The complexity of epidemics
One of easiest ways to wreck a conversation is to reduce a topic to two opposed views or actions between which a choice must be made. One must be for censorship or against it, endorse capitalism or socialism, be liberal or conservative, a friend or enemy of China, and so on.
This way of thinking leaves no room for exploration, in which the conversation partners enter with curiosity the world of those from whom they differ, and so are open to qualify their own certainties. It reduces conversation to a debate in which both parties regard their positions as unassailable and use argument as a weapon, not as an exchange. At its worst it argues against opposed positions by vilifying and cancelling their proponents rather than meeting their arguments. Such debates are normally shallow, the attention span is short, and complexity is disrespected.
The Tasmanian woman using Aboriginal knowledge to protect the world s national parks and oceans sbs.com.au - get the latest breaking news, showbiz & celebrity photos, sport news & rumours, viral videos and top stories from sbs.com.au Daily Mail and Mail on Sunday newspapers.
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The Launceston City Council has thrown its support behind a growing push to rename the Batman Bridge in Tasmania s north as Aboriginal leaders call for white-washed history to be undone.
Key points:
The Launceston City Council will lobby the state government to change the name of Batman Bridge
The bridge is named after John Batman, who killed at least a dozen Aboriginal Tasmanians in the 1800s
It comes as other places in the state receive dual names or are completely renamed
The bridge crossing kanamaluka/River Tamar, between the West Tamar and George Town municipalities outside of Launceston, was named after Australian grazier and explorer John Batman in the 1960s.
Indigenous Voice gives us the chance to work together smh.com.au - get the latest breaking news, showbiz & celebrity photos, sport news & rumours, viral videos and top stories from smh.com.au Daily Mail and Mail on Sunday newspapers.
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When she was at her lowest, before becoming the sort of person who has the ear and admiration of premiers and governors, Emma Lee worked at a petrol station. It was 2011. She was 38. Sheâd âcrashed and burnedâ, as she describes it, losing her first marriage, her money, her mojo. After a successful career as an archaeologist, and a manager at Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park, her whole world had shrunk to the grey concrete forecourt at Woolworths Caltex in her home town of Wynyard, on Tasmaniaâs north-west coast. For 18 months she healed, slowly rebuilding herself and, from behind the kiosk counter, finding the inspiration for a new approach to Aboriginal rights â a method that would, only four years later, start to bear fruit with then Tasmanian premier, Will Hodgman.