Friday, 24 October 2003

How press barons, governments silence dissent

Australian novelist Richard Flanagan was recently asked by the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC) to read a favourite piece of fiction on national radio and explain his reasons for the choice.

“I was unsure what fiction to read to you this morning”, he said. “If we take the work of our most successful spinner of fictions in recent times, [Prime Minister] John Howard, I could have read from the varied and splendid tall tales he and his fellow storytellers have concocted ...”

Flanagan listed Howard's most famous fictions: that desperate refugees trying to reach Australia had wilfully thrown their children overboard, and that faraway Australia was endangered by Iraq's “weapons of hysterical distraction”, as he put it. He followed this with part of Molly Bloom's soliloquy from James Joyce's Ulysses, “because in our time of lies and hate it seems appropriate to be reminded of the beauty of saying yes to the chaos of truth”. This was duly recorded; but when the program was broadcast, the entire preface about Howard was missing.

Flanagan accused the ABC of rank censorship. No, was the response; the producer just didn't want “anything political”. This was followed, he wrote, by “a moment of high comedy: would I, the producer asked, be interested in coming on a program to discuss disillusionment in contemporary Australia?”

In a society that once prided itself on its laconic sense of irony, there was not a hint of it, just a managerial silence. “All around me”, Flanagan later wrote, “I see avenues for expression closing, an odd collusion of an ever-more cowed media and the way in which the powerful seek to dictate what is and what isn't read and heard.”

He may well be speaking for the rest of us. The censorship in Australia that he describes is especially virulent because Australia is a small media pond inhabited by large sharks: a microcosm of what the British people might expect if the current assault there on free journalism is not challenged.

The leader of this assault is, of course, Rupert Murdoch, whose dominance in the land of his birth is now symptomatic of his worldwide grip. Of 12 daily newspapers in Australian capital cities, Murdoch controls seven. Of the 10 Sunday newspapers, Murdoch has seven. In Adelaide, he has a complete monopoly. He owns everything, including all the printing presses. It is almost impossible to escape his augmented team of “Pravdas”.

Like all Murdoch's newspapers, they follow the path paved with his “interests” and his extremism. They echo the tycoon's description of US President George Bush and British Prime Minister Tony Blair as “heroes” of the Iraq invasion, and his dismissal of the blood they spilt. For good measure, his Melbourne tabloid, the Herald Sun, invented an al Qaeda terrorist training camp near the Victorian capital; and all his papers promote Howard's parrot-like obsequiousness to Bush, just as they laud Howard's racist campaign against a few thousand asylum-seekers locked away in outback concentration camps.

Murdochism, disguised or not, is standard throughout the media he does not control. The Melbourne Age, once a great liberal newspaper whose journalists produced a pioneering charter of editorial independence, is often just another purveyor of what George Orwell called “smelly little orthodoxies”, wrapped in lifestyle supplements. Flickering beacons are the eternally battered ABC and the visionary Special Broadcasting Service (SBS), which was set up to serve Australia's multi-ethnic society.

The ABC is different from the BBC, its model, in one crucial respect. It has no independent source of income but must rely on government handouts. In Australia, political intimidation of the national broadcaster makes Downing Street's campaign against the BBC seem almost genteel. Howard's minister for communications, a far-right dullard called Richard Alston, recently demanded that the ABC reply to 68 counts of “anti-Americanism”.

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