Abstract
THE GLOBAL LAWYER Kate Galloway, Melissa Castan, John Flood; Lexis Nexis, 2019; 198 pages; $79.00 (paperback)
When I studied law as an undergraduate at Monash University in Australia, I actively sought out subjects that I could apply when I returned ‘overseas’, where I had spent part of my childhood. I took all the public international law subjects that were available at the time: international law, human rights law and the Jessup Moot. Even as an undergraduate, the naval-gazing Anglo-specific way in which law was taught left me yearning for broader discussions and broader thinking about the law – and how to practice it effectively.
The Global Lawyer does all these things. It contemplates not only what law is, but what law should be and, more importantly, how to be an excellent legal practitioner in this globalised, interconnected and complex ecosystem. The chapters are accessible. Each uses case studies and activities to involve the reader, or they are structured to be used as teaching tools that move beyond the black letter law too often taught without context or contemplation of the need for change.
The prolegomenon situates the book in a world that follows cycles, based on the work of Kondratieff, concluding that certain times in history require ‘radical and novel thinking’. Although written prior to the outbreak of COVID-19, the statement has never been truer. As we watch systems which have evolved over decades or centuries be challenged and crumble, the feeling of a need for a new way of approaching the world has been pressing. Rapidly changing laws, frameworks and finances have left many experts asking how we can think differently and successfully about the world that is now upon us.
The Global Lawyer addresses many of these questions. After situating the context of the law and globalisation, the book discusses globalisation and the profession of law. Twenty years ago, it seemed remiss not to contemplate legal practice without considering legal interaction with other jurisdictions. To do so now seems a dangerous omission but one that this book does not make. The next chapter explores comparative global ‘lawyering’, including providing a taxonomy of legal systems helpful to students and practitioners alike. Often overlooked in legal training and practice, the concept of ‘cultural intelligence’ is also canvassed, exploring the soft skills and understanding that an effective legal practitioner needs.
The chapter on the digital lawyer is close to my heart, and sorely needed. All too often, conversations about technology in legal circles focus on the ways that technologies may change how lawyers practice, but not on the wide-reaching and profound changes to the world itself, and their subsequent effects on how to be a good lawyer. For example, do directors have different requirements given potential insights of data? What does consent or privacy look like in this hyperconnected, sped up online world? This chapter contemplates the impact of the digital on lawyers more broadly. How does technology change the way societies are functioning, and therefore the roles of lawyers in those societies? Shifts, some subtle, and some not so subtle, of power and infrastructure raise profound questions for lawyers. This chapter effectively flags and highlights some of these changes in relation to the legal practitioner.
Finally, the book contemplates what borderless lawyering looks like. What do lawyers need to know? How can they practice effectively in this interconnected, interdependent, and now, isolated environment? This chapter provides excellent provocations.
This book is a must for those studying law, those teaching law, and those trying to understand law’s role in a global context, by authors who are experts in their fields. It will inevitably be a useful reference for years to come, as we reflect on law and its role in a global context: what it was; what it is; and, most importantly, what it needs to be; shaping a new generation of lawyers to ask questions that, over two decades ago, remained unanswered for me in a legal educational context. Luckily, those who come in contact with this book will not be alone in wondering about their role and place as a lawyer in the globalised world.
WELLNESS FOR LAW: Making wellness core business Judith Marychurch and Adiva Sifris (eds); LexisNexis Butterworths, 2020; 291 pages; $95.00 (paperback)
Wellness for Law provides a variety of perspectives. The target audience is everyone with a law degree or studying for one. The 31 chapters were developed from presentations at the 9th Wellness for Law Forum held in Melbourne in February 2019. The 49 contributors (academics, law students, legal practitioners and judges) describe new empirical research, first-hand experiences and personal insights. The contributions are generally scholarly and cite the applicable research.
In chapter 1, the editors emphasise the high level of psychological distress observed in law students and practitioners. They then discuss the importance of supporting mental wellbeing among not only students and practitioners, but also law teachers and the judiciary. The book goes on to explore the wellbeing of each group.
In chapter 2 on Australia’s tertiary students, the authors provide guidance on the duty of the university to support students’ mental health. Universities must identify mental health problems, coordinate support services, and use early intervention programs. ‘Implementable, evidence-based, whole-of-institution response, in partnership with staff and students and the community mental health sector’ should be developed.
The next four chapters take on the experience of Australian law students. Chapter 3 discusses new research that explores wellness and wellbeing among law students at Monash University. Student wellness issues are portrayed as neither new nor well-understood, and they are intertwined with the wellness of teachers. The authors advocate a whole-of-university approach to mental distress. Chapters 4 to 6 were contributed by students. The first advocates enhancing student wellbeing by fostering financial stability, autonomous learning and compassionate teaching. The second asserts that there are no simple solutions and the work must begin with the individual. The third advocates cultivating wellbeing as a life skill and discusses how peer mentoring programs can have a direct influence on law school culture.
Chapters 7 and 8 examine the experience of Australian law teachers. Chapter 7’s authors examine the job demands facing law teachers and note that teacher anxiety, depression and stress give cause for concern. The authors advocate the importance of self-care and say teachers must ‘fit their own oxygen mask first’ in order to be in a good position to help their students do the same. Chapter 8 uses an empirical mixed method study to look at the impact of declining student attendance at lectures on law teacher wellbeing. The low level of student attendance at lectures negatively affected teachers’ sense of competency, relatedness to the student body and sense of autonomy. New policies – even abandoning the traditional lecture/tutorial teaching model – should be considered.
Chapters 9 to 16 examine methods for supporting student wellbeing. These chapters explore taking a ‘Whole of Law School’ approach to wellness; emphasising hope as a tactic to combat stress; developing skills for self-reflection; using music as a method to reduce stress, support wellbeing and diminish symptoms of depression; mastering time regulation while finding ‘flow’ in work; and integrating wellbeing research findings into curriculum design in a way that makes health and wellbeing ‘an integrated part of all aspects of training’. Chapter 11 empirically studies the relationship between empathy and student mental health and comes to the disappointing conclusion that there is no identifiable relationship between the two.
Chapters 17 to 21 consider wellbeing in the profession and contain several first-person accounts of working to make wellness a priority, including the uplifting experience of working as a lawyer in a bush town, and the wellbeing of lawyers in the face of technological change, which has both positive and negative effects on lawyer wellbeing.
Chapters 22 to 29 provide advice to young lawyers and examine the lived experience of the profession. Ten years’ experience in the Victorian Bar Health and Wellbeing counselling service are reviewed in Chapter 27. Mental illness experiences are ‘becoming normal’ and the counselling service seeks to provide an ‘alternative worldview’.
Chapters 30 and 31 provide the voices of judges, who remind us that they are under-resourced, lack support, and are expected to do so much that they cannot accomplish their mission without experiencing significant stress. In the final chapter, a judge notes how isolating judicial work can be and encourages judges to support their colleagues and promote wellbeing.
This book is a great resource for anyone interested in wellness in the law. Many different attitudes are expressed and new research discussed. The research is thorough and up-to-date. Specific recommendations and techniques are provided that you can try out in your own class, office or courtroom.
WE CAN’T SAY WE DIDN’T KNOW Sophie McNeill; Harper Collins, 2020; 416 pages; $35 (paperback)
Viewed through a Western prism, the recent history of the Middle East is a complex tale of conflict, hope, despair, strategic alliances and clumsy interventions. From the Syrian war, with its roots in the initially hopeful days of the 2011 Arab Spring, through the devastating and under-reported conflict in Yemen, to the ongoing curtailing of rights in Saudi Arabia (among other nations in the region), it can be difficult to remain abreast of the twists and turns in the area, much less the terrible toll it takes on civilians. But the path from confusion to apathy is a short one, and apathy is the ultimate foe in Sophie McNeill’s confronting new book, We Can’t Say We Didn’t Know.
McNeill draws on her time as the former ABC Middle East correspondent to unflinchingly paint a picture of the human suffering that the regional turmoil has caused. The book is often gut-wrenching, which is a deliberate choice. Through sheer force of story after heartbreaking story of families torn apart and lives shattered, McNeill’s ultimate project reveals itself: she is making a desperate plea for readers to just care a little bit more. And, she argues, by looking the other way we risk not only being indifferent to human suffering; we are tacitly permitting ‘an age of impunity’, eroding both international law and the institutions that have served to ensure the post-WWII era has been relatively peaceful.
To that end, the role of international law deserves a brief mention. Its absolute irrelevance is laid bare, as is the incapacity of the UN to offer much apart from words of condemnation. That organisation’s inability to prevent the deathly siege of Madaya, a mere 40 kilometres from the Syrian capital, distressingly demonstrates its impotence. International law is conspicuous only in its absence, and therefore does not feature in the book much beyond cursory mention that a particular attack was in clear breach, or that all sides to a conflict have been accused of war crimes.
The book is at its best when McNeill finds anecdotes from amid the carnage, providing a focal point and a narrative to which readers can grasp. This works most compellingly during an extended and gripping chapter on Yemen which details the horrendous impact the war has had on civilians. But this is also where the fundamental paradox of the book arises. McNeill is at once asking us to do more about the crises across the Middle East, while simultaneously detailing the enormous challenges that even powerful actors working for peace must surmount. This includes cynical use of the veto power at the UN Security Council to protect the Syrian regime, the willingness of Western governments to sell arms to Saudi Arabia as it wages a brutal conflict in Yemen and treats women like prisoners, and the hypocrisy of the United Arab Emirates’ brutal handling of dissidents while presenting itself as a liberalising force. The temptation is to sigh that this is all a bit too hard and admit that ‘great games’ are at play, well beyond what you or I could change. However, McNeill’s counterargument – that we are tacitly permitting the erosion of international laws and norms – is a sound position to take, and is additionally persuasive in an era of insular, bombastic and nationalistic populists around the globe. Indeed, the book might have benefitted had this thread been worked in throughout, rather than raised in the conclusion. Further – and it feels rather shameful to admit this, but as the emotional toll of reading tragedy after tragedy built up – a shift in focus would have been a relief. McNeill might convincingly counter that she does not want to let readers off the hook so easily, and that the suffering she recounts must be our suffering, too. Reflecting on the fact that footage of the worst episodes of the Syrian war has been available for all to see online, in real time, and yet has achieved almost no change, sadly reinforces this point.
This book is not a history lesson on the Middle East, nor a reflection on what makes the region so volatile. Rather, it is McNeill’s attempt to humanise a deeply inhumane series of events. It does not make for comfortable reading, but nor should it. Stories of towns reeling from chemical weapons, of starvation used as a combat strategy, of women trying to flee their families, can only be told one way: with gravity and urgency. It is an extremely admirable project designed for maximum impact. One shudders to think what it says about us if, having read this book, we remain so unmoved by the horrors currently taking place in our world.
FEELING QUEER JURISPRUDENCE: Injury, intimacy, identity Senthorun Sunil Raj; Routledge, 2020; 156 pages; $193.60 (hardcover)
Drawing from critical legal scholarship and queer theory, Feeling Queer Jurisprudence invites readers to reflect on the roles that emotion plays in cases concerning injuries, intimacies, and identities of lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) people. With his activist-scholarly curiosity, Raj develops a method which he calls ‘a queer theory of legal emotions’ and its associated act of ‘reading emotions in law’ by which he recasts judicial texts in terms of their emotional enactments.
This book takes ‘pro-LGBT cases’, defined as cases that seek to recognise the injury, intimacy and identity of LGBT people, as the object of analysis through three interconnected areas: injury, intimacy and identity. By way of illustrating their manifestations, Raj argues that ‘homo/transphobic violence (injury) works to police plural forms of sexual/gendered association (intimacy) and undermine sexual/gendered self-determination (identity)’ (p 3). This distinction is very useful in understanding the reach and limits of the progressive jurisprudence in each aspect. Moreover, Raj’s use of case law spans jurisdictions, doctrines and historical periods. This allows him to specifically look at the crystallisation of emotions in the law, rather than focusing on judgments as a collection of dispassionate doctrines.
Each chapter associates various sub-disciplines of law with an emotion prevalent in different aspects of LGBT case law. The book looks at five specific emotions: Disgust; Hate; Anger; Fear; and, Love.
For example, Chapter 2 examines the directions of disgust and its role in gay intimacies (sodomy, sadomasochism, flirting, and so on) and identities (gay men) in the law. Drawing on the Wolfenden Report, US case law on the decriminalisation of homosexuality, and cases involving queer sadomasochism and homosexual advances – R v Brown (1994) and R v Green (1997) – Raj reveals how disgust towards gay men can be legally contained through privacy and sentimentality of the conjugal bond, whereas queer intimacies such as sadomasochism that could not be sentimentalised as an enduring intimacy evoked judicial revulsion. Chapter 3 addresses the shifting position of hate from condemning the identities and intimacies of LGBT people to despising those who perpetrate homo/transphobic violence, through judicial reasoning, such as Kirby J’s dissent in Green, and hate crimes laws. However, the ways in which hate crimes law pathologises homo/transphobic bigotry and personalises hate exhibited towards offenders may obscure how homo/transphobia is institutionalised in law by this refracted hate. In Raj’s words, ‘hate crimes laws may emotionally render LGBT victims visible and punish anti-LGBT offenders, but they do so at a cost – the covering over of institutional accountability’ (p 58).
What makes Feeling Queer Jurisprudence stand out is its nuances and ability to demonstrate various implications of emotions which can have both positive and negative impacts on the lives of LGBT people and on LGBT law reform. The author adopts a highly original approach to analyse the jurisprudence relating to LGBT people. Raj’s insightful analysis demonstrates how emotional judicial enactments in selected pro-LGBT cases, despite healing (some) LGBT injuries as well as recognising and protecting (some) LGBT intimacies and identities, sustain institutional homo/transphobia and the marginalisation of LGBT people who are ‘too queer’.
This book will be of interest to a wide range of readers, including scholars, activists, lawyers and judges who are engaged in creating, pursuing and/or critiquing legal progress around LGBT issues. Raj hopes that readers, regardless of their affiliation, will be able to use his framework to recognise the limits of the law as well as loosen some problematic emotional attachments in law and, as a result, make more space for marginalised queer intimacies and identities. Nevertheless, the question remains as to the extent that Raj’s contribution will be relevant to readers working in non-western countries or in the international field. Apart from Chapter 5, on ‘fear’, which includes analysis of pro-LGBT refugee cases from the Court of Justice of the European Union (ECJ), the jurisprudence examined in this book is limited to those from western countries, namely the US, UK and Australia. The book would have a broader reach if it included analysis from non-western countries such as the Indian Supreme Court’s decision to decriminalise homosexuality in 2018 and international law jurisprudence, especially from the UN Human Rights Committee and the European Court of Human Rights. In any event, Sen’s use of emotions as a lens through which to consider the jurisprudence that he does examine makes a refreshing and valuable contribution to our scholarly knowledge of this area of the law.
UNDER FIRE: How Australia’s violent history led to gun control Nick Brodie; Hardie Grant, 2020; 304 pages; $29.99 (paperback)
Under Fire: How Australia’s Violent History Led to Gun Control by Tasmanian historian Nick Brodie is the most wide-ranging publication to date on Australia’s history of firearms law and policy. The book looks at specific events, both social and political, throughout Australia’s history that have influenced the regulation of firearms since their arrival on Australian soil.
Under Fire is not the first exploration of the history of firearms regulation in Australia. Brodie acknowledges Over Our Dead Bodies: Port Arthur and Australia’s fight for gun control (Simon Chapman, Pluto Press, 1998) and Gun Control: What Australia got right (and wrong) (Tom Frame, UNSW Press, 2019) as publications dealing with the history of Australia’s approach to privately-held firearms. However, Brodie’s book stands out for two reasons. First, it traces the history of firearms in Australia from first contact until today. Previous publications only look at more recent history; from around the 1980s onward. Second, it provides specific examples of the legal developments of firearms laws and policies and their surrounding social, cultural, and political circumstances. The banning of ‘punt guns’ – large boat-mounted shotguns – for use in duck hunting in the 1800s, for example.
One of the benefits of Under Fire is the opportunity to identify patterns in Australia’s approach to firearms. The law reform that occurs following tragedies or public outcry is one example. Another is the law’s persistent lag behind firearms technology entering the civilian market, usually as military surplus. World War I saw the rise of pistols so the 1920s and ’30s saw laws specifically aimed at pistols. In World War 2, the development of sub-machineguns meant the late 1940s and early 1950s saw changes to firearms laws to include fully automatic firearms. Under Fire’s long-term analysis provides for pattern recognition and, importantly, can serve as a basis for estimating the future directions of firearms laws and policies. Some readers will be left wondering whether Australia’s current laws are adequately prepared for the next evolution in firearms technology or whether the laws will only be evaluated after another tragedy – so conforming to the pattern.
Readers interested in law, history, politics, and Australian society and culture will find Under Fire engaging reading. Legal historians and lawyers will likely appreciate Brodie’s research and specific detailing of legislation, regulations and case law. However, some readers may be left wanting a more complete account of the law, such as exact wording of sections or cases, but this extra layer of detail has likely been sacrificed to make the book more accessible to a wider non-legal audience.
There are some areas of the book that could have been given more consideration. There is almost no recognition of the role firearms have played, and continue to play, in food security. Hunting plays a key role in food security for various peoples and cultures. Similarly, the role of firearms in environmental conservation receives only passing mention. However, the author does note the irony that rabbits were introduced into Australia for sport shooting, and now firearms are used to protect Australia from the ecological devastation caused by rabbits.
Brodie has done well to acknowledge the complexity surrounding firearms regulation, although the arguments and evidence put forward appear incomplete at times. This could be the result of limited research materials to draw upon. Brodie does well not to speculate or conjecture; Under Fire is well researched and methodically presented.
Under Fire highlights the fluid nature of firearms regulation and how there is no ‘silver bullet’ solution. Many of the arguments for and against gun licences, for example, are the same today as they were 100 years ago. The book serves as a reminder not to become complacent with our laws and to always explore new ways to adapt and respond to how firearms are being used in the community.
PEACE CRIMES: Pine Gap, national security and dissent Kieran Finnane; UQP, 2020; 283 pages, $32.99 (paperback)
Pine Gap, which many believe is a prime nuclear target, is only a few kilometres from Kieran Finnane’s home in Alice Springs. It is hardly surprisingly, therefore, that she has turned her skills as an investigative journalist to explore its current role in this, her second book. The first, Trouble: On Trial in Central Australia, was also published by the University of Queensland Press; I recommend both.
The Joint Defence Facility Pine Gap is a key component of the Five Eyes surveillance alliance, the US and Australia being two of the eyes. Very little is officially known about the role of Pine Gap. Finnane found that politicians from both major parties are vague, saying only that it is important for Australia’s security and emphasising the ongoing threat of terrorism. She then turned to the 2016 Conference of the Independent and Peaceful Australia Network (IPAN). where highly respected researcher Richard Tanter reported that: Targeting data supplied by Pine Gap is used for drone killings both in war zones in Afghanistan and Iraq and with countries with which Australia is not at war. … Not only does this make Australia culpable for well-documented war crimes, but it also generates cycles of terrorism in response.
So, who are the Peace Pilgrims? Finnane explains: ‘They lament and pray for the dead, especially those who have died by drone strike. They are repelled by this high-tech killing’, saying that ‘these are grievable deaths’. The book explores their backgrounds, Christian values, previous anti-war demonstrations and finally the climax – a graphic account of their 2016 trespass and night arrest. Having demonstrated during the 1983 Pine Gap Women’s Peace Camp myself, I found this section absolutely fascinating. Even the police accepted their utter sincerity and dedication to acting on their Christian beliefs. They knew that lamenting at Pine Gap would result in arrest and they accepted the consequences, even if it meant jail time.
The final section of the book presents an account of the trials following their arrest. In 2002 the group, Christians Against All Terrorism, were the first activists charged under the Commonwealth’s Defence (Special Undertakings) Act 1952, which could have led to a seven-year sentence. Luckily, they escaped on a legal technicality. Well before the Peace Pilgrims’ action in 2016, the government had amended the legislation so that there was little likelihood of an escape on a technicality this time.
The Pilgrims represented themselves and did so extremely articulately with the assistance of a McKenzie Friend and experienced pro bono legal advice behind the scenes. It was a textbook example of how to conduct a political trial. The prosecution did all it could to stop the Pilgrims telling the jury why they believed that ‘an extraordinary emergency’ was unfolding at Pine Gap and that they were standing up for the values they believe Christ embodied: they are against killing. The prosecution was continually outmanoeuvred, to some extent assisted by decisions on the admissibility of evidence by Justice Reeves who as a young solicitor, years earlier, had expressed concern about the role of Pine Gap. No spoilers as to the outcome.
PLAYING FOR CHANGE Co-founders Mark Johnson and Whitney Kroenke; YouTube videos
Melbourne’s COVID-19 lockdown found many of us spending a lot more time browsing online and exploring the internet while physical travel was constrained. YouTube became my ‘go to’, and provided many interesting diversions, from cooking lessons to musical revelations like ‘Playing for Change’.
I discovered the latter while trawling for music performances from artists worldwide, locked down in their home studios. Imagine the thrill of guitar lessons from musos such as US-based Aussies Anne McCue and Keith Urban; star spotters no doubt celebrated Nicole Kidman joining her husband on a great version of Steve Winwood’s Higher Love.
But perhaps the most impressive offerings have been from ‘Playing for Change’, a self-styled ‘movement created to inspire and connect the world through music’.
Co-creators Mark Johnson and Whitney Kroenke believe music has ‘the power to break down boundaries and overcome distances between people’, exemplified by the award-winning documentary, A Cinematic Discovery of Street Musicians.
On one ‘Playing for Change’ video, Beatle Ringo Starr’s opening drum salvo segues to a terrific, multinational version of The Weight from guitarist Robbie Robertson, formerly of Bob Dylan’s The Band and latterly director Martin Scorsese’s collaborator on music for movies such as The Irishman. (Incidentally, Robbie’s son Sebastian is co-producer of this clip.) Find the video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ph1GU1qQ1zQ.
The music opens out to include bluesman Marcus King, Italian guitarist Roberto Luti, US female singer/guitarist sisters Larkin Poe, Japanese guitarist Char, Congolese singer Mermans Mosengo, guitarist Ali Boulala from Bahrain, a Barcelona percussionist, Japanese pianist Keiko Komaki, Hawaiian ukulele virtuoso Taimane, singer/guitarist John Cruz (Hawai’i) and US bassist Hutch Hutchinson, an Argentinian accordion player, an oud player from Bahrain, a Nepalese sitar player… well, you get the idea!
Other artists who’ve embraced Playing for Change include the Doobie Brothers (Listen to the Music), Grateful Dead (Ripple), Buddy Guy (Skin Deep) and ensemble performances of classics from La Bamba and Guantanamera to the Rolling Stones’ Honky Tonk Women, Crosby Stills & Nash’s Teach your Children and Ben E King’s Stand by Me.
Playing for Change may have started as a movement, but it has blossomed into a not-for-profit Foundation that creates positive change through music and arts education. The Foundation operates 15 music programs in 11 countries, building music and art schools for marginalised youth in diverse communities around the world. Their aim is to create hope and inspiration for the future of our planet.
For any lover of 60s and 70s rock and pop, these videos are a musical treasure trove. And if you really want to help change children’s lives worldwide, consider becoming a member (like I did) at www.playingforchange.org.