Currently, not everybody values the freedom to choose his or her representative. Lots of people don’t know what democracy means and large numbers of young adults don’t even bother to vote.
It’s been reported that a quarter of young Australians say they would support a non-democracy in some circumstances. If true, this is an astonishing figure.
The young might contemplate this for a microsecond maybe, till reality bit them on the bum: after all, as writer Martin Flanagan has observed, the only alternative to elected leaders is non-elected ones, followed closely by secret police and torture cells. And then, to save their skins, they’d join the long queues outside the consulate of a country like Australia, where functional democracy was still intact.
…
Throughout these years I spent way more time with my staff, in both the ministerial and electorate offices, than with Doris and our daughters, whose warp-speed journey into womanhood I very much wanted to be around for. In effect, your staff becomes a second family: my chief of staff Denise Spinks, a tungsten-tough former union official, a great ally in a blue; deputy Kate Pasterfield, cheerful and smart, who had been with me from the beginning and was adept at managing our way through the thicket of tricky Labor politics while keeping an eye on the big picture; and senior press secretary Lisa Miller, who had a sharp eye for detail and, having worked at The Daily Telegraph, could knock out snappy one-liners when needed. These three women made up the senior squad.
From early on I wasn’t confident about some of the advice the prime minister was receiving, particularly after she hired a former adviser to British prime minister Tony Blair, John McTernan, to run strategy. At the beginning of the term, the suggestion was that the government simply note, rather than endorse, the Gonski report when it was handed down and, according to McTernan, we should avoid mentioning ‘fairness’ when discussing the new funding model. We ended up marking time for months as a result, but by the time the campaign for a needs-based system was in full swing I simply ignored the second dopey instruction—the new scheme was specifically intended to be fairer, and wasn’t fairness a core Labor value?—and the debate lifted.
The other plank of the strategy was to delay a commitment to the funding model so as to draw out the Coalition states and the federal Opposition, in order to go to an election fighting for the new school funding system.
The problem with this approach was that extending the negotiations almost indefinitely gave space to those who wanted to sabotage the reform. It also gave rise to the impression that the government wasn’t fully committed and risked jeopardising the effort if Rudd should take the leadership again and abandon the model, as he had, in private conversations, suggested could happen. And what if we lost government before the new arrangements had been sufficiently bedded down?
At one stage, in an attempt to mollify the non-government school sector, the prime minister promised that every private school would get more money. After months of bridge-building with the AEU, the suggestion that non-government schools would do better than government schools had the capacity to set off the public school lobby and escalate a debate that could easily spin out of control.
Fortunately, Tony Abbott came to the rescue by responding that existing funding to government schools was an ‘injustice’, a sobering insight into his perspective, and in the furore that followed Julia’s comments were forgotten.
…
One of the interesting duties for ministers is to represent the prime minister at functions or ceremonies when the PM has other commitments.
On one occasion I was asked to greet the Dalai Lama, a regular visitor to Australia. We shared a cup of tea in a holding room at Sydney airport, and I asked him to reflect on the long campaign for recognition of Tibet and where it might end up.
He paused and then remarked with a doleful smile that, in his experience, when dealing with China there should be no appeasement, that China only respected strength.
I had some understanding of what he meant. Once, while still environment minister, I’d met with Madame Chen Zhili, vice chair of the standing committee of the 11th National People’s Congress, a senior position in the most important nation in our region.
The meeting—ostensibly to discuss climate change policy—was arranged at short notice and as our group—my two advisers, with a couple of officials from the Department of Foreign Affairs—entered the room, we were faced with at least seventeen Chinese officials, with the undersecretary resolutely planted in the centre. It is commonplace for some countries to bring substantial delegations to Parliament House, and granted there was a big difference in population—1.3 billion to 23 million—but the disparity here was so marked it had all the hallmarks of a serious loss of face.
I whispered over my shoulder to no one in particular to get back-up, and courtesy of a couple of text messages three more staff members, looking a little perplexed, rushed in to join us. It was now seventeen to eight.
It was pure symbolism, of course, but this gelled with the feeling I had about China’s growing confidence: the Central Kingdom was throwing its weight around in the region, and Australia was very much within reach. (Since then, China’s actions in whitewashing the massacre in Tiananmen Square, frustrating the transition to democracy for Hong Kong, laying claim to areas outside its sovereign borders and placing infrastructure and personnel to secure those claims have escalated. These actions urgently require a careful but firm response.)
I started the meeting with a formal welcome and then went on to reprise the Australian government’s position on climate change.
‘We will decide how best to reduce greenhouse gas emissions, Mr Minister,’ Chen Zhili said evenly, and after a few more pleasantries, the discussion ended.
The negotiations to agree on the school funding model lasted a good deal longer. It was a painfully long process, as all sides took advantage of the government’s declining popularity to try to improve their position or, in the case of some Coalition state governments, press for political advantage. The media coverage was extensive, with The Australian focusing closely and seriously on the reforms. Journalists, including Justine Ferrari from The Oz and Anna Patty from The Sydney Morning Herald, were so thoroughly backgrounded, they knew the intimate details of who’d said what to whom and when, and so could highlight the pressure points in what were meant to be confidential negotiations.
The marathon process saw burn-out start to take its toll on the department’s modelling team and the taskforce, and in my office, where ridiculously long working hours were already taken for granted, people were stretched to breaking point.
Notwithstanding this, in the eye of the public, education remained one of the few pluses for the Gillard government. Once Gonski’s report had been made public at the beginning of 2011, I was convinced there was no turning back; the train had left the station and from then on we just persevered.
During the internal battles over costings with the departments of Prime Minister and Cabinet, Treasury and Finance, David Gonski had remarked to me, and I happened to agree, that ultimately it wasn’t about the dollars; it was about implementing the model. Still, we would aim to draw as much out of the budget as possible, partly to manage the difficult transition under which no school, no matter how well provisioned, couldn’t be left worse off, but also because education was a justifiable investment as long as the extra money was well targeted. The reform architecture that Julia Gillard and her team had initiated when she was education minister contained a raft of initiatives that, if well resourced, would improve results. But a fairer funding system, which distributed funds to schools that needed the most support, was the Holy Grail. Opportunities like this didn’t come along often and we couldn’t afford to fail. And time was running out . . .
…
By the beginning of 2012, the rumblings from the Rudd forces had become a crescendo. Gillard flushed him out and a tentative challenge foundered. Despite the media talking him up at every opportunity, Rudd didn’t have
the numbers; it was a cruel joke really. But if the government’s position worsened, then backbenchers sitting on narrow margins would clutch at any straw, and he’d be back trying again.
It was only May, but with leadership speculation dominating it felt like we’d been going for a year, and there was another year of nothing but leadership talk to go: Rudd back on Sunrise, the morning TV program, saying the government wasn’t selling the education reforms; Rudd’s family weighing in with a social media blitz; Rudd visiting marginal seats to talk about foreign aid; Rudd refusing to use the prime minister’s name in interviews; Rudd appearing on ABC’s 7.30 Report to trail his coat three days after Julia Gillard’s father died . . . on and on it went.
By the time the third anniversary of the Gillard government came around on 24 June, the polls were stuck so low the government was like a death star, burning energy but invisible to the naked eye. A sullen torpor had enveloped the Labor side in Parliament House.
The next day—Tuesday—Caucus was flatter than a dead cat’s bounce. Those who dreaded a return to Rudd were morose, and those agitating for another leadership challenge concentrated on keeping a lid on their emotions in case it imploded as before.
I’d long since resigned myself to the possibility that there could be another change of leader and, if that should eventuate, I’d go. In the outbreak of commentary by ministers following Rudd’s removal in 2010, when asked I’d said I wouldn’t work with him again. This was simply an acknowledgement of how difficult and precarious the business of government had become under Rudd. But that wasn’t my only reason. The fact was I couldn’t trust him as a leader. In the aftermath of Rudd’s removal, Wayne Swan had claimed Rudd didn’t ‘hold Labor values’ and was a dysfunctional decision-maker. I agreed with Swan’s assessment, but my judgement was that Rudd was also a threat to national security. So unstable was the experience of government when he was leader, and so utterly ruthless his pursuit of Gillard at the expense of the party he once led, it was difficult to know which way someone with such a malevolent and punitive personality would jump when the pressure was really on. He’d cocked his trigger finger at George Bush in public and characterised the Chinese as ‘rat fuckers’ while masquerading as an international statesman who had all the answers. This kind of megalomaniac could get the country into trouble without a moment’s reflection. He wouldn’t be getting my vote or my service under any circumstances.
Meanwhile, the anxiety levels in my office were rising inexorably.
It had been an excruciatingly difficult exercise to get the new school funding proposal this far; tears had been shed, careers had gone off the rails. Throughout, we’d been fixed on getting the job done without any stuff-ups, derailments or diversions. I’d introduced the Australian Education Bill a fortnight earlier and now, only two days before the parliament broke, with the government at rock bottom and Rudd’s forces gathering for one last tilt, it was due to be voted on. But the bill was still stuck in the Senate. One of the senators with the responsibility for its carriage was a likely Rudd supporter, and she had suddenly gone quiet in the past twenty-four hours.
The parliament was now flooding with lobbyists and out-of-town media types, all smelling blood. The press gallery, openly salivating, was in overdrive, reporting every trickle of information, poring over every nuance.
Kevin Michael Rudd, who’d vowed never to try to remove an elected leader of the Labor Party, was on the move again.
The following morning—Wednesday—we shouted, screamed, cajoled and finally got movement in the Senate. The Australian Education Bill went through at ten minutes past one in the afternoon as I sat in the public gallery looking down on the Senate chamber. There were a few wet eyes and thumbs up all round.
Fifty minutes later, question time in the House of Representatives was due to begin when Mark Butler, a leading convenor of the left, entered the chamber, his expression sombre. Bill Shorten from the right followed, ashen-faced.
The faction bosses and the South Australians from Gillard’s home state had switched sides, convinced the government would be obliterated at the next election. It would be Julia Gillard’s last appearance in the parliament as prime minister.
Later that afternoon, Labor MPs trooped in to a special meeting of the Caucus to finally pull the scab from the festering sore that had dogged us since day one.
The great underminer prevailed by a margin of twelve votes.
Rudd approached me immediately following the ballot and asked me to stay on as education minister, followed by Anthony Albanese, who’d supported my entry into parliament, who said, ‘We need you.’
But I’d had enough. Everyone has a limit and I’d reached mine—end of story. I called Doris to let her know it was over. She wasn’t surprised; like most people, she was impatient with the constant game playing that had infected the government. I wrote out my resignation letter the following day.
…
In the run up to the 2013 election, Tony Abbott promised he was ‘on a unity ticket’ with Kevin Rudd on the new school funding model. He needed to make this promise he was never going to keep, as an election eve poll had judged him more trustworthy than Rudd but Labor was considered the best party on education by a large margin.
Rudd’s campaign was a dud, full of last-minute changes and poorly conceived policies, such as announcing the navy would be relocated to Brisbane; the longer it went on, the more voters became dissatisfied. Once the Coalition was elected, new education minister Christopher Pyne tried to change the funding model and was howled down. Since then, he’s snipped away at it off line in various ways, including reducing the indexation rate, cutting funding and decoupling the agreement with the states.
My hope and expectation is that the changes will stick, and as things stand a needs-based funding model is still in place. It is a once-in-a-generation improvement in a fundamental area of the nation’s affairs. Getting a good start in life is a fundamental birth right—it’s the Australian dream of fairness, in which every single citizen has the best chance of happiness and a successful life. What better promise can a government deliver? It was a privilege to see it through.
…
I didn’t jump I wasn’t pushed
I went of my own accord to do what I could
My eyes were open I had a go
To try to even up the score I had to leave the show
Now there may be a perfect paradise where black and white don’t meet
Where the clicking mouse is a substitute for the sound of marching feet
You might think we can have it all that no one has to fall
But if I ever go around
I would do it again
I saw the best of men I saw the worst
I saw the best of women too, from governor to nurse
I straightened up and turned my cheek, I was lonely in the night
You only get one chance at things to try and do what’s right
Whilst all the glory hunters were basking in false smiles
Twisted egos and ambition mile after mile
I went to find a quiet place away from the madding mob
To try and make a difference to get on with the job and do it again
Then I was simply waiting for a moment to be free
When they pull the curtain back you know it’s time to leave
So I set my face towards the sun to let those seasons run and run
But on any day in any way if I was asked to join the fray
I would do it again
EPILOGUE
IT’S 26 JANUARY 2013, and the Randwick council staff have been at it from first light, erecting tents and stalls in the park next to Coogee Beach, cheerfully bustling about, offering the occasional ‘Happy Australia Day’ to passers-by.
Of the many tasks a local member of parliament is called on to perform, representing the government at citizenship ceremonies was my favourite. And today’s ceremony, taking place on Australia Day, is extra special.
; As well as the induction of new Aussies by the mayor, there will be community service awards, and a speech by an Australia Day ambassador: someone with a distinguished career or track record of helping the community—they seldom miss the mark.
My role is to read the letter from the immigration minister welcoming the new citizens, outlining their rights and responsibilities. And then the member says ‘a few words’.
I always felt the official communication didn’t go far enough so I also offer a welcome of my own and tell the expectant crowd that indeed they are lucky to be joining the Australian nation.
I acknowledge the huge step they are taking, and express great confidence (on the basis of all I’ve seen of previous migrants’ progress) that it’s going to work out well.
I say that wherever they look, they can see extraordinary beauty in their new country and that Aboriginal people—the First Peoples—actually still live here, just fifteen minutes down the road. I remind them that not long ago this beautiful place we now occupy belonged to the Aboriginal people and that we are working our way through this aspect of our past.
I point out, although many hardly need to be reminded, the precious state of peace we enjoy. For those who’ve survived unspeakable experiences in countries racked by ancient grudges, I urge them to take a deep breath: importing religious or ethnic rivalries is heavy baggage that shouldn’t count in this modern country on the far edge of the world.
I explain the sacrifice of young soldiers and why we commemorate Anzac Day, adding that we should always take very seriously the act of committing a nation to war.
I emphasise that they aren’t expected to leave their culture behind when they join us, that in fact we are greatly enriched by it. We are one and we are many, as the alternative national anthem goes.
I tell them that within a stone’s throw of where they are sitting there are good schools and hospitals, well-tended sports grounds and well-stocked libraries—all freely accessible, because this is a fair nation where everyone gets a go.
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