters led to the emergence of many of today’s textbook infections: influenza, tuberculosis, cholera, typhoid, smallpox, measles, malaria, and many others. (ii) Eurasian military and commercial contacts c.1,500 to c.3,000 years ago with swapping of dominant infections between the Mediterranean and Chinese civilizations. As described in Section 2.2, the plagues and pestilences of classical Greece and Rome date from this period. (iii) European exploration and imperialism from c.1500 with the transoceanic spread of often lethal infectious diseases. The impact on the Americas, on Australasia, and on remote island populations is well known; ships’ crews and passengers were the devastating vectors. (iv) The fourth great transition is today’s globalization, acting through demographic change and accelerating levels of contacts between the different parts of the world to facilitate disease emergence, re-emergence, and spatial transfer. Global warming, the destabilization of environments, the unparalleled movement of peoples rapidly across the globe through air transport, are all part of an evolving host–microbe relationship (cf. Section 1.3.1).

In May of 2020 a container ship sailing along the eastern coast of Australia encountered a storm and lost a number of containers. The loss of containers was not unusual, about 1400 containers are lost each year on average. What was unusual was the large number of containers on this one ship. Coincidentally, MARIN releasted a report in September 2020 investigating similar losses of large number of containers from container ships going to northern Europe. Then, between October 2020 and February 2021, seven ships on a northern Pacific route from China to the USA loss between 3,000 and 4,000 containers and had a large number of container stacks roll over. This paper is a independent generic assessment of a marine forensic investigation taking a systems engineering approach to look at the broad spectrum of possible causes of container stacks rolling over and lossing containers. The paper discusses weather effects on the stability and motions of the container ships and the securing of the cargo containers. The paper goes into detail about the underlying issue of the container stacks and their heights such that at decreasingly smaller angles of heel or rll, the line of action of the weight of the higher containers passes outside the base of the stack thereby causing a overturning moment on the corners of the containers.

In this paper the development of the 12 Metre Class Yacht "Australia II" is described as it took place at the Netherlands Ship Model Basin in Wageningen, The Netherlands, under the direction of Ben Lexcen, An account is given of the adopted design process and the technology involved. Particular attention is given to the adopted towing tank procedures and calculation techniques for predicting performance, A description is also given of the computer monitoring system used to evaluate "Australia II's" performance while sail-tuning and racing in Australia and Newport in 1982 and 1983.