Journal articles: 'North Western Pacific Oil Company' – Grafiati (2024)

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In 1931, Japan occupied Manchuria and seemed intent on conquering China. Because Japan was devoid of petroleum, planners turned to exploration in the Western Pacific. In China, mobilization for a military invasion and preparations for economic survival made control of petroleum supplies more urgent than ever. As Irvine H. Anderson reminds us in The Standard-Vacuum Oil Company and United States East Asian Policy, 1933-1941, Standard-Vacuum, Shell, and the Anglo-American diplomatic corps accelerated their close cooperation especially after Japan created monopolies of the economies of Manchuria and North China, which violated the traditional principles of American Open Door Policy. However, the American de facto embargo policy and the Japanese resolve to seize the necessary supplies in the Dutch Indies made it inevitable that American companies would become involved in the formulation and execution of American policy both before and after Pearl Harbor. Building on Anderson’s extraordinary research, this article focuses on the petroleum problem in China and the American response, especially of the State Department and Foreign Service officers, during 1937-45.

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SPE Board Announces Nominees 2023 President and 2022 Directors Medhat (Med) Kamal is the nominee for 2023 SPE President. He and six others make up the new slate of nominees recommended for positions open on the SPE Board of Directors. 2023 SPE President Medhat (Med) Kamal is a Chevron Fellow Emeritus with primary responsibilities including competency development within the company, identification and development of emerging and white-space technology opportunities, and provision of technological advice and counsel to senior management. He formerly was a fellow and leader at the dynamic reservoir characterization group for Chevron Energy Technology Company. Before Chevron he worked for ARCO, Flopetrol Schlumberger, and Amoco. North America Regional Director Simeon Eburi is a frontier exploration and new ventures petroleum engineer with Chevron, responsible for generating conceptual field development for exploration and business development opportunities. He has spent much of his professional life at Chevron in roles ranging from production operations supervisor in Bakersfield, California, and decision and economic analyst/advisor for deepwater US Gulf operations to production engineer in Oklahoma. Africa Regional Director Oghogho Effiom is a senior development planner for Shell Nigeria, where she enables integration between all disciplines to ensure consistencies across projects regarding development concepts, scenarios, and decisions. She formerly was a senior production geologist with Shell Nigeria. Asia Pacific Regional Director Henricus Herwin is the vice president for technical excellence and coordination at Pertamina, facilitating the expansion of the development and production staff ’s technical capabilities through publications, training, and networking. Prior to his current post, Herwin served as vice president of geoscience and reservoir for Pertamina as well as the head of the development and planning division. Before joining Pertamina in 2018, he held various upstream positions at Total. Middle East and North Africa Regional Director Hisham Zubari is the senior advisor to the Minister of Oil for Bahrain, where he identifies, initiates, plans, and manages national energy and sustainability initiatives related to energy efficiencies, renewable energy, and circular economy. He also acts as a senior advisor to the Bahrain National Oil and Gas Authority. Prior to his current posts, Zubari was deputy chief executive officer of Tatweer Petroleum and general manager for human resources and administration for Bahrain Petroleum Company, among other positions. Completions Technical Director Karen Olson is a senior completions advisor for Well Data Labs and an independent consultant. She previously was technology director for Southwestern Energy Company. Olson has been a completion/ reservoir engineer for more than 37 years, starting her career as a fracturing engineer for The Western Company of North America. She has also worked at S.A. Holditch and Associates, Mobil Oil, and BP. Reservoir Technical Director Rodolfo Gabriel Camacho-Velázquez is a professor in the petroleum engineering department at the National University of Mexico, where he teaches courses related to naturally fractured reservoirs and provides guidance and monitors research progress on the subject. He worked with Pemex for 25 years, where he was the manager of different positions identifying assets’ technical needs and provided guidance on the dynamic characterization and behavior of complex, naturally fractured reservoirs.

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BHP is a leading global resources company which comprises four main business groups: BHP Copper, BHP Minerals, BHP Steel and BHP Petroleum. BHP Petroleum (BHPP) global operations are divided into four Regions and Australia/Asia Region is responsible for exploration, production, field development and joint ventures in the Asia-Pacific region. In Australia, the Company's largest producing assets are its shares of the Gippsland oil and gas fields in Bass Strait and the North West Shelf project in Western Australia.BHPP operates three Floating Production, Storage and Offloading (FPSO) vessels-Jabiru Venture, Challis Venture and Skua Venture-in the Timor Sea and one FPSO, the Griffin Venture, in the Southern Carnarvon Basin. Stabilised oil is offloaded from all four FPSOs by means of a floating hose to a shuttle tanker. Gas from the Griffin Venture is compressed and transferred through a submarine pipeline to an onshore gas treatment plant.BHPP's Asian production comes from the Dai Hung oil field offshore Vietnam where BHPP is the operator and from Kutubu in Papua New Guinea.In Melbourne, BHPP operates a Methanol Research Plant and produced Australia's first commercial quantities of methanol in October 1994.BHPP is an extremely active offshore oil and gas explorer and has interests in a number of permits and blocks in the Australian-Indonesian Zone of Co-operation.This paper discusses BHPP's approach to safety management, both for its worldwide operations and specifically in Australia/Asia Region. It explains how BHPP's worldwide safety management model takes regional regulatory variations into account. It shows, specifically, how this has been done in Australia/Asia Region using what BHPP considers to be a best practice approach.The paper describes how BHPP Australia/Asia Region benchmarked its performance against other operators in Australia and the North Sea. It explains how the findings of the benchmarking study were used to plan the preparation of a safety management system (SMS). The structure of the SMS is described along with the legal requirements in Australia.The paper concludes that implementation of the SMS is progressing according to plan and points out that safety cases for the FPSOs have been submitted to the Regulators. Implementation of the SMS and the drive for world class safety standards is having a substantial effect and safety performance is improving. One measure of safety performance, the Lost Time Injury Frequency Rate (LTIFR) is down from around 15 at the end of 1994 to under 3 in December 1996.

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Australian Snubfin Orcaella heinsohni, Indo-Pacific Humpback Sousa chinensis and Indo-Pacific Bottlenose Dolphins Tursiops aduncus inhabit Australia’s tropical north-western coastline, a region undergoing extensive port development associated with the massive expansion of the oil, gas and mining industries. The current lack of data on dolphin population sizes or trends precludes impact assessments of developments on these protected species. Furthermore, the Western Australian and Commonwealth Government conservation listings of tropical inshore dolphins do not reflect their international listings. From April to July, 2010, we conducted ad hoc boat-based surveys (n=55) of inshore delphinids at seven sites across north-western Australia from Coral Bay in the south (23.1°S: 113.8°E) to Cable Beach in the north (17.9°S: 122.2°E). We documented the locations of these three species from which we obtained photoidentification and biopsy data, as well as reports of Australian Snubfin Dolphin sightings from researchers and community groups. The data from this limited field effort confirm that Indo-Pacific Humpback and Indo-Pacific Bottlenose Dolphins occur in the waters adjacent to each north-western Australian urban centre and show that the range of the Australian Snubfin Dolphin extends considerably further south-west than previously reported. Given the scale of coastal developments and the vulnerability of isolated cetacean populations to fragmentation or extirpation, assessments of the viability of dolphin populations are required. Our data suggest that the Australian Snubfin, Indo-Pacific Humpback and Indo-Pacific Bottlenose Dolphins need to be considered as likely to be impacted by coastal developments across north-western Australia.

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AbstractThe abandoned Innes Field was within Block 30/24 on the western margin of the Central Trough in the UK sector of the North Sea. Hamilton Brothers Oil Company operated the licence, and Innes was the third commercially viable oil discovery in the block after Argyll and Duncan. It was discovered in 1983 with well 30/24-24. Three appraisal wells were drilled, one of which was successful. Oil occurs in the Early Permian Rotliegend Group sandstones sealed by Zechstein Group dolomites and Upper Jurassic shale.The discovery well and successful appraisal well were used for production. Export of light, gas-rich crude was via a 15 km pipeline to Argyll. Innes was produced using pressure decline. It was abandoned in 1992 having produced 5.8 MMbbl of oil and possibly 9.8 bcf of gas. Water cut was a few percent.Innes was re-examined between 2001 and 2003 by the Tuscan Energy/Acorn Oil and Gas partnership with a view to tying the field back to the newly redeveloped Argyll (Ardmore) Field but marginal economics and financial constraints for the two start-up companies prevented any further activity. Enquest currently owns the licence and the company has redeveloped Argyll/Ardmore, as Alma. There are no plans to redevelop Innes.

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ABSTRACT Western Alaska is, to say the least, remote. The area is vast, unforgiving at times, and notorious for offering rugged coastlines, severe weather conditions, and home to numerous species of birds, marine and terrestrial mammals, and fish. To get an understanding of the size of this state, Alaska spans about 20 degrees of latitude (1,200 miles) and more than 45 degrees of longitude (2,700 miles). The coastline area runs from Cape Puget in the Gulf of Alaska to the Alaska Peninsula, to the Aleutian Islands thence north to Barrow including, the Bering and Chukchi Seas, and thence east through the Beaufort Sea to the U.S.-Canada border. Traveling north to south, the region is classified as arctic, subarctic, or marine coastal. This paper will discuss the challenges faced by federal, state, and local agencies, and responders while responding to vessel casualties in the remote regions of Alaska. The geographic area of the state this paper will focus on is known as Western Alaska and is composed of the Alaska Peninsula, Aleutian Islands, the islands of Bristol Bay, and Pribilof Islands. The bodies of water surrounding Western Alaska are the Gulf of Alaska, North Pacific Ocean, Bristol Bay, and Bering Sea.

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Diosgenin is a steroidal aglycone occurring in certain species of Dioscorea native principally to eastern Mexico. In the 1940s, diosgenin became a much-sought-after intermediate for the chemical synthesis of certain corticosteroids and structurally related fertility regulants. Various difficulties of access to native sources led to attempts at plantation production. One of these, supported by the Upjohn Company between 1962 and 1980, was located on the Pacific coast of Guatemala and is described herein from the standpoint of technology development. The Dioscorea plant produces a long, coarse vine that requires support. The deep-growing, fleshy rhizome contains the diosgenin and, at harvest, must be removed from soil depths up to 1 m. Dry rhizome yield depends on supply of readily available (low-tension) soil water. Sites located over abundant water reserves give satisfactory rhizome yields, but diosgenin concentrations fall to uneconomically low levels under such circ*mstances. By 1980, diosgenin had been displaced by two products of soya oil processing, stigmasterol and sitosterol, which became available as a result of advances in microbial fermentation technology. Consequently, the cultivation of Dioscorea was abandoned.

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Cretaceous and early Tertiary Pholadidae (Mollusca: Bivalvia) from the Pacific Slope of North America are rare and only poorly known. Three new species, each the earliest known Pacific Slope representative of its respective genus, are described: Barnea (Anchomasa) saulae n. sp. (Pholadinae) from the Upper Cretaceous (Coniacian and Santonian) Redding Formation near Redding, uppermost Sacramento Valley, Shasta County, northern California; Chaceia fulcherae n. sp. (Martesiinae) from three widely separated areas of outcrop represented by 1) the middle Miocene (“Temblor”) Temblor Formation near Oil City and in Jasper Canyon, western Fresno County, central California, 2) the middle Miocene (“Temblor”) Topanga(?) Group in the northern Santa Ana Mountains, Orange County, southern California, and 3) the upper Miocene (Wishkahan) Montesano Formation on the Middle Fork of the Satsop River, Mason County, western Washington; and Netastoma squiresi n. sp. (Jouannetiinae) from the lowest Eocene (uppermost “Meganos”) part of the Santa Susana Formation north of Simi Valley in the Santa Susana Mountains, Ventura County, southern California.

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AbstractThe Thistle Oilfield is located on the western margin of the North Viking Graben in UK Blocks 21l/18a and 211/19. The field was discovered in 1973 by the Halibut Group, operated by the Signal Oil Company. The discovery well was drilled in 1973 and the field was declared commerical before completion of the first two appraisal wells. The extension of the field into Block 211/19 was confirmed by well 211/19-1 drilled in 1974 and the field was subsequently unitized.The Middle Jurassic Brent Group forms the oil-bearing reservoir sequence. The structure is an easterly dipping, rotated fault block divided into five main compartments by N-S normal faults and E-W cross faults. A 60 slot drilling and production platform was installed in 1976 and production began in February 1978. It is now connected by pipeline to Sullom Voe and production through this link commenced in late 1978. Due to only limited aquifer support, injection wells have been drilled on the east flank of the field, in order to maintain reservoir pressure. In addition, several wells in partly isolated fault blocks are produced by gas lift completions. The current STOIIP is estimated at 794 MMBBL of which 396 MMBBL will ultimately be recovered. Cumulative production to the end of 1988 was 334 MMBBL from 34 production wells, with support from 13 injection wells.

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Abstract This study investigates interdecadal variability of summer (June–August) rainfall in Taiwan for the 1950–2008 period. Summer rainfall in Taiwan is partitioned into two components: tropical cyclone (TC) rainfall caused by TC passage and seasonal monsoon rainfall associated with monsoon southwesterly flows. The joint interdecadal mode of TC rainfall and seasonal monsoon rainfall is extracted by empirical orthogonal function (EOF) analysis. The first interdecadal mode features an increasing trend plus a near-20-yr oscillation. The spatial patterns of this mode are uniform in sign over the entirety of Taiwan with positive anomalies for TC rainfall and negative anomalies for seasonal monsoon rainfall. These results reveal that TC rainfall and seasonal monsoon rainfall tend to vary inversely in interdecadal variability, with a positive trend in TC rainfall and a negative trend in seasonal monsoon rainfall. Large-scale regulating processes associated with this interdecadal rainfall mode are interpreted from the correlation patterns. Significant warm sea surface temperature (SST) anomalies exist in the tropical central and eastern Pacific and the Indian Ocean. At the low levels, an anomalous large-scale divergent center occurs in the Australian regions, which in turn evokes an anomalous cyclonic circulation in the subtropical North Pacific. Taiwan is on its western edge and affected by anomalous northeasterly flows, in company with weakening in the prevailing southwesterly flows and moisture transport from the South China Sea into Taiwan. As such, negative seasonal monsoon rainfall anomalies occur in Taiwan with a decreasing trend. The subtropical anomalous cyclonic circulation also weakens vertical wind shear over the major TC genesis region, that is, the Philippine Sea. Warm SST anomalies in this region and accompanying anomalous ascending motion provide additional favorable conditions for TC genesis. More TCs are thus formed in the Philippine Sea. The appearance of an anomalous cyclonic circulation in the subtropical North Pacific reflects a weakening of the Pacific subtopical high, which tends to retreat eastward and provides southeasterly or southerly flows on its western boundary to guide TCs formed in the Philippine Sea northwestward toward Taiwan. TC frequency and TC rainfall thus increase in Taiwan with an increasing trend.

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The boom in Australian oil and gas development continued in 2013, with record overall investment of $60 billion. This investment resulted from spending on the seven LNG projects under development, together with that on numerous other oil and gas developments. These projects are expected to collectively contribute up to 665 million barrels of oil equivalent (MMboe) to Australia’s oil and gas production, which totaled 513.8 MMboe in 2013. LNG, presently Australia’s seventh largest export, is likely to soon rival the nation’s largest export, iron ore. By the end of 2013, three of the LNG projects under construction—Gorgon, Queensland Curtis LNG (QCLNG) and Gladstone LNG (GLNG)—were more than 70% complete; first LNG will be before the end of 2014 for QCLNG and in 2015 for Gorgon, GLNG and Australia Pacific LNG (APLNG). The other three LNG projects—Wheatstone, Prelude and Ichthys—are close behind. These new LNG projects follow Pluto, Australia’s third LNG project, which commenced production in 2012. A full year of production from Pluto drove increased gas production in 2013. Woodside also completed the North Rankin redevelopment and continued development of the Greater Western Flank, both of which will extend the life of the North West Shelf (NWS) project. A number of other projects also commenced production. In the Carnarvon Basin, oil production began at Santos’s Fletcher-Finucane Field, and at BHP Billiton’s Macedon project, domestic gas production started. In the Timor Sea, PTTEP’s Montara Field began production of oil. In Victoria, the ExxonMobil Kipper-Turrum-Tuna project came online, with the production of gas from Tuna and oil from Turrum. Production of gas from Origin Energy’s Geographe Field (as part of the Otway Gas Project) commenced in mid-2013. Onshore oil production grew in 2013, with the Cooper-Eromanga Basin now producing more oil than any other onshore Australian basin. A major effort is underway to increase production from the western flank oil trend and to develop both the conventional and unconventional gas fields in the Cooper Basin. Spending on the development of new projects probably peaked in 2013 and there is growing concern about a dearth of future projects, with expansion of existing LNG projects and development of new projects being pushed back due to a combination of increased costs and growing international competition. There are also ongoing industry concerns about impediments to onshore gas exploration and development generally.

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BP Oil Company time-charters a fleet of American-flag tankers for the ocean transportation of crude oil and petroleum products to the East, West and Gulf Coasts of the United States. Commencing in 1991, ship response and structural monitoring instrumentation was installed on the four ships of the Atigun Pass-class. These crude carriers are operated in the Trans-Alaska Pipeline Service, or "TAPS" trade, sailing the waters of the North Pacific Ocean and Gulf of Alaska. The structural monitoring systems were designed to measure the effects of subjecting a ship to the typical loads and forces encountered while at sea: hogging, sagging, slamming, hydrostatic pressure, and hull girder springing. Additionally, BP was interested in developing a system that could provide shiphandling guidance to the master or watch officer so that the detrimental effects of prolonged exposure to such loads and forces could be effectively minimized. The paper describes in detail the physical arrangement of the BP Oil Tanker Structural Monitoring System (BPSMS), including the suite of sensors employed to measure ship responses and hull girder stresses. It explains how the response data collected by the sensors is analyzed by the onboard computer located on the ship's bridge and how ship response data are presented back to the deck officers via a family of display monitor screens. These displays provide the officers with a "tool" that can be used to effectively monitor the physical and structural response of their ship to waves, and to quantify, in terms of lowering the wave bending moment and reducing the risk of slamming, the result of an action or actions taken to minimize the risk of incurring structural damage. Onboard ship response and structural monitoring is now an integral part of BP's tanker fleet structural management program. The units have greatly increased the awareness of the ship's officers regarding their role in helping to control the amount of structural damage done to the ships. Data from the units have also helped management make more informed decisions regarding operational requirements placed on the ships.

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ABSTRACT Reports of stranded oiled seabirds began being published in the late 19th and early 20th Centuries in Europe. During and after World War I, reports of oiled birds were common on European coastlines. World War II brought observations of oiled birds on European shores, as well as the Atlantic and Pacific Coasts of North America. Numerous studies and publications have established that fugitive oil can be found on most of the worlds shorelines, and that it impacts birds at various rates of background oiling. With U.S. regulation and worldwide concern regarding compensation for injured natural resources, searches for and efforts to quantify birds associated with specific incidents have increased in recent decades. As a result, delineation between incident specific oiling and background oiling is subject to increasing scrutiny. Laboratory analytical methods and data interpretive techniques are available to confidently differentiate between oil sources and to definitively attribute oil samples to a particular source. Data are becoming available from a variety of incidents and have contributed substantially to the worldwide knowledge base. For example, in the NEW CARISSA case on the coast of the state of Oregon on the western shore of North America, a group of 27 birds recovered from areas specifically searched for dead and injured wildlife were presumed to be due to the vessel and included in the initial injury assessment. Forensic testing of the oil on the birds revealed that none of the birds were contaminated with the vessel source oils. Further studies were conducted to refine the incident specific oiling rate. While the specifics of each incident varies widely, the availability of background oiling information can assist in developing a more accurate and defensible estimate of injury.

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Research includes the study of the North West Extensions of Makhul structure using remote sensing techniques (central Iraq) which is located to the north of Baiji province in Salahuddin governorate, which lies 240 kilometers north of the city of Baghdad, located within the operations of the North Oil Company. The aim of the present study is to re-define extensions of Makhul structure by the use of visual space (satellite systems and landsat7 ETM) after it was observed that there is a difference for determined the North West Extensions for structure of what is mentioned in previous studies. I have been using the space visuals and available previous studies for the Makhul structure and North Western Extensions him in determining the dimensions, in addition to the show faults in the research area and relations with the Makhoul structure and its extensions. It has also been taking the results of wells drilled in the research area (Makhul -1, 2 and Mityaha -1), for the purpose of assessing hydrocarbon reservoir, and we are relying on the explanatory information from the images and spatial data and received from the satellite (LANDSAT 7) according to the system ETM (Enhasment Thematic Mapper). It has also rely on the definition and identification of some units geomorphologic home on the intensity of the color, tone and texture. a network of drainage pattern is essential. Using satellite data and previous studies point showing that the length of the Makhul structure more than 95.500 km and not 37 km, and the area affected by the operations raise distinct and different stages. it has been divided into four parts of Makhul structure (from the southeast to the northwest), a south-eastern part, part crescent, which includes the Saded structure, the middle part, which includes the Cehel structure and north-western part, which includes the Mityaha structure. The hydrocarbon possibilities in the study area, it is in spite of the weakness of the possibilities hydrocarbon in the southeastern part of the Makhul structure (wells Makhul-1,2) and the northwestern part formerly known the Mityaha structure (well Mityaha -1), but the middle part (the structure Cehel areal) may be possibilities hydrocarbon better and more possibilities from the other parts.

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The paper investigates the offshore crisis 2015–2017 and its impact on central international offshore oil and gas related maritime cluster, the Blue Maritime Cluster, located at the North-Western coast of Norway.This complete maritime cluster, heavily involved in offshore petroleum operations, it experienced an almost devastating blow, as it lost almost one-third of its employees as its value added contracted by 39 percent.When the crises is basically seen as a result of falling of oil prices and lower activity and squeezed profit margins, this paper investigates the crisis in the light of financial instability and reactions down the maritime supply chain. By collecting data from the Blue Maritime Cluster and the Norwegian central company register one is able both to trace the fall in the activity due to the crisis and measures of financial strength. The study approaches the data by using a structural time series analysis in order to map cycles as deviations from polynomial trends.The findings ascertain that financial instability was dominant within the Blue Maritime Cluster during its boom before the crisis. Debt ratios and thereby gearing (leverage) were high. Thus, the companies could not meet their obligations when the crisis hit.The paper also finds that narrow focused supply chain management made the cluster fall deep into the abyss. Companies with a more diversified portfolio were able to meet the hard years better than others.

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The small, oil-rich state of Brunei (population c. 40,000 in 1940) is situated in north-west Borneo. The ‘Abode of Peace’ became a British protectorate in 1888 and a Residential System along Malayan lines came into operation at the beginning of 1906. For most of the Second World War the country was under Japanese Military Administration, a period of three and a half years beginning in December 1941. Allied, predominantly Australian, landings took place in early June 1945 (Fahey 1992: 325–8; Monks 1992: 7–53) and the sultanate was speedily cleared of enemy forces, though not before the latter had successfully executed a scorched-earth programme. Most crucially of all, the Seria oilfield (discovered in 1929 by the Shell company) was set alight, the flames shooting ‘like giant blow-lamps’ at least thirty feet into the air. The last well fire was not extinguished until 27 September 1945 (Harper 1975: 21–4). A report in the Straits Times of 20 July 1946 gives some impression of the problems faced by the returning Western engineers:Most of the [Seria] wells were surrounded by blazing lakes, and the oil experts had to blast their way through. Because of the intense heat it was difficult to get near enough to ‘cap’ them and so seal the fires. In some cases aircraft were used, the fire-fighters advancing through the slipstream of the propellers which blew the flames and oil back. It then became possible to get near enough to thrust forward on long steel arms heavy charges of explosives.

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Background Spatial scale is important when studying ecological processes. The Greater sage-grouse (Centrocercus urophasianus) is a large sexually dimorphic tetraonid that is endemic to the sagebrush biome of western North America. The impacts of oil and gas (OAG) development at individual leks has been well-documented. However, no previous studies have quantified the population-level response. Methods Hierarchical models were used to estimate the effects of the areal disturbance due to well pads as well as climatic variation on individual lek counts and Greater sage-grouse populations (management units) over 32 years. The lek counts were analyzed using generalized linear mixed models while the management units were analyzed using Gompertz population dynamic models. The models were fitted using frequentist and Bayesian methods. An information-theoretic approach was used to identify the most important spatial scale and time lags. The relative importance of OAG and climate at the local and population-level scales was assessed using information-theoretic (Akaike’s weights) and estimation (effect size) statistics. Results At the local scale, OAG was an important negative predictor of the lek count. At the population scale, there was only weak support for OAG as a predictor of density changes but the estimated impacts on the long-term carrying capacity were consistent with summation of the local impacts. Regional climatic variation, as indexed by the Pacific Decadal Oscillation, was an important positive predictor of density changes at both the local and population level (particularly in the most recent part of the time series). Conclusions Additional studies to reduce the uncertainty in the range of possible effects of OAG at the population scale are required. Wildlife agencies need to account for the effects of regional climatic variation when managing sage-grouse populations.

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This article, written by JPT Technology Editor Judy Feder, contains highlights of paper SPE 202251, “Transforming the Mindset To Drill Ultra-ERD Wells With High Tortuosity,” by Barry Goodin, SPE, Duane Selman, and Andy Wroth, Vermilion Oil and Gas, et al., prepared for the 2020 SPE Asia Pacific Oil and Gas Conference and Exhibition, originally scheduled to be held in Perth, Australia, 20–22 October. The paper has not been peer reviewed. The complete paper describes the extensive integrated engineering collaboration and optimization process that allowed an operator to push the drilling and completion envelope to drill a pair of complex, ultra-extended-reach-drilling (ERD) wells in the mature Wandoo field in the Carnarvon Basin offshore Western Australia. The shallow reservoir depth, extreme ERD profile, and high tortuosity requirement for the wells posed significant challenges. These were overcome with extensive planning; integrated engineering designs; application of new technology; good-quality, real-time data interpretation; and strong execution support from both rig site and town. Introduction The Wandoo field, in 56 m of water off-shore Western Australia, was discovered in 1991 and subsequently developed and placed on production in 1993. The shallow unconsolidated sandstone reservoir consists of a heavily biodegraded oil column overlain by a gas cap and supported by a strong aquifer drive. Field infrastructure consists of a 15-well-slot manned production facility, Wandoo B, and a five-slot monopod, Wandoo A, which is tied back to Wandoo B by subsea in-field pipelines. In late 2018, the operator planned and executed a two-well drilling campaign consisting of two complex, ultra-ERD wells, Wandoo B15 and B16. Both wells were planned to be batch drilled for the top hole and intermediate hole sections, with the production hole sections to be drilled and completed sequentially. The primary objective for the B15 well was to recover unswept oil along the western flank of the field and track the well along the main Wandoo fault to the north to assess the structure and reserves from the northern tip of the field. The B16 well objective was to access unswept reserves through the center and down to the south of the field, essentially twinning the B11ST1 well, another ERD well drilled on an earlier campaign, to its eastern flank. To maximize recovery, both wells needed to be placed approximately 1 m below the top of the reservoir, except where overlain by the gas cap, in which case the wells were to be placed approximately 2 m below the gas/oil contact to avoid gas coning. Drilling Challenges and Solutions The first half of the complete paper presents a detailed discussion of the drilling challenges and solutions, illustrated with schematics, maps, charts, and graphs. Both Wells B15 and B16 were classified as ultra-ERD wells because the shallow true vertical depth (TVD) of the reservoir resulted in extreme stepout ratios and required highly complex well paths to access the remaining reserves. The complete paper lists various specific drilling- and systems-related challenges.

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Woodside is an Australian oil and gas company and a leading global operator of offshore gas platforms and onshore LNG processing facilities. It is a public company listed on the Australian Securities Exchange headquartered in Perth, Western Australia. Woodside operates the Goodwyn A gas platform on behalf of the North West Shelf (NWS) Project. Woodside assessed Li-ion battery technology and considered the technology mature and ready to be utilised on offshore and onshore operating assets. Woodside operates dedicated islanded gas turbine power generation at each of its onshore and offshore facilities. It was concluded that a large battery energy storage solution (BESS) can deliver several advantages if connected to such an islanded power generation system. The most significant benefit materialises by using a BESS as backup (or spinning reserve) for the gas turbine generators (GTGs). Woodside decided to pioneer the Li-ion BESS technology in a first of its kind application on the NWS Project offshore Goodwyn A gas platform. The Goodwyn A BESS is designed for a 1 MW power and 1 MWh energy capacity, which is considered sufficient to provide the spinning reserve for the Goodwyn A platform. Currently, Goodwyn A operates four 3.2 MW GTGs to provide a typical load of 7–8 MW, with one GTG providing the N+1 spinning reserve. When the BESS is connected to the power generation system, Goodwyn A will operate three GTGs, with the BESS proving the backup in case one of the GTGs trip. The BESS will provide the full 1 MW for a minimum of 1 h, which will give the operators enough time to start the standby GTG or adjust the facility loads (load shedding). The result will be a decrease in overall fuel gas consumption (due to better efficiencies on the remaining GTGs in operation) and a related reduction in CO2 emissions. The project supports the overall objective of the North West Shelf Project to improve the energy intensity of its facilities by 5% by 2020. Woodside believes that developing capability and experience on the installation of BESSs, using Goodwyn A as an early adopter, will facilitate similar and larger installations on other Woodside operated offshore and onshore assets. This is one of the technologies Woodside believes will play an important role to ensure a lower carbon future globally.

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AbstractThis article discusses the global geopolitics of energy security in the post-Cold War environment. Energy companies headquartered in western countries have long history of accessing energy resources beyond borders through invasion of the host by their home state, followed by domination and the creation of property rights to explore and sell oil. Conquest and domination, respectively voluntary exchange are the survival strategies of human groups in the global system. The article differentiates between demand-induced scarcity, supply-induced scarcity, structural scarcity, and the creation and transfer of property rights. Together, the behaviors referred to by these concepts create a field of social forces that cross state borders and involve state and non-state actors. Monopolizing control over energy resources by the Anglo-Saxon maritime powers was one of the causes of both world wars. Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, the US has been creating a land-based extension of its post-World War II defense perimeter. It runs from Romania, via Central Eurasia, to Israel, Afghanistan, and Pakistan. Overland transport increasingly connects economies and energy supplies on the Central European and Pacific sides of the Eurasian continent. The US, therefore, has decided to bring under its military umbrella the energy-carrying region between industrializing China and India, recovering Russia and unifying Europe. China's policy to secure its energy supply by direct contracting with the home state and legal owner of the stock, brings it into confrontation with the US. The latter consumes one-quarter of the energy assumed to be present in the Greater Middle East. In recent decades, the Chinese economy has been growing at a rate substantially above the worldwide growth rate, which implies that China's share in the world economy is increasing over time. Accordingly, China is becoming more dependent on imports, especially energy. The US domestic oil production peaked in 1970-71. Thus, the US has no spare capacity to provide its allies in Europe and East Asia in case of an interruption of supply. The conquest of Iraq by the US and its allies, and the transfer of the management of the oil sector from the state to a US tax-paying private company opens a new era of violent interstate competition for access to and control of fossil energy sources.

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A multi-year "trafficability" research program was begun in 1978 to demonstrate that year-round commercial marine transportation in Arctic waters is feasible and to collect data necessary to begin developing the criteria to design and operate marine vehicles for that environment. Using U.S. Coast Guard Polar Class icebreakers, annual winter deployments had been made in 1979, 1980, and 1981 into the Bering and Chukchi Seas to collect environmental and ship performance data. Early in 1982, the fourth phase of these research activities was conducted on the USCGC Polar Star in western Alaskan waters as far north as the Arctic Circle. Participants in the research were the Maritime Administration, the U.S. Coast Guard, the State of Alaska, the Canadian Ministry of Transport, twelve participating companies of the Alaskan Oil and Gas Association, and the Newport News Shipbuilding Company. This paper reviews the results of this voyage and the data collected. The Polar Star was instrumented to continuously monitor and record propulsion and ship motion parameters and speed. Video recording equipment was used to document ice conditions. Extensive on-ice equipment was used to profile ice features and to measure other ice parameters. Numerous pressure ridges were profiled and ice cores taken to improve the understanding of Bering and Chukchi Sea winter ice conditions and ice strength. Level ice resistance tests were conducted. However, heavy level ice conditions were not encountered and it is planned to complete the level ice resistance tests in 1984. Other research tasks included an ice edge analysis, hull friction experiments, and an ice drift study.

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KrisEnergy Pumps Cambodia’s First Crude in 17 Years A Cambodian concession has commenced production after years of delays in a venture between Singapore’s KrisEnergy and the government. The crude comes from oil fields in Block A, comprising 3083 km2 of the Khmer basin in the oil-rich Gulf of Thailand, off the southwestern coast of Sihanoukville. The concession will progress in phases once new wells are commissioned and completed. Kelvin Tang, chief executive of KrisEnergy’s Cambodian operations, called the 29 December event “an important strategic milestone” for the company, while Prime Minister Hun Sen hailed the first extraction as “a new achievement for Cambodia’s economy” and “a huge gift for our nation.” Ironbark Australian Exploration Well Declared Dry; Co-Owner Stocks Plummet BP has come up dry at its Ironbark-1 exploration well, the anticipated multi-trillion-scf prospect off the west Australian Pilbara coast. The disappointing prospect was once seen as a potential gas supplier to the emptying North West Shelf (NWS) LNG plant, where BP is a co-owner, within 5 to 10 years. After 2 months of drilling to a total depth of 5618 m, “no significant hydrocarbon shows were encountered in any of the target sands,” according to co-owner New Zealand Oil and Gas (NZOG). Petrorecôncavo Buys Petrobras’ Onshore Bahian Stake for $30 Million Brazilian operator Petrobras on 23 December signed a contract with independent producer Petrorecôncavo to sell its entire stake in 12 onshore E&P fields, the Remanso Cluster, in the state of Bahia. The sale value for the fields was $30 million; $4 million was paid on signing, $21 million at the closing of the transaction, and $5 million will be paid 1 year after that. The Remanso Cluster comprises the onshore fields of Brejinho, Canabrava, Cassarongongo, Fazenda Belém, Gomo, Mata de São João, Norte Fazenda Caruaçu, Remanso, Rio dos Ovos, Rio Subaúma, São Pedro, and Sesmaria. Zion Spuds the Israeli Megiddo-Jezreel #2 Well On 6 January, Zion Oil and Gas officially spudded the Megiddo­Jezreel #2 on its 99,000­acre Megiddo­Jezreel license area in Israel. “With unique operating conditions in the COVID­19 environment, our crews have performed an amazing task,” Zion CEO Robert Dunn said. “Mobilizing a rig into a new coun­try during a pandemic and rigging up is the most challenging part of the drilling operation,” Zion’s vice president of operations, Monty Kness, added. Exxon Declares a Dud at Second Guyana Well Exxon Mobil said on 15 January that its exploration well in the prolific Stabroek Block off Guyana’s coast did not find oil in its target area. Exxon, which operates the Stabroek Block in a consortium with Hess and China’s CNOOC, has made 18 discoveries in the area in 5 years, totaling more than 8 billion BOE, for a combined potential for producing up to 750,000 B/D of crude. The Hassa­1 exploration well was the giant’s second setback to its drilling campaign in recent months. Heirs Holdings Buys 45% of Shell Nigeria’s OML 17 Field Shell Nigeria announced on 15 January it had completed a $533 million sale of its stakes in an onshore OML 17 oil field in Nigeria to African strategic investor Heirs Holdings, Nigeria’s largest publicly listed conglomerate. The deal is one of the largest oil and gas financings in Africa in more than a decade, with a financing component of $1.1 billion provided by a consortium of global and regional banks and investors. Heirs Holdings, in partnership with Transcorp, one of the largest power producers in Nigeria with 2000 MW of installed capacity, purchased 45% stake in the field. It acquired the stakes of Shell, Total, and Eni to further its expansion into the oil and gas industry. Apex Discovers Oil in Egypt’s Western Desert Privately held independent E&P firm Apex International Energy, backed in part by UK energy investment firm Blue Water Energy, on 18 January announced a discovery in the Southeast Meleiha Concession (SEM) in the western desert of Egypt. The discovery was made at the SEMZ-11X well located 10 km west of Zarif field, the nearest producing field. The well was drilled to a total depth of 5,700 ft and encountered 65 ft of oil pay in the Cretaceous sandstones of the Bahariya and Abu Roash G formations. Testing of the Bahariya resulted in a peak rate of 2,100 B/D with no water. Additional uphole pay exists in the Bahariya and Abu Roash G formations that can be added to the production stream in the future. Kosmos Announces Oil at Winterfell Well Dallas-based E&P independent Kosmos Energy announced on 19 January an oil discovery in deepwater US Gulf of Mexico. The Winterfell discovery well, the product of infrastructure-led exploration (ILX), was drilled to a total depth of approximately 23,000 ft and is located in approximately 5,300 ft of water. This subsalt Upper Miocene prospect in off-shore Louisiana encountered approximately 85 ft of net oil pay in two intervals. ILX exploration, which has featured prominently in upstream operators’ portfolios in recent years of relatively low oil prices, is exploration around producing hubs that can be hooked up to those facilities easily and cheaply. The development sidesteps the need for costly and time-consuming individual hub construction. Equinor Gets Permit To Drill North Sea Wildcat Well The Norwegian Petroleum Directorate has granted Equinor a drilling permit for wildcat well 31/11-1 S in the North Sea offshore Norway, 62 km south of the Troll field. The drilling program is the first exploration well to be drilled in production license 785 S, awarded on 6 February 2015 (APA 2014). Operator Equinor and Total E&P Norge are 50/50 partners in the license, which consists of parts of Blocks 26/2 and 31/11. Petrobras, ExxonMobil Hit Hydrocarbons at Urissanê Well, Offshore Brazil Brazilian state-owned Petrobras announced on 29 January it had discovered hydrocarbons in a well located in the Campos Basin presalt off Brazil’s coast of Campos dos Gotyacaze in the State of Rio de Janeiro. Well 1-BRSA-1377-RJS (informally called Urissanê) is located in Block C-M-411, at a depth of 2950 m approximately 200 km offshore. Petrobras, which operates the block in a 50/50 partnership with Exxon Mobil, said it would analyze the well data to better target exploratory activities and assess the potential of the discovery. BP Offloads 20% Share of Oman’s Block 61 To PTTEP Marking another significant step in its divestment program, BP will sell a 20% participating interest in Oman’s 3950 km2 Block 61 in central Oman to Thailand’s national PTT Exploration and Production (PTTEP) for $2.59 billion. BP will remain operator of the block, holding a 40% interest.‎ The sale comprises $2.45 billion payable on completion and $140 million payable contingent on preagreed conditions.‎ After the sale, BP will hold 40% interest in Block 61, while OQ holds 30%, PTTEP ‎20%, and ‎Petronas 10%.‎ Block 61 contains the largest tight gas development in the Middle East.

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Although the Geological Survey of Canada (GSC) was founded in 1842, it was not until 1872, two years after the transfer of Hudson's Bay Company (HBC) lands to the Dominion of Canada, that the first GSC geologist, Director Alfred R. C. Selwyn, came to the western interior. One year later a drilling program he had been promoting in Ottawa saw two wells brought to completion and a third one started.During the period 1873-1875 five wells were drilled by or for the GSC at: Fort Garry (the first to be spudded and at 37 feet the shallowest), Shoal Lake, Rat Creek, Fort Carlton, and Fort Pelly (the deepest at 501 feet and the last to be abandoned). The main objective was to locate sources of water and coal for the future transcontinental railroad then planned to follow a northwesterly route from Winnipeg to Edmonton.Four wells were drilled with a rotary, diamond sieamdrill which had been used in the hard, coal-bearing rocks of Nova Scotia but proved unsuitable for penetrating the glacial drift, loose sands, and soft clays of the prairies.Besides having to deal with technical problems related to the transport of heavy equipment, a GSC drilling party became embroiled in a dispute between Government and Natives over land rights. After encountering an Indian blockade led by Chief Mistiwassis the crew retreated behind the stockade of HBC's Fort Carlton to drill a 175-foot well in August and September 1875.In 1874 an agreement was made between the GSC and John Henry Fairbank, Canada's most prominent oilman, for the drilling of a well at Fort Pelly. A percussion steamdrill, then in common use in the Petrolia, Ontario, oil fields, was the equipment of choice. Work at a drill site north of the fort in the Swan River valley started 25 August 1874 but on 30 October winter forced suspension. The stored equipment was used again the following year when drilling resumed on 6 July. The contracted 500 foot depth was exceeded by 1 foot on 9 October 1875 when the well was abandoned.

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This article, written by JPT Technology Editor Chris Carpenter, contains highlights of paper SPE 202246, “Wheatstone: What We Have Learned in Early Production Life,” by John Pescod, SPE, Paul Connell, SPE, and Zhi Xia, Chevron, et al., prepared for the 2020 SPE Asia Pacific Oil and Gas Conference and Exhibition, originally scheduled to be held in Perth, Australia, 20–22 October. The paper has not been peer reviewed. Wheatstone and Iago gas fields, part of the larger Wheatstone project, commenced production in June 2017. The foundation subsea system includes nine Wheatstone and Iago development wells tied back to a central Wheatstone platform (WP) for processing. Hydrocarbons then flow through an export pipeline to an onshore processing facility that includes two liquefied-natural-gas (LNG) trains and a domestic gas facility. The complete paper highlights some of the key learnings in well and reservoir surveillance analysis and optimization (SA&O) developed using data from early production. Asset Overview Chevron Australia’s Wheatstone project is in the North West Shelf region offshore Australia (Fig. 1). Two gas fields, Wheatstone and Iago (along with a field operated by a different company), currently tie into the WP in the Northern Carnarvon Basin. These two gas fields are in water depths between 150 and 400 m. The platform processes gas and condensate through dehydration and compression facilities before export by a 220-km, 44-in., trunkline to two 4.45-million-tonnes/year LNG trains and a 200 tera-joule/day domestic gas plant. A Wheatstone/Iago subsea system consisting of two main corridors delivers production from north and south of the Wheatstone and Iago fields to the WP. Currently, the subsea system consists of nine subsea foundation development wells, three subsea production manifolds, two subsea 24-in. production flowlines, and two subsea 14-in. utility lines. The nine foundation development wells feed the subsea manifolds at rates of up to 250 MMscf/D. These wells have openhole gravel-pack completions for active sand control and permanent downhole gauges situated approximately 1000-m true vertical depth above the top porosity of multi-Darcy reservoir intervals for pressure and temperature monitoring. All wells deviate between 45 and 60° through the reservoir with stepout lengths of up to 2.5 km. The two subsea 24-in. production flowlines carry production fluids from the subsea manifolds to two separation trains on the WP. Each platform inlet production separator can handle up to 800 MMscf/D. The two 14-in. utility flowlines installed to the subsea manifolds allow routing of a single well to the platform multiuse header, which can direct flow into the multiuse separator (MUS) or other production separators at a rate of 250 MMscf/D.

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Актуальность работы определяется важностью оценки и прогноза нефтегазового потенциала глубоких осадочных бассейнов, в частности, глубоких горизонтов структур, не всегда доступных глубокому бурению в поисковых и разведочных целях. Цель и методы исследования. Наряду с прикладными вопроса- ми целью исследования являются фундаментальные вопросы теоретической геодинамики формирования и эволюции осадочных бассейнов в связи с подъемом мантийных диапиров на основе методов механи- ко-математического моделирования. Прикаспийская впадина и восточный сегмент Кавказского региона, включая Каспийское море, могут рассматриваться как регионы окрестности восточной части Альпийского пояса, который в свою очередь является западной частью Альпийско-Гималайского пояса, простирающе- гося от западной оконечности Средиземного моря до Тихоокеанского побережья. Каспийское море пере- секает с севера на юг серию широтных структурных зон юго-восточной окраины древней докембрийской Восточно-Европейской платформы, молодой эпигерцинской Скифско-Туранской платформы и современ- ного Альпийско-Гималайского орогенного пояса. Прикаспийская и Южно-Каспийская впадины являются глубокими осадочными бассейнами с толщиной осадочного чехла более 20 км, обладающими высоким нефтегазовым потенциалом и большим народно-хозяйственным значением. Формирование и эволюция осадочного бассейна служат ключом для определения зон нефтегенерации осадочного чехла, что делает задачу изучения геодинамики осадочных бассейнов крайне важной и необходимой. Геодинамика релье- фа поверхности определяется глубинными мантийными движениями. Механико-математическая модель динамики литосферы дает возможность количественно связать параметры формирующегося осадочного бассейна с подъемом мантийного диапира. Анализ геофизических полей геологических структур позволя- ет оценить подъем астеносферы, а разработанная самосопряженная термогравиметрическая модель ли- тосферы делает эти оценки надежными и достоверными. Геодинамика и история развития геологических структур определяют магматизм, вулканизм, сейсмичность, геотермические характеристики, геотермаль- ную активность, нефтегазоносность, опасные природные процессы региона, что в свою очередь является обоснованием создания системы комплексного экологического мониторинга на фундаментальной научной базе, прогноза и предупреждения природных бедствий и катастроф, а также поиска полезных ископаемых, включая углеводороды. Результатом работы является количественная оценка подъема астеносферы под осадочным бассейном на примере Прикаспийской впадины The relevance of the work is determined by the importance of assessing and predicting the oil and gas potential of deep sedimentary basins, in particular, deep horizons of structures that are not always accessible to deep drilling for prospecting and exploration purposes. The aim and research methods. Along with applied questions, the aim of the study is the fundamental questions of the theoretical geodynamics of the formation and evolution of sedimentary basins in connection with the rise of mantle diapirs based on the methods of mechanical and mathematical modeling. Pre-Caspian Depression and eastern segment of Caucasus region, including Caspian Sea, can be considered as regions of area of eastern part of Alpine belt, which is western part of Alpine-Himalayan belt disposed from Mediterranean sea to Pacific Ocean. Caspian sea crosses from North to South the series of structural zones of East European platform, Scythian-Turan platform and Alpine-Himalayan belt. Pre-Caspian Depression and South Caspian Depression are deep sedimentary basins with thickness of sedimentary cover more than 20 km which have high oil-gas potential and big industrial importance. Formation and evolution of sedimentary basin is the clue for oil-gas generation zones of sedimentary cover, that makes the problem of sedimentary basins geodynamics of great importance one. Geodynamics of relief is defined by deep mantle movements. Mechanical-mathematical model of the lithosphere dynamics gives possibility to link the basin parameters with mantle diaper upwelling. Analysis of geophysical fields gives opportunity to evaluate the asthenosphere upwelling, and elaborated self-conjugated thermo-gravimetric model makes this evaluation reliable and trustworthy one. Geodynamics and evolution history of geological structures determine magmatism, volcanism, seismicity, geothermics, geothermal manifestations, oil-gas potential, natural hazards of region, that is basem*nt for monitoring system creation and construction on fundamental scientific base, forecast and prognosis of natural catastrophes and oil-gas potential researches. The result of this work is a quantitative assessment of the rise of the asthenosphere under the sedimentary basin using the example of the Pre-Caspian Depression

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Shell Selling Onshore Egypt Assets Shell Egypt and one of its affiliates have signed an agreement with a consortium made up of subsidiaries of Cheiron Petroleum Corporation and Cairn Energy PLC to sell its upstream assets in Egypt’s Western Desert for a base consideration of $646 million. Additional payments of up to $280 million between 2021 and 2024 will be made contingent on the oil price and the results of further exploration. The transaction is subject to government and regulatory approvals and is expected to complete in the second half of 2021. The package of assets comprises Shell Egypt’s interest in 13 onshore concessions and the company’s share in Badr El-Din Petroleum Company. Shell will shift its exploration focus in Egypt offshore, which includes seven new blocks in the Nile Delta, West Mediterranean, and Red Sea. Chevron Begins Production From Sarta-2 Well in Iraq Chevron has started production from the Sarta-2 well at the Sarta field in the Kurdistan region of Iraq, partner Genel Energy said. Gross field production now stands at more than 10,000 B/D. Sarta production is expected to increase from the existing two producing wells as facility optimization continues after production startup. A fresh appraisal drilling campaign is scheduled to begin soon, with the Sarta-5 and Sarta-6 wells set to be drilled back-to-back. Chevron is operator of the Sarta production-sharing contract (50%) with partners Genel Energy (30%) and the Kurdistan Regional Government (20%). Colombia Eyes Licensing Round Results in November Colombia is expected to soon reveal the schedule for its 2021 licensing round offering 32 blocks for oil and gas exploration, with results expected in November. In 2020, the nation awarded three areas to Canada-based companies Parex Resources and Canocol Energy despite the double-whammy of crashing crude demand and a global pandemic. With oil prices on the mend and an aggressive vaccine dissemination program, Colombia is hopeful that interest in its oil and gas acreage returns to pre-pandemic levels. The National Hydrocarbon Agency (ANH) expects to award at least half of the available tracts, which are part of more than 500 areas identified by the ANH in the country and include mature fields, emerging basins, and bordering areas. Exploration in Colombia fell dramatically in 2020 with only 18 wildcats drilled vs. the 45 planned, with most of the expected investment deferred to 2021-2022. While the country has allowed pilot projects testing for unconventional oil, there currently is a ban on fracking operations in the country. Israel Begins Prep Work for Fourth Offshore Round Israel’s Ministry of Energy has announced plans to launch the fourth offshore bidding round (OBR 4) for exploration licenses in the country’s exclusive economic zone soon. OBR 4 is part of a multiyear program to encourage the exploration and development of Israel’s natural resources to provide low-cost, environmentally friendly energy to Israel’s consumers and businesses and to develop markets for Israeli natural gas beyond its borders. As in OBR 2, the Ministry is planning to offer several zones to qualified companies, with each zone comprising approximately four licenses having a total area of up to 1600 sq km. Around 25 exploration licenses (blocks) have been mapped and will be grouped into six clusters. The exact dates of the stages of the bid round and grouping of the licenses in clusters will be determined later. No decision has yet been made on the winner of the license for natural gas and oil exploration in Block 72 in the third competitive bid round carried out in 2020. The Ministry will announce the formal commencement of OBR 4 and its delineation in the near future and provide detailed information on its website www.energy-sea.energy.gov.il at that time. Exxon Drills Dud at Bulletwood Offshore Guyana Exxon encountered noncommercial hydrocarbons with a test of its Bulletwood prospect in the Canje Block in the Guyana-Suriname basin. The well, located in 2846 m of water, was drilled to its planned target depth of 6690 m using drillship Stena Carron. Data collection from the Bulletwood-1 well confirms the presence of the Guyana-Suriname petroleum system and the potential prospectivity of the Canje Block, said partner Westmount Energy. Bulletwood-1 was the first of three scheduled wells to be drilled on the block in 2021. Wells Jabillo-1 and Sapote-1 are expected to spud over the coming months. Exxon operates the Canje Block via its Esso Exploration and Production Guyana unit, which has a 35% stake. Total has 35%, JHI 17.5%, and Mid-Atlantic Oil & Gas 12.5. Westmount holds a 7.7% stake in JHI. While the well results were disappointing, Exxon’s success rate in the area is still around 80% from 18 wells and expects its production from the region to reach 750,000 B/D by 2026. Neptune Earmarks $150 Million for Exploration and Appraisal in 2021 UK-based independent Neptune Energy said its exploration and appraisal spend for 2021 will remain flat at around $150 million. The company said it had up to 11 wells planned for the year including followup wells at the Dugong and Maha discoveries as well as a wild-cat at Dugong Tail. Dugong was discovered in the Norwegian portion of the North Sea in 2020. Neptune believes the prospect holds between 40–120 million BOE. Dugong is located 158 km west of Florø, Norway, at a water depth of 330 m, and is close to existing production facilities. The Dugong prospect comprises two reservoirs that lies at a depth between 3250–3500 m. The Maha discovery offshore East Kalimantan is estimated to hold gas resources in excess of 600 Bcf. In 2019, Neptune and its partners, Eni (operator) and Pertamina, were awarded the West Ganal production-sharing contract that holds the Maya find. An exploration well targeting the Dugong Tail prospect, adjacent to the south of the Dugong find, is slated for the third quarter of this year and will be drilled using Odjfell semisubmersible Deepsea Yantai. Interest Wanes in Norway’s Arctic Frontier Seven companies applied for new acreage in the Barents Sea in Norway’s latest licensing round, down from 26 in a similar round in 2013. The government had offered 125 new blocks in eight frontier regions of the Barents. More than 60% of the undiscovered hydrocarbons offshore Norway are in the Barents frontier, according to the nation’s petroleum directorate. However, appetites for frontier drilling have diminished as oil prices weakened and recent results from the region have disappointed. Companies that applied for the new acreage round were Norske Shell, Equinor, Idemitsu Petroleum Norge, Ineos E&P Norge, Lundin Norway, OMV Norge, and Var Energi. Oman Transfers Ownership of Massive Block 6 The government of Oman has transferred its stake in one of the Middle East’s largest oil blocks to a newly established firm. By royal decree, the new, state-controlled Energy Development Oman (EDO) will hold the country’s 60% stake in Block 6. The stake was moved from Petroleum Development Oman (PDO), another government-run company. Oman, which is struggling under a soaring budget deficit, is looking to finance its spending by leveraging its energy assets. Block 6 has a production capacity of 650,000 BOED. Shell holds 34% in the block, while Total holds the remaining 4%. The government appointed Haifa Al Khaifi as head of EDO in January. She joined from PDO and is also chairwoman of the Saudi Arabian unit of State Street Corp., the Boston-based custodian and money manager. EDO will also be able to invest abroad and deal in renewable-energy products.

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This article, written by JPT Technology Editor Chris Carpenter, contains highlights of paper SPE 202273, “Reservoir Characterization and Scenario-Based Modeling To Optimize Development Planning of the Jurassic Plover Formation in the Ichthys Field, North West Shelf of Australia,” by Kazuyuki Yamamoto, SPE, Shuji Yamamoto, and Toby Jones, INPEX, et al., prepared for the 2020 SPE Asia Pacific Oil and Gas Conference and Exhibition, originally scheduled to be held in Perth, Australia, 20–22 October. The paper has not been peer reviewed. The Plover Formation is one of two reservoirs in the Ichthys field of the Australian North West Shelf. The objective of this study is to build multiple scenario-based models to optimize development planning in preparation for the upcoming production phase. The authors have integrated data and interpretations of thin sections, cores, well logs, and seismic data to create multiple geological concepts for the field and to identify key geological uncertainties. Introduction The Ichthys liquefied natural gas project is one of the world’s largest and involves the development of a gas-condensate field in the Browse Basin. The field is approximately 220 km offshore Western Australia and covers an area of approximately 800 km2 with an average water depth of approximately 250 m. The field is currently under preparation for the development of the Plover Formation. The authors conducted an integrated subsurface evaluation and built reservoir models with newly reprocessed 3D seismic data to optimize Plover development planning. Considering the geological uncertainty given the limited production data gathered before the production phase, the multiple deterministic approach was selected as the best option to optimize development planning. In this approach, it is important to capture all geological scenarios that may occur in the field and to build reservoir models in which the scenario concepts are explicitly integrated. A multidisciplinary team was organized to conduct this study. Geology of the Plover Formation The Plover Formation consists of sandstones, shales, igneous rocks, and a minor amount of coal. The depositional environment is fluvial to shallow marine. The average thickness of the formation is approximately 360 m. Based on the stratigraphic correlation anchored by mainly palynological biostratigraphic data, the formation has been subdivided into five stratigraphic members. The formation is overlain by the Ichthys Formation, which is composed mainly of argillaceous sandstone and shale deposited in a tidally influenced, lower-delta-to-shelf environment. Although the nine existing exploration wells broadly cover the entire field, the spacing between the wells is still large (8–10 km). Further-more, core coverage is low, especially in the reservoir sandstone intervals. Igneous rock, predominantly basaltic in composition and likely extrusive in origin, occurs more in the eastern part of the field. Igneous activity has complicated the distribution and connectivity of the reservoir sandstones in the Ichthys field. Key Geological Uncertainties Rock Type (RT). The results of petrographic analysis of rock samples from the Ichthys field and other surrounding fields indicate that the sandstones of the Plover Formation can be separated into multiple RTs: RT1 and RT2, with RT1 subdivided into RT1a and RT1b. Very little data exist from RT2 in the fluvial/distributary channel sandstones in the Ichthys field in comparison with other fields; this is considered to be the result of limited core. The assumption that RT2 exists in the field is critical to prepare for the possibility that a future well may be drilled that might have some nontrivial quantity of RT2.

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Problem setting. In Ukraine competition policy aims to support healthy competition and limit abuses of monopoly position. However, there are special markets that society requires to meet its needs, but doing business in these areas is very resource-intensive, requires a difficult activity, and therefore objectively engage in such economic activities is too difficult and / or unfavorable to the vast majority of business entities. Then objectively “natural” monopolies are formed, and at the same time only one / several business entities claim to operate in such a market. Accordingly, these monopolies require special legal regulation by the state. Moreover, without proper government intervention, such socially useful activities would not be carried out on the market at all, or would be carried out according to other standards (level of quality, availability, safety, etc.). State regulation of Ukraine in this area is rightly criticized by Ukrainian researchers. Accordingly, an interesting question arises: is the state regulation of different markets, which are in a state of natural monopolies, based on the same principles and approaches? Target of research. The purpose of the article is to analyze the nature, features of the criteria for defining markets as natural monopolies and the objectivity of the classification of markets for certain services in seaports to natural monopolies in Ukraine. Analysis of recent researches and publications. Some issues of the analysis of the state antimonopoly (competition) policy were considered by O.O. Bakalinskaya, V.M. Grudnitsky, V.I. Polyukhovych, Y.I. Yasko, features of problems of a natural monopoly in the market of pilot services were covered by E.M. Klyueva, M. Gardus et al. Article’s main body. Unlike traditional natural monopolies (for example, markets for oil and oil products, natural gas, pipeline, air, rail transport, electricity) in Ukraine, the status of natural monopolies have some services in seaports, approved by the Cabinet of Ministers of Ukraine from June 3, 2013 № 405 by granting exclusive rights to the State Enterprise “Administration of Seaports of Ukraine”. But this list was compiled without proper feasibility studies and arguments. However, some of these services in ports (pilotage, icebreaking) do not meet the criteria of natural monopolies. Bylaws that contradict special laws have created a vicious circle where it is impossible to become a pilot without pilots, and a specialist can only be considered a pilot if he is recognized as such by a pilot after fulfilling a number of requirements. But such a situation contradicts the special legal norms of the Laws of Ukraine, in particular, the Merchant Shipping Code of Ukraine and “On Seaports of Ukraine”. In accordance with Art. 19 of this Law of Ukraine, the provision of pilotage is not a service provided only by state enterprises. After the entry into force of the Code of Merchant Shipping of Ukraine on June 13, 2013, pilotage services were removed from the exclusive competence of state-owned enterprises. The novelties were approved by the Law of Ukraine of May 17, 2012 № 4709-VI. But in the bylaws there are some provisions that directly contradict the laws of Ukraine, for example, paragraph 4.1.2. Order of the Ministry of Transport and Communications of Ukraine of August 1, 2007 № 655 “On approval of the Rules of navigation and pilotage of vessels in the north-western part of the Black Sea, Bug-Dnieper-Estuary and Kherson sea canals”. It is interesting to note that most of the bylaws that currently contradict these laws and in fact create barriers to access to the market for pilotage services were not only not adapted to the new requirements of the laws, but were adopted after the adoption and shortly before the entry into force of this already approved by the Supreme Council of Ukraine of the Code of Merchant Shipping of Ukraine: Order of the Ministry of Infrastructure of Ukraine № 292 of May 8, 2013 and Resolution of the Cabinet of Ministers of Ukraine № 405 of June 3, 2013. Of course, after the entry into force of laws, the rules of law must be given in bylaws in strict accordance with the laws of Ukraine. However, this has not been done so far, although changes to them and to the order of the Ministry of Transport № 655 of August 1, 2007, were made in 2015, 2016 and 2018. On the contrary, despite the fact that the pilot market does not fall directly under the criteria of a natural monopoly, neither the Ministry of Infrastructure of Ukraine nor the Cabinet of Ministers of Ukraine has provided public reasoned explanations or feasibility studies, whether in this state there is demand in this market. more effective in the absence of competition, and such a justification is essential to clearly establish the main criterion of a natural monopoly – the state of the commodity market. Because of this, the Antimonopoly Committee of Ukraine in its Report of 2017 pointed out that it is possible to state the controversy of including the market in which pilotage services are provided in the market, which is in a state of natural monopoly. The analysis of judicial practice in resolving disputes related to the provision of specialized services in ports (icebreaking works) shows the possibility of providing specialized services by a business entity that is not a monopolist and the lack of responsibility for providing such services to a company that is not a natural monopolist. Conclusions and prospects for the development. So, in Ukraine the current legal regulation of the status of natural monopolies among certain services in seaports is ambiguous, reminiscent of the artificial intervention of the regulator in relations, rather than the natural formation of such monopolies, as such criteria do not fully meet the statutory criteria of natural monopolies. the acts actually formed natural monopolies. Moreover, these bylaws must be brought into strict compliance with the Merchant Shipping Code of Ukraine, abolishing the exclusive rights to carry out at least pilotage and icebreaking operations of the State Enterprise “Administration of Seaports of Ukraine”. Licensing of these activities is possible in order to allow private entities to enter these markets and to ensure proper state control.

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AbstractThe Northwest Hutton oil field lies in the East Shetland Basin entirely within UK Block 211/27. It was discovered by the Amoco Group 211/27-3 well in April 1975 and is operated by Amoco (UK) Exploration Company. The structure is a series of tilted fault blocks. The reservoir sandstones are the Brent Group Sandstones of Middle Jurassic age deposited in a progradational deltaic environment. The Brent Group sandstones vary in thickness from 320-500 ft over the field. Average porosity ranges from 20% at the crest of the structure to 13% on the western flank with permeability decreasing from an average of 267 md to 1 md. Recoverable oil is estimated to be 145 MMBBL. A total of 26 producing and 9 water injection wells have been drilled from a single steel jacket platform. Production peaked in May 1983 at 86 680 BOPD.

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Baku-Tbilisi Ceyhan (BTC) pipeline carries oil from the Azeri-Chirag-Deepwater Gunashli (ACG) field and condensate from Shah Deniz across Azerbaijan, Georgia and Turkey. It links Sangachal terminal on the shores of the Caspian Sea to Ceyhan marine terminal on the Turkish Mediterranean coast. In addition, crude oil from Turkmenistan continues to be transported via the pipeline. Starting in October 2013, we have also resumed transportation of some volumes of Tengiz crude oil from Kazakhstan through the BTC pipeline. The pipeline that became operational in June 2006 was built by the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan pipeline company (BTC Co) operated by BP. The pipeline buried along its entire length is 1768km in total length: 443km in Azerbaijan, 249km in Georgia, and 1,076km in Turkey The Azerbaijan and Georgia sections of the pipeline are operated by BP on behalf of its shareholders in BTC Co. while the Turkish section is operated by BOTAS International Limited (BIL). The diameter of the pipeline is 42 inches throughout most of Azerbaijan and Turkey. In Georgia the pipeline diameter is 46 inches. The pipeline diameter reduces to 34-inches for the last downhill section to the Ceyhan Marine Terminal in Turkey. Throughput capacity-one million barrels per day from March 2006 to March 2009. Since March 2009 it has been expanded to 1.2 million barrels per day by using drag reducing agents (DRAs). The hypothesis of our research stems from the following questions Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan oil pipeline and Nabucco gas pipeline "to Western Europe: Is it a re-engineering of drawing lines of power in the Caucasus or is it a step that could contribute to obstructing energy corridors between East and West? The Caucasus Energy Department begins in the oil-and-gas-rich countries of the Caspian Sea, Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan and Kazakhstan. Azerbaijan, located to the west of the Caspian basin, is the source of any power lines emanating from the basin. In the north, Russia wants to be the only buyer from these sources, so that it can capture sales to Western markets. However, Azerbaijan has, to date, worked with the West and Turkey to build pipelines instead of working with Russia. "Turkey, which lies to the west, is shutting down the energy department as the last stop for pipelines. On the other hand, energy experts believe that the improvement of TurkishArmenian relations should not be at the expense of the East-West energy corridor, in other words, cooperation with regard to pipelines extending from Azerbaijan to Turkey. This corridor is a critical strategic tool for Washington to reduce the Western dependence on oil and gas from the Middle East. Oil exports through the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan pipeline amounted to 14.9 million tons in the first half of this year, up 2.8 percent from the same period in 2015, according to a report by Reuters. Oil exports through the pipeline, which passes through Georgia and Turkey, rose 1.5 percent in 2015 to 28.84 million tonnes. Azerbaijan exports oil through the pipeline from the oil fields of Shiraj and Jonsheli, operated by British company BP. Crude is also exported through Russia through the Baku-Novorossiysk pipeline, through the Georgian territory by rail and through the Baku-Supsa pipeline. Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan are also exporting oil via the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan pipeline. These rates are expected to rise during 2016/2017.

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The first deep seismic sounding experiment in Northwestern Anatolia was carried out in October 1991 as part of the "German - Turkish Project on Earthquake Prediction Research" in the Mudurnu area of the North Anatolian Fault Zone. The experiment was a joint enterprise by the Institute of Meteorology and Geophysics of Frankfurt University, the Earthquake Research Institute (ERI) in Ankara, and the Turkish Oil Company (TPAO). Two orthogonal profiles, each 120 km in length with a crossing point near Akyazi, were covered in succession by 30 short period tape recording seismograph stations with 2 km station spacing. 12 shots, with charge sizes between 100 and 250 kg, were fired and 342 seismograms out of 360 were used for evaluation. By coincidence an M b = 4.5 earthquake located below Imroz Island was also recorded and provided additional information on Moho and the sub-Moho velocity. A ray tracing method orginally developed by Weber (1986) was used for travel time inversion. From a compilation of all data two generalized crustal models were derived, one with velocity gradients within the layers and one with constant layer velocities. The latter consists of a sediment cover of about 2 km with V p » 3.6 km/s, an upper crystalline crust down to 13 km with V p » 5.9 km/s, a middle crust down to 25 km depth with V p » 6.5 km/s, a lower crust down to 39 km Moho depth with V p » 7.0 km/s and V p » 8.05 km/s below the Moho. The structure of the individual profiles differs slightly. The thickest sediment cover is reached in the Izmit-Sapanca-trough and in the Akyazi basin. Of particular interest is a step of about 4 km in the lower crust near Lake Sapanca and probably an even larger one in the Moho (derived from the Imroz earthquake data). After the catastrophic earthquake of Izmit on 17 August 1999 this significant heterogeneity in crustal structure appears in a new light with regard to the possible cause of the Izmit earthquake. Heterogeneities in structure are frequently also heterogeneities in strength and stress that impede or even lock rupture. The Izmit earthquake is discussed in relation to a large stepover or jog at the North Anatolian Fault.

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Abstract Background Heart failure with preserved ejection fraction (HFpEF) is a global public health problem with important regional differences. We investigated these differences in the PARAGON-HF trial, the largest, most inclusive global HFpEF trial. Methods We studied differences in clinical characteristics, outcomes and regional treatment effects of Sacubitril/Valsartan in 4796 patients with HFpEF from the PARAGON-HF trial, grouped according to geographic region. Results Regional differences in patient characteristics and comorbidities were observed (Figure 1): patients from Western Europe were oldest (75±7 years) with the highest prevalence of atrial fibrillation (36%); Central/Eastern European patients were youngest (71±8 years) with the highest prevalence of coronary artery disease (CAD, 49%); North American patients had the highest prevalence of obesity (64%) with metabolic syndrome; Latin American patients were youngest and had a high prevalence of obesity (53%); Asia-Pacific patients had a high prevalence of diabetes (44%) despite low prevalence of obesity (26%). Rates of the primary composite endpoint of total hospitalizations for HF and death from cardiovascular causes was lowest in patients from Central Europe (9 per 100 patient years) and highest in patients from North America (28 per 100 patient years), which was primarily driven by a greater number of total hospitalizations for HF and independent of confounders. In the total population, sacubitril–valsartan did not result in a significantly lower rate of total hospitalizations for heart failure and death from cardiovascular causes with no significant heterogeneity in treatment response to sacubitril-valsartan across regions. Conclusion This first report on regional differences in the largest prospective global trial in HFpEF suggests substantial regional heterogeneity with respect to phenotype, outcomes and quality of life. Figure 1 Funding Acknowledgement Type of funding source: Private company. Main funding source(s): Study funded by Novartis

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Introduction The counterculture that arose during the 1960s and 1970s left lasting social and political reverberations in developed nations. This was a time of increasing affluence and liberalisation which opened up remarkable political opportunities for social change. Within this context, an array of new social movements were a vital ingredient of the ferment that saw existing norms challenged and the establishment of new rights for many oppressed groups. An expanding arena of concerns included the environmental damage caused by 200 years of industrial capitalism. This article examines one aspect of a current environment movement in Australia, the anti-Coal Seam Gas (CSG) movement, and the part played by participants. In particular, the focus is upon one action that emerged during the recent Bentley Blockade, which was a regional mobilisation against proposed unconventional gas mining (UGM) near Lismore, NSW. Over the course of the blockade, the conventional ritual of waving at passers-by was transformed into a mechanism for garnering broad community support. Arguably, this was a crucial factor in the eventual outcome. In this case, we contend that the wave, rather than a countercultural artefact being appropriated by the mainstream, represents an everyday behaviour that builds social solidarity, which is subverted to become an effective part of the repertoire of the movement. At a more general level, this article examines how counterculture and mainstream interact via the subversion of “ordinary” citizens and the role of certain cultural understandings for that purpose. We will begin by examining the nature of the counterculture and its relationship to social movements before discussing the character of the anti-CSG movement in general and the Bentley Blockade in particular, using the personal experience of one of the writers. We will then be able to explore our thesis in detail and make some concluding remarks. The Counterculture and Social Movements In this article, we follow Cox’s understanding of the counterculture as a kind of meta-movement within which specific social movements are situated. For Cox (105), the counterculture that flourished during the 1960s and 1970s was an overarching movement in which existing social relations—in particular the family—were rejected by a younger generation, who succeeded in effectively fusing previously separate political and cultural spheres of dissent into one. Cox (103-04) points out that the precondition for such a phenomenon is “free space”—conditions under which counter-hegemonic activity can occur—for example, being liberated from the constraints of working to subsist, something which the unprecedented prosperity of the post WWII years allowed. Hence, in the 1960s and 1970s, as the counterculture emerged, a wave of activism arose in the western world which later came to be referred to as new social movements. These included the civil rights movement, women’s liberation, pacifism and the anti-nuclear and environment movements. The new movements rejected established power and organisational structures and tended, some scholars argued, to cross class lines, basing their claims on non-material issues. Della Porta and Diani claim this wave of movements is characterised by: a critical ideology in relation to modernism and progress; decentralized and participatory organizational structures; defense of interpersonal solidarity against the great bureaucracies; and the reclamation of autonomous spaces, rather than material advantages. (9) This depiction clearly announces the countercultural nature of the new social movements. As Carter (91) avers, these movements attempted to bypass the state and instead mobilise civil society, employing a range of innovative tactics and strategies—the repertoire of action—which may involve breaking laws. It should be noted that over time, some of these movements did shift towards accommodation of existing power structures and became more reformist in nature, to the point of forming political parties in the case of the Greens. However, inasmuch as the counterculture represented a merging of distinctively non-mainstream ways of life with the practice of actively challenging social arrangements at a political level (Cox 18–19; Grossberg 15–18;), the tactic of mobilising civil society to join social movements demonstrates in fact a reverse direction: large numbers of people are transfigured in radical ways by their involvement in social movements. One important principle underlying much of the repertoire of action of these new movements was non-violence. Again, this signals countercultural norms of the period. As Sharp (583–86) wrote at the time, non-violence is crucial in that it denies the aggressor their rationale for violent repression. This principle is founded on the liberal notion, whose legacy goes back to Locke, that the legitimacy of the government rests upon the consent of the governed—that is, the people can withdraw their consent (Locke in Ball & Dagger 92). Ghandi also relied upon this idea when formulating his non-violent approach to conflict, satyagraha (Sharp 83–84). Thus an idea that upholds the modern state is adopted by the counterculture in order to undermine it (the state), again demonstrating an instance of counterflow from the mainstream. Non-violence does not mean non-resistance. In fact, it usually involves non-compliance with a government or other authority and when practised in large numbers, can be very effective, as Ghandi and those in the civil rights movement showed. The result will be either that the government enters into negotiation with the protestors, or they can engage in violence to suppress them, which generally alienates the wider population, leading to a loss of support (Finley & Soifer 104–105). Tarrow (88) makes the important point that the less threatening an action, the harder it is to repress. As a result, democratic states have generally modified their response towards the “strategic weapon of nonviolent protest and even moved towards accommodation and recognition of this tactic as legitimate” (Tarrow 172). Nevertheless, the potential for state violence remains, and the freedom to protest is proscribed by various laws. One of the key figures to emerge from the new social movements that formed an integral part of the counterculture was Bill Moyer, who, in conjunction with colleagues produced a seminal text for theorising and organising social movements (Moyer et al.). Many contemporary social movements have been significantly influenced by Moyer’s Movement Action Plan (MAP), which describes not only key theoretical concepts but is also a practical guide to movement building and achieving aims. Moyer’s model was utilised in training the Northern Rivers community in the anti-CSG movement in conjunction with the non-violent direct action (NVDA) model developed by the North-East Forest Alliance (NEFA) that resisted logging in the forests of north-eastern NSW during the late 1980s and 1990s (Ricketts 138–40). Indeed, the Northern Rivers region of NSW—dubbed the Rainbow Region—is celebrated, as a “‘meeting place’ of countercultures and for the articulation of social and environmental ideals that challenge mainstream practice” (Ward and van Vuuren 63). As Bible (6–7) outlines, the Northern Rivers’ place in countercultural history is cemented by the holding of the Aquarius Festival in Nimbin in 1973 and the consequent decision of many attendees to stay on and settle in the region. They formed new kinds of communities based on an alternative ethics that eschewed a consumerist, individualist agenda in favour of modes of existence that emphasised living in harmony with the environment. The Terania Creek campaign of the late 1970s made the region famous for its environmental activism, when the new settlers resisted the logging of Nightcap National Park using nonviolent methods (Bible 5). It was also instrumental in developing an array of ingenious actions that were used in subsequent campaigns such as the Franklin Dam blockade in Tasmania in the early 1980s (Kelly 116). Indeed, many of these earlier activists were key figures in the anti-CSG movement that has developed in the Rainbow Region over the last few years. The Anti-CSG Movement Despite opposition to other forms of UGM, such as tight sands and shale oil extraction techniques, the term anti-CSG is used here, as it still seems to attract wide recognition. Unconventional gas extraction usually involves a process called fracking, which is the injection at high pressure of water, sand and a number of highly toxic chemicals underground to release the gas that is trapped in rock formations. Among the risks attributed to fracking are contamination of aquifers, air pollution from fugitive emissions and exposure to radioactive particles with resultant threats to human and animal health, as well as an increased risk of earthquakes (Ellsworth; Hand 13; Sovacool 254–260). Additionally, the vast amount of water that is extracted in the fracking process is saline and may contain residues of the fracking chemicals, heavy metals and radioactive matter. This produced water must either be stored or treated (Howarth 273–73; Sovacool 255). Further, there is potential for accidents and incidents and there are many reports—particularly in the United States where the practice is well established—of adverse events such as compressors exploding, leaks and spills, and water from taps catching fire (Sovacool 255–257). Despite an abundance of anecdotal evidence, until recently authorities and academics believed there was not enough “rigorous evidence” to make a definitive judgment of harm to animal and human health as a result of fracking (Mitka 2135). For example, in Australia, the Queensland Government was unable to find a clear link between fracking and health complaints in the Tara gasfield (Thompson 56), even though it is known that there are fugitive emissions from these gasfields (Tait et al. 3099-103). It is within this context that grassroots opposition to UGM began in Australia. The largest and most sustained challenge has come from the Northern Rivers of New South Wales, where a company called Metgasco has been attempting to engage in UGM for a number of years. Stiff community opposition has developed over this time, with activists training, co-ordinating and organising using the principles of Moyer’s MAP and NEFA’s NVDA. Numerous community and affinity groups opposing UGM sprang up including the Lock the Gate Alliance (LTG), a grassroots organisation opposing coal and gas mining, which formed in 2010 (Lock the Gate Alliance online). The movement put up sustained resistance to Metgasco’s attempts to establish wells at Glenugie, near Grafton and Doubtful Creek, near Kyogle in 2012 and 2013, despite the use of a substantial police presence at both locations. In the event, neither site was used for production despite exploratory wells being sunk (ABC News; Dobney). Metgasco announced it would be withdrawing its operations following new Federal and State government regulations at the time of the Doubtful Creek blockade. However it returned to the fray with a formal announcement in February 2014 (Metgasco), that it would drill at Bentley, 12 kilometres west of Lismore. It was widely believed this would occur with a view to production on an industrial scale should initial exploration prove fruitful. The Bentley Blockade It was known well before the formal announcement that Metgasco planned to drill at Bentley and community actions such as flash mobs, media releases and planning meetings were part of the build-up to direct action at the site. One of the authors of this article was actively involved in the movement and participated in a variety of these actions. By the end of January 2014 it was decided to hold an ongoing vigil at the site, which was still entirely undeveloped. Participants, including one author, volunteered for four-hour shifts which began at 5 a.m. each day and before long, were lasting into the night. The purpose of a vigil is to bear witness, maintain a presence and express a point of view. It thus accords well with the principle of non-violence. Eventually the site mushroomed into a tent village with three gates being blockaded. The main gate, Gate A, sprouted a variety of poles, tripods and other installations together with colourful tents and shelters, peopled by protesters on a 24-hour basis. The vigils persisted on all three gates for the duration of the blockade. As the number of blockaders swelled, popular support grew, lending weight to the notion that countercultural ideas and practices were spreading throughout the community. In response, Metgasco called on the State Government to provide police to coincide with the arrival of equipment. It was rumoured that 200 police would be drafted to defend the site in late April. When alerts were sent out to the community warning of imminent police action, an estimated crowd of 2000 people attended in the early hours of the morning and the police called off their operation (Feliu). As the weeks wore on, training was stepped up, attendees were educated in non-violent resistance and protestors willing to act as police liaison persons were placed on a rotating roster. In May, the State Government was preparing to send up to 800 police and the Riot Squad to break the blockade (NSW Hansard in Buckingham). Local farmers (now a part of the movement) and activist leaders had gone to Sydney in an effort to find a political solution in order to avoid what threatened to be a clash that would involve police violence. A confluence of events, such as: the sudden resignation of the Premier; revelations via the Independent Commission against Corruption about nefarious dealings and undue influence of the coal industry upon the government; a radio interview with locals by a popular broadcaster in Sydney; and the reputed hesitation of the police themselves in engaging with a group of possibly 7,000 to 10,000 protestors, resulted in the Office for Coal Seam Gas suspending Metgasco’s drilling licence on 15 May (NSW Department of Resources & Energy). The grounds were that the company had not adequately fulfilled its obligations to consult with the community. At the date of writing, the suspension still holds. The Wave The repertoire of contention at the Bentley Blockade was expansive, comprising most of the standard actions and strategies developed in earlier environmental struggles. These included direct blocking tactics in addition to the use of more carnivalesque actions like music and theatre, as well as the use of various media to reach a broader public. Non-violence was at the core of all actions, but we would tentatively suggest that Bentley may have provided a novel addition to the repertoire, stemming originally from the vigil, which brought the first protestors to the site. At the beginning of the vigil, which was initially held near the entrance to the proposed drilling site atop a cutting, occupants of passing vehicles below would demonstrate their support by sounding their horns and/or waving to the vigil-keepers, who at first were few in number. There was a precedent for this behaviour in the campaign leading up to the blockade. Activist groups such as the Knitting Nannas against Gas had encouraged vehicles to show support by sounding their horns. So when the motorists tooted spontaneously at Bentley, we waved back. Occupants of other vehicles would show disapproval by means of rude gestures and/or yelling and we would wave to them as well. After some weeks, as a presence began to be established at the site, it became routine for vigil keepers to smile and wave at all passing vehicles. This often elicited a positive response. After the first mass call-out discussed above, a number of us migrated to another gate, where numbers were much sparser and there was a perceived need for a greater presence. At this point, the participating writer had begun to act as a police liaison person, but the practice of waving routinely was continued. Those protecting this gate usually included protestors ready to block access, the police liaison person, a legal observer, vigil-keepers and a passing parade of visitors. Because this location was directly on the road, it was possible to see the drivers of vehicles and make eye contact more easily. Certain vehicles became familiar, passing at regular times, on the way to work or school, for example. As time passed, most of those protecting the gate also joined the waving ritual to the point where it became like a game to try to prise a signal of acknowledgement from the passing motorists, or even to win over a disapprover. Police vehicles, some of which passed at set intervals, were included in this game. Mostly they waved cheerfully. There were some we never managed to win over, but waving and making direct eye contact with regular motorists over time created a sense of community and an acknowledgement of the work we were doing, as they increasingly responded in kind. Motorists could hardly feel threatened when they encountered smiling, waving protestors. By including the disapprovers, we acted inclusively and our determined good humour seemed to de-escalate demonstrated hostility. Locals who did not want drilling to go ahead but who were nevertheless unwilling to join a direct action were thus able to participate in the resistance in a way that may have felt safe for them. Some of them even stopped and visited the site, voicing their support. Standing on the side of the road and waving to passers-by may seem peripheral to the “real” action, even trivial. But we would argue it is a valuable adjunct to a blockade (which is situated near a road) when one of the strategies of the overall campaign is to win popular backing. Hence waving, whilst not a completely new part of the repertoire, constitutes what Tilly (41–45) would call innovation at the margins, something he asserts is necessary to maintain the effectiveness and vitality of contentious action. In this case, it is arguable that the sheer size of community support probably helped to concentrate the minds of the state government politicians in Sydney, particularly as they contemplated initiating a massive, taxpayer-funded police action against the people for the benefit of a commercial operation. Waving is a symbolic gesture indicating acknowledgement and goodwill. It fits well within a repertoire based on the principle of non-violence. Moreover, it is a conventional social norm and everyday behaviour that is so innocuous that it is difficult to see how it could be suppressed by police or other authorities. Therein lies its subversiveness. For in communicating our common humanity in a spirit of friendliness, we drew attention to the fact that we were without rancour and tacitly invited others to join us and to explore our concerns. In this way, the counterculture drew upon a mainstream custom to develop and extend upon a new form of dissent. This constitutes a reversal of the more usual phenomenon of countercultural artefacts—such as “hippie clothing”—being appropriated or co-opted by the prevailing culture (see Reading). But it also fits with the more general phenomenon that we have argued was occurring; that of enticing ordinary residents into joining together in countercultural activity, via the pathway of a social movement. Conclusion The anti-CSG movement in the Northern Rivers was developed and organised by countercultural participants of previous contentious challenges. It was highly effective in building popular support whilst at the same time forging a loose coalition of various activist groups. We have surveyed one practice—the wave—that evolved out of mainstream culture over the course of the Bentley Blockade and suggested it may come to be seen as part of the repertoire of actions that can be beneficially employed under suitable conditions. Waving to passers-by invites them to become part of the movement in a non-threatening and inclusive way. It thus envelops supporters and non-supporters alike, and its very innocuousness makes it difficult to suppress. We have argued that this instance can be referenced to a similar reverse movement at a broader level—that of co-opting liberal notions and involving the general populace in new practices and activities that undermine the status quo. The ability of the counterculture in general and environment movements in particular to innovate in the quest to challenge and change what it perceives as damaging or unethical practices demonstrates its ingenuity and spirit. This movement is testament to its dynamic nature. References ABC News. Metgasco Has No CSG Extraction Plans for Glenugie. 2013. 30 July 2014 ‹http://www.abc.net.au/news/2013-01-22/metgasco-says-no-csg-extraction-planned-for-glenugie/4477652›. Bible, Vanessa. Aquarius Rising: Terania Creek and the Australian Forest Protest Movement. Bachelor of Arts (Honours) Thesis, University of New England, 2010. 4 Nov. 2014 ‹http://www.rainforestinfo.org.au/terania/Vanessa%27s%20Terania%20Thesis2.pdf›. Buckingham, Jeremy. Hansard of Bentley Blockade Motion 15/05/2014. 16 May 2014. 30 July 2014 ‹http://jeremybuckingham.org/2014/05/16/hansard-of-bentley-blockade-motion-moved-by-david-shoebridge-15052014/›. Carter, Neil. The Politics of the Environment: Ideas, Activism, Policy. 2nd ed. New York: Cambridge UP, 2007. Cox, Laurence. Building Counter Culture: The Radical Praxis of Social Movement Milieu. Helsinki: Into-ebooks 2011. 23 July 2014 ‹http://www.into-ebooks.com/book/building_counter_culture/›. Della Porta, Donatella, and Mario Diani. Social Movements: An Introduction. 2nd ed. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2006. Dobney, Chris. “Drill Rig Heads to Doubtful Creek.” Echo Netdaily Feb. 2013. 30 July 2014 ‹http://www.echo.net.au/2013/02/drill-rig-heads-to-doubtful-creek/›. Ellsworth, William. “Injection-Induced Earthquakes”. Science 341.6142 (2013). DOI: 10.1126/science.1225942. 10 July 2014 ‹http://www.sciencemag.org.ezproxy.scu.edu.au/content/341/6142/1225942.full?sid=b4679ca5-0992-4ad3-aa3e-1ac6356f10da›. Feliu, Luis. “Battle for Bentley: 2,000 Protectors on Site.” Echo Netdaily Mar. 2013. 4 Aug. 2014 ‹http://www.echo.net.au/2014/03/battle-bentley-2000-protectors-site/›. Finley, Mary Lou, and Steven Soifer. “Social Movement Theories and Map.” Doing Democracy: The MAP Model for Organizing Social Movements. Eds. Bill Moyer, Johann McAllister, Mary Lou Finley, and Steven Soifer. Gabriola Island, Canada: New Society Publishers, 2001. Grossberg, Lawrence. “Some Preliminary Conjunctural Thoughts on Countercultures”. Journal of Gender and Power 1.1 (2014). Hand, Eric. “Injection Wells Blamed in Oklahoma Earthquakes.” Science 345.6192 (2014): 13–14. Howarth, Terry. “Should Fracking Stop?” Nature 477 (2011): 271–73. Kelly, Russell. “The Mediated Forest: Who Speaks for the Trees?” Belonging in the Rainbow Region: Cultural Perspectives on the NSW North Coast. Ed. Helen Wilson. Lismore: Southern Cross UP, 2003. 101–20. Lock the Gate Alliance. 2014. 15 July 2014 ‹http://www.lockthegate.org.au/history›. Locke, John. “Toleration and Government.” Ideals and Ideologies: A Reader. Eds. Terence Ball & Richard Dagger. New York: Pearson Longman, 2004 (1823). 79–93. Metgasco. Rosella E01 Environment Approval Received 2104. 4 Aug. 2014 ‹http://www.metgasco.com.au/asx-announcements/rosella-e01-environment-approval-received›. Mitka, Mike. “Rigorous Evidence Slim for Determining Health Risks from Natural Gas Fracking.” The Journal of the American Medical Association 307.20 (2012): 2135–36. Moyer, Bill. “The Movement Action Plan.” Doing Democracy: The MAP Model for Organizing Social Movements. Eds. Bill Moyer, Johann McAllister, Mary Lou Finley, and Steven Soifer. Gabriola Island, Canada: New Society Publishers, 2001. NSW Department of Resources & Energy. “Metgasco Drilling Approval Suspended.” Media Release, 15 May 2014. 30 July 2014 ‹http://www.resourcesandenergy.nsw.gov.au/__data/assets/pdf_file/0005/516749/Metgasco-Drilling-Approval-Suspended.pdf›. Reading, Tracey. “Hip versus Square: 1960s Advertising and Clothing Industries and the Counterculture”. Research Papers 2013. 15 July 2014 ‹http://opensuic.lib.siu.edu/gs_rp/396›. Ricketts, Aiden. “The North East Forest Alliance’s Old-Growth Forest Campaign.” Belonging in the Rainbow Region: Cultural Perspectives on the NSW North Coast. Ed. Helen Wilson. Lismore: Southern Cross UP. 2003. 121–148. Sharp, Gene. The Politics of Nonviolent Action: Power and Struggle. Boston, Mass.: Porter Sargent, 1973. Sovacool, Benjamin K. “Cornucopia or Curse? Reviewing the Costs and Benefits of Shale Gas Hydraulic Fracturing (Fracking).” Renewable and Sustainable Energy Reviews (2014): 249–64. Tait, Douglas, Isaac Santos, Damien Maher, Tyler Cyronak, and Rachael Davis. “Enrichment of Radon and Carbon Dioxide in the Open Atmosphere of an Australian Coal Seam Gas Field.” Environmental Science & Technology 47 (2013): 3099–3104. Tarrow, Sidney. Power in Movement: Social Movements and Contentious Politics. 3rd ed. New York: Cambridge UP, 2011. Thompson, Chuck. “The Fracking Feud.” Medicus 53.8 (2013): 56–57. Tilly, Charles. Regimes and Repertoires. Chicago: UCP, 2006. Ward, Susan, and Kitty van Vuuren. “Belonging to the Rainbow Region: Place, Local Media, and the Construction of Civil and Moral Identities Strategic to Climate Change Adaptability.” Environmental Communication 7.1 (2013): 63–79.

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IntroductionIn this article, I set out to accomplish two tasks. The first is to map coffee and cafés in Mainland China in different historical periods. The second is to focus on coffee and cafés in the socio-cultural milieu of contemporary China in order to understand the symbolic value of the emerging coffee/café-scape. Cafés, rather than coffee, are at the centre of this current trend in contemporary Chinese cities. With instant coffee dominating as a drink, the Chinese have developed a cultural and social demand for cafés, but have not yet developed coffee palates. Historical Coffee Map In 1901, coffee was served in a restaurant in the city of Tianjin. This restaurant, named Kiessling, was run by a German chef, a former solider who came to China with the eight-nation alliance. At that time, coffee was reserved mostly for foreign politicians and military officials as well as wealthy businessmen—very few ordinary Chinese drank it. (For more history of Kiessling, including pictures and videos, see Kiessling). Another group of coffee consumers were from the cultural elites—the young revolutionary intellectuals and writers with overseas experience. It was almost a fashion among the literary elite to spend time in cafés. However, this was negatively judged as “Western” and “bourgeois.” For example, in 1932, Lu Xun, one of the most important twentieth century Chinese writers, commented on the café fashion during 1920s (133-36), and listed the reasons why he would not visit one. He did not drink coffee because it was “foreigners’ food”, and he was too busy writing for the kind of leisure enjoyed in cafés. Moreover, he did not, he wrote, have the nerve to go to a café, and particularly not the Revolutionary Café that was popular among cultural celebrities at that time. He claimed that the “paradise” of the café was for genius, and for handsome revolutionary writers (who he described as having red lips and white teeth, whereas his teeth were yellow). His final complaint was that even if he went to the Revolutionary Café, he would hesitate going in (Lu Xun 133-36). From Lu Xun’s list, we can recognise his nationalism and resistance to what were identified as Western foods and lifestyles. It is easy to also feel his dissatisfaction with those dilettante revolutionary intellectuals who spent time in cafés, talking and enjoying Western food, rather than working. In contrast to Lu Xun’s resistance to coffee and café culture, another well-known writer, Zhang Ailing, frequented cafés when she lived in Shanghai from the 1920s to 1950s. She wrote about the smell of cakes and bread sold in Kiessling’s branch store located right next to her parents’ house (Yuyue). Born into a wealthy family, exposed to Western culture and food at a very young age, Zhang Ailing liked to spend her social and writing time in cafés, ordering her favourite cakes, hot chocolate, and coffee. When she left Shanghai and immigrated to the USA, coffee was an important part of her writing life: the smell and taste reminding her of old friends and Shanghai (Chunzi). However, during Zhang’s time, it was still a privileged and elite practice to patronise a café when these were located in foreign settlements with foreign chefs, and served mainly foreigners, wealthy businessmen, and cultural celebrities. After 1949, when the Chinese Communist Party established the People’s Republic of China, until the late 1970s, there were no coffee shops in Mainland China. It was only when Deng Xiaoping suggested neo-liberalism as a so-called “reform-and-open-up” economic policy that foreign commerce and products were again seen in China. In 1988, ten years after the implementation of Deng Xiaoping’s policy, the Nestlé coffee company made the first inroads into the mainland market, featuring homegrown coffee beans in Yunnan province (China Beverage News; Dong; ITC). Nestlé’s bottled instant coffee found its way into the Chinese market, avoiding a direct challenge to the tea culture. Nestlé packaged its coffee to resemble health food products and marketed it as a holiday gift suitable for friends and relatives. As a symbol of modernity and “the West”, coffee-as-gift meshed with the traditional Chinese cultural custom that values gift giving. It also satisfied a collective desire for foreign products (and contact with foreign cultures) during the economic reform era. Even today, with its competitively low price, instant coffee dominates coffee consumption at home, in the workplace, and on Chinese airlines. While Nestlé aimed their product at native Chinese consumers, the multinational companies who later entered China’s coffee market, such as Sara Lee, mainly targeted international hotels such as IHG, Marriott, and Hyatt. The multinationals also favoured coffee shops like Kommune in Shanghai that offered more sophisticated kinds of coffee to foreign consumers and China’s upper class (Byers). If Nestlé introduced coffee to ordinary Chinese families, it was Starbucks who introduced the coffee-based “third space” to urban life in contemporary China on a signficant scale. Differing from the cafés before 1949, Starbucks stores are accessible to ordinary Chinese citizens. The first in Mainland China opened in Beijing’s China World Trade Center in January 1999, targeting mainly white-collar workers and foreigners. Starbucks coffee shops provide a space for informal business meetings, chatting with friends, and relaxing and, with its 500th store opened in 2011, dominate the field in China. Starbucks are located mainly in the central business districts and airports, and the company plans to have 1,500 sites by 2015 (Starbucks). Despite this massive presence, Starbucks constitutes only part of the café-scape in contemporary Chinese cities. There are two other kinds of cafés. One type is usually located in universities or residential areas and is frequented mainly by students or locals working in cultural professions. A representative of this kind is Sculpting in Time Café. In November 1997, two years before the opening of the first Starbucks in Beijing, two newlywed college graduates opened the first small Sculpting in Time Café near Beijing University’s East Gate. This has been expanded into a chain, and boasts 18 branches on the Mainland. (For more about its history, see Sculpting in Time Café). Interestingly, both Starbucks and Sculpting in Time Café acquired their names from literature, Starbucks from Moby Dick, and Sculpting in Time from the Russian filmmaker Andrei Tarkovsky’s film diary of the same name. For Chinese students of literature and the arts, drinking coffee is less about acquiring more energy to accomplish their work, and more about entering a sensual world, where the aroma of coffee mixes with the sounds from the coffee machine and music, as well as the lighting of the space. More importantly, cafés with this ambience become, in themselves, cultural sites associated with literature, films, and music. Owners of this kind of café are often lovers of foreign literatures, films, and cultures, and their cafés host various cultural events, including forums, book clubs, movie screenings, and music clubs. Generally speaking, coffee served in this kind of café is simpler than in the kind discussed below. This third type of café includes those located in tourist and entertainment sites such as art districts, bar areas, and historical sites, and which are frequented by foreign and native tourists, artists and other cultural workers. If Starbucks cultivates a fast-paced business/professional atmosphere, and Sculpting in Time Cafés an artsy and literary atmosphere, this third kind of café is more like an upscale “bar” with trained baristas serving complicated coffees and emphasising their flavour. These coffee shops are more expensive than the other kinds, with an average price three times that of Starbucks. Currently, cafés of this type are found only in “first-tier” cities and usually located in art districts and tourist areas—such as Beijing’s 798 Art District and Nanluo Guxiang, Shanghai’s Tai Kang Road (a.k.a. “the art street”), and Hangzhou’s Westlake area. While Nestlé and Starbucks use coffee beans grown in Yunnan provinces, these “art cafés” are more inclined to use imported coffee beans from suppliers like Sara Lee. Coffee and Cafés in Contemporary China After just ten years, there are hundreds of cafés in Chinese cities. Why has there been such a demand for coffee or, more accurately, cafés, in such a short period of time? The first reason is the lack of “third space” environments in Mainland China. Before cafés appeared in the late 1990s, stores like KFC (which opened its first store in 1987) and McDonald’s (with its first store opened in 1990) filled this role for urban residents, providing locations where customers could experience Western food, meet friends, work, or read. In fact, KFC and McDonald’s were once very popular with college students looking for a place to study. Both stores had relatively clean food environments and good lighting. They also had air conditioning in the summer and heating in the winter, which are not provided in most Chinese university dormitories. However, since neither chain was set up to be a café and customers occupying seats for long periods while ordering minimal amounts of food or drink affected profits, staff members began to indirectly ask customers to leave after dining. At the same time, as more people were able to afford to eat at KFC and McDonald’s, their fast foods were also becoming more and more popular, especially among young people. As a consequence, both types of chain restaurant were becoming noisy and crowded and, thus, no longer ideal for reading, studying, or meeting with friends. Although tea has been a traditional drink in Chinese culture, traditional teahouses were expensive places more suitable for business meetings or for the cultural or intellectual elite. Since almost every family owns a tea set and can readily purchase tea, friends and family would usually make and consume tea at home. In recent years, however, new kinds of teahouses have emerged, similar in style to cafés, targeting the younger generation with more affordable prices and a wider range of choices, so the lack of a “third space” does not fully explain the café boom. Another factor affecting the popularity of cafés has been the development and uptake of Internet technology, including the increasing use of laptops and wireless Internet in recent years. The Internet has been available in China since the late 1990s, while computers and then laptops entered ordinary Chinese homes in the early twenty-first century. The IT industry has created not only a new field of research and production, but has also fostered new professions and demands. Particularly, in recent years in Mainland China, a new socially acceptable profession—freelancing in such areas as graphic design, photography, writing, film, music, and the fashion industry—has emerged. Most freelancers’ work is computer- and Internet-based. Cafés provide suitable working space, with wireless service, and the bonus of coffee that is, first of all, somatically stimulating. In addition, the emergence of the creative and cultural industries (which are supported by the Chinese government) has created work for these freelancers and, arguably, an increasing demand for café-based third spaces where such people can meet, talk and work. Furthermore, the flourishing of cafés in first-tier cities is part of the “aesthetic economy” (Lloyd 24) that caters to the making and selling of lifestyle experience. Alongside foreign restaurants, bars, galleries, and design firms, cafés contribute to city branding, and link a city to the global urban network. Cafés, like restaurants, galleries and bars, provide a space for the flow of global commodities, as well as for the human flow of tourists, travelling artists, freelancers, and cultural specialists. Finally, cafés provide a type of service that contributes to friendly owner/waiter-customer relations. During the planned-economy era, most stores and hotels in China were State-owned, staff salaries were not related to individual performance, and indifferent (and even unfriendly) service was common. During the economic reform era, privately owned stores and shops began to replace State-owned ones. At the same time, a large number of people from the countryside flowed into the cities seeking opportunities. Most had little if any professional training and so could only find work in factories or in the service industry. However, most café employees are urban, with better educational backgrounds, and many were already familiar with coffee culture. In addition, café owners, particularly those of places like Sculpting in Time Cafe, often invest in creating a positive, community atmosphere, learning about their customers and sharing personal experiences with their regular clients. This leads to my next point—the generation of the 1980s’ need for a social community. Cafés’ Symbolic Value—Community A demand for a sense of community among the generation of the 1980s is a unique socio-cultural phenomenon in China, which paradoxically co-exists with their desire for individualism. Mao Zedong started the “One Child Policy” in 1979 to slow the rapid population growth in China, and the generations born under this policy are often called “the lonely generations,” with both parents working full-time. At the same time, they are “the generation of me,” labelled as spoiled, self-centred, and obsessed with consumption (de Kloet; Liu; Rofel; Wang). The individuals of this generation, now aged in their 20s and 30s, constitute the primary consumers of coffee in China. Whereas individualism is an important value to them, a sense of community is also desirable in order to compensate for their lack of siblings. Furthermore, the 1980s’ generation has also benefitted from the university expansion policy implemented in 1999. Since then, China has witnessed a surge of university students and graduates who not only received scientific and other course-based knowledge, but also had a better chance to be exposed to foreign cultures through their books, music, and movies. With this interesting tension between individualism and collectivism, the atmosphere provided by cafés has fostered a series of curious temporary communities built on cultural and culinary taste. Interestingly, it has become an aspiration of many young college students and graduates to open a community-space style café in a city. One of the best examples is the new Henduoren’s (Many People’s) Café. This was a project initiated by Wen Erniu, a recent college graduate who wanted to open a café in Beijing but did not have sufficient funds to do so. She posted a message on the Internet, asking people to invest a minimum of US$316 to open a café with her. With 78 investors, the café opened in September 2011 in Beijing (see pictures of Henduoren’s Café). In an interview with the China Daily, Wen Erniu stated that, “To open a cafe was a dream of mine, but I could not afford it […] We thought opening a cafe might be many people’s dream […] and we could get together via the Internet to make it come true” (quoted in Liu 2011). Conclusion: Café Culture and (Instant) Coffee in China There is a Chinese saying that, if you hate someone—just persuade him or her to open a coffee shop. Since cafés provide spaces where one can spend a relatively long time for little financial outlay, owners have to increase prices to cover their expenses. This can result in fewer customers. In retaliation, cafés—particularly those with cultural and literary ambience—host cultural events to attract people, and/or they offer food and wine along with coffee. The high prices, however, remain. In fact, the average price of coffee in China is often higher than in Europe and North America. For example, a medium Starbucks’ caffè latte in China averaged around US$4.40 in 2010, according to the price list of a Starbucks outlet in Shanghai—and the prices has recently increased again (Xinhua 2012). This partially explains why instant coffee is still so popular in China. A bag of instant Nestlé coffee cost only some US$0.25 in a Beijing supermarket in 2010, and requires only hot water, which is accessible free almost everywhere in China, in any restaurant, office building, or household. As an habitual, addictive treat, however, coffee has not yet become a customary, let alone necessary, drink for most Chinese. Moreover, while many, especially those of the older generations, could discern the quality and varieties of tea, very few can judge the quality of the coffee served in cafés. As a result, few Mainland Chinese coffee consumers have a purely somatic demand for coffee—craving its smell or taste—and the highly sweetened and creamed instant coffee offered by companies like Nestlé or Maxwell has largely shaped the current Chinese palate for coffee. Ben Highmore has proposed that “food spaces (shops, restaurants and so on) can be seen, for some social agents, as a potential space where new ‘not-me’ worlds are encountered” (396) He continues to expand that “how these potential spaces are negotiated—the various affective registers of experience (joy, aggression, fear)—reflect the multicultural shapes of a culture (its racism, its openness, its acceptance of difference)” (396). Cafés in contemporary China provide spaces where one encounters and constructs new “not-me” worlds, and more importantly, new “with-me” worlds. While café-going communicates an appreciation and desire for new lifestyles and new selves, it can be hoped that in the near future, coffee will also be appreciated for its smell, taste, and other benefits. Of course, it is also necessary that future Chinese coffee consumers also recognise the rich and complex cultural, political, and social issues behind the coffee economy in the era of globalisation. References Byers, Paul [former Managing Director, Sara Lee’s Asia Pacific]. Pers. comm. Apr. 2012. China Beverage News. “Nestlé Acquires 70% Stake in Chinese Mineral Water Producer.” (2010). 31 Mar. 2012 ‹http://chinabevnews.wordpress.com/2010/02/21/nestle-acquires-70-stake-in-chinese-mineral-water-producer›. Chunzi. 张爱玲地图[The Map of Eileen Chang]. 汉语大词典出版 [Hanyu Dacidian Chubanshe], 2003. de Kloet, Jeroen. China with a Cut: Globalization, Urban Youth and Popular Music. Amsterdam: Amsterdam UP, 2010. Dong, Jonathan. “A Caffeinated Timeline: Developing Yunnan’s Coffee Cultivation.” China Brief (2011): 24-26. Highmore, Ben. “Alimentary Agents: Food, Cultural Theory and Multiculturalism.” Journal of Intercultural Studies, 29.4 (2008): 381-98. ITC (International Trade Center). The Coffee Sector in China: An Overview of Production, Trade And Consumption, 2010. Liu, Kang. Globalization and Cultural Trends in China. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2004. Liu, Zhihu. “From Virtual to Reality.” China Daily (Dec. 2011) 31 Mar. 2012 ‹http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/life/2011-12/26/content_14326490.htm›. Lloyd, Richard. Neobohemia: Art and Commerce in the Postindustrial City. London: Routledge, 2006. Lu, Xun. “Geming Kafei Guan [Revolutionary Café]”. San Xian Ji. Taibei Shi: Feng Yun Shi Dai Chu Ban Gong Si: Fa Xing Suo Xue Wen Hua Gong Si, Mingguo 78 (1989): 133-36. Rofel, Lisa. Desiring China: Experiments in Neoliberalism, Sexuality, and Public Culture. Durham and London: Duke UP, 2007: 1-30. “Starbucks Celebrates Its 500th Store Opening in Mainland China.” Starbucks Newsroom (Oct. 2011) 31 Mar. 2012. ‹http://news.starbucks.com/article_display.cfm?article_id=580›. Wang, Jing. High Culture Fever: Politics, Aesthetics, and Ideology in Deng’s China. Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: U of California P, 1996. Xinhua. “Starbucks Raises Coffee Prices in China Stores.” Xinhua News (Jan. 2012). 31 Mar. 2012 ‹http://news.xinhuanet.com/english/china/2012-01/31/c_131384671.htm›. Yuyue. Ed. “On the History of the Western-Style Restaurants: Aileen Chang A Frequent Customer of Kiessling.” China.com.cn (2010). 31 Mar. 2012 ‹http://www.china.com.cn/culture/txt/2010-01/30/content_19334964.htm›.

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By the 12th century, coffee was extensively cultivated in Yemen, and qawha and cahveh, hot beverages made from roast and ground coffee beans, became popular in the Islamic world over the next 300 years. Commercial production of coffee outside Yemen started in Sri Lanka in the 1660s, Java in the 1700s, and Latin America in 1715, and this production has associations with histories of colonial expansion and slavery. Introduced to Europe in the 17th century, coffee was described by Robert Burton in the section of his 1628 Anatomy of Melancholy devoted to medicines as “an intoxicant, a euphoric, a social and physical stimulant, and a digestive aid” (quoted in Weinberg and Bealer xii). Today, more than 400 billion cups of coffee are consumed each year. Coffee is also an ingredient in a series of iconic dishes such as tiramisu and, with chocolate, makes up the classic mocha mix. Coffee production is widespread in tropical and sub-tropical countries and it is the second largest traded world commodity; second only to oil and petroleum. The World Bank estimates that more than 500 million people throughout the world depend on coffee for their livelihoods, and 25 million of these are coffee farmers. Unfortunately, these farmers typically live and work in substandard conditions and receive only a small percentage of the final price that their coffee is sold for. The majority of coffee farmers are women and they face additional challenges, frequently suffering from abuse, neglect, and poverty, and unable to gain economic, social, or political power in either their family’s coffee businesses or their communities. Some farm coffee under enslaved or indentured conditions, although Fair Trade regimes are offering some lessening of inequalities. At the opposite end of the scale, a small, but growing, number of high-end producers market gourmet sustainable coffee from small-scale, environmentally-aware farming operations. For many in the West today, however, coffee is not about the facts of its production; coffee is all about consumption, and is now interwoven into our contemporary cultural and social habits. Caffeine, found in the leaves, seeds, and fruit of the coffee tree, is an addictive psychoactive substance, but has overcome resistance and disapproval around the world and is now unregulated and freely available, without licence. Our gastronomic sophistication is reflected in which coffee, brewing method, and location of consumption is chosen; our fast-paced lifestyles in the range of coffee-to-go options we have; and our capitalist orientation in the business opportunities this popularity has offered to small entrepreneurs and multinational franchise chains alike. Cafés and the meeting, mingling, discussions, and relaxing that occur there while drinking coffee, are a contemporary topic of reflection and scholarship, as are the similarities and differences between the contemporary café and its earlier incarnations, including, of course, the Enlightenment coffee house. As may be expected from a commodity which has such a place in our lives, coffee is represented in many ways in the media—including in advertising, movies, novels, poetry, songs and, of course, in culinary writing, including cookbooks, magazines, and newspapers. There are specialist journals and popular serials dedicated to expounding and exploring the fine grain detail of its production and consumption, and food historians have written multiple biographies of coffee’s place in our world. So ubiquitous, indeed, is coffee, that as a named colour, it popularly features in fashion, interior design, home wares, and other products. This issue of M/C Journal invited contributors to consider coffee from any relevant angle that makes a contribution to our understanding of coffee and its place in culture and/or the media, and the result is a valuable array of illuminating articles from a diverse range of perspectives. It is for this reason that we chose an image of coffee cherries for the front cover of this issue. Co-editor Jill Adams has worked in the coffee industry for over ten years and has a superb collection of coffee images that ranges from farmers in Papua New Guinea to artfully shot compositions of antique coffee brewing equipment. In making our choice, however, we felt that Spencer Franks’s image of ripe coffee cherries at the Skybury Coffee Plantation in Far North Queensland, Australia, encapsulates the “fruitful” nature of the response to our call for articles for this issue. While most are familiar, moreover, with the dark, glossy appearance and other sensual qualities of roasted coffee beans, fewer have any occasion to contemplate just how lovely the coffee tree is as a plant. Each author has utilised the idea of “coffee” as a powerful springboard into a fascinating range of areas, showing just how inseparable coffee is from so many parts of our daily lives—even scholarly enquiry. In our first feature article, Susie Khamis profiles and interrogates the Nespresso brand, and how it points to the growing individualisation of coffee consumption, whereby the social aspect of cafés gives way to a more self-centred consumer experience. This feature valuably contrasts the way Starbucks has marketed itself as a social hub with the Nespresso boutique experience—which as Khamis explains—is not a café, but rather a club, a trademarked, branded space, predicated on highly knowledgeable and, therefore, privileged patrons. Coffee drinking is also associated with both sobriety and hangover cures, with cigarettes, late nights, and music. Our second feature, by Jon Stewart, looks at how coffee has become interwoven into our lives and imaginations through the music that we listen to—from jazz to blues to musical theatre numbers. It examines the influence of coffee as subject for performers and songwriters in three areas: coffee and courtship rituals, the stimulating effects of caffeine, and the politics of coffee consumption, claiming that coffee carries a cultural and musicological significance comparable to that of other drugs and ubiquitous consumer goods that are often more readily associated with popular music. Diana Noyce looks at the short-lived temperance movement in Australia, the opulent architecture of the coffee palaces built in that era, what was actually drunk in them, and their fates as the temperance movement passed into history. Emma Felton lyrically investigates how “going for a coffee” is less about coffee and more about how we connect with others in a mobile world, when flexible work hours are increasingly the norm and more people are living alone than any other period in history. Felton also introducess a theme that other writers also engage with: that the café also plays a role in the development of civil discourse and civility, and plays an important role in the development of cosmopolitan civil societies. Ireland-based Máirtín Mac Con Iomaire surveys Dublin—that tea drinking city—and both the history of coffee houses and the enduring coffee culture it possesses; a coffee culture that seems well assured through a remarkable win for Ireland in the 2008 World Barista Championships. China has also always been strongly associated with tea drinking but Adel Wang introduces readers to the emerging, and unique, café and coffee culture of that country, as well as some of the proprietors who are bringing about this cultural change. Australia, also once a significant consumer of tea, shifted to a preference for coffee over a twenty year period that began with the arrival of American Servicemen in Australia during World War II. Jill Adams looks at the rise of coffee during that time, and the efforts made by the tea industry to halt its market growth. These strong links between tea and coffee are reflected in Duncan Barnes, Danielle Fusco, and Lelia Green’s thought-provoking study of how coffee is marketed in Bangladesh, another tea drinking country. Ray Oldenberg’s influential concept of the “third place” is referred to by many authors in this collection, but Anthony McCosker and Rowan Wilken focus on this idea. By using a study of how Polish composer, Krzysztof Penderecki, worked in his local café from 9 in the morning to noon each day, this article explores the interrelationship of café space, communication, creativity, and materialism. Donna Lee Brien brings us back to the domestic space with her article on how the popular media of cookery books and magazines portray how coffee was used in Australian cooking at mid-century, in the process, tracing how tiramisu triumphed over the trifle. By exploring the currently fashionable practice of “direct trade” between roasters and coffee growers Sophie Sunderland offers a fresh perspective on coffee production by powerfully arguing that feeling (“affect”) is central to the way in which coffee is produced, represented and consumed in Western mass culture. Sunderland thus brings the issue full circle and back to Khamis’s discussion, for there is much feeling mobilised in the marketing of Nespresso. We would like to thank all the contributors and our generous and erudite peer reviewers for their work in the process of putting together this issue. We would also like to specially thank Spencer Franks for permission to use his image of coffee cherries as our cover image. We would lastly like to thank you the general editors of M/C Journal for selecting this theme for the journal this year.References Oldenburg, Ray, ed. Celebrating the Third Place: Inspiring Stories about the “Great Good Places” At the Heart of Our Communities. New York: Marlowe & Company 2001.Weinberg, Bennett Alan, and Bonnie K Bealer. The World of Caffeine. New York and London: Routledge, 2001.

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IllegitimacyBack in 1987, Gregory Bateson argued that:Kurt Vonnegut gives us wary advice – that we should be careful what we pretend because we become what we pretend. And something like that, some sort of self-fulfilment, occurs in all organisations and human cultures. What people presume to be ‘human’ is what they will build in as premises of their social arrangements, and what they build in is sure to be learned, is sure to become a part of the character of those who participate. (178)The human capacity to marginalise and discriminate against others on the basis of innate and constructed characteristics is evident from the long history of discrimination against people whose existence is ‘illegitimate’, defined as being outside the law. What is inside or outside the law depends upon the context under consideration. For example, in societies such as ancient Greece and the antebellum United States, where slavery was legal, people who were constructed as ‘slaves’ could legitimately be treated very differently from ‘citizens’: free people who benefit from a range of human rights (Northup). The discernment of what is legitimate from that which is illegitimate is thus implicated within the law but extends into the wider experience of community life and is evident within the civil structures through which society is organised and regulated.The division between the legitimate and illegitimate is an arbitrary one, susceptible to changing circ*mstances. Within recent memory a romantic/sexual relationship between two people of the same sex was constructed as illegitimate and actively persecuted. This was particularly the case for same-sex attracted men, since the societies regulating these relationships generally permitted women a wider repertoire of emotional response than men were allowed. Even when lesbian and gay relationships were legalised, they were constructed as less legitimate in the sense that they often had different rules around the age of consent for hom*osexual and heterosexual couples. In Australia, the refusal to allow same sex couples to marry perpetuates ways in which these relationships are constructed as illegitimate – beyond the remit of the legislation concerning marriage.The archetypal incidence of illegitimacy has historically referred to people born out of wedlock. The circ*mstances of birth, for example whether a person was born as a result of a legally-sanctioned marital relationship or not, could have ramifications throughout an individual’s life. Stories abound (for example, Cookson) of the implications of being illegitimate. In some social stings, such as Catherine Cookson’s north-eastern England at the turn of the twentieth century, illegitimate children were often shunned. Parents frequently refused permission for their (legitimate) children to play with illegitimate classmates, as if these children born out of wedlock embodied a contaminating variety of evil. Illegitimate children were treated differently in the law in matters of inheritance, for example, and may still be. They frequently lived in fear of needing to show a birth certificate to gain a passport, for example, or to marry. Sometimes, it was at this point in adult life, that a person first discovered their illegitimacy, changing their entire understanding of their family and their place in the world. It might be possible to argue that the emphasis upon the legitimacy of a birth has lessened in proportion to an acceptance of genetic markers as an indicator of biological paternity, but that is not the endeavour here.Given the arbitrariness and mutability of the division between legitimacy and illegitimacy as a constructed boundary, it is policed by social and legal sanctions. Boundaries, such as the differentiation between the raw and the cooked (Lévi-Strauss), or S/Z (Barthes), or purity and danger (Douglas), serve important cultural functions and also convey critical information about the societies that enforce them. Categories of person, place or thing which are closest to boundaries between the legitimate and the illegitimate can prompt existential anxiety since the capacity to discern between these categories is most challenged at the margins. The legal shenanigans which can result speak volumes for which aspects of life have the potential to unsettle a culture. One example of this which is writ large in the recent history of Australia is our treatment of refugees and asylum seekers and the impact of this upon Australia’s multicultural project.Foreshadowing the sexual connotations of the illegitimate, one of us has written elsewhere (Green, ‘Bordering on the Inconceivable’) about the inconceivability of the Howard administration’s ‘Pacific solution’. This used legal devices to rewrite Australia’s borders to limit access to the rights accruing to refugees upon landing in a safe haven entitling them to seek asylum. Internationally condemned as an illegitimate construction of an artificial ‘migration zone’, this policy has been revisited and made more brutal under the Abbot regime with at least two people – Reza Barati and Hamid Khazaei – dying in the past year in what is supposed to be a place of safety provided by Australian authorities under their legal obligations to those fleeing from persecution. Crock points out, echoing the discourse of illegitimacy, that it is and always has been inappropriate to label “undocumented asylum seekers” as “‘illegal’” because: “until such people cross the border onto Australian territory, the language of illegality is nonsense. People who have no visas to enter Australia can hardly be ‘illegals’ until they enter Australia” (77). For Australians who identify in some ways – religion, culture, fellow feeling – with the detainees incarcerated on Nauru and Manus Island, it is hard to ignore the disparity between the government’s treatment of visa overstayers and “illegals” who arrive by boat (Wilson). It is a comparatively short step to construct this disparity as reflecting upon the legitimacy within Australia of communities who share salient characteristics with detained asylum seekers: “The overwhelmingly negative discourse which links asylum seekers, Islam and terrorism” (McKay, Thomas & Kneebone, 129). Some communities feel themselves constructed in the public and political spheres as less legitimately Australian than others. This is particularly true of communities where members can be identified via markers of visible difference, including indicators of ethnic, cultural and religious identities: “a group who [some 585 respondent Australians …] perceived would maintain their own languages, customs and traditions […] this cultural diversity posed an extreme threat to Australian national identity” (McKay, Thomas & Kneebone, 129). Where a community shares salient characteristics such as ethnicity or religion with many detained asylum seekers they can become fearful of the discourses around keeping borders strong and protecting Australia from illegitimate entrants. MethodologyThe qualitative fieldwork upon which this paper is based took place some 6-8 years ago (2006-2008), but the project remains one of the most recent and extensive studies of its kind. There are no grounds for believing that any of the findings are less valid than previously. On the contrary, if political actions are constructed as a proxy for mainstream public consent, opinions have become more polarised and have hardened. Ten focus groups were held involving 86 participants with a variety of backgrounds including differences in age, gender, religious observance, religious identification and ethnicity. Four focus groups involved solely Muslim participants; six drew from the wider Australian community. The aim was to examine the response of different communities to mainstream Australian media representations of Islam, Muslims, and terrorism. Research questions included: “Are there differences in the ways in which Australian Muslims respond to messages about ‘fear’ and ‘terror’ compared with broader community Australians’ responses to the same messages?” and “How do Australian Muslims construct the perceptions and attitudes of the broader Australian community based on the messages that circulate in the media?” Recent examples of kinds of messages investigated include media coverage of Islamic State’s (ISIS’s) activities (Karam & Salama), and the fear-provoking coverage around the possible recruitment of Australians to join the fighting in Syria and Iraq (Cox). The ten focus groups were augmented by 60 interviews, 30 with respondents who identified as Muslim (15 males, 15 female) and 30 respondents from the broader community (same gender divisions). Finally, a market research company was commissioned to conduct a ‘fear survey’, based on an established ‘fear of rape’ inventory (Aly and Balnaves), delivered by telephone to a random sample of 750 over-18 y.o. Australians in which Muslims formed a deliberative sub-group, to ensure they were over-sampled and constituted at least 150 respondents. The face-to-face surveys and focus groups were conducted by co-author, Dr Anne Aly. General FindingsMuslim respondents indicate a heightened intensity of reaction to media messages around fear and terror. In addition to a generalised fear of the potential impact of terrorism upon Australian society and culture, Muslim respondents experienced a specific fear that any terrorist-related media coverage might trigger hostility towards Muslim Australian communities and their own family members. According to the ‘fear survey’ scale, Muslim Australians at the time of the research experienced approximately twice the fear level of mainstream Australian respondents. Broader Australian community Australian Muslim communityFear of a terrorist attackFear of a terrorist attack combines with the fear of a community backlashSpecific victims: dead, injured, bereavedCommunity is full of general victims in addition to any specific victimsShort-term; intense impactsProtracted, diffuse impactsSociety-wide sympathy and support for specific victims and all those involved in dealing with the trauma and aftermathSociety-wide suspicion and a marginalisation of those affected by the backlashVictims of a terrorist attack are embraced by broader communityVictims of backlash experience hostility from the broader communityFour main fears were identified by Australian Muslims as a component of the fear of terrorism:Fear of physical harm. In addition to the fear of actual terrorist acts, Australian Muslims fear backlash reprisals such as those experienced after such events as 9/11, the Bali bombings, and attacks upon public transport passengers in Spain and the UK. These and similar events were constructed as precipitating increased aggression against identifiable Australian Muslims, along with shunning of Muslims and avoidance of their company.The construction of politically-motivated fear. Although fear is an understandable response to concerns around terrorism, many respondents perceived fears as being deliberately exacerbated for political motives. Such strategies as “Be alert, not alarmed” (Bassio), labelling asylum seekers as potential terrorists, and talk about home-grown terrorists, are among the kinds of fears which were identified as politically motivated. The political motivation behind such actions might include presenting a particular party as strong, resolute and effective. Some Muslim Australians construct such approaches as indicating that their government is more interested in political advantage than social harmony.Fear of losing civil liberties. As well as sharing the alarm of the broader Australian community at the dozens of legislative changes banning people, organisations and materials, and increasing surveillance and security checks, Muslim Australians fear for the human rights implications across their community, up to and including the lives of their young people. This fear is heightened when community members may look visibly different from the mainstream. Examples of the events fuelling such fears include the London police killing of Jean Charles de Menezes, a Brazilian Catholic working as an electrician in the UK and shot in the month following the 7/7 attacks on the London Underground system (Pugliese). In Australia, the case of Mohamed Hannef indicated that innocent people could easily be unjustly accused and wrongly targeted, and even when this was evident the political agenda made it almost impossible for authorities to admit their error (Rix).Feeling insecure. Australian Muslims argue that personal insecurity has become “the new normal” (Massumi), disproportionately affecting Muslim communities in both physical and psychological ways. Physical insecurity is triggered by the routine avoidance, shunning and animosity experienced by many community members in public places. Psychological insecurity includes fear for the safety of younger members of the community compounded by concern that young people may become ‘radicalised’ as a result of the discrimination they experience. Australian Muslims fear the backlash following any possible terrorist attack on Australian soil and describe the possible impact as ‘unimaginable’ (Aly and Green, ‘Moderate Islam’).In addition to this range of fears expressed by Australian Muslims and constructed in response to wider societal reactions to increased concerns over radical Islam and the threat of terrorist activity, an analysis of respondents’ statements indicate that Muslim Australians construct the broader community as exhibiting:Fear of religious conviction (without recognising the role of their own secular/religious convictions underpinning this fear);Fear of extremism (expressed in various extreme ways);Fear of powerlessness (responded to by disempowering others); andFear of political action overseas having political effects at home (without acknowledging that it is the broader community’s response to such overseas events, such as 9/11 [Green ‘Did the world really change?’], which has also had impacts at home).These constructions, extrapolations and understandings by Australian Muslims of the fears of the broader community underpinning the responses to the threat of terror have been addressed elsewhere (Green and Aly). Legitimate Australian MuslimsOne frustration identified by many Muslim respondents centres upon a perceived ‘acceptable’ way to be an Australian Muslim. Arguing that the broader community construct Muslims as a hom*ogenous group defined by their religious affiliation, these interviewees felt that the many differences within and between the twenty-plus national, linguistic, ethnic, cultural and faith-based groupings that constitute WA’s Muslim population were being ignored. Being treated as a hom*ogenised group on a basis of faith appears to have the effect of putting that religious identity under pressure, paradoxically strengthening and reinforcing it (Aly, ‘Australian Muslim Responses to the Discourse on Terrorism’). The appeal to Australian Muslims to embrace membership in a secular society and treat religion as a private matter also led some respondents to suggest they were expected to deny their own view of their faith, in which they express their religious identity across their social spheres and in public and private contexts. Such expression is common in observant Judaism, Hinduism and some forms of Christianity, as well as in some expressions of Islam (Aly and Green, ‘Less than equal’). Massumi argues that even the ways in which some Muslims dress, indicating faith-based behaviour, can lead to what he terms as ‘affective modulation’ (Massumi), repeating and amplifying the fear affect as a result of experiencing the wider community’s fear response to such triggers as water bottles (from airport travel) and backpacks, on the basis of perceived physical difference and a supposed identification with Muslim communities, regardless of the situation. Such respondents constructed this (implied) injunction to suppress their religious and cultural affiliation as akin to constructing the expression of their identity as illegitimate and somehow shameful. Parallels can be drawn with previous social responses to a person born out of wedlock, and to people in same-sex relationships: a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ kind of denial.Australian Muslims who see their faith as denied or marginalised may respond by identifying more strongly with other Muslims in their community, since the community-based context is one in which they feel welcomed and understood. The faith-based community also allows and encourages a wider repertoire of acceptable beliefs and actions entailed in the performance of ‘being Muslim’. Hand in hand with a perception of being required to express their religious identity in ways that were acceptable to the majority community, these respondents provided a range of examples of self-protective behaviours to defend themselves and others from the impacts of perceived marginalisation. Such behaviours included: changing their surnames to deflect discrimination based solely on a name (Aly and Green, ‘Fear, Anxiety and the State of Terror’); keeping their opinions private, even when they were in line with those being expressed by the majority community (Aly and Green, ‘Moderate Islam’); the identification of ‘less safe’ and ‘safe’ activities and areas; concerns about visibly different young men in the Muslim community and discussions with them about their public behaviour and demeanour; and women who chose not to leave their homes for fear of being targeted in public places (all discussed in Aly, ‘Australian Muslim Responses to the Discourse on Terrorism’). Many of these behaviours, including changing surnames, restricting socialisation to people who know a person well, and the identification of safe and less safe activities in relation to the risk of self-revelation, were common strategies used by people who were stigmatised in previous times as a result of their illegitimacy.ConclusionConstructions of the legitimate and illegitimate provide one means through which we can investigate complex negotiations around Australianness and citizenship, thrown into sharp relief by the Australian government’s treatment of asylum seekers, also deemed “illegals”. Because they arrive in Australia (or, as the government would prefer, on Australia’s doorstep) by illegitimate channels these would-be citizens are treated very differently from people who arrive at an airport and overstay their visa. The impetus to exclude aspects of geographical Australia from the migration zone, and to house asylum seekers offshore, reveals an anxiety about borders which physically reflects the anxiety of western nations in the post-9/11 world. Asylum seekers who arrive by boat have rarely had safe opportunity to secure passports or visas, or to purchase tickets from commercial airlines or shipping companies. They represent those ethnicities and cultures which are currently in turmoil: a turmoil frequently exacerbated by western intervention, variously constructed as an il/legitimate expression of western power and interests.What this paper has demonstrated is that the boundary between Australia and the rest, the legitimate and the illegitimate, is failing in its aim of creating a stronger Australia. The means through which this project is pursued is making visible a range of motivations and concerns which are variously interpreted depending upon the position of the interpreter. The United Nations, for example, has expressed strong concern over Australia’s reneging upon its treaty obligations to refugees (Gordon). Less vocal, and more fearful, are those communities within Australia which identify as community members with the excluded illegals. The Australian government’s treatment of detainees on Manus Island and Nauru, who generally exhibit markers of visible difference as a result of ethnicity or culture, is one aspect of a raft of government policies which serve to make some people feel that their Australianness is somehow less legitimate than that of the broader community. AcknowledgementsThis paper is based on the findings of an Australian Research Council Discovery Project (DP0559707), 2005-7, “Australian responses to the images and discourses of terrorism and the other: establishing a metric of fear”, awarded to Professors Lelia Green and Mark Balnaves. The research involved 10 focus groups and 60 individual in-depth interviews and a telephone ‘fear of terrorism’ survey. The authors wish to acknowledge the participation and contributions of WA community members and wider Australian respondents to the telephone survey. ReferencesAly, Anne. “Australian Muslim Responses to the Discourse on Terrorism in the Australian Popular Media.” Australian Journal of Social Issues 42.1 (2007): 27-40.Aly, Anne, and Lelia Green. “Fear, Anxiety and the State of Terror.” Studies in Conflict and Terrorism 33.3 (Feb 2010): 268-81.Aly, Anne, and Lelia Green. “Less than Equal: Secularism, Religious Pluralism and Privilege.” M/C Journal 11.2 (2008). 15 Oct. 2009 ‹http://journal.media-culture.org.au/index.php/mcjournal/article/view/32›.Aly, Anne, and Lelia Green. “‘Moderate Islam’: Defining the Good Citizen”. M/C Journal 10.6/11.1 (2008). 13 April 2008 ‹http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0804/08-aly-green.php›.Aly, Anne, and Mark Balnaves. “‘They Want Us to Be Afraid’: Developing a Metric for the Fear of Terrorism. International Journal of Diversity in Organisations, Communities & Nations 6.6 (2008): 113-122.Barthes, Roland. S/Z. Oxford: Blackwell, 1990.Bassio, Diana. “‘Be Alert, Not Alarmed’: Governmental Communication of Risk in an Era of Insecurity.” Annual Conference Australian and New Zealand Communication Association, Christchurch, New Zealand, 2005. ‹http://www.anzca.net/documents/anzca-05-1/refereed-proceedings-9/247-be-alert-not-alarmed-governmental-communication-of-risk-in-an-era-of-insecurity-1/file.html›.Bateson, Gregory, and Mary Catherine Bateson. “Innocence and Experience”. Angels Fear: Towards an Epistemology of the Sacred. New York: Hampton Press, 1987. 167-182. 11 Sep. 2014 ‹http://www.oikos.org/baten.htm›.Cookson, Catherine. Our Kate. London: Corgi, 1969.Cox, Nicole. “Police Probe ‘Die for Syria’ Car Stickers”. WA Today 11 Sep. 2014. 11 Sep. 2014 ‹http://www.watoday.com.au/wa-news/police-probe-die-for-syria-car-stickers-20140911-10fmo7.html›.Crock, Mary. “That Sinking Feeling: Correspondence”. Quarterly Essay 54 (June 2014): 75-79.Douglas, Mary. Purity and Danger. London: Routledge and Keagan Paul, 1978 [1966].Gordon, Michael. “New UN Human Rights Chief Attacks Australia over Asylum Seeker Rights ‘Violations’.” Sydney Morning Herald 7 Sep. 2014. 11 Sep. 2014 ‹http://www.smh.com.au/federal-politics/political-news/new-un-human-rights-chief-attacks-australia-over-asylum-seeker-rights-violations-20140907-10dlkx.html›.Green, Lelia. “Bordering on the Inconceivable: The Pacific Solution, the Migration Zone and ‘Australia’s 9/11’”. Australian Journal of Communication 31.1 (2004): 19-36.Green, Lelia. “Did the World Really Change on 9/11?” Australian Journal of Communication 29.2 (2002): 1-14.Green, Lelia, and Anne Aly. “How Australian Muslims Construct Western Fear of the Muslim Other”. Negotiating Identities: Constructed Selves and Others. Ed. Helen Vella Bonavita. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2011. 65-90. Karam, Zeina, and Vivian Salama. “US President Barack Obama Powers Up to Shut Down Islamic State”. The Australian 11 Sep. 2014. 11 Sep. 2014 ‹http://www.theaustralian/world/%20us-president-barak-obama-powers-up-to-shut-down-islamic-state-20140911-10f9dh.html›.Lévi-Strauss, Claude. The Raw and the Cooked: Mythologiques, Volume 1. Chicago: University of Chicago, 1969.Massumi, Brian. “Fear (the Spectrum Said).” Positions 13.1 (2005): 31-48.McKay, Fiona H., Samantha, L. Thomas, and Susan Kneebone. “‘It Would Be Okay If They Came through the Proper Channels’: Community Perceptions and Attitudes toward Asylum Seekers in Australia”. Journal of Refugee Studies 25.1 (2011): 113-133.Northup, Solomon. Twelve Years a Slave. New York: Derby & Miller, 1853.Pugliese, Joseph. “Asymmetries of Terror: Visual Regimes of Racial Profiling and the Shooting of John Charles de Menezes in the Context of the War in Iraq.” Borderlands 5.1 (2006). 11 Sep. 2014 ‹http://www.borderlands.net.au/vol5no1_2006/pugliese.htm›.Rix, M. “With Reckless Abandon: Haneef and Ul-Haque in Australia’s ‘War on Terror’.” In K. Michael and M.G. Micheal (eds.), The Third Workshop on the Social Implications of National Security Australia. Canberra, July 2008. 107-122. 11 Sep. 2014 ‹http://ro.uow.edu.au/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1011&context=gsbpapers›.Said, Edward. Orientalism. London: Penguin, 1977.Wilson, Lauren. “More Visa Over-Stayers than Asylum-Seekers”. The Australian 11 Oct. 2012. 11 Sep. 2014 ‹http://www.theaustralian.com.au/national-affairs/immigration/more-visa-over-stayers-than-asylum-seekers/story-fn9hm1gu-1226493178289›.

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Abstract:

Special Care Notice This paper discusses trauma and violence inflicted upon the Indigenous peoples of Tasmania through the process of colonisation. Content within this paper may be distressing to some readers. Introduction The decimation of the First Peoples of Van Diemen’s Land (now Tasmania) was systematic and swift. First Contact was an emotionally, intellectually, physically, and spiritually confronting series of encounters for the Indigenous inhabitants. There were, according to some early records, a few examples of peaceful interactions (Morris 84). Yet, the inevitable competition over resources, and the intensity with which colonists pursued their “claims” for food, land, and water, quickly transformed amicable relationships into hostile rivalries. Jennifer Gall has written that, as “European settlement expanded in the late 1820s, violent exchanges between settlers and Aboriginal people were frequent, brutal and unchecked” (58). Indeed, the near-annihilation of the original custodians of the land was, if viewed through the lens of time, a process that could be described as one that was especially efficient. As John Morris notes: in 1803, when the first settlers arrived in Van Diemen’s Land, the Aborigines had already inhabited the island for some 25,000 years and the population has been estimated at 4,000. Seventy-three years later, Truganinni, [often cited as] the last Tasmanian of full Aboriginal descent, was dead. (84) Against a backdrop of extreme violence, often referred to as the Black War (Clements 1), there were some, admittedly dubious, efforts to contain the bloodshed. One such effort, in the late 1820s, was the production, and subsequent distribution, of a set of Proclamation Boards. Approximately 100 Proclamation Boards (the Board) were introduced by the Lieutenant Governor of the day, George Arthur (after whom Port Arthur on the Tasman Peninsula is named). The purpose of these Boards was to communicate, via a four-strip pictogram, to the Indigenous peoples of the island colony that all people—black and white—were considered equal under the law. “British Justice would protect” everyone (Morris 84). This is reflected in the narrative of the Boards. The first image presents Indigenous peoples and colonists living peacefully together. The second, and central, image shows “a conciliatory handshake between the British governor and an Aboriginal ‘chief’, highly reminiscent of images found in North America on treaty medals and anti-slavery tokens” (Darian-Smith and Edmonds 4). The third and fourth images depict the repercussions for committing murder, with an Indigenous man hanged for spearing a colonist and a European man also hanged for shooting an Aborigine. Both men executed under “gubernatorial supervision” (Turnbull 53). Image 1: Governor Davey's [sic - actually Governor Arthur's] Proclamation to the Aborigines, 1816 [sic - actually c. 1828-30]. Image Credit: Mitchell Library, State Library of NSW (Call Number: SAFE / R 247). The Board is an interesting re-imagining of one of the traditional methods of communication for Indigenous peoples; the leaving of images on the bark of trees. Such trees, often referred to as scarred trees, are rare in modern-day Tasmania as “the expansion of settlements, and the impact of bush fires and other environmental factors” resulted in many of these trees being destroyed (Aboriginal Heritage Tasmania online). Similarly, only a few of the Boards, inspired by these trees, survive today. The Proclamation Board was, in the 1860s, re-imagined as the output of a different Governor: Lieutenant Governor Davey (after whom Port Davey, on the south-west coast of Tasmania is named). This re-imagining of the Board’s creator was so effective that the Board, today, is popularly known as Governor Davey’s Proclamation to the Aborigines. This paper outlines several other re-imaginings of this Board. In addition, this paper offers another, new, re-imagining of the Board, positing that this is an early “pamphlet” on crime, justice and punishment which actually presents as a pre-cursor to the modern Australian true crime tale. In doing so this work connects the Proclamation Board to the larger genre of crime fiction. One Proclamation Board: Two Governors Labelled Van Diemen’s Land and settled as a colony of New South Wales in 1803, this island state would secede from the administration of mainland Australia in 1825. Another change would follow in 1856 when Van Diemen’s Land was, in another process of re-imagining, officially re-named Tasmania. This change in nomenclature was an initiative to, symbolically at least, separate the contemporary state from a criminal and violent past (Newman online). Tasmania’s violent history was, perhaps, inevitable. The island was claimed by Philip Gidley King, the Governor of New South Wales, in the name of His Majesty, not for the purpose of building a community, but to “prevent the French from gaining a footing on the east side of that island” and also to procure “timber and other natural products, as well as to raise grain and to promote the seal industry” (Clark 36). Another rationale for this land claim was to “divide the convicts” (Clark 36) which re-fashioned the island into a gaol. It was this penal element of the British colonisation of Australia that saw the worst of the British Empire forced upon the Aboriginal peoples. As historian Clive Turnbull explains: the brutish state of England was reproduced in the English colonies, and that in many ways its brutishness was increased, for now there came to Australia not the humanitarians or the indifferent, but the men who had vested interests in the systems of restraint; among those who suffered restraint were not only a vast number who were merely unfortunate and poverty-stricken—the victims of a ‘depression’—but brutalised persons, child-slaughterers and even potential cannibals. (Turnbull 25) As noted above the Black War of Tasmania saw unprecedented aggression against the rightful occupants of the land. Yet, the Aboriginal peoples were “promised the white man’s justice, the people [were] exhorted to live in amity with them, the wrongs which they suffer [were] deplored” (Turnbull 23). The administrators purported an egalitarian society, one of integration and peace but Van Diemen’s Land was colonised as a prison and as a place of profit. So, “like many apologists whose material benefit is bound up with the systems which they defend” (Turnbull 23), assertions of care for the health and welfare of the Aboriginal peoples were made but were not supported by sufficient policies, or sufficient will, and the Black War continued. Colonel Thomas Davey (1758-1823) was the second person to serve as Lieutenant Governor of Van Diemen’s Land; a term of office that began in 1813 and concluded in 1817. The fourth Lieutenant Governor of the island was Colonel Sir George Arthur (1784-1854); his term of office, significantly longer than Davey’s, being from 1824 to 1836. The two men were very different but are connected through this intriguing artefact, the Proclamation Board. One of the efforts made to assert the principle of equality under the law in Van Diemen’s Land was an outcome of work undertaken by Surveyor General George Frankland (1800-1838). Frankland wrote to Arthur in early 1829 and suggested the Proclamation Board (Morris 84), sometimes referred to as a Picture Board or the Tasmanian Hieroglyphics, as a tool to support Arthur’s various Proclamations. The Proclamation, signed on 15 April 1828 and promulgated in the The Hobart Town Courier on 19 April 1828 (Arthur 1), was one of several notices attempting to reduce the increasing levels of violence between Indigenous peoples and colonists. The date on Frankland’s correspondence clearly situates the Proclamation Board within Arthur’s tenure as Lieutenant Governor. The Board was, however, in the 1860s, re-imagined as the output of Davey. The Clerk of the Tasmanian House of Assembly, Hugh M. Hull, asserted that the Board was the work of Davey and not Arthur. Hull’s rationale for this, despite archival evidence connecting the Board to Frankland and, by extension, to Arthur, is predominantly anecdotal. In a letter to the editor of The Hobart Mercury, published 26 November 1874, Hull wrote: this curiosity was shown by me to the late Mrs Bateman, neé Pitt, a lady who arrived here in 1804, and with whom I went to school in 1822. She at once recognised it as one of a number prepared in 1816, under Governor Davey’s orders; and said she had seen one hanging on a gum tree at Cottage Green—now Battery Point. (3) Hull went on to assert that “if any old gentleman will look at the picture and remember the style of military and civil dress of 1810-15, he will find that Mrs Bateman was right” (3). Interestingly, Hull relies upon the recollections of a deceased school friend and the dress codes depicted by the artist to date the Proclamation Board as a product of 1816, in lieu of documentary evidence dating the Board as a product of 1828-1830. Curiously, the citation of dress can serve to undermine Hull’s argument. An early 1840s watercolour by Thomas Bock, of Mathinna, an Aboriginal child of Flinders Island adopted by Lieutenant Governor John Franklin (Felton online), features the young girl wearing a brightly coloured, high-waisted dress. This dress is very similar to the dresses worn by the children on the Proclamation Board (the difference being that Mathinna wears a red dress with a contrasting waistband, the children on the Board wear plain yellow dresses) (Bock). Acknowledging the simplicity of children's clothing during the colonial era, it could still be argued that it would have been unlikely the Governor of the day would have placed a child, enjoying at that time a life of privilege, in a situation where she sat for a portrait wearing an old-fashioned garment. So effective was Hull’s re-imagining of the Board’s creator that the Board was, for many years, popularly known as Governor Davey’s Proclamation to the Aborigines with even the date modified, to 1816, to fit Davey’s term of office. Further, it is worth noting that catalogue records acknowledge the error of attribution and list both Davey and Arthur as men connected to the creation of the Proclamation Board. A Surviving Board: Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales One of the surviving Proclamation Boards is held by the Mitchell Library. The Boards, oil on Huon pine, were painted by “convict artists incarcerated in the island penal colony” (Carroll 73). The work was mass produced (by the standards of mass production of the day) by pouncing, “a technique [of the Italian Renaissance] of pricking the contours of a drawing with a pin. Charcoal was then dusted on to the drawing” (Carroll 75-76). The images, once outlined, were painted in oil. Of approximately 100 Boards made, several survive today. There are seven known Boards within public collections (Gall 58): five in Australia (Mitchell Library, State Library of NSW, Sydney; Museum Victoria, Melbourne; National Library of Australia, Canberra; Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery, Hobart; and Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery, Launceston); and two overseas (The Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, Harvard University and the Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, University of Cambridge). The catalogue record, for the Board held by the Mitchell Library, offers the following details:Paintings: 1 oil painting on Huon pine board, rectangular in shape with rounded corners and hole at top centre for suspension ; 35.7 x 22.6 x 1 cm. 4 scenes are depicted:Aborigines and white settlers in European dress mingling harmoniouslyAboriginal men and women, and an Aboriginal child approach Governor Arthur to shake hands while peaceful soldiers look onA hostile Aboriginal man spears a male white settler and is hanged by the military as Governor Arthur looks onA hostile white settler shoots an Aboriginal man and is hanged by the military as Governor Arthur looks on. (SAFE / R 247) The Mitchell Library Board was purchased from J.W. Beattie in May 1919 for £30 (Morris 86), which is approximately $2,200 today. Importantly, the title of the record notes both the popular attribution of the Board and the man who actually instigated the Board’s production: “Governor Davey’s [sic – actually Governor Arthur] Proclamation to the Aborigines, 1816 [sic – actually c. 1828-30].” The date of the Board is still a cause of some speculation. The earlier date, 1828, marks the declaration of martial law (Turnbull 94) and 1830 marks the Black Line (Edmonds 215); the attempt to form a human line of white men to force many Tasmanian Aboriginals, four of the nine nations, onto the Tasman Peninsula (Ryan 3). Frankland’s suggestion for the Board was put forward on 4 February 1829, with Arthur’s official Conciliator to the Aborigines, G.A. Robinson, recording his first sighting of a Board on 24 December 1829 (Morris 84-85). Thus, the conception of the Board may have been in 1828 but the Proclamation project was not fully realised until 1830. Indeed, a news item on the Proclamation Board did appear in the popular press, but not until 5 March 1830: We are informed that the Government have given directions for the painting of a large number of pictures to be placed in the bush for the contemplation of the Aboriginal Inhabitants. […] However […] the causes of their hostility must be more deeply probed, or their taste as connoisseurs in paintings more clearly established, ere we can look for any beneficial result from this measure. (Colonial Times 2) The remark made in relation to becoming a connoisseur of painting, though intended to be derogatory, makes some sense. There was an assumption that the Indigenous peoples could easily translate a European-styled execution by hanging, as a visual metaphor for all forms of punishment. It has long been understood that Indigenous “social organisation and religious and ceremonial life were often as complex as those of the white invaders” (McCulloch 261). However, the Proclamation Board was, in every sense, Eurocentric and made no attempt to acknowledge the complexities of Aboriginal culture. It was, quite simply, never going to be an effective tool of communication, nor achieve its socio-legal aims. The Board Re-imagined: Popular Media The re-imagining of the Proclamation Board as a construct of Governor Davey, instead of Governor Arthur, is just one of many re-imaginings of this curious object. There are, of course, the various imaginings of the purpose of the Board. On the surface these images are a tool for reconciliation but as “the story of these paintings unfolds […] it becomes clear that the proclamations were in effect envoys sent back to Britain to exhibit the ingenious attempts being applied to civilise Australia” (Carroll 76). In this way the Board was re-imagined by the Administration that funded the exercise, even before the project was completed, from a mechanism to assist in the bringing about of peace into an object that would impress colonial superiors. Khadija von Zinnenburg Carroll has recently written about the Boards in the context of their “transnational circulation” and how “objects become subjects and speak of their past through the ventriloquism of contemporary art history” (75). Carroll argues the Board is an item that couples “military strategy with a fine arts propaganda campaign” (Carroll 78). Critically the Boards never achieved their advertised purpose for, as Carroll explains, there were “elaborate rituals Aboriginal Australians had for the dead” and, therefore, “the display of a dead, hanging body is unthinkable. […] being exposed to the sight of a hanged man must have been experienced as an unimaginable act of disrespect” (92). The Proclamation Board would, in sharp contrast to feelings of unimaginable disrespect, inspire feelings of pride across the colonial population. An example of this pride being revealed in the selection of the Board as an object worthy of reproduction, as a lithograph, for an Intercolonial Exhibition, held in Melbourne in 1866 (Morris 84). The lithograph, which identifies the Board as Governor Davey’s Proclamation to the Aborigines and dated 1816, was listed as item 572, of 738 items submitted by Tasmania, for the event (The Commissioners 69-85). This type of reproduction, or re-imagining, of the Board would not be an isolated event. Penelope Edmonds has described the Board as producing a “visual vernacular” through a range of derivatives including lantern slides, lithographs, and postcards. These types of tourist ephemera are in addition to efforts to produce unique re-workings of the Board as seen in Violet Mace’s Proclamation glazed earthernware, which includes a jug (1928) and a pottery cup (1934) (Edmonds online). The Board Re-imagined: A True Crime Tale The Proclamation Board offers numerous narratives. There is the story that the Board was designed and deployed to communicate. There is the story behind the Board. There is also the story of the credit for the initiative which was transferred from Governor Arthur to Governor Davey and subsequently returned to Arthur. There are, too, the provenance stories of individual Boards. There is another story the Proclamation Board offers. The story of true crime in colonial Australia. The Board, as noted, presents through a four-strip pictogram an idea that all are equal under the rule of law (Arthur 1). Advocating for a society of equals was a duplicitous practice, for while Aborigines were hanged for allegedly murdering settlers, “there is no record of whites being charged, let alone punished, for murdering Aborigines” (Morris 84). It would not be until 1838 that white men would be punished for the murder of Aboriginal people (on the mainland) in the wake of the Myall Creek Massacre, in northern New South Wales. There were other examples of attempts to bring about a greater equity under the rule of law but, as Amanda Nettelbeck explains, there was wide-spread resistance to the investigation and charging of colonists for crimes against the Indigenous population with cases regularly not going to trial, or, if making a courtroom, resulting in an acquittal (355-59). That such cases rested on “legally inadmissible Aboriginal testimony” (Reece in Nettelbeck 358) propped up a justice system that was, inherently, unjust in the nineteenth century. It is important to note that commentators at the time did allude to the crime narrative of the Board: when in the most civilized country in the world it has been found ineffective as example to hang murderers in chains, it is not to be expected a savage race will be influenced by the milder exhibition of effigy and caricature. (Colonial Times 2) It is argued here that the Board was much more than an offering of effigy and caricature. The Proclamation Board presents, in striking detail, the formula for the modern true crime tale: a peace disturbed by the act of murder; and the ensuing search for, and delivery of, justice. Reinforcing this point, are the ideas of justice seen within crime fiction, a genre that focuses on the restoration of order out of chaos (James 174), are made visible here as aspirational. The true crime tale does not, consistently, offer the reassurances found within crime fiction. In the real world, particularly one as violent as colonial Australia, we are forced to acknowledge that, below the surface of the official rhetoric on justice and crime, the guilty often go free and the innocent are sometimes hanged. Another point of note is that, if the latter date offered here, of 1830, is taken as the official date of the production of these Boards, then the significance of the Proclamation Board as a true crime tale is even more pronounced through a connection to crime fiction (both genres sharing a common literary heritage). The year 1830 marks the release of Australia’s first novel, Quintus Servinton written by convicted forger Henry Savery, a crime novel (produced in three volumes) published by Henry Melville of Hobart Town. Thus, this paper suggests, 1830 can be posited as a year that witnessed the production of two significant cultural artefacts, the Proclamation Board and the nation’s first full-length literary work, as also being the year that established the, now indomitable, traditions of true crime and crime fiction in Australia. Conclusion During the late 1820s in Van Diemen’s Land (now Tasmania) a set of approximately 100 Proclamation Boards were produced by the Lieutenant Governor of the day, George Arthur. The official purpose of these items was to communicate, to the Indigenous peoples of the island colony, that all—black and white—were equal under the law. Murderers, be they Aboriginal or colonist, would be punished. The Board is a re-imagining of one of the traditional methods of communication for Indigenous peoples; the leaving of drawings on the bark of trees. The Board was, in the 1860s, in time for an Intercolonial Exhibition, re-imagined as the output of Lieutenant Governor Davey. This re-imagining of the Board was so effective that surviving artefacts, today, are popularly known as Governor Davey’s Proclamation to the Aborigines with the date modified, to 1816, to fit the new narrative. The Proclamation Board was also reimagined, by its creators and consumers, in a variety of ways: as peace offering; military propaganda; exhibition object; tourism ephemera; and contemporary art. This paper has also, briefly, offered another re-imagining of the Board, positing that this early “pamphlet” on justice and punishment actually presents a pre-cursor to the modern Australian true crime tale. The Proclamation Board tells many stories but, at the core of this curious object, is a crime story: the story of mass murder. Acknowledgements The author acknowledges the Palawa peoples: the traditional custodians of the lands known today as Tasmania. The author acknowledges, too, the Gadigal people of the Eora nation upon whose lands this paper was researched and written. The author extends thanks to Richard Neville, Margot Riley, Kirsten Thorpe, and Justine Wilson of the State Library of New South Wales for sharing their knowledge and offering their support. The author is also grateful to the reviewers for their careful reading of the manuscript and for making valuable suggestions. ReferencesAboriginal Heritage Tasmania. “Scarred Trees.” Aboriginal Cultural Heritage, 2012. 12 Sep. 2015 ‹http://www.aboriginalheritage.tas.gov.au/aboriginal-cultural-heritage/archaeological-site-types/scarred-trees›.Arthur, George. “Proclamation.” The Hobart Town Courier 19 Apr. 1828: 1.———. Governor Davey’s [sic – actually Governor Arthur’s] Proclamation to the Aborigines, 1816 [sic – actually c. 1828-30]. Graphic Materials. Sydney: Mitchell Library, State Library of NSW, c. 1828-30.Bock, Thomas. Mathinna. Watercolour and Gouache on Paper. 23 x 19 cm (oval), c. 1840.Carroll, Khadija von Zinnenburg. Art in the Time of Colony: Empires and the Making of the Modern World, 1650-2000. Farnham, UK: Ashgate Publishing, 2014.Clark, Manning. History of Australia. Abridged by Michael Cathcart. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1997 [1993]. Clements, Nicholas. The Black War: Fear, Sex and Resistance in Tasmania. St Lucia, Qld.: U of Queensland P, 2014.Colonial Times. “Hobart Town.” Colonial Times 5 Mar. 1830: 2.The Commissioners. Intercolonial Exhibition Official Catalogue. 2nd ed. Melbourne: Blundell & Ford, 1866.Darian-Smith, Kate, and Penelope Edmonds. “Conciliation on Colonial Frontiers.” Conciliation on Colonial Frontiers: Conflict, Performance and Commemoration in Australia and the Pacific Rim. Eds. Kate Darian-Smith and Penelope Edmonds. New York: Routledge, 2015. 1–14. Edmonds, Penelope. “‘Failing in Every Endeavour to Conciliate’: Governor Arthur’s Proclamation Boards to the Aborigines, Australian Conciliation Narratives and Their Transnational Connections.” Journal of Australian Studies 35.2 (2011): 201–18.———. “The Proclamation Cup: Tasmanian Potter Violet Mace and Colonial Quotations.” reCollections 5.2 (2010). 20 May 2015 ‹http://recollections.nma.gov.au/issues/vol_5_no_2/papers/the_proclamation_cup_›.Felton, Heather. “Mathinna.” Companion to Tasmanian History. Hobart: Centre for Tasmanian Historical Studies, University of Tasmania, 2006. 29 Sep. 2015 ‹http://www.utas.edu.au/library/companion_to_tasmanian_history/M/Mathinna.htm›.Gall, Jennifer. Library of Dreams: Treasures from the National Library of Australia. Canberra: National Library of Australia, 2011.Hull, Hugh M. “Tasmanian Hieroglyphics.” The Hobart Mercury 26 Nov. 1874: 3.James, P.D. Talking about Detective Fiction. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2009.Mace, Violet. Violet Mace’s Proclamation Jug. Glazed Earthernware. Launceston: Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery, 1928.———. Violet Mace’s Proclamation Cup. Glazed Earthernware. Canberra: National Museum of Australia, 1934.McCulloch, Samuel Clyde. “Sir George Gipps and Eastern Australia’s Policy toward the Aborigine, 1838-46.” The Journal of Modern History 33.3 (1961): 261–69.Morris, John. “Notes on a Message to the Tasmanian Aborigines in 1829, popularly called ‘Governor Davey’s Proclamation to the Aborigines, 1816’.” Australiana 10.3 (1988): 84–7.Nettelbeck, Amanda. “‘Equals of the White Man’: Prosecution of Settlers for Violence against Aboriginal Subjects of the Crown, Colonial Western Australia.” Law and History Review 31.2 (2013): 355–90.Newman, Terry. “Tasmania, the Name.” Companion to Tasmanian History, 2006. 16 Sep. 2015 ‹http://www.utas.edu.au/library/companion_to_tasmanian_history/T/Tasmania%20name.htm›.Reece, Robert H.W., in Amanda Nettelbeck. “‘Equals of the White Man’: Prosecution of Settlers for Violence against Aboriginal Subjects of the Crown, Colonial Western Australia.” Law and History Review 31.2 (2013): 355–90.Ryan, Lyndall. “The Black Line in Van Diemen’s Land: Success or Failure?” Journal of Australian Studies 37.1 (2013): 3–18.Savery, Henry. Quintus Servinton: A Tale Founded upon Events of Real Occurrence. Hobart Town: Henry Melville, 1830.Turnbull, Clive. Black War: The Extermination of the Tasmanian Aborigines. Melbourne: Sun Books, 1974 [1948].

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Abstract:

The general who wins a battle makes many calculations in his temple ere the battle is fought. — Sun TzuWorld War II saw a proliferation of maps. From command posts to the pages of National Geographic to the pages of daily newspapers, they were everywhere (Schulten). The era also saw substantive developments in cartography, especially with respect to the topographical maps that feature in our selected films. This essay offers a preliminary examination of the battle-map as depicted in two films about the Second World War: Franklin J. Shaffner’s biopic Patton (1970) and Jack Smight’s epic Midway (1976). In these films, maps, charts, or tableaux (the three-dimensional models upon which are plotted the movements of battalions, fleets, and so on) emerge as an expression of both martial and cinematic strategy. As a rear-view representation of the relative movements of personnel and materiel in particular battle arenas, the map and its accessories (pins, tape, markers, and so forth) trace the broad military dispositions of Patton’s 2nd Corp (Africa), Seventh Army (Italy) and Third Army (Western Europe) and the relative position of American and Japanese fleets in the Pacific. In both Patton and Midway, the map also emerges as a simple mode of narrative plotting: as the various encounters in the two texts play out, the battle-map more or less contemporaneously traces the progress of forces. It also serves as a foreshadowing device, not just narratively, but cinematically: that which is plotted in advance comes to pass (even if as preliminary movements before catastrophe), but the audience is also cued for the cinematic chaos and disjuncture that almost inevitably ensues in the battle scenes proper.On one hand, then, this essay proposes that at the fundamental level of fabula (seen through either the lens of historical hindsight or through the eyes of the novice who knows nothing of World War II), the annotated map is engaged both strategically and cinematically: as a stage upon which commanders attempt to act out (either in anticipation, or retrospectively) the intricate, but grotesque, ballet of warfare — and as a reflection of the broad, sequential, sweeps of conflict. While, in War and Cinema, Paul Virilio offers the phrase ‘the logistics of perception’ (1), in this this essay we, on the other hand, consider that, for those in command, the battle-map is a representation of the perception of logistics: the big picture of war finds rough indexical representation on a map, but (as Clausewitz tells us) chance, the creative agency of individual commanders, and the fog of battle make it far less probable (than is the case in more specific mappings, such as, say, the wedding rehearsal) that what is planned will play out with any degree of close correspondence (On War 19, 21, 77-81). Such mapping is, of course, further problematised by the processes of abstraction themselves: indexicality is necessarily a reduction; a de-realisation or déterritorialisation. ‘For the military commander,’ writes Virilio, ‘every dimension is unstable and presents itself in isolation from its original context’ (War and Cinema 32). Yet rehearsal (on maps, charts, or tableaux) is a keying activity that seeks to presage particular real world patterns (Goffman 45). As suggested above, far from being a rhizomatic activity, the heavily plotted (as opposed to thematic) business of mapping is always out of joint: either a practice of imperfect anticipation or an equally imperfect (pared back and behind-the-times) rendition of activity in the field. As is argued by Tolstoj in War and Peace, the map then presents to the responder a series of tensions and ironies often lost on the masters of conflict themselves. War, as Tostoj proposes, is a stochastic phenomenon while the map is a relatively static, and naive, attempt to impose order upon it. Tolstoj, then, pillories Phull (in the novel, Pfuhl), the aptly-named Prussian general whose lock-stepped obedience to the science of war (of which the map is part) results in the abject humiliation of 1806:Pfuhl was one of those theoreticians who are so fond of their theory that they lose sight of the object of that theory - its application in practice. (Vol. 2, Part 1, Ch. 10, 53)In both Patton and Midway, then, the map unfolds not only as an epistemological tool (read, ‘battle plan’) or reflection (read, the near contemporaneous plotting of real world affray) of the war narrative, but as a device of foreshadowing and as an allegory of command and its profound limitations. So, in Deleuzian terms, while emerging as an image of both time and perception, for commanders and filmgoers alike, the map is also something of a seduction: a ‘crystal-image’ situated in the interstices between the virtual and the actual (Deleuze 95). To put it another way, in our films the map emerges as an isomorphism: a studied plotting in which inheres a counter-text (Goffman 26). As a simple device of narrative, and in the conventional terms of latitude and longitude, in both Patton and Midway, the map, chart, or tableau facilitate the plotting of the resources of war in relation to relief (including island land masses), roads, railways, settlements, rivers, and seas. On this syntagmatic plane, in Greimasian terms, the map is likewise received as a canonical sign of command: where there are maps, there are, after all, commanders (Culler 13). On the other hand, as suggested above, the battle-map (hereafter, we use the term to signify the conventional paper map, the maritime chart, or tableau) materialises as a sanitised image of the unknown and the grotesque: as apodictic object that reduces complexity and that incidentally banishes horror and affect. Thus, the map evolves, in the viewer’s perception, as an ironic sign of all that may not be commanded. This is because, as an emblem of the rational order, in Patton and Midway the map belies the ubiquity of battle’s friction: that defined by Clausewitz as ‘the only concept which...distinguishes real war from war on paper’ (73). ‘Friction’ writes Clausewitz, ‘makes that which appears easy in War difficult in reality’ (81).Our work here cannot ignore or side-step the work of others in identifying the core cycles, characteristics of the war film genre. Jeanine Basinger, for instance, offers nothing less than an annotated checklist of sixteen key characteristics for the World War II combat film. Beyond this taxonomy, though, Basinger identifies the crucial role this sub-type of film plays in the corpus of war cinema more broadly. The World War II combat film’s ‘position in the evolutionary process is established, as well as its overall relationship to history and reality. It demonstrates how a primary set of concepts solidifies into a story – and how they can be interpreted for a changing ideology’ (78). Stuart Bender builds on Basinger’s taxonomy and discussion of narrative tropes with a substantial quantitative analysis of the very building blocks of battle sequences. This is due to Bender’s contention that ‘when a critic’s focus [is] on the narrative or ideological components of a combat film [this may] lead them to make assumptions about the style which are untenable’ (8). We seek with this research to add to a rich and detailed body of knowledge by redressing a surprising omission therein: a conscious and focussed analysis of the use of battle-maps in war cinema. In Patton and in Midway — as in War and Peace — the map emerges as an emblem of an intergeneric dialogue: as a simple storytelling device and as a paradigmatic engine of understanding. To put it another way, as viewer-responders with a synoptic perspective we perceive what might be considered a ‘double exposure’: in the map we see what is obviously before us (the collision of represented forces), but an Archimedean positioning facilitates the production of far more revelatory textual isotopies along what Roman Jakobson calls the ‘axis of combination’ (Linguistics and Poetics 358). Here, otherwise unconnected signs (in our case various manifestations and configurations of the battle-map) are brought together in relation to particular settings, situations, and figures. Through this palimpsest of perspective, a crucial binary emerges: via the battle-map we see ‘command’ and the sequence of engagement — and, through Greimasian processes of axiological combination (belonging more to syuzhet than fabula), elucidated for us are the wrenching ironies of warfare (Culler 228). Thus, through the profound and bound motif of the map (Tomashevsky 69), are we empowered to pass judgement on the map bearers who, in both films, present as the larger-than-life heroes of old. Figure 1.While we have scope only to deal with the African theatre, Patton opens with a dramatic wide-shot of the American flag: a ‘map’, if you will, of a national history forged in war (Fig. 1). Against this potent sign of American hegemony, as he slowly climbs up to the stage before it, the general appears a diminutive figure -- until, via a series of matched cuts that culminate in extreme close-ups, he manifests as a giant about to play his part in a great American story (Fig. 2).Figure 2.Some nineteen minutes into a film, having surveyed the carnage of Kasserine Pass (in which, in February 1943, the Germans inflicted a humiliating defeat on the Americans) General Omar Bradley is reunited with his old friend and newly-nominated three-star general, George S. Patton Jr.. Against a backdrop of an indistinct topographical map (that nonetheless appears to show the front line) and the American flag that together denote the men’s authority, the two discuss the Kasserine catastrophe. Bradley’s response to Patton’s question ‘What happened at Kasserine?’ clearly illustrates the tension between strategy and real-world engagement. While the battle-plan was solid, the Americans were outgunned, their tanks were outclassed, and (most importantly) their troops were out-disciplined. Patton’s concludes that Rommel can only be beaten if the American soldiers are fearless and fight as a cohesive unit. Now that he is in command of the American 2nd Corp, the tide of American martial fortune is about to turn.The next time Patton appears in relation to the map is around half an hour into the two-and-three-quarter-hour feature. Here, in the American HQ, the map once more appears as a simple, canonical sign of command. Somewhat carelessly, the map of Europe seems to show post-1945 national divisions and so is ostensibly offered as a straightforward prop. In terms of martial specifics, screenplay writer Francis Ford Coppola apparently did not envisage much close scrutiny of the film’s maps. Highlighted, instead, are the tensions between strategy as a general principle and action on the ground. As British General Sir Arthur Coningham waxes lyrical about allied air supremacy, a German bomber drops its payload on the HQ, causing the map of Europe to (emblematically) collapse forward into the room. Following a few passes by the attacking aircraft, the film then cuts to a one second medium shot as a hail of bullets from a Heinkel He 111 strike a North African battle map (Fig. 3). Still prone, Patton remarks: ‘You were discussing air supremacy, Sir Arthur.’ Dramatising a scene that did take place (although Coningham was not present), Schaffner’s intention is to allow Patton to shoot holes in the British strategy (of which he is contemptuous) but a broader objective is the director’s exposé of the more general disjuncture between strategy and action. As the film progresses, and the battle-map’s allegorical significance is increasingly foregrounded, this critique becomes definitively sharper.Figure 3.Immediately following a scene in which an introspective Patton walks through a cemetery in which are interred the remains of those killed at Kasserine, to further the critique of Allied strategy the camera cuts to Berlin’s high command and a high-tech ensemble of tableaux, projected maps, and walls featuring lights, counters, and clocks. Tasked to research the newly appointed Patton, Captain Steiger walks through the bunker HQ with Hitler’s Chief of Staff, General Jodl, to meet with Rommel — who, suffering nasal diphtheria, is away from the African theatre. In a memorable exchange, Steiger reveals that Patton permanently attacks and never retreats. Rommel, who, following his easy victory at Kasserine, is on the verge of total tactical victory, in turn declares that he will ‘attack and annihilate’ Patton — before the poet-warrior does the same to him. As Clausewitz has argued, and as Schaffner is at pains to point out, it seems that, in part, the outcome of warfare has more to do with the individual consciousness of competing warriors than it does with even the most exquisite of battle-plans.Figure 4.So, even this early in the film’s runtime, as viewer-responders we start to reassess various manifestations of the battle-map. To put it as Michelle Langford does in her assessment of Schroeter’s cinema, ‘fragments of the familiar world [in our case, battle-maps] … become radically unfamiliar’ (Allegorical Images 57). Among the revelations is that from the flag (in the context of close battle, all sense of ‘the national’ dissolves), to the wall map, to the most detailed of tableau, the battle-plan is enveloped in the fog of war: thus, the extended deeply-focussed scenes of the Battle of El Guettar take us from strategic overview (Patton’s field glass perspectives over what will soon become a Valley of Death) to what Boris Eichenbaum has called ‘Stendhalian’ scale (The Young Tolstoi 105) in which, (in Patton) through more closely situated perspectives, we almost palpably experience the Germans’ disarray under heavy fire. As the camera pivots between the general and the particular (and between the omniscient and the nescient) the cinematographer highlights the tension between the strategic and the actual. Inasmuch as it works out (and, as Schaffner shows us, it never works out completely as planned) this is the outcome of modern martial strategy: chaos and unimaginable carnage on the ground that no cartographic representation might capture. As Patton observes the destruction unfold in the valley below and before him, he declares: ‘Hell of a waste of fine infantry.’ Figure 5.An important inclusion, then, is that following the protracted El Guettar battle scenes, Schaffner has the (symbolically flag-draped) casket of Patton’s aide, Captain Richard N. “Dick” Jenson, wheeled away on a horse-drawn cart — with the lonely figure of the mourning general marching behind, his ironic interior monologue audible to the audience: ‘I can't see the reason such fine young men get killed. There are so many battles yet to fight.’ Finally, in terms of this brief and partial assessment of the battle-map in Patton, less than an hour in, we may observe that the map is emerging as something far more than a casual prop; as something more than a plotting of battlelines; as something more than an emblem of command. Along a new and unexpected axis of semantic combination, it is now manifesting as a sign of that which cannot be represented nor commanded.Midway presents the lead-up to the eponymous naval battle of 1942. Smight’s work is of interest primarily because the battle itself plays a relatively small role in the film; what is most important is the prolonged strategising that comprises most of the film’s run time. In Midway, battle-tables and fleet markers become key players in the cinematic action, second almost to the commanders themselves. Two key sequences are discussed here: the moment in which Yamamoto outlines his strategy for the attack on Midway (by way of a decoy attack on the Aleutian Islands), and the scene some moments later where Admiral Nimitz and his assembled fleet commanders (Spruance, Blake, and company) survey their own plan to defend the atoll. In Midway, as is represented by the notion of a fleet-in-being, the oceanic battlefield is presented as a speculative plane on which commanders can test ideas. Here, a fleet in a certain position projects a radius of influence that will deter an enemy fleet from attacking: i.e. ‘a fleet which is able and willing to attack an enemy proposing a descent upon territory which that force has it in charge to protect’ (Colomb viii). The fleet-in-being, it is worth noting, is one that never leaves port and, while it is certainly true that the latter half of Midway is concerned with the execution of strategy, the first half is a prolonged cinematic game of chess, with neither player wanting to move lest the other has thought three moves ahead. Virilio opines that the fleet-in-being is ‘a new idea of violence that no longer comes from direct confrontation and bloodshed, but rather from the unequal properties of bodies, evaluation of the number of movements allowed them in a chosen element, permanent verification of their dynamic efficiency’ (Speed and Politics 62). Here, as in Patton, we begin to read the map as a sign of the subjective as well as the objective. This ‘game of chess’ (or, if you prefer, ‘Battleships’) is presented cinematically through the interaction of command teams with their battle-tables and fleet markers. To be sure, this is to show strategy being developed — but it is also to prepare viewers for the defamiliarised representation of the battle itself.The first sequence opens with a close-up of Admiral Yamamoto declaring: ‘This is how I expect the battle to develop.’ The plan to decoy the Americans with an attack on the Aleutians is shown via close-ups of the conveniently-labelled ‘Northern Force’ (Fig. 6). It is then explained that, twenty-four hours later, a second force will break off and strike south, on the Midway atoll. There is a cut from closeups of the pointer on the map to the wider shot of the Japanese commanders around their battle table (Fig. 7). Interestingly, apart from the opening of the film in the Japanese garden, and the later parts of the film in the operations room, the Japanese commanders are only ever shown in this battle-table area. This canonically positions the Japanese as pure strategists, little concerned with the enmeshing of war with political or social considerations. The sequence ends with Commander Yasimasa showing a photograph of Vice Admiral Halsey, who the Japanese mistakenly believe will be leading the carrier fleet. Despite some bickering among the commanders earlier in the film, this sequence shows the absolute confidence of the Japanese strategists in their plan. The shots are suitably languorous — averaging three to four seconds between cuts — and the body language of the commanders shows a calm determination. The battle-map here is presented as an index of perfect command and inevitable victory: each part of the plan is presented with narration suggesting the Japanese expect to encounter little resistance. While Yasimasa and his clique are confident, the other commanders suggest a reconnaissance flight over Pearl Harbor to ascertain the position of the American fleet; the fear of fleet-in-being is shown here firsthand and on the map, where the reconnaissance planes are placed alongside the ship markers. The battle-map is never shown in full: only sections of the naval landscape are presented. We suggest that this is done in order to prepare the audience for the later stages of the film: as in Patton (from time to time) the battle-map here is filmed abstractly, to prime the audience for the abstract montage of the battle itself in the film’s second half.Figure 6.Figure 7.Having established in the intervening running time that Halsey is out of action, his replacement, Rear Admiral Spruance, is introduced to the rest of the command team. As with all the important American command and strategy meetings in the film, this is done in the operations room. A transparent coordinates board is shown in the foreground as Nimitz, Spruance and Rear Admiral Fletcher move through to the battle table. Behind the men, as they lean over the table, is an enormous map of the world (Fig. 8). In this sequence, Nimitz freely admits that while he knows each Japanese battle group’s origin and heading, he is unsure of their target. He asks Spruance for his advice:‘Ray, assuming what you see here isn’t just an elaborate ruse — Washington thinks it is, but assuming they’re wrong — what kind of move do you suggest?’This querying is followed by Spruance glancing to a particular point on the map (Fig. 9), then a cut to a shot of models representing the aircraft carriers Hornet, Enterprise & Yorktown (Fig. 10). This is one of the few model/map shots unaccompanied by dialogue or exposition. In effect, this shot shows Spruance’s thought process before he responds: strategic thought presented via cinematography. Spruance then suggests situating the American carrier group just northeast of Midway, in case the Japanese target is actually the West Coast of the United States. It is, in effect, a hedging of bets. Spruance’s positioning of the carrier group also projects that group’s sphere of influence around Midway atoll and north to essentially cut off Japanese access to the US. The fleet-in-being is presented graphically — on the map — in order to, once again, cue the audience to match the later (edited) images of the battle to these strategic musings.In summary, in Midway, the map is an element of production design that works alongside cinematography, editing, and performance to present the notion of strategic thought to the audience. In addition, and crucially, it functions as an abstraction of strategy that prepares the audience for the cinematic disorientation that will occur through montage as the actual battle rages later in the film. Figure 8.Figure 9.Figure 10.This essay has argued that the battle-map is a simulacrum of the weakest kind: what Baudrillard would call ‘simulacra of simulation, founded on information, the model’ (121). Just as cinema itself offers a distorted view of history (the war film, in particular, tends to hagiography), the battle-map is an over-simplification that fails to capture the physical and psychological realities of conflict. We have also argued that in both Patton and Midway, the map is not a ‘free’ motif (Tomashevsky 69). Rather, it is bound: a central thematic device. In the two films, the battle-map emerges as a crucial isomorphic element. On the one hand, it features as a prop to signify command and to relay otherwise complex strategic plottings. At this syntagmatic level, it functions alongside cinematography, editing, and performance to give audiences a glimpse into how military strategy is formed and tested: a traditional ‘reading’ of the map. But on the flip side of what emerges as a classic structuralist binary, is the map as a device of foreshadowing (especially in Midway) and as a depiction of command’s profound limitations. Here, at a paradigmatic level, along a new axis of combination, a new reading of the map in war cinema is proposed: the battle-map is as much a sign of the subjective as it is the objective.ReferencesBasinger, Jeanine. The World War II Combat Film: Anatomy of a Genre. Middletown, CT: Columbia UP, 1986.Baudrillard, Jean. Simulacra and Simulation. Ann Arbour: U of Michigan Press, 1994.Bender, Stuart. Film Style and the World War II Combat Genre. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2013.Clausewitz, Carl. On War. Vol. 1. London: Kegan Paul, 1908.Colomb, Philip Howard. Naval Warfare: Its Ruling Principles and Practice Historically Treated. 3rd ed. London: W.H. Allen & Co, 1899.Culler, Jonathan. Structuralist Poetics. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1975.Deleuze, Gilles. Cinema 2: The Time-Image. London: Continuum, 2005.Eichenbaum, Boris. The Young Tolstoi. Ann Arbor: Ardis, 1972.Goffman, Erving. Frame Analysis. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1976.Jakobson, Roman. "Linguistics and Poetics." Style in Language. Ed. T. Sebebeok. Cambridge, MA: MIT, 1960. 350—77.Langford, Michelle. Allegorical Images: Tableau, Time and Gesture in the Cinema of Werner Schroeter. Bristol: Intellect, 2006.Midway. Jack Smight. Universal Pictures, 1976. Film.Patton. Franklin J. Schaffner. 20th Century Fox, 1970. Film.Schulten, Susan. World War II Led to a Revolution in Cartography. New Republic 21 May 2014. 16 June 2017 <https://newrepublic.com/article/117835/richard-edes-harrison-reinvented-mapmaking-world-war-2-americans>.Tolstoy, Leo. War and Peace. Vol. 2. London: Folio, 1997.Tomashevsky, Boris. "Thematics." Russian Formalist Criticism: Four Essays. Eds. L. Lemon and M. Reis, Lincoln: U. Nebraska Press, 2012. 61—95.Tzu, Sun. The Art of War. San Diego: Canterbury Classics, 2014.Virilio, Paul. Speed and Politics. Paris: Semiotext(e), 2006.Virilio, Paul. War and Cinema: The Logistics of Perception. London: Verso, 1989.

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Abstract:

Special Care NoticeThis article discusses trauma and violence inflicted upon the Indigenous peoples of Tasmania through the processes of colonisation. Content within this article may be distressing to some readers. IntroductionThis article looks briefly at the collection, consultation, and digital sharing of stories essential to the histories of the First Nations peoples of Australia. Focusing on materials held in Sydney, New South Wales two case studies—the object known as the Proclamation Board and the George Augustus Robinson Papers—explore how materials can be shared with Aboriginal peoples of the region now known as Tasmania. Specifically, the authors of this article (a Palawa man and an Australian woman of European descent) ask how can the idea of the privileging of Indigenous voices, within Eurocentric cultural collections, be transformed from rhetoric to reality? Moreover, how can we navigate this complex work, that is made even more problematic by distance, through the utilisation of knowledge networks which are geographically isolated from the collections holding stories crucial to Indigenous communities? In seeking to answer these important questions, this article looks at how cultural, emotional, and intellectual ownership can be divested from the physical ownership of a collection in a way that repatriates—appropriately and sensitively—stories of Aboriginal Australia and of colonisation. Holding Stories, Not Always Our OwnCultural institutions, including libraries, have, in recent years, been drawn into discussions centred on the notion of digital disruption and “that transformative shift which has seen the ongoing realignment of business resources, relationships, knowledge, and value both facilitating the entry of previously impossible ideas and accelerating the competitive impact of those same impossible ideas” (Franks and Ensor n.p.). As Molly Brown has noted, librarians “are faced, on a daily basis, with rapidly changing technology and the ways in which our patrons access and use information. Thus, we need to look at disruptive technologies as opportunities” (n.p.). Some innovations, including the transition from card catalogues to online catalogues and the provision of a wide range of electronic resources, are now considered to be business as usual for most institutions. So, too, the digitisation of great swathes of materials to facilitate access to collections onsite and online, with digitising primary sources seen as an intermediary between the pillars of preserving these materials and facilitating access for those who cannot, for a variety of logistical and personal reasons, travel to a particular repository where a collection is held.The result has been the development of hybrid collections: that is, collections that can be accessed in both physical and digital formats. Yet, the digitisation processes conducted by memory institutions is often selective. Limited resources, even for large-scale digitisation projects usually only realise outcomes that focus on making visually rich, key, or canonical documents, or those documents that are considered high use and at risk, available online. Such materials are extracted from the larger full body of records while other lesser-known components are often omitted. Digitisation projects therefore tend to be devised for a broader audience where contextual questions are less central to the methodology in favour of presenting notable or famous documents online only. Documents can be profiled as an exhibition separate from their complete collection and, critically, their wider context. Libraries of course are not neutral spaces and this practice of (re)enforcing the canon through digitisation is a challenge that cultural institutions, in partnerships, need to address (Franks and Ensor n.p.). Indeed, our digital collections are as affected by power relationships and the ongoing impacts of colonisation as our physical collections. These power relationships can be seen through an organisation’s “processes that support acquisitions, as purchases and as the acceptance of artefacts offered as donations. Throughout such processes decisions are continually made (consciously and unconsciously) that affect what is presented and actively promoted as the official history” (Thorpe et al. 8). While it is important to acknowledge what we do collect, it is equally important to look, too, at what we do not collect and to consider how we continually privilege and exclude stories. Especially when these stories are not always our own, but are held, often as accidents of collecting. For example, an item comes in as part of a larger suite of materials while older, city-based institutions often pre-date regional repositories. An essential point here is that cultural institutions can often become comfortable in what they collect, building on existing holdings. This, in turn, can lead to comfortable digitisation. If we are to be truly disruptive, we need to embrace feeling uncomfortable in what we do, and we need to view digitisation as an intervention opportunity; a chance to challenge what we ‘know’ about our collections. This is especially relevant in any attempts to decolonise collections.Case Study One: The Proclamation BoardThe first case study looks at an example of re-digitisation. One of the seven Proclamation Boards known to survive in a public collection is held by the Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales, having been purchased from Tasmanian collector and photographer John Watt Beattie (1859–1930) in May 1919 for £30 (Morris 86). Why, with so much material to digitise—working in a program of limited funds and time—would the Library return to an object that has already been privileged? Unanswered questions and advances in digitisation technologies, created a unique opportunity. For the First Peoples of Van Diemen’s Land (now known as Tasmania), colonisation by the British in 1803 was “an emotionally, intellectually, physically, and spiritually confronting series of encounters” (Franks n.p.). Violent incidents became routine and were followed by a full-scale conflict, often referred to as the Black War (Clements 1), or more recently as the Tasmanian War, fought from the 1820s until 1832. Image 1: Governor Arthur’s Proclamation to the Aborigines, ca. 1828–1830. Image Credit: Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales, Call No.: SAFE / R 247.Behind the British combatants were various support staff, including administrators and propagandists. One of the efforts by the belligerents, behind the front line, to win the war and bring about peace was the production of approximately 100 Proclamation Boards. These four-strip pictograms were the result of a scheme introduced by Lieutenant Governor George Arthur (1784–1854), on the advice of Surveyor General George Frankland (1800–38), to communicate that all are equal under the rule of law (Arthur 1). Frankland wrote to Arthur in early 1829 to suggest these Proclamation Boards could be produced and nailed to trees (Morris 84), as a Eurocentric adaptation of a traditional method of communication used by Indigenous peoples who left images on the trunks of trees. The overtly stated purpose of the Boards was, like the printed proclamations exhorting peace, to assert, all people—black and white—were equal. That “British Justice would protect” everyone (Morris 84). The first strip on each of these pictogram Boards presents Indigenous peoples and colonists living peacefully together. The second strip shows “a conciliatory handshake between the British governor and an Aboriginal ‘chief’, highly reminiscent of images found in North America on treaty medals and anti-slavery tokens” (Darian-Smith and Edmonds 4). The third and fourth strips depict the repercussions for committing murder (or, indeed, any significant crime), with an Indigenous man hanged for spearing a colonist and a European man hanged for shooting an Aboriginal man. Both men executed in the presence of the Lieutenant Governor. The Boards, oil on Huon pine, were painted by “convict artists incarcerated in the island penal colony” (Carroll 73).The Board at the State Library of New South Wales was digitised quite early on in the Library’s digitisation program, it has been routinely exhibited (including for the Library’s centenary in 2010) and is written about regularly. Yet, many questions about this small piece of timber remain unanswered. For example, some Boards were outlined with sketches and some were outlined with pouncing, “a technique [of the Italian Renaissance] of pricking the contours of a drawing with a pin. Charcoal was then dusted on to the drawing” (Carroll 75–76). Could such a sketch or example of pouncing be seen beneath the surface layers of paint on this particular Board? What might be revealed by examining the Board more closely and looking at this object in different ways?An important, but unexpected, discovery was that while most of the pigments in the painting correlate with those commonly available to artists in the early nineteenth century there is one outstanding anomaly. X-ray analysis revealed cadmium yellow present in several places across the painting, including the dresses of the little girls in strip one, uniform details in strip two, and the trousers worn by the settler men in strips three and four (Kahabka 2). This is an extraordinary discovery, as cadmium yellows were available “commercially as an artist pigment in England by 1846” and were shown by “Winsor & Newton at the 1851 Exhibition held at the Crystal Palace, London” (Fiedler and Bayard 68). The availability of this particular type of yellow in the early 1850s could set a new marker for the earliest possible date for the manufacture of this Board, long-assumed to be 1828–30. Further, the early manufacture of cadmium yellow saw the pigment in short supply and a very expensive option when compared with other pigments such as chrome yellow (the darker yellow, seen in the grid lines that separate the scenes in the painting). This presents a clearly uncomfortable truth in relation to an object so heavily researched and so significant to a well-regarded collection that aims to document much of Australia’s colonial history. Is it possible, for example, the Board has been subjected to overpainting at a later date? Or, was this premium paint used to produce a display Board that was sent, by the Tasmanian Government, to the 1866 Intercolonial Exhibition in Melbourne? In seeking to see the finer details of the painting through re-digitisation, the results were much richer than anticipated. The sketch outlines are clearly visible in the new high-resolution files. There are, too, details unable to be seen clearly with the naked eye, including this warrior’s headdress and ceremonial scarring on his stomach, scars that tell stories “of pain, endurance, identity, status, beauty, courage, sorrow or grief” (Australian Museum n.p.). The image of this man has been duplicated and distributed since the 1830s, an anonymous figure deployed to tell a settler-centric story of the Black, or Tasmanian, War. This man can now be seen, for the first time nine decades later, to wear his own story. We do not know his name, but he is no longer completely anonymous. This image is now, in some ways, a portrait. The State Library of New South Wales acknowledges this object is part of an important chapter in the Tasmanian story and, though two Boards are in collections in Tasmania (the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery, Hobart and the Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery, Launceston), each Board is different. The Library holds an important piece of a large and complex puzzle and has a moral obligation to make this information available beyond its metropolitan location. Digitisation, in this case re-digitisation, is allowing for the disruption of this story in sparking new questions around provenance and for the relocating of a Palawa warrior to a more prominent, perhaps even equal role, within a colonial narrative. Image 2: Detail, Governor Arthur’s Proclamation to the Aborigines, ca. 1828–1830. Image Credit: Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales, Call No.: SAFE / R 247.Case Study Two: The George Augustus Robinson PapersThe second case study focuses on the work being led by the Indigenous Engagement Branch at the State Library of New South Wales on the George Augustus Robinson (1791–1866) Papers. In 1829, Robinson was granted a government post in Van Diemen’s Land to ‘conciliate’ with the Palawa peoples. More accurately, Robinson’s core task was dispossession and the systematic disconnection of the Palawa peoples from their Country, community, and culture. Robinson was a habitual diarist and notetaker documenting much of his own life as well as the lives of those around him, including First Nations peoples. His extensive suite of papers represents a familiar and peculiar kind of discomfort for Aboriginal Australians, one in which they are forced to learn about themselves through the eyes and words of their oppressors. For many First Nations peoples of Tasmania, Robinson remains a violent and terrible figure, but his observations of Palawa culture and language are as vital as they are problematic. Importantly, his papers include vibrant and utterly unique descriptions of people, place, flora and fauna, and language, as well as illustrations revealing insights into the routines of daily life (even as those routines were being systematically dismantled by colonial authorities). “Robinson’s records have informed much of the revitalisation of Tasmanian Aboriginal culture in the twentieth century and continue to provide the basis for investigations of identity and deep relationships to land by Aboriginal scholars” (Lehman n.p.). These observations and snippets of lived culture are of immense value to Palawa peoples today but the act of reading between Robinson’s assumptions and beyond his entrenched colonial views is difficult work.Image 3: George Augustus Robinson Papers, 1829–34. Image Credit: Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales, A 7023–A 7031.The canonical reference for Robinson’s archive is Friendly Mission: The Tasmanian Journals and Papers of George Augustus Robinson, 1829–1834, edited by N.J.B. Plomley. The volume of over 1,000 pages was first published in 1966. This large-scale project is recognised “as a monumental work of Tasmanian history” (Crane ix). Yet, this standard text (relied upon by Indigenous and non-Indigenous researchers) has clearly not reproduced a significant percentage of Robinson’s Tasmanian manuscripts. Through his presumptuous truncations Plomley has not simply edited Robinson’s work but has, quite literally, written many Palawa stories out of this colonial narrative. It is this lack of agency in determining what should be left out that is most troubling, and reflects an all-too-familiar approach which libraries, including the State Library of New South Wales, are now urgently trying to rectify. Plomley’s preface and introduction does not indicate large tranches of information are missing. Indeed, Plomley specifies “that in extenso [in full] reproduction was necessary” (4) and omissions “have been kept to a minimum” (8). A 32-page supplement was published in 1971. A new edition, including the supplement, some corrections made by Plomley, and some extra material was released in 2008. But much continues to be unknown outside of academic circles, and far too few Palawa Elders and language revival workers have had access to Robinson’s original unfiltered observations. Indeed, Plomley’s text is linear and neat when compared to the often-chaotic writings of Robinson. Digitisation cannot address matters of the materiality of the archive, but such projects do offer opportunities for access to information in its original form, unedited, and unmediated.Extensive consultation with communities in Tasmania is underpinning the digitisation and re-description of a collection which has long been assumed—through partial digitisation, microfilming, and Plomley’s text—to be readily available and wholly understood. Central to this project is not just challenging the canonical status of Plomley’s work but directly challenging the idea non-Aboriginal experts can truly understand the cultural or linguistic context of the information recorded in Robinson’s journals. One of the more exciting outcomes, so far, has been working with Palawa peoples to explore the possibility of Palawa-led transcriptions and translation, and not breaking up the tasks of this work and distributing them to consultants or to non-Indigenous student groups. In this way, people are being meaningfully reunited with their own histories and, crucially, given first right to contextualise and understand these histories. Again, digitisation and disruption can be seen here as allies with the facilitation of accessibility to an archive in ways that re-distribute the traditional power relations around interpreting and telling stories held within colonial-rich collections.Image 4: Detail, George Augustus Robinson Papers, 1829–34. Image Credit: Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales, A 7023–A 7031.As has been so brilliantly illustrated by Bruce Pascoe’s recent work Dark Emu (2014), when Aboriginal peoples are given the opportunity to interpret their own culture from the colonial records without interference, they are able to see strength and sophistication rather than victimhood. For, to “understand how the Europeans’ assumptions selectively filtered the information brought to them by the early explorers is to see how we came to have the history of the country we accept today” (4). Far from decrying these early colonial records Aboriginal peoples understand their vital importance in connecting to a culture which was dismantled and destroyed, but importantly it is known that far too much is lost in translation when Aboriginal Australians are not the ones undertaking the translating. ConclusionFor Aboriginal Australians, culture and knowledge is no longer always anchored to Country. These histories, once so firmly connected to communities through their ancestral lands and languages, have been dispersed across the continent and around the world. Many important stories—of family history, language, and ways of life—are held in cultural institutions and understanding the role of responsibly disseminating these collections through digitisation is paramount. In transitioning from physical collections to hybrid collections of the physical and digital, the digitisation processes conducted by memory institutions can be—and due to the size of some collections is inevitably—selective. Limited resources, even for large-scale and well-resourced digitisation projects usually realise outcomes that focus on making visually rich, key, or canonical documents, or those documents considered high use or at risk, available online. Such materials are extracted from a full body of records. Digitisation projects, as noted, tend to be devised for a broader audience where contextual questions are less central to the methodology in favour of presenting notable documents online, separate from their complete collection and, critically, their context. Our institutions carry the weight of past collecting strategies and, today, the pressure of digitisation strategies as well. Contemporary librarians should not be gatekeepers, but rather key holders. In collaborating across sectors and with communities we open doors for education, research, and the repatriation of culture and knowledge. We must, always, remember to open these doors wide: the call of Aboriginal Australians of ‘nothing about us without us’ is not an invitation to collaboration but an imperative. Libraries—as well as galleries, archives, and museums—cannot tell these stories alone. Also, these two case studies highlight what we believe to be one of the biggest mistakes that not just libraries but all cultural institutions are vulnerable to making, the assumption that just because a collection is open access it is also accessible. Digitisation projects are more valuable when communicated, contextualised and—essentially—the result of community consultation. Such work can, for some, be uncomfortable while for others it offers opportunities to embrace disruption and, by extension, opportunities to decolonise collections. For First Nations peoples this work can be more powerful than any simple measurement tool can record. Through examining our past collecting, deliberate efforts to consult, and through digital sharing projects across metropolitan and regional Australia, we can make meaningful differences to the ways in which Aboriginal Australians can, again, own their histories.Acknowledgements The authors acknowledge the Palawa peoples: the traditional custodians of the lands known today as Tasmania. The authors acknowledge, too, the Gadigal people upon whose lands this article was researched and written. We are indebted to Dana Kahabka (Conservator), Joy Lai (Imaging Specialist), Richard Neville (Mitchell Librarian), and Marika Duczynski (Project Officer) at the State Library of New South Wales. Sincere thanks are also given to Jason Ensor of Western Sydney University.ReferencesArthur, George. “Proclamation.” The Hobart Town Courier 19 Apr. 1828: 1.———. Proclamation to the Aborigines. Graphic Materials. Sydney: Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales, SAFE R / 247, ca. 1828–1830.Australian Museum. “Aboriginal Scarification.” 2018. 11 Jan. 2019 <https://australianmuseum.net.au/about/history/exhibitions/body-art/aboriginal-scarification/>.Brown, Molly. “Disruptive Technology: A Good Thing for Our Libraries?” International Librarians Network (2016). 26 Aug. 2018 <https://interlibnet.org/2016/11/25/disruptive-technology-a-good-thing-for-our-libraries/>.Carroll, Khadija von Zinnenburg. Art in the Time of Colony: Empires and the Making of the Modern World, 1650–2000. Farnham, UK: Ashgate Publishing, 2014.Clements, Nicholas. The Black War: Fear, Sex and Resistance in Tasmania. St Lucia, U of Queensland P, 2014.Crane, Ralph. “Introduction.” Friendly Mission: The Tasmanian Journals and Papers of George Augustus Robinson, 1829-1834. 2nd ed. Launceston and Hobart: Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery, and Quintus Publishing, 2008. ix.Darian-Smith, Kate, and Penelope Edmonds. “Conciliation on Colonial Frontiers.” Conciliation on Colonial Frontiers: Conflict, Performance and Commemoration in Australia and the Pacific Rim. Eds. Kate Darian-Smith and Penelope Edmonds. New York: Routledge, 2015. 1–14.Edmonds, Penelope. “‘Failing in Every Endeavour to Conciliate’: Governor Arthur’s Proclamation Boards to the Aborigines, Australian Conciliation Narratives and Their Transnational Connections.” Journal of Australian Studies 35.2 (2011): 201–18.Fiedler, Inge, and Michael A. Bayard. Artist Pigments, a Handbook of Their History and Characteristics. Ed. Robert L. Feller. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1986. 65–108. Franks, Rachel. “A True Crime Tale: Re-Imagining Governor Arthur’s Proclamation Board for the Tasmanian Aborigines.” M/C Journal 18.6 (2015). 1 Feb. 2019 <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/index.php/mcjournal/article/view/1036>.Franks, Rachel, and Jason Ensor. “Challenging the Canon: Collaboration, Digitisation and Education.” ALIA Online: A Conference of the Australian Library and Information Association, 11–15 Feb. 2019, Sydney.Kahabka, Dana. Condition Assessment [Governor Arthur’s Proclamation to the Aborigines, ca. 1828–1830, SAFE / R247]. Sydney: State Library of New South Wales, 2017.Lehman, Greg. “Pleading Robinson: Reviews of Friendly Mission: The Tasmanian Journals and Papers of George Augustus Robinson (2008) and Reading Robinson: Companion Essays to Friendly Mission (2008).” Australian Humanities Review 49 (2010). 1 May 2019 <http://press-files.anu.edu.au/downloads/press/p41961/html/review-12.xhtml?referer=1294&page=15>. Morris, John. “Notes on A Message to the Tasmanian Aborigines in 1829, popularly called ‘Governor Davey’s Proclamation to the Aborigines, 1816’.” Australiana 10.3 (1988): 84–7.Pascoe, Bruce. Dark Emu. Broome: Magabala Books, 2014/2018.Plomley, N.J.B. Friendly Mission: The Tasmanian Journals and Papers of George Augustus Robinson, 1829–1834. Hobart: Tasmanian Historical Research Association, 1966.Robinson, George Augustus. Papers. Textual Records. Sydney: Mitchell Library, State Library of NSW, A 7023–A 7031, 1829–34. Thorpe, Kirsten, Monica Galassi, and Rachel Franks. “Discovering Indigenous Australian Culture: Building Trusted Engagement in Online Environments.” Journal of Web Librarianship 10.4 (2016): 343–63.

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