Journal articles on the topic '(1796 Aug. 19)'

Abstract To determine the daily and total energy expenditures of breeding female House Sparrows (Passer domesticus), we collected 276 females near London, Ontario between April 1981 and May 1983. Protein and fat content of developing follicles, eggs, and oviducts were determined and converted into their energy equivalents. Eight days were required to develop and lay a modal clutch of 4 eggs. Fat energy requirements were not estimable accurately because total body fat did not decline linearly over the egg production period; therefore, energy requirements were estimated as a range. Based on a 4-egg clutch, the maximum daily costs of reproduction, 16.5-17.6 kJ/day, equalled 44-47% of a female's standard metabolic rate. We estimate that daily costs very less than 10% for other clutch sizes (3 or 5). The total energy demand of reproduction was 66-71 kJ. Protein requirements comprised 59-63% of the total costs and were apportioned among oviduct (5-6%), yolk protein (17-19%), and albumen (36-39%). Fat requirements accounted for the remaining 37-41% of total costs. Based on our estimates of energy needed for reproduction, and on other evidence, we suspect that egg production by House Sparrows is not constrained by energy acquisition.

Abstract Introduction Relapse, graft-versus-host disease (GvHD) and associated non-relapse mortality are the main obstacles to successful hematopoietic stem cell transplantation in children with leukemia. αβ T cell depletion was developed to prevent GvHD and improve immune reconstitution in recipients of mismatched grafts. Most current protocols use rabbit anti-thymocyte globulin (ATG) as an essential component of preparative regimen to secure engraftment and GVHD control. In order to avoid damaging effects of circulating ATG on graft NK and gd T cells, we have replaced ATG with pharmacologic blockade of IL-6 and CD80/CD28 co-stimulation axis in our ongoing study. Patients and methods Major transplantation outcomes were compared between participants of the current prospective trial (ATG-) and a retrospective control group (ATG+). A total of 165 children with acute leukemia (67 AML, 98 ALL, 68 female, 97 male, median age 8,7 y) underwent allo HSCT between 01.11.2013 and 01.03.2018. Of them 134 - from haploidentical donor and 31 from unrelated donor. All pts were in complete remission (CR1=80, CR2=67, CR>2=18). Ninety-two pts received treosulfan-based conditioning, 73 - TBI-based (all ALL). Either melphalan (n=46) or thiophosphamide (n=98) or etoposide (n=21) were added as a second agent. Fludarabine was used in all pts. Two types of GVHD prophylaxis were used: type 1 (ATG+), (n=98): thymoglobulin 5mg/kg, rituximab 200mg/m2 with either bortezomib on days +2, +5 (n=72) or tacro (n=9) or without any additional agents (n=17); Type 2 (ATG-) (n=67): tocilizumab at 8 mg/kg on day -1, bortezomib on day +2, +5 with abatacept at 10 mg/kg on day -1, +7, +14, +28 (n=63) or without added agent (n=4). αβ T cell depletion with CliniMACS was used in all cases. The median dose of CD34+ cells was 9x106/kg, αβ T cells - 16 x103/kg. Modified (CD45RA-depleted) donor lymphocyte infusions (DLI) were administered to 113 pts. Twenty-five patients received DLI on day 0 and 88 pts received DLI after engraftment. Median time of follow-up for survivors was 2 years (range, 0,3 - 4,5). Results Three patients died before engraftment due to septic event. Primary engraftment was achieved in 161 of 162 evaluable pts (99,3%), the median time to neutrophil and platelet recovery was 16 and 15 days. Among the whole cohort the cumulative incidence of acute graft-versus-host disease (GvHD) grades II - IV and III - IV was 11,5% (95% CI: 7,5-17,6) and 4,8% (95% CI: 2,5-9,5) respectively. The cumulative incidence of cGvHD was 10 % (95% CI: 6,3-15,9). The incidence of aGvHD and cGvHD was not different between ATG (+) and ATG (-). Among the whole cohort 2-year pTRM was 8% (95%CI: 4,8-13,5). pTRM was significantly lower among ATG (-) group - 1,5% (95%CI:0,2-10,4) versus 12,2% (95%CI:7,2-20,8) among ATG (+) group, p = 0,015. The cumulative incidence of relapse at 2 years was 21% (95%CI: 15,5-29), 24% (95%CI: 16-35), among ATG (+) and 19% (95%CI: 11-32), among ATG (-), p = 0,8. Two-year pEFS was 70% (95%CI: 62-77), 2-year pOS - 78% (95%CI: 71-85). Among patients, who received ATG (-) regimen, pEFS was 76% (95%CI: 68-89), as compared to 65% (95%CI: 56-75) among ATG (+), p=0,1 and pOS was 89% (95%CI: 81-97) versus 72% (95%CI: 63-81), p=0,032, respectively. αβ T cell recovery at day +30 was associated with a trend to decreased incidence of relapse, CI of relapse was 32% (95% CI:22 - 47) in those with αβ-T cell count < median vs 18 % (95% CI: 11-32) in those with αβ-cell count >median, p=0,08. EFS among αβ T" high" was 81% (+/-10) vs 56% (+/-14) among αβ T"low", p=0,002. Discussion We confirm that the depletion of αβ T cells from the unrelated and haploidentical graft in combination with intensive conditioning regimen ensures high engraftment rate and low transplant-related mortality. Our analysis suggests that polyclonal ATG serotherapy is not an essential part of the transplant regimen in αβ T-depleted transplantation. Combined administration of tocilizumab and abatacept after αβ T cell-depleted grafting effectively prevents GVHD, does not compromise engraftment, appears to decrease non-relapse mortality and improve survival. Disclosures No relevant conflicts of interest to declare.

From May to June 2011, during a survey of the wheat-growing areas in Meknes in the Saïs Region of Morocco, several cyst nematode populations were detected. Sampling was performed 1 month before wheat (Triticum durum) harvest, in fields showing patches of stunted plants. Plants were growing poorly, had chlorotic lower leaves, and a reduced numbers of ears. Root systems were short and had a bushy appearance because of increased secondary root production. No cysts were visible on the roots, but were found in the soil. Cysts were collected from soil on 200-μm sieves by the modified Cobb decanting and sieving method (1) and identified by morphology and internal transcribed spacer (ITS)-rDNA sequencing. All isolates were identified as Heterodera avenae except the isolate from Aïn Jemâa. From the latter, key morphological features from cysts and second-stage juveniles (J2) were determined. The cysts (n = 10) had the following characteristics: bifenestrate vulval cone, body length without neck 590 μm (551 to 632 μm), body width 393 μm (310 to 490 μm), neck length 75 μm (65 to 90 μm), fenestra length 64 μm (60 to 72 μm) and width 21 μm (18 to 25 μm), underbridge length 96 μm (85 to 115 μm), vulval slit length 8 μm (7 to 9 μm), vulva bridge width 27 μm (24 to 33 μm), and bullae absent. The J2s (n = 10) had the following characteristics: body length 445 μm (412 to 472 μm), body width 19 μm (19 to 21 μm), stylet length 24 μm (23 to 25 μm), four lateral lines, tail length 50 μm (46 to 54 μm), and hyaline terminal tail 28 μm (24 to 31 μm). Values of the morphological characters were within the range of H. latipons reported by Handoo (3). The bifenestrate cysts with a strong underbridge and no bullae and J2 with a tail length greater than 40 μm, a stylet longer than 15 μm, and four incisures in the lateral field were typical for H. latipons. To confirm the identification, molecular observations were made. DNA was extracted from three juveniles from three different cysts separately (4). The ITS-rDNA region was amplified using the primers 5′-CGT AAC AAG GTA GCT GTA G-3′ and 5′-TCC TCC GCT AAA TGA TAT G-3′ as described by Ferris et al. (2). This resulted in a 1,040-bp DNA fragment. The PCR-products were purified and sequenced (Macrogen, Inc., Seoul, Korea). All sequences obtained (GenBank Accession Nos. per cyst: JQ319035, JQ319036, and JQ319037) were compared with sequences available from the GenBank database ( www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov ), including several species of Heterodera. This comparison revealed a sequence similarity of 97 to 99% with H. latipons and 89% or lower with any other species of Heterodera. Morphological and molecular identification demonstrated that the population of cyst nematodes from a wheat field in Aïn Jemâa, Morocco was H. latipons. In the patches with poor growing plants, 65 cysts per 100 cm3 soil were found. To our knowledge, this detection represents a new record of H. latipons. Since the nematode can cause considerable damage to wheat, one of the main cereals produced in Morocco, care should be taken to prevent the spread to other regions. References: (1) K. R. Barker. Page 19 in: An Advanced Treatise on Meloidogyne. Vol II. Methodology. C. C. Carter and J. N. Sasser, eds. North Carolina State University Graphics, Raleigh, 1985. (2) V. R. Ferris et al. Fundam. Appl. Nematol. 16:177, 1993. (3) Z. A. Handoo. J. Nematol. 34:250, 2002. (4) M. Holterman et al. Mol. Biol. Evol. 23:1792, 2006.

Abstract Since 2000, daunorubicin (DNR) 60 mg/m²/d for 3 days combined with cytarabine 200 mg/m²/d CIV over 7 days is the standard induction regimen used by the french GOELAMS group for younger patients treated for AML. Recently, use of high dose DNR (90 mg/m²/d for 3 days) results in higher complete remission (CR) rate and better survival as compared with DNR 45 mg/m²/d for 3 days (Lowenberg, NEJM, 2009, Fernandez, NEJM, 2009). To date, no prospective data are available comparing DNR 60 mg/m²/d and 90 mg/m²/d for induction therapy. In this retrospective study, we report the outcome of 402 consecutive patients treated with either intensified induction (DNR90) or standard DNR60 regimen. Selection criteria were age<=60 years; APL and CBF AML were excluded; induction course with either DNR 60 mg/m² (DNR60 or 90 mg/m² DNR90; day-15 bone marrow blast evaluation at day 15 and for CR. All patients were treated consecutively between Jan 2000 and Aug 2012 in 2 French centers, DNR dose allocation was based on treatment period (DNR90 since 2010). Treatment followed GOELAMS LAM-2001 protocol schedule (Lioure, Blood, 2012). Briefly, patients received second induction course if they presented with more than marrow 5% blast at day-15 examination. Once in CR, 2 to 3 high-dose cytarabine consolidation courses were planned. All patients with matched related or unrelated donor were scheduled for transplant after 2 consolidation courses. A total of 402 patients were analyzed (340 treated with DNR60 and 62 with DNR90 respectively). Median age was 49 years (range: 16-60), median WBC was 7.2 G/L (range: 0.1-430), 76 (19%) had secondary AML (therapy related AML or acute transformation of a myelodysplastic syndrome) and 108 (27%) had unfavorable cytogenetics. Patient and disease characteristics were well balanced between DNR90 versus DNR60 except for higher WBC for DNR90 group (median 6.6 vs. 17.6, p=0.021). At day-15 marrow evaluation, 135 DNR60 patients (40%) and 23 DNR90 patients (37%) had more than 5% marrow blast, (p=0.406). Second induction course was given in 122 (36%) and 22 (35%) DNR60 and DNR90 patients respectively (p=0.489). CR was achieved in 244 (72%) and 46 (74%) in DNR60 and DNR90 patients respectively (p=0.412) while 266 DNR60 patients (78%) and 54 DNR90 patients (87%) achieved at least CRi (p=0.073). Induction death rate was similar between the 2 groups (2% vs. 5%, p=0.148). Median FU was 72 vs. 21 months for DNR60 vs. DNR90 respectively (p<0.001). Two-years Overall survival (OS) probability was 52% and 60% in DNR60 and DNR90 group respectively (p=0.329) (Figure 1). In the 320 patients achieving at least CRi after induction therapy, 2-years relapse-free survival (RFS) probability was 48% and 53% in DNR60 and DNR90 groups respectively (p=0.714) (Figure 1). In multivariate analyses, secondary AML, unfavorable cytogenetics, day-15 bone marrow blast => 5%, and WBC => 100 G/L were associated with shorter OS while only unfavorable cytogenetic abnormalities and WBC => 100 G/L adversely influenced RFS. In conclusion, we found that induction therapy based on daunorubicin at the dose of 60 mg/m² or 90 mg/m² were comparable for CR rate, OS, and RFS. This suggests that DNR60 might be equivalent to DNR90 that has recently been established as a standard of induction chemo for AML. Prospective trials are needed to confirm these findings. Disclosures: Prebet: CELGENE: Honoraria.

Abstract Background: Clostridium difficile infection (CDI) is the leading cause of hospital-acquired diarrhea. The incidence of CDI in patients hospitalized for stem cell transplant (SCT) is much higher than in other inpatients, reaching between 12.5-30%. Antibiotic exposure, duration of hospitalization, and acute graft-versus-host disease (aGVHD) can contribute to the increased incidence of CDI. The incidence of CDI and risk factors associated with its development after cord blood transplant (CBT) have not been well-studied. Methods: Ninety-five patients who received CBT at Vanderbilt University Medical Center from 2002 to 2013 were retrospectively reviewed. CDI was diagnosed using a stool toxin assay prior to 2011; DNA testing was used after 2011. CBT patients with CDI were compared to patients without CDI. Results: Of 95 CBT patients, 34 (37.8%) developed CDI. Thirty day cumulative incidence of CDI was 37%. Comparative data on CDI incidence at our institution for general adult inpatients is being collected. Pre-transplant characteristics of patients are shown in Table 1 and transplant characteristics are shown in Table 2. There was no significant difference in incidence of aGVHD in patients with CDI (76.5%) and without CDI (59%). CDI was diagnosed in 41.6% (25/56) of patients with aGVHD who received systemic steroids and only in 23% (9/39) of patients with aGVHD who did not receive systemic steroids (P<0.05). Time (mean) to CDI (with death due to other causes as a competing risk) was shorter in patients receiving systemic steroids (80 days vs. 90 days, P<0.05). Among patients who received systemic steroids, CDI-infected patients had received higher dosages (mean 1.68 mg/kg vs. 1.28 mg/kg, P<0.05). There was no difference in incidence of CDI based on antibiotic exposure, type of antibiotic use, number of episodes of bacteremia, GI aGVHD, and recurrence of aGVHD (data not shown). Diagnostic modality (toxin assay vs. DNA testing) did not impact the CDI incidence rate. Using Cox-proportional hazards model, peak dose of steroids was an independent predictor of CDI (HR=2.42, 95% CI 1.02-4.01, p<0.05). Conclusions: Our study shows that CDI is an important infectious complication of CBT with an incidence of 37%. CDI patients were more likely to have received systemic steroids for aGVHD, and at higher dosages. The connections between CDI, steroids, and aGVHD need to be explored further. Strategies to prevent CDI in this high-risk group need to be developed. Table 1: Pre-transplant characteristics of patients with and without Clostridium difficile infection (CDI) CDI (N=34) No CDI (N=61) Age, y, mean (range) 21 (3 mo-57 y) 28 (6 mo-65 y) Gender, n (%) Female 19 (55.9) 29 (47.5) Male 15 (44.1) 32 (52.5) Race, n (%) African American 9 (26.5) 15 (24.6) Caucasian 20 (58.0) 37 (60.7) Hispanic 3 (8.8) 5 (8.2) Other 2 (5.9) 4 (6.5) Diagnosis, n (%) Acute leukemia 23 (67.6) 28 (45.8) Other leukemia 0 (0) 3 (4.9) Lymphoma 5 (14.7) 5 (8.2) Myeloid disorders 3 (8.8) 17 (27.9) Other 3 (8.8) 8 (13.1) Risk status, n (%) Low 7 (20.6) 19 (31.1) Intermediate 12 (35.3) 11 (18.0) High 12 (35.3) 27 (44.3) Table 2: Transplant characteristics of patients with and without Clostridium difficile infection (CDI) CDI (N=34) No CDI (N=61) Type of transplant, n (%) Single unit 19 (55.9) 29 (47.5) Double unit 15 (44.1) 32 (52.5) Cell dose, mean, range 6.3 (0.7-27.3) 5.7 (1.7-16.1) Recipient CMV seropositive, n (%) 19 (55.9) 28 (45.9) Total body irradiation, n (%) 29 (85.3) 51 (83.6) Conditioning intensity, n (%) Ablative 24 (70.6) 40 (65.6) Non- ablative 10 (29.4) 21 (34.4) Use of ATG, n (%) 16 (47.1) 24 (39.3) GVHD prophylaxis, n (%) Mycophenolate mofetil 29 (85.3) 55 (90.2) Calcineurin inhibitors 34 (100) 61 (100) Duration of neutropenia, days, mean (range) 21.6 (7-37) 23 (9-49) Acute GVHD, n (%) 26 (76.5) 36 (59.0) Type of acute GVHD, n (%) Skin 13 (38.2) 24 (39.3) GI 19 (55.9) 23 (37.7) Liver 0 (0) 3 (4.9) Systemic steroids received for acute GVHD*, n (%) 25 (73.5) 31 (50.8) Steroid dose received for acute GVHD*, mean in mg/kg 1.68 1.28 Survival, n (%) Alive 16 (47.0) 34 (55.8) Deceased Disease 6 (17.6) 12 (19.7) Infection 9 (26.5) 11 (18.0) GVHD 2 (5.9) 1 (1.6) Other 1 (2.9) 3 (4.9) *indicates statistical significance with p<0.05 Disclosures No relevant conflicts of interest to declare.

Abstract CD34 selected stem cell transplants (SCT) have shown similar survival rates as unmodified SCT, with lower incidence of acute and chronic graft-versus-host disease (GVHD). A common conditioning regimen for patients with advanced myelodysplastic syndrome (MDS) undergoing CD34 selected SCT is a combination of busulphan, melphalan, fludarabine, and anti- thymocyte globulin (ATG). The ideal area under the curve (AUC) and overall dose intensity of busulphan is unknown in these pts. We aimed to study the relationship between busulfan AUCs and transplant outcomes in this pt population. This retrospective analysis included 68 pts with advanced MDS (RAEB-I and higher) who underwent CD34 selected SCT between 2000-2012. Median age was 58.05 yrs (26-73). There were 36 women (52.9%). HCT CI was ³ 3 in 37 pts (54.4%). MDS subtype at diagnosis by WHO criteria was: RA/RCMD-19 (all progressed to RAEB/AML), RAEB-I 20 &RAEB II 29; and by IPSS-R criteria in 65 pts: very low risk-4, low risk-9, intermediate risk-14, high risk-20 & very high risk-18. All pts were conditioned with busulphan IV 0.8 mg/kg dose, melphalan 140 mg/m2, fludarabine 125 mg/m2 & ATG . Thirty-nine pts received 10 doses of busulphan and 29 pts 12 doses. The dose was increased to reduce the relapse rate. Pharmakokinetic studies were done after first busulphan's dose and based on results adjustments were made to achieve a target dose of 1025-1315µM x min. G-CSF mobilized donor peripheral blood stem cells underwent CD34+ selection and depletion of T cells using CliniMACS immunomagnetic selection columns (Milteny Biotec). Donors were HLA matched, 48 (18 related & 30 unrelated) or mismatched unrelated, 20. The median first-dose busulphan AUC was 1,206 (723-2,180). In 27 pts (39.7%) this was within target range of 1,025-1,315 with 16 pts (23.5%) below and 25 (36.7%) above. The median total busulphan exposure for all pts was 12,822 (9,513-15,754), with 1st quartile range of 9,513-12,181 and 4th quartile range of 13,664-15,754. The median total exposure in the 10 doses group (group 10) was 12,520 (9,513-15,754) and in the 12 doses group (group12) 13,420 (9,860-15493). The 2-years overall survival (OS) was 61.5% (CI 44.5-74.7) in group 10 and 55.2%(35.6-71) in group 12 and 2-years relapse free survival (RFS) was 56.4% (39.6-70.2) in group 10 and 51.7% (32.5-67.9) in group 12. The 2-years cumulative incidence of relapse was 15.4% (CI 3.9-26.9) in group 10 and 13.8% (CI 0.9-26.6) in group 12. The non-relapse (NRM) mortality at 2 years was 28.2% (13.8-42.6) in group 10 and 34.5% (16.7-52.2) in group 12. aGVHD grade II-IV was 12.8% (2.2-23.5) in group 10 vs 23.1% (6.5-39.7%) in group 12. None of these differences were statistically significant. Further analysis by quartiles showed no differences in OS, RFS, relapse and NRM between the 4 groups. However, grade II-IV acute GVHD was significantly higher in the 4th quartile exposure, 35.6% (8.9-62.3) vs 5.9% (0-17.5), 11.8% (0-27.6) and 17.6% (0-36.4) in the 1st, 2nd and 3rd quartiles (p=0.046) (table 1). In thishomogenous cohort of pts, total busulphan exposure was only found to be associated with grade II-IV aGVHD, with higher incidence seen in pts who had exposure >13,664. Donor mismatch status was not associated with higher aGVHD in this cohort and therefore can not explain the increased aGVHD seen with higher busulphan exposure. A trend for better transplant outcomes was seen with total exposure of 12,182- 13,663 (2nd and 3rd quartiles); though the differences were not statistically significant. In CD34 selected allo-HSCT for pts with advanced MDS, the intensity of the conditioning has an impact on transplant outcomes and therefore determining the range of busulphan that offers best survival with minimal GVHD has important clinical implications. Table 1. Transplant outcomes (cumulative incidence with 95% CI): Total exposure 6-months CI ofaGVHD II-IV 2-year CI of Relapse 2-year CI NRM 2-year CI OS 2-year CI RFS Q1: 9,513-12,181, n=17 5.9 (0-17.5) 35.3 (11.6-59) 23.5 (2.4-44.7) 52.9 (27.6-73) 41.1 (18.6-62.6) Q2: 12,181-12,822, n=17 11.8 (0-27.6) 11.8 (0-27.7) 23.5 (2.6-44.4) 70.6 (43.1-86.6) 64.7(37.7-82.3) Q3: 12,823-13,663, n=17 17.6 (0-36.4) 5.9 (0-17.5) 35.3 (11.7-58.9) 58.8 (32.5-77.8) 58.5 (32.5-77.8) Q4: 13,664-15,754 n=17 35.6 (8.9-62.3) 5.9 (0-17.4) 41.2 (16.8-65.6) 52.9 (27.6-73) 52.9 (27.6,-73.0) p value* overall: 0.185, Q4 vs others: 0.046 0.221 0.409 0.663 0.540 Figure 1. Figure 1. Disclosures Giralt: SANOFI: Consultancy, Honoraria, Research Funding; CELGENE: Consultancy, Honoraria, Research Funding; AMGEN: Consultancy, Research Funding; JAZZ: Consultancy, Honoraria, Research Funding, Speakers Bureau; TAKEDA: Consultancy, Honoraria, Research Funding.

Abstract Busulfan, an important agent used in conditioning regimens before hematopoietic stem/progenitor cell (HSPC) transplantation, has a “narrow” therapeutic index. Targeted dosing of busulfan based on its pharmacokinetic (PK) profile is often used. We studied the age-dependent PK profile of single daily dose intravenous Bu (IV Bu) in pediatric patients and determined a target range of Bu exposure that is appropriate for children undergoing reduced-intensity conditioning (RIC) HSPC transplantation. The RIC regimen included: fludarabine 30 mg/m2 per day for 6 days (days –10 to –5); single daily treatment doses of IV Bu given over 3 hours each day for 2 days (days –5 and –4), with individualized Bu dosing based on the PK results of a test dose; and rabbit ATG (2 mg/kg/day) or equine ATG (40 mg/kg/day) for 4 days (days –4, –3, –2 and –1). In 2 variations of the regimen, ATG was either eliminated or replaced with extracorporal photopheresis. Allogeneic HSPC were infused on day 0. Cyclosporin A and mycophenolate mofetil were used for graft-versus-host disease prophylaxis. An initial cohort of 52 patients was studied. The median age of the cohort was 7.7 years (range 0.06–17.6), with 19 patients less than 4 years of age (group 1) and 33 patients older than 4 years (group 2). Patients had either malignant or non-malignant diseases (immunodeficiency (n=14), metabolic disease (2), marrow failure (6), histiocytosis (1), ALL (9), AML (5), CML (4), MDS (2), lymphoma (5)), neuroblastoma (4)). Patients received a test dose of IV Bu (0.8 mg/kg) five days before the treatment doses. After the test dose, the median AUC attained was 886 μM·min in group 1 (range 439–1828) and 965 μM·min in group 2 (range 579–1970). Only 59% of the patients in both groups attained a plasma concentration-time “area-under-the-curve” (AUC) within the expected range of 800–1200 μM·min. Based on the test dose PK, patients received individualized treatment doses adjusted to target an AUC of 4000 μM·min per day for 2 days (range 3200–4800 μM·min). The median daily treatment dose of IV Bu given was 3.45 mg/kg in group 1 (range 0.8–7.2) and 3.20 mg/kg in group 2 (range 0.9–5.4), with a distinct and linear inverse-relationship between the weight-normalized treatment dose required and the weight of the patient (treatment dose = 4.0 mg/kg - 0.01*weight in kg, p=0.001). After the adjusted treatment dose, patients who achieved AUC within the targeted range increased to 67% in group 1 and 84% in group 2. Despite the dose adjustment, group 1 attained a lower median treatment dose AUC (3568 μM·min) as compared to group 2 (4035 μM·min) (p=0.001). All patients in this cohort tolerated the conditioning regimen. No patient developed seizures or hepatic veno-occlusive disease. Stable donor chimerism, however, was achieved in only 56% of patients in group 1 and 79% in group 2. Eight patients received a second transplantation because of primary or secondary graft failure. Eight patients died of transplantation-related causes. Because of the concern that a low AUC correlated with an adverse clinical outcome, a second cohort of 23 patients followed a modified protocol in which a treatment dose AUC of 5000 μM·min was targeted (range 4200–5800 μM·min). The median age of the second cohort was 2.1 years (range 0.3–21), with 13 patients less than 4 years and 10 patients older than 4 years. The median daily treatment dose given in this cohort was 4.5 mg/kg (range 2.6–6.5). All patients tolerated the higher Bu treatment dose with minimal regimen-related toxicity. After the treatment dose, patients attained a higher median AUC of 4825 μM·min (range 3719–5900), with over 90% of the patients achieving AUC within the targeted range of 4200–5800 μM·min. The number of patients who achieved stable donor chimerism also increased to 91%. One patient died of a transplantation-related cause. In conclusion, our results showed that RIC regimens utilizing 2 single daily doses of IV Bu were effective and well tolerated in children. An age-dependent variability in the PK profile of IV Bu could have contributed to a higher rate of graft failure in the younger patients after they received the Bu doses targeted to achieve an AUC of 4000 μM·min per day. Since there appears to be a wide safety margin in the upper limit of the Bu therapeutic range in RIC transplantation, a targeted AUC of 5000 μM·min per day for two days is recommended in pediatric patients, especially those less than 4 years of age.

Abstract Background: Epidemiological data on MDS is scarce in France, and registries from other countries do not provide data on the daily practice management of MDS in 2008. Methods: GFM centers were asked to collect characteristics of ongoing or recent treatments in all MDS patients (pts) seen at their clinic (as in or outpatients) during the Jan 28th–Feb 3rd, 2008 period (one week).Results: 919 pts from 74 centers were included, 57% males, mean age (+/− SD), 73 (±11) years, with 2.8%, 19% and 28% of pts aged &lt;50, &lt;65 and &gt;80 years, respectively (resp).13% of pts were hospitalized &gt;24h (4.5% for infections or bleeding and 8.5 % for “active” treatments), 46% were seen in the day care facility (40% for transfusions), and 41% as consultations (for staging, follow up or ambulatory treatment). 93% of patients had PS ≤2. Median interval from diagnosis to survey was 29.2 months. FAB at time of survey was: 35.1% RA, 18.5% RARS, 39.1% RAEB, 7.4% CMML; WHO was: 17.4% RA, 13.3% RARS, 14% RCMD, 4.5% RCMD-RS, 18.5% RAEB-1, 15.9% RAEB-2, 7.7% CMML, 4.9% 5q-syndrome and 3.9% unclassifiable. Cytogenetic analysis had been performed at least once in 77.4 % pts: favorable (498 pts), intermediate (88 pts), unfavorable (96 pts). IPSS (determined in 75.4% of pts) was: 41.6% low, 33.3% Int-1, 16.4% Int-2 and 8.7% high. Significant differences between pts &lt;65 years and &gt;65 years were, respectively, % of unfav karyotype (25.8% vs. 12.7%, p=0.0004), of isolated +8 (5.1% vs. 2.1%, p=0.04), of isolated −7 (6.2% vs. 1.1%, p=0.0003), and, with borderline significance, of CMML (4.5% vs. 9.5%, p=0.06), of 5q-syndrome (1.5% vs. 5%, p=0.07). EPO level, assessed in 359 (39.1%) of pts at diagnosis and 252 (27.4%) of pts at time of survey) was &gt;200UI/l in 24.5% and 26.6% resp, and &gt;500U/l in 13.5% and 14.7% pts resp and was significantly correlated with interval from diagnosis. At the time of survey, treatment received in the last 6 months (IPSS: high-int 2 vs low–int1) included: no active treatment 66.5% (IPSS: 42% vs. 72.9%), chemotherapy 12.8% (IPSS: 22.6% vs. 9.1%) including 2.7% intensive and 0.7% LD AraC, allogeneic SCT 1.7% (IPSS: 3.8% vs. 2.6 %) including 0.3% classical and 1.4% NMA, azacytidine 6.5%, (IPSS: 21.6% vs. 2.3%), decitabine 0.8%, lenalidomide 4%, thalidomide 0.5%, ATG 0.2 %, androgens 2.2% while 64.8% pts required RBC transfusions (IPSS: 81% vs. 61%) and 39.7% pts received an Erythropoiesis-Stimulating Agent (ESA) (IPSS: 40.3% vs. 37.2%), alone in 314 pts (epoetin alfa or beta in 92 pts, darbepoetin in 222 pts), and with G-CSF (61 pts). Response rates to ESAs were 58.6% and 33.8% in low int-1 and int-2-high risk MDS, resp (p=0.0009). Iron chelation therapy was administered in 17.6% pts (5.8% desferroxamine, 11% deferasirox) including 22.1% and 13.6% low-int-1 and int-2-high risk MDS, resp (p=0.009). Conclusions: Our survey provides a better knowledge of the characteristics and of the daily management of MDS in France. Of particular note are the more frequent unfavorable karyotypes in MDS pts &lt;65 years and the generally low EPO levels that may increase the indications for ESAs in low and int 1 risk MDS with anemia. Apart from ESAs, active treatments of MDS still only reach a minority of pts, and transfusions account for as many as 40 % of the hospital visits/stays for MDS.

Abstract Aims: Autologous stem cell transplantation (ASCT) is an important component in the treatment of newly diagnosed multiple myeloma (MM). However, relapse following ASCT is considered almost inevitable, with a median time to progression (TTP) of approximately 23-26 months (without maintenance) and 40-46 months (with maintenance)(Attal MA et al. N Engl J Med 2012; 366:1782-1791; McCarthy PM et al. N Engl J Med 2012; 366:1770-1781). However, some patients can experience a prolonged period of remission with ASCT. The purpose of this study was to identify and characterize patients who have an exceptional response to upfront ASCT without maintenance therapy, and to determine the frequency of relapse in such patients. Methods: We searched the Mayo Clinic Multiple Myeloma bone marrow transplant database for patients who were diagnosed with MM between Aug 1, 1988 to Jan 3, 2006, and underwent ASCT within 12 months of initial diagnosis. For the purposes of this study, we defined exceptional responders as patients who were free of progression for 96 months or more, which is 2-3 fold more than the median TTP expected in this population. Since maintenance therapy was not standard of care at the time, only a small minority (6) of patients with prolonged TTP had received maintenance therapy; these patients were excluded since the study was focused on exceptional response with ASCT alone. One patient who had a tandem autologous transplant was excluded. Results: 509 patients underwent transplant during the study period. Of those, 46 (9%) met criteria for exceptional response. Twenty seven (59%) were female, 19 (41%) were male. Median age was 57.28 years, range, 31.9-73.0. Of 45 patients with response data available, the best response status was complete response or better in 32 patients (73.3%), VGPR in 4 patients (8.9%), and PR in 8 patients (17.7%). FISH data were available during the disease course for 41 patients. Of these, the majority, 28 patients (68.3%), had no abnormalities detected by the probes used; 3 patients (7.3%) had high risk cytogenetics (t(4;14) in 2 patients and t(14;16) in one patient) , 4 (9.8%) had trisomies; 6 patients had other isolated abnormalities. At last follow up, 23 patients have progressed (50%); 14 (30.4%) have died, including one who died without progression to MM. The median overall survival from time of diagnosis of the exceptional responders was 18.5 years, range 9.2-22 years. From the landmark time of 96 months, the median TTP was 6.2 years, range, 0.4-10.6 years (Figure 1); No plateau was seen in the TTP curve. From the landmark time of 96 months, the median OS was 10.5 years, range, 0.4-14 years. Conclusions: We conclude that approximately 10% of patients with newly diagnosed myeloma have an exceptional response to a single ASCT without maintenance therapy. These patients have a remarkable overall survival, both from diagnosis and from the landmark time point where they are classified as having achieved an exceptional response. Although TTP from the landmark time point is excellent, with median TTP of 6.2 years, there appears to be no plateau in the curve indicating ongoing risk of relapse despite a prolonged period of disease stability. Exceptional responders tended to have normal FISH studies (likely an indicator of responsive, low-tumor burden disease), and nearly 20% achieved this state despite not attaining a complete response. Figure. Figure. Disclosures Gertz: Research to Practice: Consultancy; Apellis: Consultancy; spectrum: Consultancy, Honoraria; Medscape: Consultancy; celgene: Consultancy; janssen: Consultancy; Teva: Consultancy; Abbvie: Consultancy; annexon: Consultancy; Ionis: Honoraria; Alnylam: Honoraria; Prothena: Honoraria; Amgen: Consultancy; Physicians Education Resource: Consultancy. Kumar:KITE: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; Takeda: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; Janssen: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; Janssen: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; Celgene: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; AbbVie: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; Merck: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; Oncopeptides: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; Novartis: Research Funding; KITE: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; Roche: Research Funding; AbbVie: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; Celgene: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding. Dispenzieri:Celgene, Takeda, Prothena, Jannsen, Pfizer, Alnylam, GSK: Research Funding. Dingli:Millennium Takeda: Research Funding; Millennium Takeda: Research Funding; Alexion Pharmaceuticals, Inc.: Other: Participates in the International PNH Registry (for Mayo Clinic, Rochester) for Alexion Pharmaceuticals, Inc.; Alexion Pharmaceuticals, Inc.: Other: Participates in the International PNH Registry (for Mayo Clinic, Rochester) for Alexion Pharmaceuticals, Inc.. Russell:Vyriad: Equity Ownership. Kapoor:Takeda: Research Funding; Celgene: Research Funding.

Seismic status in Bangladesh has been investigated using earthquake data recorded by the global network of USGS during 1980 to 2016. Seismicity parameters such as magnitude completeness Mc, b-value and a-value are being estimated. It has observed that the overall b-value in and around Bangladesh is of 0.84 which is seemed to be seismically active zone. As, reliable b-value assessment can lead to better seismic hazard analysis, reliable magnitude of completeness Mc can lead to b-value assessment of an area, this work has dealt and estimated magnitude of completeness Mc using various techniques for the whole region for a reliable estimation. Estimated Mc is obtained to be around 3.9-4.7, which lead to b-value of 0.93. Spatial variations of Mc and b-value have been investigated for 1ox1o horizontal and vertical rectangular regions for the study area between 18-29°N and 84-95°E. Estimated Mc and b-value along with b-value are then averaged for the common regions in the pair of horizontal and vertical regions. Results are then being presented in the form of maps. The findings resemble as, the Mc is low at the border line of N-W Bangladesh, and a line from Cox’s bazaar to Sylhet through Hill tracts. Remain parts belong to the Mc value of 4.1-4.2, thus the b-value obtained is varying from 0.68 to 1.2, where, the value is higher at region in Chittagong and Barisal division that extends toward north through part of Dhaka to Sylhet and lower at Rajshahi, Rangpur and part of Khulna division, while a-value is varying from 5.0 to 7.2 mostly from west to east.ReferencesAbercrombie R.E., and Brune J.N., 1994. Evidence for a constant b-value above magnitude 0 in the southern San Andreas, San Jacinto, and San Miguel fault zones and at the Long Valley caldera, California. Geophys. Res. Lett., 21(15), 1647-1650.Aki K., 1965. Maximum likelihood estimate of b in the formula log N=a-b M and its confidence limits. Bull. Earthquake Res Inst., Tokyo Univ., 43, 237-239.Aki S., 1987. On nonparametric tests for symmetry. Ann. Inst. Statist. Math., 39, 457-472.Al-Hussaini T.M., 2006. Seismicity and Seismic Hazard Assessment in Bangladesh: Reference to Code Provisions. Meeting on Seismic Hazard in Asia ICTP, Trieste, Dec. 4-8.Amorese D., 2007. Applying a change-point detection method on frequency-magnitude distributions. Bull. Seismol. Soc. Am., 97(5), 1742-1749. Doi:10.1785/0120060181.Banglapedia, 2012. The National Encyclopedia of Bangladesh. http://en.banglapedia.org/index.php?title=Tectonic_Framework, retrieved on 31 Aug 2017.Cao A.M., and Gao S.S., 2002. Temporal variations of seismic b-values beneath northeastern Japan island arc. Geophys. Res. Lett., 29(9), 481-483. Doi:10.1029/2001GL013775.Das R., Wason H.R., and Sharma M.L., 2012. Temporal and spatial variations in the magnitude of completeness for homogenized moment magnitude catalogue for northeast India. J. Earth Syst. Sci., 121(1), 19-28.Felzer K.R., 2008. Simulated aftershock sequences for a M 7.8 earthquake on the southern San Andreas fault. Seismol. Res. Lett., 80, 21-25.GSB, 2018. Seismic Zone Map of Bangladesh. http://gsb.portal.gov.bd/sites/default/files/files/gsb.portal.gov.bd/common_document/a6e75ad2_5acd_4fe3_911d_c9d25a7e349e/BD_Sciesmic-zonemap(NBC).pdf, retrieved on 31 March 2018.Gutenberg B., and Richter C.F., 1944. Frequency of earthquakes in California, Bull. Seismol. Soc. Am., 34, 184-188.Gutenberg B., and Richter C.F., 1956. Earthquake magnitude, intensity, energy and acceleration (second paper). Bull. Seismol Soc. Am., 46(2), 105-145.Hafiez H.E.A., 2015. Estimating the magnitude of completeness for assessing the quality of earthquake catalogue of the ENSN. Egypt. Arab J. Geosci., 8(1), 9315-9323. 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Earthquake Hazards Program. https://earthquake.usgs.gov/earthquakes/search/, USA, retrieved on 20 April 2017.Utsu T., 1999. Representation and analysis of the earthquake size distribution: a historical review and some new approaches. Pure Appl. Geophys., 155(2), 509-535.Wiemer S., and Wyss M., 2000. Minimum magnitude of complete reporting in earthquake catalogs: examples from Alaska, the western United States, and Japan. Bull. Seismol. Soc. Am., 90, 859-869. Doi:10.1785/0119990114.Woessner J., and Wiemer S., 2005. Assessing the quality of earthquake catalogues: Estimating the magnitude of completeness and its uncertainty. Bull. Seismol. Soc. Am., 95(2), 684-698. Doi:10.1785/012040007.Wyss M., Hasegawa A., Wiemer S., and Umino N., 1999. Quantitative mapping of precursory seismic quiescence before the 1989, M7.1 off-Sanriku earthquake, Japan. Annali Di Geoflsica, 42(5), 851-869.Zuniga F.R., and Wyss M., 1995. Inadvertent changes in magnitude reported in earthquake catalogs: Their evaluation through b-value estimates. Bull. Seismol. Soc. Am., 85, 1858-1866..Zuniga F.R., and Wiemer S., 1999. Seismicity patterns: Are they always related to natural causes? Pure Appl. Geophys., 155(2), 713-726.

This study aimed to explore the perceived barriers to physical activity among college students Study Design: Qualitative research design Eight focus group discussions on 67 college students aged 18-24 years (48 females, 19 males) was conducted on College premises. Data were analysed using inductive approach. Participants identified a number of obstacles to physical activity. Perceived barriers emerged from the analysis of the data addressed the different dimensions of the socio-ecological framework. The result indicated that the young adults perceived substantial amount of personal, social and environmental factors as barriers such as time constraint, tiredness, stress, family control, safety issues and much more. Understanding the barriers and overcoming the barriers at this stage will be valuable. Health professionals and researchers can use this information to design and implement interventions, strategies and policies to promote the participation in physical activity. This further can help the students to deal with those barriers and can help to instil the habit of regular physical activity in the later adult years.

Each community’s title deed carries the indelible blood stains of our ancestors. (Watson, "Howard’s End" 2)IntroductionAccording to the Oxford English Dictionary, the term coalition comes from the Latin coalescere or ‘coalesce’, meaning “come or bring together to form one mass or whole”. Coalesce refers to the unity affirmed as something grows: co – “together”, alesce – “to grow up”. While coalition is commonly associated with formalised alliances and political strategy in the name of self-interest and common goals, this paper will draw as well on the broader etymological understanding of coalition as “growing together” in order to discuss the Australian government’s recent changes to land rights legislation, the 2007 Emergency Intervention into the Northern Territory, and its decision to use Indigenous land in the Northern Territory as a dumping ground for nuclear waste. What unites these distinct cases is the role of the Australian nation-state in asserting its sovereign right to decide, something Giorgio Agamben notes is the primary indicator of sovereign right and power (Agamben). As Fiona McAllan has argued in relation to the Northern Territory Intervention: “Various forces that had been coalescing and captivating the moral, imaginary centre were now contributing to a spectacular enactment of a sovereign rescue mission” (par. 18). Different visions of “growing together”, and different coalitional strategies, are played out in public debate and policy formation. This paper will argue that each of these cases represents an alliance between successive, oppositional governments - and the nourishment of neoliberal imperatives - over and against the interests of some of the Indigenous communities, especially with relation to land rights. A critical stance is taken in relation to the alterations to land rights laws over the past five years and with the Northern Territory Emergency Intervention, hereinafter referred to as the Intervention, firstly by the Howard Liberal Coalition Government and later continued, in what Anthony Lambert has usefully termed a “postcoalitional” fashion, by the Rudd Labor Government. By this, Lambert refers to the manner in which dominant relations of power continue despite the apparent collapse of old political coalitions and even in the face of seemingly progressive symbolic and material change. It is not the intention of this paper to locate Indigenous people in opposition to models of economic development aligned with neoliberalism. There are examples of productive relations between Indigenous communities and mining companies, in which Indigenous people retain control over decision-making and utilise Land Council’s to negotiate effectively. Major mining company Rio Tinto, for example, initiated an Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders Policy platform in the mid-1990s (Rio Tinto). Moreover, there are diverse perspectives within the Indigenous community regarding social and economic reform governed by neoliberal agendas as well as government initiatives such as the Intervention, motivated by a concern for the abuse of children, as outlined in The Little Children Are Sacred Report (Wild & Anderson; hereinafter Little Children). Indeed, there is no agreement on whether or not the Intervention had anything to do with land rights. On the one hand, Noel Pearson has strongly opposed this assertion: “I've got as much objections as anybody to the ideological prejudices of the Howard Government in relation to land, but this question is not about a 'land grab'. The Anderson Wild Report tells us about the scale of Aboriginal children's neglect and abuse" (ABC). Marcia Langton has agreed with this stating that “There's a cynical view afoot that the emergency intervention was a political ploy - a Trojan Horse - to sneak through land grabs and some gratuitous black head-kicking disguised as concern for children. These conspiracy theories abound, and they are mostly ridiculous” (Langton). Patrick Dodson on the other hand, has argued that yes, of course, the children remain the highest priority, but that this “is undermined by the Government's heavy-handed authoritarian intervention and its ideological and deceptive land reform agenda” (Dodson). WhitenessOne way to frame this issue is to look at it through the lens of critical race and whiteness theory. Is it possible that the interests of whiteness are at play in the coalitions of corporate/private enterprise and political interests in the Northern Territory, in the coupling of social conservatism and economic rationalism? Using this framework allows us to identify the partial interests at play and the implications of this for discussions in Australia around sovereignty and self-determination, as well as providing a discursive framework through which to understand how these coalitional interests represent a specific understanding of progress, growth and development. Whiteness theory takes an empirically informed stance in order to critique the operation of unequal power relations and discriminatory practices imbued in racialised structures. Whiteness and critical race theory take the twin interests of racial privileging and racial discrimination and discuss their historical and on-going relevance for law, philosophy, representation, media, politics and policy. Foregrounding contemporary analysis in whiteness studies is the central role of race in the development of the Australian nation, most evident in the dispossession and destruction of Indigenous lands, cultures and lives, which occurred initially prior to Federation, as well as following. Cheryl Harris’s landmark paper “Whiteness as Property” argues, in the context of the US, that “the origins of property rights ... are rooted in racial domination” and that the “interaction between conceptions of race and property ... played a critical role in establishing and maintaining racial and economic subordination” (Harris 1716).Reiterating the logic of racial inferiority and the assumption of a lack of rationality and civility, Indigenous people were named in the Australian Constitution as “flora and fauna” – which was not overturned until a national referendum in 1967. This, coupled with the logic of terra nullius represents the racist foundational logic of Australian statehood. As is well known, terra nullius declared that the land belonged to no-one, denying Indigenous people property rights over land. Whiteness, Moreton-Robinson contends, “is constitutive of the epistemology of the West; it is an invisible regime of power that secures hegemony through discourse and has material effects in everyday life” (Whiteness 75).In addition to analysing racial power structures, critical race theory has presented studies into the link between race, whiteness and neoliberalism. Roberts and Mahtami argue that it is not just that neoliberalism has racialised effects, rather that neoliberalism and its underlying philosophy is “fundamentally raced and produces racialized bodies” (248; also see Goldberg Threat). The effect of the free market on state sovereignty has been hotly debated too. Aihwa Ong contends that neoliberalism produces particular relationships between the state and non-state corporations, as well as determining the role of individuals within the body-politic. Ong specifies:Market-driven logic induces the co-ordination of political policies with the corporate interests, so that developmental discussions favour the fragmentation of the national space into various contiguous zones, and promote the differential regulation of the populations who can be connected to or disconnected from global circuits of capital. (Ong, Neoliberalism 77)So how is whiteness relevant to a discussion of land reform, and to the changes to land rights passed along with Intervention legislation in 2007? Irene Watson cites the former Minister for Indigenous Affairs, Mal Brough, who opposed the progressive individual with what he termed the “failed collective.” Watson asserts that in the debates around land leasing and the Intervention, “Aboriginal law and traditional roles and responsibilities for caring and belonging to country are transformed into the cause for community violence” (Sovereign Spaces 34). The effects of this, I will argue, are twofold and move beyond a moral or social agenda in the strictest sense of the terms: firstly to promote, and make more accessible, the possibility of private and government coalitions in relation to Indigenous lands, and secondly, to reinforce the sovereignty of the state, recognised in the capacity to make decisions. It is here that the explicit reiteration of what Aileen Moreton-Robinson calls “white possession” is clearly evidenced (The Possessive Logic). Sovereign Interventions In the Northern Territory 50% of land is owned by Indigenous people under the Aboriginal Land Rights Act 1976 (ALRA) (NT). This law gives Indigenous people control, mediated via land councils, over their lands. It is the contention of this paper that the rights enabled through this law have been eroded in recent times in the coalescing interests of government and private enterprise via, broadly, land rights reform measures. In August 2007 the government passed a number of laws that overturned aspects of the Racial Discrimination Act 197 5(RDA), including the Northern Territory National Emergency Response Bill 2007 and the Aboriginal Land Rights (Northern Territory) Amendment (Township Leasing) Bill 2007. Ostensibly these laws were a response to evidence of alarming levels of child abuse in remote Indigenous communities, which has been compiled in the special report Little Children, co-chaired by Rex Wild QC and Patricia Anderson. This report argued that urgent but culturally appropriate strategies were required in order to assist the local communities in tackling the issues. The recommendations of the report did not include military intervention, and instead prioritised the need to support and work in dialogue with local Indigenous people and organisations who were already attempting, with extremely limited resources, to challenge the problem. Specifically it stated that:The thrust of our recommendations, which are designed to advise the NT government on how it can help support communities to effectively prevent and tackle child sexual abuse, is for there to be consultation with, and ownership by the local communities, of these solutions. (Wild & Anderson 23) Instead, the Federal Coalition government, with support from the opposition Labor Party, initiated a large scale intervention, which included the deployment of the military, to install order and assist medical personnel to carry out compulsory health checks on minors. The intervention affected 73 communities with populations of over 200 Aboriginal men, women and children (Altman, Neo-Paternalism 8). The reality of high levels of domestic and sexual abuse in Indigenous communities requires urgent and diligent attention, but it is not the space of this paper to unpack the media spectacle or the politically determined response to these serious issues, or the considered and careful reports such as the one cited above. While the report specifies the need for local solutions and local control of the process and decision-making, the Federal Liberal Coalition government’s intervention, and the current Labor government’s faithfulness to these, has been centralised and external, imposed upon communities. Rebecca Stringer argues that the Trojan horse thesis indicates what is at stake in this Intervention, while also pinpointing its main weakness. That is, the counter-intuitive links its architects make between addressing child sexual abuse and re-litigating Indigenous land tenure and governance arrangements in a manner that undermines Aboriginal sovereignty and further opens Aboriginal lands to private interests among the mining, nuclear power, tourism, property development and labour brokerage industries. (par. 8)Alongside welfare quarantining for all Indigenous people, was a decision by parliament to overturn the “permit system”, a legal protocol provided by the ALRA and in place so as to enable Indigenous peoples the right to refuse and grant entry to strangers wanting to access their lands. To place this in a broader context of land rights reform, the Aboriginal Land Rights (Northern Territory) Act 2006, created the possibility of 99 year individual leases, at the expense of communal ownership. The legislation operates as a way of individualising the land arrangements in remote Indigenous communities by opening communal land up as private plots able to be bought by Aboriginal people or any other interested party. Indeed, according to Leon Terrill, land reform in Australia over the past 10 years reflects an attempt to return control of decision-making to government bureaucracy, even as governments have downplayed this aspect. Terrill argues that Township Leasing (enabled via the 2006 legislation), takes “wholesale decision-making about land use” away from Traditional Owners and instead places it in the hands of a government entity called the Executive Director of Township Leasing (3). With the passage of legislation around the Intervention, five year leases were created to enable the Commonwealth “administrative control” over the communities affected (Terrill 3). Finally, under the current changes it is unlikely that more than a small percentage of Aboriginal people will be able to access individual land leasing. Moreover, the argument has been presented that these reforms reflect a broader project aimed at replacing communal land ownership arrangements. This agenda has been justified at a rhetorical level via the demonization of communal land ownership arrangements. Helen Hughes and Jenness Warin, researchers at the rightwing think-tank, the Centre for Independent Studies (CIS), released a report entitled A New Deal for Aborigines and Torres Strait Islanders in Remote Communities, in which they argue that there is a direct casual link between communal ownership and economic underdevelopment: “Communal ownership of land, royalties and other resources is the principle cause of the lack of economic development in remote areas” (in Norberry & Gardiner-Garden 8). In 2005, then Prime Minister, John Howard, publicly introduced the government’s ambition to alter the structure of Indigenous land arrangements, couching his agenda in the language of “equal opportunity”. I believe there’s a case for reviewing the whole issue of Aboriginal land title in the sense of looking more towards private recognition …, I’m talking about giving them the same opportunities as the rest of their fellow Australians. (Watson, "Howard’s End" 1)Scholars of critical race theory have argued that the language of equality, usually tied to liberalism (though not always) masks racial inequality and even results in “camouflaged racism” (Davis 61). David Theo Goldberg notes that, “the racial status-quo - racial exclusions and privileges favouring for the most part middle - and upper class whites - is maintained by formalising equality through states of legal and administrative science” (Racial State 222). While Howard and his coalition of supporters have associated communal title with disadvantage and called for the equality to be found in individual leases (Dodson), Altman has argued that there is no logical link between forms of communal land ownership and incidences of sexual abuse, and indeed, the government’s use of sexual abuse disingenuously disguises it’s imperative to alter the land ownership arrangements: “Given the proposed changes to the ALRA are in no way associated with child sexual abuse in Aboriginal communities […] there is therefore no pressing urgency to pass the amendments.” (Altman National Emergency, 3) In the case of the Intervention, land rights reforms have affected the continued dispossession of Indigenous people in the interests of “commercial development” (Altman Neo-Paternalism 8). In light of this it can be argued that what is occurring conforms to what Aileen Moreton-Robinson has highlighted as the “possessive logic of patriarchal white sovereignty” (Possessive Logic). White sovereignty, under the banner of benevolent paternalism overturns the authority it has conceded to local Indigenous communities. This is realised via township leases, five year leases, housing leases and other measures, stripping them of the right to refuse the government and private enterprise entry into their lands (effectively the right of control and decision-making), and opening them up to, as Stringer argues, a range of commercial and government interests. Future Concerns and Concluding NotesThe etymological root of coalition is coalesce, inferring the broad ambition to “grow together”. In the issues outlined above, growing together is dominated by neoliberal interests, or what Stringer has termed “assimilatory neoliberation”. The issue extends beyond a social and economic assimilationism project and into a political and legal “land grab”, because, as Ong notes, the neoliberal agenda aligns itself with the nation-state. This coalitional arrangement of neoliberal and governmental interests reiterates “white possession” (Moreton-Robinson, The Possessive Logic). This is evidenced in the position of the current Labor government decision to uphold the nomination of Muckaty as a radioactive waste repository site in Australia (Stokes). In 2007, the Northern Land Council (NLC) nominated Muckaty Station to be the site for waste disposal. This decision cannot be read outside the context of Maralinga, in the South Australian desert, a site where experiments involving nuclear technology were conducted in the 1960s. As John Keane recounts, the Australian government permitted the British government to conduct tests, dispossessing the local Aboriginal group, the Tjarutja, and employing a single patrol officer “the job of monitoring the movements of the Aborigines and quarantining them in settlements” (Keane). Situated within this historical colonial context, in 2006, under a John Howard led Liberal Coalition, the government passed the Commonwealth Radioactive Waste Management Act (CRWMA), a law which effectively overrode the rulings of the Northern Territory government in relation decisions regarding nuclear waste disposal, as well as overriding the rights of traditional Aboriginal owners and the validity of sacred sites. The Australian Labor government has sought to alter the CRWMA in order to reinstate the importance of following due process in the nomination process of land. However, it left the proposed site of Muckaty as confirmed, and the new bill, titled National Radioactive Waste Management retains many of the same characteristics of the Howard government legislation. In 2010, 57 traditional owners from Muckaty and surrounding areas signed a petition stating their opposition to the disposal site (the case is currently in the Federal Court). At a time when nuclear power has come back onto the radar as a possible solution to the energy crisis and climate change, questions concerning the investments of government and its loyalties should be asked. As Malcolm Knox has written “the nuclear industry has become evangelical about the dangers of global warming” (Knox). While nuclear is a “cleaner” energy than coal, until better methods are designed for processing its waste, larger amounts of it will be produced, requiring lands that can hold it for the desired timeframes. For Australia, this demands attention to the politics and ethics of waste disposal. Such an issue is already being played out, before nuclear has even been signed off as a solution to climate change, with the need to find a disposal site to accommodate already existing uranium exported to Europe and destined to return as waste to Australia in 2014. The decision to go ahead with Muckaty against the wishes of the voices of local Indigenous people may open the way for the co-opting of a discourse of environmentalism by political and business groups to promote the development and expansion of nuclear power as an alternative to coal and oil for energy production; dumping waste on Indigenous lands becomes part of the solution to climate change. During the 2010 Australian election, Greens Leader Bob Brown played upon the word coalition to suggest that the Liberal National Party were in COALition with the mining industry over the proposed Mining Tax – the Liberal Coalition opposed any mining tax (Brown). Here Brown highlights the alliance of political agendas and business or corporate interests quite succinctly. Like Brown’s COALition, will government (of either major party) form a coalition with the nuclear power stakeholders?This paper has attempted to bring to light what Dodson has identified as “an alliance of established conservative forces...with more recent and strident ideological thinking associated with free market economics and notions of individual responsibility” and the implications of this alliance for land rights (Dodson). It is important to ask critical questions about the vision of “growing together” being promoted via the coalition of conservative, neoliberal, private and government interests.Acknowledgements Many thanks to the reviewers of this article for their useful suggestions. ReferencesAustralian Broadcasting Authority. “Noel Pearson Discusses the Issues Faced by Indigenous Communities.” Lateline 26 June 2007. 22 Nov. 2010 ‹http://www.abc.net.au/lateline/content/2007/s1962844.htm>. Agamben, Giorgio. Homo Sacer. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1998. Altman, Jon. “The ‘National Emergency’ and Land Rights Reform: Separating Fact from Fiction.” A Briefing Paper for Oxfam Australia, 2007. 1 Aug. 2010 ‹http://www.oxfam.org.au/resources/filestore/originals/OAus-EmergencyLandRights-0807.pdf>. Altman, Jon. “The Howard Government’s Northern Territory Intervention: Are Neo-Paternalism and Indigenous Development Compatible?” Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research Topical Issue 16 (2007). 1 Aug. 2010 ‹http://caepr.anu.edu.au/system/files/Publications/topical/Altman_AIATSIS.pdf>. Brown, Bob. “Senator Bob Brown National Pre-Election Press Club Address.” 2010. 18 Aug. 2010 ‹http://greens.org.au/content/senator-bob-brown-pre-election-national-press-club-address>. Davis, Angela. The Angela Davis Reader. Ed. J. James, Oxford: Blackwell, 1998. Dodson, Patrick. “An Entire Culture Is at Stake.” Opinion. The Age, 14 July 2007: 4. Goldberg, David Theo. The Racial State. Massachusetts: Blackwell, 2002.———. The Threat of Race: Reflections on Neoliberalism. Massachusetts: Blackwell, 2008. Harris, Cheryl. “Whiteness as Property.” Harvard Law Review 106.8 (1993): 1709-1795. Keane, John. “Maralinga’s Afterlife.” Feature Article. The Age, 11 May 2003. 24 Nov. 2010 ‹http://www.theage.com.au/articles/2003/05/11/1052280486255.html>. Knox, Malcolm. “Nuclear Dawn.” The Monthly 56 (May 2010). Lambert, Anthony. “Rainbow Blindness: Same-Sex Partnerships in Post-Coalitional Australia.” M/C Journal 13.6 (2010). Langton, Marcia. “It’s Time to Stop Playing Politics with Vulnerable Lives.” Opinion. Sydney Morning Herald, 30 Nov. 2007: 2. McAllan, Fiona. “Customary Appropriations.” borderlands ejournal 6.3 (2007). 22 Nov. 2010 ‹http://www.borderlands.net.au/vol6no3_2007/mcallan_appropriations.htm>. Moreton-Robinson, Aileen. “The Possessive Logic of Patriarchal White Sovereignty: The High Court and the Yorta Yorta Decision.” borderlands e-journal 3.2 (2004). 1 Aug. 2007 ‹http://www.borderlands.net.au/vol3no2_2004/moreton_possessive.htm>. ———. “Whiteness, Epistemology and Indigenous Representation.” Whitening Race. Ed. Aileen Moreton-Robinson. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press, 75-89. Norberry, J., and J. Gardiner-Garden. Aboriginal Land Rights (Northern Territory) Amendment Bill 2006. Australian Parliamentary Library Bills Digest 158 (19 June 2006). Ong, Aihwa. Neoliberalism as Exception: Mutations in Citizenship and Sovereignty. Durham: Duke University Press, 2006. 75-97.Oxford English Dictionary. 3rd. ed. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2005. Rio Tinto. "Rio Tinto Aboriginal Policy and Programme Briefing Note." June 2007. 22 Nov. 2010 ‹http://www.aboriginalfund.riotinto.com/common/pdf/Aboriginal%20Policy%20and%20Programs%20-%20June%202007.pdf>. Roberts, David J., and Mielle Mahtami. “Neoliberalising Race, Racing Neoliberalism: Placing 'Race' in Neoliberal Discourses.” Antipode 42.2 (2010): 248-257. Stringer, Rebecca. “A Nightmare of the Neocolonial Kind: Politics of Suffering in Howard's Northern Territory Intervention.” borderlands ejournal 6.2 (2007). 22 Nov. 2010 ‹http://www.borderlands.net.au/vol6no2_2007/stringer_intervention.htm>.Stokes, Dianne. "Muckaty." n.d. 1 Aug. 2010 ‹http://www.timbonham.com/slideshows/Muckaty/>. Terrill, Leon. “Indigenous Land Reform: What Is the Real Aim of Land Reform?” Edited version of a presentation provided at the 2010 National Native Title Conference, 2010. Watson, Irene. “Sovereign Spaces, Caring for Country and the Homeless Position of Aboriginal Peoples.” South Atlantic Quarterly 108.1 (2009): 27-51. Watson, Nicole. “Howard’s End: The Real Agenda behind the Proposed Review of Indigenous Land Titles.” Australian Indigenous Law Reporter 9.4 (2005). ‹http://www.austlii.edu.au/au/journals/AILR/2005/64.html>.Wild, R., and P. Anderson. Ampe Akelyernemane Meke Mekarie: The Little Children Are Sacred. Report of the Northern Territory Board of Inquiry into the Protection of Aboriginal Children from Sexual Abuse. Northern Territory: Northern Territory Government, 2007.

While the definition of high-dose corticosteroids depends on the indication, it is typically defined as greater than 15–20 mg for greater than 2–4 weeks. Corticosteroids have a variety of indications such as autoimmune, gastrointestinal, rheumatologic, respiratory, and hematologic conditions and after organ or hematopoietic stem cell transplantation. They can predispose these patients to infections such as pneumococcal pneumonia, Pneumocystis jirovecii (carinii) pneumonia (PJP), hepatitis B reactivation, active tuberculosis, and disseminated strongyloides infection. This article outlines ways to modify these risks in these patients. Prophylaxis is of utmost importance to those at risk for PJP with trimethoprim/sulfamethoxazole, lamivudine for those at risk of hepatitis B reactivation, isoniazid (INH) for latent tuberculosis and ivermectin for those with positive strongyloides serology. Equally important in mitigating disease risk is the appropriate timing of vaccines to elicit an adequate immune response as well as offering additional vaccines such as the pneumococcal vaccine.RésuméLa notion de dose élevée de corticostéroïdes varie selon les indications, mais elle est généralement définie comme correspondant à plus de 15‑20 mg sur une période de plus de deux à quatre semaines. Les corticostéroïdes sont indiqués dans nombre de conditions auto‑immunes, gastro-intestinales, rhumatologiques, respiratoires et hématologiques, ainsi qu’à la suite d’une transplantation d’organe ou de cellules souches hématopoïétiques. Ils peuvent toutefois prédisposer les patients à diverses infections comme la pneumonie pneumococcique et la pneumonie à Pneumocystis jirovecii (carinii) ou PCP, à une réactivation de l’hépatite B, à une tuberculose active et à une strongyloïdose disséminée. Le présent article passe en revue différentes façons de réduire ces risques chez les patients concernés. Voici des mesures de prophylaxie qui s’avèrent être de la plus haute importance pour les personnes à risque : le triméthoprime ou le sulfaméthoxazole pour celles à risque de PCP; la lamivudine pour celles à risque de réactivation de l’hépatite B; l’isoniazide (INH) dans les cas de tuberculose latente; et l’ivermectine pour les personnes montrant une sérologie positive aux strongyloïdes. De plus, pour réduire le risque de maladie, un calendrier de vaccination approprié est tout aussi important, en vue de susciter une réponse immunitaire adéquate et de pouvoir offrir d’autres vaccins comme le vaccin antipneumococcique.Corticosteroids were first used in clinical practice in 1949 for rheumatoid arthritis.1 The number of patients on high-dose corticosteroids is not well known but the use of corticosteroids is becoming increasingly common for a number of indications: An estimated 1% of the general population in the UK is treated with corticosteroids, and this rate increases with age to almost 2.5% in those aged 70–79. 4“High-dose corticosteroids” as a risk factor for infections is typically defined as greater than 15–20 mg of prednisone (or its’ equivalent) for greater than 2–4 weeks, although this definition does vary slightly depending on the infection considered. Notably, this definition is different from the standard definition of high-dose corticosteroids for treatment purposes used in the literature – which is usually defined as greater than 30 mg but less than 100 mg/day – as this dose results in almost complete cytosolic receptor saturation. 2Corticosteroids are used commonly for their anti-inflammatory effects in many conditions with an element of autoimmune disease. The mechanism is to induce transient lymphocytopenia by altering lymphocyte circulation, inducing lymphocyte death and inhibiting cytokines to prevent T-cell activation.3 For example, they are used to induce remission in inflammatory bowel disease (IBD) or to maintain symptom control in rheumatologic diseases like polymyalgia rheumatica. They are also used to prevent organ rejection in solid organ transplantation. Other indications include autoimmune hepatitis, other rheumatologic diseases such as rheumatoid arthritis, systemic lupus erythematous, vasculitis, respiratory conditions such as interstitial lung disease, sarcoidosis, hematologic disorders such as lymphoma, leukemia, idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura, hemolytic anemia), endocrine disorders like Graves disease to prevent opthalmopathy and other conditions like multiple sclerosis.The relative risk of bacterial infections was found to be 5-fold higher in IBD patients on corticosteroids alone, 4-fold higher for other infections like strongyloides and tuberculosis, and only 1.5 fold higher for viral infections.5 However, the absolute individual risk of infectious complications from corticosteroid use remains fairly small. Nevertheless, the burden is significant at a population level due to the high frequency of corticosteroid use. 4 Thus, most practitioners eventually come across these complications during their career.VaccinationsOne of the first considerations in patients on high-dose corticosteroids is the timing of the administration of vaccines to be given to these patients. Immunizations with inactivated vaccines can be given up to 2 weeks before high-dose corticosteroids are initiated, whereas live vaccines need to be given 4 weeks before the high-dose corticosteroids are begun. If the vaccines cannot be given prior to the start of a corticosteroid treatment, both live and inactivated vaccines must wait for 4 weeks after the steroids are completed to elicit an adequate immune response and prevent infectious complications with live vaccines.6Equally important to the timing of the vaccines, patients on high-dose corticosteroids (defined as anyone receiving ³ 20 mg/day for 14 days or more) should receive additional vaccines. A single dose of an inactivated pneumococcal conjugate vaccine (Prevnar), at least one year after any previous dose of pneumococcal vaccine polyvalent (Pneumovax), followed by a single dose of Pneumovax 8 weeks later with a booster of Pneumovax 5 years later is recommended for those on high-dose corticosteroids.7,8 Pneumocystis jiroveci infectionThe following patient groups are considered to be at higher risk forPneumocystis jiroveci pneumonia (PJP; formerly known as Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia [PCP])if exposed to prednisone at doses as low as 20 mg/day for at least 4 weeks9: patients with an underlying immunosuppressive disorder (including autologous HSCT and malignancy), or those with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease and interstitial lung disease secondary to polymyositis/dermatomyositis. Also, patients receiving the same dose of prednisone plus TNF-alpha inhibitors, cyclophosphamide, methotrexate, or temsirolimus should also receive PJP prophylaxis. The first-line agent for prophylaxis is trimethoprim/sulfamethoxazole 80/400 mg (single strength) daily or 160/800 mg (double strength) three times per week (e.g., Monday/Wednesday/Friday). While adverse events are rare on such low doses, thrombocytopenia is possible given that this is an idiosyncractic reaction but pancytopenia is usually observed at much higher (i.e., treatment) doses. Also possible are hyperkalemia, increased serum creatinine and aseptic meningitis. A more rare but devastating adverse event is Stevens-Johnson syndrome. A second line agent for PJP prophylaxis is dapsone but this requires glucose-6-phosphate dehydrogenase (G6PD) testing first, as those who are deficient in this erythrocytic enzyme show a two-fold higher predisposition to dapsone-induced hemolytic anemia. Other alternatives for PJP prophylaxis are atovaquone 1500 mg daily, but this is a costly option, or inhaled pentamidine via a nebulizer at 300 mg every month. Correct administration of inhaled pentamidine is crucial and due to the route of administration, disseminated PCP disease is still possible. 9 Hepatitis B ReactivationFurthermore, patients on corticosteroids of at least 20 mg/day for at least 4 weeks, have an 11–20% chance of reactivation if they are hepatitis B surface Ag carriers. An inactive carrier is hepatitis B surface antigen positive for greater than 6 months without detectable hepatitis B e antigen (HbeAg), presence of anti-hepatitis B e antibodies (anti-Hbe), and undetectable or low levels of hepatitis B DNA, repeatedly normal ALT levels, and no or minimal liver fibrosis. Inactive carriers comprise the largest group of chronic hepatitis B infected individuals with an estimated 250 million people worldwide and can convert to active disease under such immunosuppression.Therefore, it is prudent to prescribe hepatitis B prophylaxis to these patients although no high-level evidence supporting this approach is available.11 Lamivudine is considered first choice for these patients if they do not otherwise meet treatment criteria for hepatitis B. Tenofovir is considered first line in areas highly prevalent for resistance to lamivudine, which tends to occur with prolonged lamivudine exposure. For example, lamivudine resistance develops in up to 90% of HBV-HIV co-infected individuals after 4 years of lamivudine therapy.12.In the setting of isolated anti-Hb-core antibody positivity, prophylaxis is not recommendedgiven that the rate of reactivation is less than 1%.10 Instead, patients should have serial measurements of liver function, hepatitis B serology and hepatitis B DNA every 1–3 months during the period of immunosuppressive treatment and if there is any elevation in these markers, antiviral prophylaxis or treatment (depending on the results) should be offered.So, when assessing patients for the need for PCP or hepatitis B prophylaxis, both the intended duration as well as the dose of the corticosteroids need to be considered.Strongyloides stercoralis InfectionStrongyloides stercoralis can persist for several decades and can reactivate with glucocorticoid exposure causing a severe and sometimes fatal disseminated infection. Strongyloides infection can be asymptomatic and can be acquired walking barefoot on soil in the developing world.13 Strongyloides serology is therefore recommended for refugees from low-income countries in Southeast Asia and Africa where strongyloides is endemic before starting high-dose corticosteroid treatement.14 If positive, patients should be treated with 2 doses of ivermectin to prevent the development of hyperinfection. TuberculosisPatients with latent tuberculosis on higher dose and/or longer duration of glucocorticoid use are also at risk of conversion to active disease. A one-step tuberculin skin test (TST) ³ 5 mm is considered positive when a patient is on prednisone doses ³ 15 mg/day for one month or more. First-line treatment for latent tuberculosis is isoniazid over 9 months. Patients should begin therapy ideally at least 4 weeks before starting such immunosuppression to prevent conversion to active disease.15,16. If this is not possible, the recommendation is to start isoniazid and the corticosteroids at the same time. ConclusionsSerious and potentially fatal infections are just one of the many potential complications of being on high-dose corticosteroids for a long period of time – others include diabetes, hypertension, psychosis, osteoporosis, adrenal insufficiency and the development of cushingoid features.17 Infectious diseases that are either latent or inactive may reactivate under high-dose corticosteroids including tuberculosis, pneumocystis jirovecii pneumonia, Strongyloides stercoralis, and hepatitis B. Screening and treatment for such conditions prior to starting high-dose corticosteroids, or at least once the corticosteroids are started, can prevent these complications. Furthermore, the timing of both inactivated and live vaccines is crucial for the patients’ ability to mount an appropriate immune response and to avoid complications from live vaccines. Finally, patients on high-dose corticosteroids are at higher risk for illnesses that may require additional vaccinations not otherwise given to such individuals – for example the pneumococcal vaccine.DisclosureThere are no conflicts of interest for either author on this manuscript. References1. Zoorob RJ and Cender D. A different look at corticosteroids. American Family Physician. 1998 Aug 1; 58(2): 443-450. 2. Buttgereit F, Da Silva JAP, Boers M et al. Standardised nomenclature for glucocorticoid dosages and glucocorticoid treatment regimens: current questions and tentative answers in rheumatology. Ann Rheum Dis 2002; 61: 718-722. 3.Hall BM and Hodgkinson SJ. Corticosteroids in autoimmune diseases. Aust Prescr 1999; 22: 9-11. 4. T.P. van Staa, H.G. Leufkens, L. Abenhaim, B. Begaud, B. Zhang, C. Cooper. Use of oral corticosteroids in the United Kingdom. QJM. 2000 Feb; 93(2): 105–111. 5. Paul Brassard, Alain Bitton, Alain Suissa, Liliya Sinyavskaya, Valerie Patenaude and Samy Suissa. Oral Corticosteroids and the Risk of Serious Infections in Patients With Elderly-Onset Inflammatory Bowel Diseases. The American Journal of Gastroenterology. 2014 Nov; 109: 1795-1802. 6. PHAC: Canadian Immunization Guide - section 3 - Vaccination of specific populations (acquired/secondary immunodeficiency) - http://www.phac-aspc.gc.ca/publicat/cig-gci/p03-07-eng.php#a4. Accessed July 19 2015. Modified December 5th 2013. 7. PHAC: Canadian Immunization Guide – Section 4 – Active Vaccines: Pneumococcal Vaccine - http://www.phac-aspc.gc.ca/publicat/cig-gci/p04-pneu-eng.php#tab1. Accessed July 19 2015. Modified March 24th 2015. 8. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). Use of 13-valent pneumococcal conjugate vaccine and 23-valent pneumococcal polysaccharide vaccine for adults with immunocompromising conditions: recommendations of the Advisory Committee on Immunization Practices (ACIP). MMWR Morb Mortal Wkly Rep. 2012 Oct 12; 61(40): 816. 9. Tomblyn M, Chiller T, Einsele H at al. Guidelines for preventing infectious complications among hematopoietic cell transplantation recipients: a global perspective. Biol Blood Marrow Transplant. 2009; 15(10): 1143. 10. Di Bisceglie AM, Lok AS, Martin P, Terrault N, Perrillo RP, Hoofnagle JH. Recent US Food and Drug Administration warnings on hepatitis B reactivation with immune-suppressing and anticancer drugs: just the tip of the iceberg? Hepatology. 2015; 61(2): 703. 11. Cheng J, Li JB, Sun QL et al. Reactivation of Hepatitis B Virus After Steroid Treatment in Rheumatic Diseases. The Journal of Rheumatology. 2011; 38 (1): 181-182. 12. Benhamou Y, Bochet M, Thibault V, et al. Long-term incidence of hepatitis B virus resistance to lamivudine in human immunodeficiency virus-infected patients. Hepatology. 1999; 30: 1302-1306. 13. Farthing M, Fedail S, Savioli L et al. WGO Practice Guideline: Management of strongyloides. 2004. 14. Khan K, Heidebrecht C, Sears J et al. Appendix 8: Intestinal parasites – Strongyloides and Schistosoma: evidence review for newly arriving immigrants and refugees. CMAJ . 2011; 183(12): E824-925. 15. Pai M, Kunimoto D, Jamieson F, et al. Canadian Tuberculosis Standards – 7th edition. Centre for Communicable Diseases and Infection Control - Public Health Agency of Canada. February 2014: 75. 16. Singh JA, Furst DE, Bharat A et al. 2012 Update of the 2008 American College of Rheumatology Recommendations for the Use of Disease-Modifying Antirheumatic Drugs and Biologic Agents in the Treatment of Rheumatoid Arthritis. Arthritis Care & Research 2012; 64(5): 625–639. 17. Liu D, Ahmet A, Ward L et al. A practical guide to the monitoring and management of the complications of systemic corticosteroid therapy. Allergy, Asthma & Clinical Immunology. 2013, 9:30.

What we wear signals our membership within groups, be theyorganised by gender, class, ethnicity or religion. Simultaneously our clothing signifies hierarchies and power relations that sustain dominant power structures. How we dress is an expression of our identity. For Veblen, how we dress expresses wealth and social stratification. In imitating the fashion of the wealthy, claims Simmel, we seek social equality. For Barthes, clothing is embedded with systems of meaning. For Hebdige, clothing has modalities of meaning depending on the wearer, as do clothes for gender (Davis) and for the body (Entwistle). For Maynard, “dress is a significant material practice we use to signal our cultural boundaries, social separations, continuities and, for the present purposes, political dissidences” (103). Clothing has played a central role in historical and contemporary forms of political dissent. During the French Revolution dress signified political allegiance. The “mandated costumes, the gold-braided coat, white silk stockings, lace stock, plumed hat and sword of the nobility and the sober black suit and stockings” were rejected as part of the revolutionary struggle (Fairchilds 423). After the storming of the Bastille the government of Paris introduced the wearing of the tricolour cockade, a round emblem made of red, blue and white ribbons, which was a potent icon of the revolution, and a central motif in building France’s “revolutionary community”. But in the aftermath of the revolution divided loyalties sparked power struggles in the new Republic (Heuer 29). In 1793 for example anyone not wearing the cockade was arrested. Specific laws were introduced for women not wearing the cockade or for wearing it in a profane manner, resulting in six years in jail. This triggered a major struggle over women’s abilities to exercise their political rights (Heuer 31).Clothing was also central to women’s political struggles in America. In the mid-nineteenth century, women began wearing the “reform dress”—pants with shortened, lightweight skirts in place of burdensome and restrictive dresses (Mas 35). The wearing of pants, or bloomers, challenged gender norms and demonstrated women’s agency. Women’s clothes of the period were an "identity kit" (Ladd Nelson 22), which reinforced “society's distinctions between men and women by symbolizing their natures, roles, and responsibilities” (Ladd Nelson 22, Roberts 555). Men were positioned in society as “serious, active, strong and aggressive”. They wore dark clothing that “allowed movement, emphasized broad chests and shoulders and presented sharp, definite lines” (Ladd Nelson 22). Conversely, women, regarded as “frivolous, inactive, delicate and submissive, dressed in decorative, light pastel coloured clothing which inhibited movement, accentuated tiny waists and sloping shoulders and presented an indefinite silhouette” (Ladd Nelson 22, Roberts 555). Women who challenged these dress codes by wearing pants were “unnatural, and a perversion of the “true” woman” (Ladd Nelson 22). For Crane, the adoption of men’s clothing by women challenged dominant values and norms, changing how women were seen in public and how they saw themselves. The wearing of pants came to “symbolize the movement for women's rights” (Ladd Nelson 24) and as with women in France, Victorian society was forced to consider “women's rights, including their right to choose their own style of dress” (Ladd Nelson 23). As Yangzom (623) puts it, clothing allows groups to negotiate boundaries. How the “embodiment of dress itself alters political space and civic discourse is imperative to understanding how resistance is performed in creating social change” (Yangzom 623). Fig. 1: 1850s fashion bloomersIn a different turn is presented in Mahatma Gandhi’s Khadi movement. Khadi is a term used for fabrics made on a spinning wheel (or charkha) or hand-spun and handwoven, usually from cotton fibre. Khadi is considered the “fabric of Indian independence” (Jain). Gandhi recognised the potential of the fabric to a self-reliant, independent India. Gandhi made the struggle for independence synonymous with khadi. He promoted the materials “simplicity as a social equalizer and made it the nation’s fabric” (Sinha). As Jain notes, clothing and in this case fabric, is a “potent sign of resistance and change”. The material also reflects consciousness and agency. Khadi was Gandhi’s “own sartorial choices of transformation from that of an Englishman to that of one representing India” (Jain). For Jain the “key to Khadi becoming a successful tool for the freedom struggle” was that it was a “material embodiment of an ideal” that “represented freedom from colonialism on the one hand and a feeling of self-reliance and economic self-sufficiency on the other”. Fig. 2: Gandhi on charkha The reappropriating of Khadi as a fabric of political dissent echoes the wearing of blue denim by the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) at the 1963 National Mall Washington march where 250,000 people gather to hear Martin Luther King speak. The SNCC formed in 1960 and from then until the 1963 March on Washington they developed a “style aesthetic that celebrated the clothing of African American sharecroppers” (Ford 626). A critical aspect civil rights activism by African America women who were members of the SNCC was the “performance of respectability”. With the moral character of African American women under attack (as a way of delegitimising their political activities), the female activists “emphasized the outward display of their respectability in order to withstand attacks against their characters”. Their modest, neat “as if you were going to church” (Chappell 96) clothing choices helped them perform respectability and this “played an important performative role in the black freedom struggle” (Ford 626). By 1963 however African American female civil rights activists “abandoned their respectable clothes and processed hairstyles in order to adopt jeans, denim skirts, bib-and-brace overalls”. The adoption of bib-and-brace overalls reflected the sharecropper's blue denim overalls of America’s slave past.For Komar the blue denim overalls “dramatize[d] how little had been accomplished since Reconstruction” and the overalls were practical to fix from attack dog tears and high-pressure police hoses. The blue denim overalls, according to Komar, were also considered to be ‘Negro clothes’ purchased by “slave owners bought denim for their enslaved workers, partly because the material was sturdy, and partly because it helped contrast them against the linen suits and lace parasols of plantation families”. The clothing choice was both practical and symbolic. While the ‘sharecropper’ narrative is problematic as ‘traditional’ clothing (something not evident in the case of Ghandi’s Khandi Movement, there is an emotion associated with the clothing. As Barthes (6-7) has shown, what makes ‘traditional clothing,’ traditional is that it is part of a normative system where not only does clothing have its historical place, but it is governed by its rules and regimentation. Therefore, there is a dialectical exchange between the normative system and the act of dressing where as a link between the two, clothing becomes the conveyer of its meanings (7). Barthes calls this system, langue and the act of dressing parole (8). As Ford does, a reading of African American women wearing what she calls a “SNCC Skin” “the uniform [acts] consciously to transgress a black middle-class worldview that marginalised certain types of women and particular displays of blackness and black culture”. Hence, the SNCC women’s clothing represented an “ideological metamorphosis articulated through the embrace and projection of real and imagined southern, working-class, and African American cultures. Central to this was the wearing of the blue denim overalls. The clothing did more than protect, cover or adorn the body it was a conscious “cultural and political tool” deployed to maintain a movement and build solidarity with the aim of “inversing the hegemonic norms” via “collective representations of sartorial embodiment” (Yangzom 622).Fig. 3: Mississippi SNCC March Coordinator Joyce Ladner during the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom political rally in Washington, DC, on 28 Aug. 1963Clothing in each of these historical examples performs an ideological function that can bridge, that is bring diverse members of society together for a cause, or community cohesion or clothing can act as a fence to keep identities separate (Barnard). This use of clothing is evident in two indigenous examples. For Maynard (110) the clothes worn at the 1988 Aboriginal ‘Long March of Freedom, Justice and Hope’ held in Australia signalled a “visible strength denoted by coherence in dress” (Maynard 112). Most noted was the wearing of colours – black, red and yellow, first thought to be adopted during protest marches organised by the Black Protest Committee during the 1982 Commonwealth Games in Brisbane (Watson 40). Maynard (110) describes the colour and clothing as follows:the daytime protest march was dominated by the colours of the Aboriginal people—red, yellow and black on flags, huge banners and clothing. There were logo-inscribed T-shirts, red, yellow and black hatband around black Akubra’s, as well as red headbands. Some T-shirts were yellow, with images of the Australian continent in red, others had inscriptions like 'White Australia has a Black History' and 'Our Land Our Life'. Still others were inscribed 'Mourn 88'. Participants were also in customary dress with body paint. Older Indigenous people wore head bands inscribed with the words 'Our Land', and tribal elders from the Northern Territory, in loin cloths, carried spears and clapping sticks, their bodies marked with feathers, white clay and red ochres. Without question, at this most significant event for Aboriginal peoples, their dress was a highly visible and cohesive aspect.Similar is the Tibetan Freedom Movement, a nonviolent grassroots movement in Tibet and among Tibet diaspora that emerged in 2008 to protest colonisation of Tibet. It is also known as the ‘White Wednesday Movement’. Every Wednesday, Tibetans wear traditional clothes. They pledge: “I am Tibetan, from today I will wear only Tibetan traditional dress, chuba, every Wednesday”. A chuba is a colourful warm ankle-length robe that is bound around the waist by a long sash. For the Tibetan Freedom Movement clothing “symbolically functions as a nonverbal mechanism of communication” to “materialise consciousness of the movement” and functions to shape its political aims (Yangzom 622). Yet, in both cases – Aboriginal and Tibet protests – the dress may “not speak to single cultural audience”. This is because the clothing is “decoded by those of different political persuasions, and [is] certainly further reinterpreted or reframed by the media” (Maynard 103). Nevertheless, there is “cultural work in creating a coherent narrative” (Yangzom 623). The narratives and discourse embedded in the wearing of a red, blue and white cockade, dark reform dress pants, cotton coloured Khadi fabric or blue denim overalls is likely a key feature of significant periods of political upheaval and dissent with the clothing “indispensable” even if the meaning of the clothing is “implied rather than something to be explicated” (Yangzom 623). On 21 January 2017, 250,000 women marched in Washington and more than two million protesters around the world wearing pink knitted pussy hats in response to the remarks made by President Donald Trump who bragged of grabbing women ‘by the pussy’. The knitted pink hats became the “embodiment of solidarity” (Wrenn 1). For Wrenn (2), protests such as this one in 2017 complete with “protest visuals” which build solidarity while “masking or excluding difference in the process” indicates “a tactical sophistication in the social movement space with its strategic negotiation of politics of difference. In formulating a flexible solidarity, the movement has been able to accommodate a variety of races, classes, genders, sexualities, abilities, and cultural backgrounds” (Wrenn 4). In doing so they presented a “collective bodily presence made publicly visible” to protest racist, sexist, homophobic, Islamophobic, and xenophobic white masculine power (Gokariksel & Smith 631). The 2017 Washington Pussy Hat March was more than an “embodiment tactic” it was an “image event” with its “swarms of women donning adroit posters and pink pussy hats filling the public sphere and impacting visual culture”. It both constructs social issues and forms public opinion hence it is an “argumentative practice” (Wrenn 6). Drawing on wider cultural contexts, as other acts of dissent note here do, in this protest with its social media coverage, the “master frame” of the sea of pink hats and bodies posited to audiences the enormity of the anger felt in the community over attacks on the female body – real or verbal. This reflects Goffman’s theory of framing to describe the ways in which “protestors actively seek to shape meanings such that they spark the public’s support and encourage political openings” (Wrenn 6). The hats served as “visual tropes” (Goodnow 166) to raise social consciousness and demonstrate opposition. Protest “signage” – as the pussy hats can be considered – are a visual representation and validation of shared “invisible thoughts and emotions” (Buck-Coleman 66) affirming Georg Simmel’s ideas about conflict; “it helps individuals define their differences, establish to which group(s) they belong, and determine the degrees to which groups are different from each other” (Buck-Coleman 66). The pink pussy hat helped define and determine membership and solidarity. Further embedding this was the hand-made nature of the hat. The pattern for the hat was available free online at https://www.pussyhatproject.com/knit/. The idea began as one of practicality, as it did for the reform dress movement. This is from the Pussy Hat Project website:Krista was planning to attend the Women’s March in Washington DC that January of 2017 and needed a cap to keep her head warm in the chill winter air. Jayna, due to her injury, would not be able to attend any of the marches, but wanted to find a way to have her voice heard in absentia and somehow physically “be” there. Together, a marcher and a non-marcher, they conceived the idea of creating a sea of pink hats at Women’s Marches everywhere that would make both a bold and powerful visual statement of solidarity, and also allow people who could not participate themselves – whether for medical, financial, or scheduling reasons — a visible way to demonstrate their support for women’s rights. (Pussy Hat Project)In the tradition of “craftivism” – the use of traditional handcrafts such as knitting, assisted by technology (in this case a website with the pattern and how to knit instructions), as a means of community building, skill-sharing and action directed towards “political and social causes” (Buszek & Robertson 197) –, the hand-knitted pink pussy hats avoided the need to purchase clothing to show solidarity resisting the corporatisation of protest clothing as cautioned by Naomi Klein (428). More so by wearing something that could be re-used sustained solidarity. The pink pussy hats provided a counter to the “incoherent montage of mass-produced clothing” often seen at other protests (Maynard 107). Everyday clothing however does have a place in political dissent. In late 2018, French working class and middle-class protestors donned yellow jackets to protest against the government of French President Emmanuel Macron. It began with a Facebook appeal launched by two fed-up truck drivers calling for a “national blockade” of France’s road network in protest against rising fuel prices was followed two weeks later with a post urging motorist to display their hi-vis yellow vests behind their windscreens in solidarity. Four million viewed the post (Henley). Weekly protests continued into 2019. The yellow his-vis vests are compulsorily carried in all motor cars in France. They are “cheap, readily available, easily identifiable and above all representing an obligation imposed by the state”. The yellow high-vis vest has “proved an inspired choice of symbol and has plainly played a big part in the movement’s rapid spread” (Henley). More so, the wearers of the yellow vests in France, with the movement spreading globally, are winning in “the war of cultural representation. Working-class and lower middle-class people are visible again” (Henley). Subcultural clothing has always played a role as heroic resistance (Evans), but the coloured dissent dressing associated with the red, blue and white ribboned cockades, the dark bloomers of early American feminists, the cotton coloured natural fabrics of Ghandi’s embodiment of resistance and independence, the blue denim sharecropper overalls worn by African American women in their struggles for civil rights, the black, red and orange of Aboriginal protestors in Australia and the White Wednesday performances of resistance undertaken by Tibetans against Chinese colonisation, the Washington Pink Pussy Hat marches for gender respect and equality and the donning of every yellow hi-vis vests by French protestors all posit the important role of fabric and colour in protest meaning making and solidarity building. It is in our rage we consciously wear the colours and fabrics of dissent dress. ReferencesBarnard, Malcolm. Fashion as Communication. New York: Routledge, 1996. Barthes, Roland. “History and Sociology of Clothing: Some Methodological Observations.” The Language of Fashion. Eds. Michael Carter and Alan Stafford. UK: Berg, 2006. 3-19. Buck-Coleman, Audra. “Anger, Profanity, and Hatred.” Contexts 17.1 (2018): 66-73.Buszek, Maria Elena, and Kirsty Robertson. “Introduction.” Utopian Studies 22.1 (2011): 197-202. Chappell, Marisa, Jenny Hutchinson, and Brian Ward. “‘Dress Modestly, Neatly ... As If You Were Going to Church’: Respectability, Class and Gender in the Montgomery Bus Boycott and the Early Civil Rights Movement.” Gender and the Civil Rights Movement. Eds. Peter J. Ling and Sharon Monteith. New Brunswick, N.J., 2004. 69-100.Crane, Diana. Fashion and Its Social Agendas. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000. Davis, Fred. Fashion, Culture, and Identity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992.Entwistle, Joanne. The Fashioned Body: Fashion, Dress, and Modern Social Theory. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2000.Evans, Caroline. “Dreams That Only Money Can Buy ... Or the Shy Tribe in Flight from Discourse.” Fashion Theory 1.2 (1997): 169-88.Fairchilds, Cissie. “Fashion and Freedom in the French Revolution.” Continuity and Change 15.3 (2000): 419-33.Ford, Tanisha C. “SNCC Women, Denim, and the Politics of Dress.” The Journal of Southern History 79.3 (2013): 625-58.Gökarıksel, Banu, and Sara Smith. “Intersectional Feminism beyond U.S. Flag, Hijab and Pussy Hats in Trump’s America.” Gender, Place & Culture 24.5 (2017): 628-44.Goodnow, Trischa. “On Black Panthers, Blue Ribbons, & Peace Signs: The Function of Symbols in Social Campaigns.” Visual Communication Quarterly 13 (2006): 166-79.Hebdige, Dick. Subculture: The Meaning of Style. London: Routledge, 2002. Henley, Jon. “How Hi-Vis Yellow Vest Became Symbol of Protest beyond France: From Brussels to Basra, Gilets Jaunes Have Brought Visibility to People and Their Grievances.” The Guardian 21 Dec. 2018. <https://www.theguardian.com/world/2018/dec/21/how-hi-vis-yellow-vest-became-symbol-of-protest-beyond-france-gilets-jaunes>.Heuer, Jennifer. “Hats On for the Nation! Women, Servants, Soldiers and the ‘Sign of the French’.” French History 16.1 (2002): 28-52.Jain, Ektaa. “Khadi: A Cloth and Beyond.” Bombay Sarvodaya Mandal & Gandhi Research Foundation. ND. 19 Dec. 2018 <https://www.mkgandhi.org/articles/khadi-a-cloth-and-beyond.html>. Klein, Naomi. No Logo. London: Flamingo, London, 2000. Komar, Marlen. “What the Civil Rights Movement Has to Do with Denim: The History of Blue Jeans Has Been Whitewashed.” 30 Oct. 2017. 19 Dec. 2018 <https://www.racked.com/2017/10/30/16496866/denim-civil-rights-movement-blue-jeans-history>.Ladd Nelson, Jennifer. “Dress Reform and the Bloomer.” Journal of American and Comparative Cultures 23.1 (2002): 21-25.Maynard, Margaret. “Dress for Dissent: Reading the Almost Unreadable.” Journal of Australian Studies 30.89 (2006): 103-12. Pussy Hat Project. “Design Interventions for Social Change.” 20 Dec. 2018. <https://www.pussyhatproject.com/knit/>.Roberts, Helene E. “The Exquisite Slave: The Role of Clothes in the Making of the Victorian Woman.” Signs (1977): 554-69.Simmel, Georg. “Fashion.” American Journal of Sociology 62 (1957): 541–58.Sinha, Sangita. “The Story of Khadi, India's Signature Fabric.” Culture Trip 2018. 18 Jan. 2019 <https://theculturetrip.com/asia/india/articles/the-story-of-khadi-indias-fabric/>.Yangzom, Dicky. “Clothing and Social Movements: Tibet and the Politics of Dress.” Social Movement Studies 15.6 (2016): 622-33. Veblen, Thorstein. The Theory of the Leisure Class: An Economic Study of Institutions. New York: Dover Thrift, 1899. Watson, Lilla. “The Commonwealth Games in Brisbane 1982: Analysis of Aboriginal Protests.” Social Alternatives 7.1 (1988): 1-19.Wrenn, Corey. “Pussy Grabs Back: Bestialized Sexual Politics and Intersectional Failure in Protest Posters for the 2017 Women’s March.” Feminist Media Studies (2018): 1-19.

Human history has witnessed varied surveillance and counter-surveillance activities from time immemorial. Human beings could not surveille others effectively and accurately without the technology of their era. Technology is a tool that can empower both people and governments. The outcomes are different based on the users’ intentions and aims. 2,500 years ago, Sun Tzu noted that ‘If you know both yourself and your enemy, you can win numerous (literally, "a hundred") battles without jeopardy’. His words still ring true. To be a good surveiller and counter-surveiller it is essential to know both sides, and in order to be good at these activities access to technology is vital. There is no doubt that knowledge is power, and without technology to access the information, it is impossible to be powerful. As we become more expert at technology, we will learn what makes surveillance and counter-surveillance more effective, and will be more powerful.“Surveillance” is one of the most important aspects of living in the convergent media environment. This essay illustrates government surveillance and counter-surveillance during the Iranian Green Movement (2009) on social and mobile media. The Green Movement refers to a non-violent movement that arose after the disputed presidential election on June 2009. After that Iran was facing its most serious political crisis since the 1979 revolution. Claims of vote fraud triggered massive street protests. Many took to the streets with “Green” signs, chanting slogans such as ‘the government lied’, and ‘where is my vote?’ There is no doubt that social and mobile media has played an important role in Iran’s contemporary politics. According to Internet World Stats (IWS) Internet users in 2009 account for approximately 48.5 per cent of the population of Iran. In 2009, Iran had 30.2 million mobile phone users (Freedom House), and 72 cellular subscriptions for every 100 people (World Bank). Today, while Iran has the 19th-largest population in the world, its blogosphere holds the third spot in terms of number of users, just behind the United States and China (Beth Elson et al.). In this essay the use of social and mobile media (technology) is not debated, but the extent of this use, and who, why and how it is used, is clearly scrutinised.Visibility and Surveillance There have been different kinds of surveillance for a very long time. However, all types of surveillance are based on the notion of “visibility”. Previous studies show that visibility is not a new term (Foucault Discipline). The new things in the new era, are its scale, scope and complicated ways to watch others without being watched, which are not limited to a specific time, space and group, and are completely different from previous instruments for watching (Andrejevic). As Meikle and Young (146) have mentioned ‘networked digital media bring with them a new kind of visibility’, based on different kinds of technology. Internet surveillance has important implications in politics to control, protect, and influence (Marx Ethics; Castells; Fuchs Critique). Surveillance has been improved during its long history, and evolved from very simple spying and watching to complicated methods of “iSpy” (Andrejevic). To understand the importance of visibility and its relationship with surveillance, it is essential to study visibility in conjunction with the notion of “panopticon” and its contradictory functions. Foucault uses Bentham's notion of panopticon that carries within itself visibility and transparency to control others. “Gaze” is a central term in Bentham’s view. ‘Bentham thinks of a visibility organised entirely around a dominating, overseeing gaze’ (Foucault Eye). Moreover, Thomson (Visibility 11) notes that we are living in the age of ‘normalizing the power of the gaze’ and it is clear that the influential gaze is based on powerful means to see others.Lyon (Surveillance 2) explains that ‘surveillance is any collection and processing of personal data, whether identifiable or not, for the purpose of influencing or managing those whose data have been granted…’. He mentions that today the most important means of surveillance reside in computer power which allows collected data to be sorted, matched, retrieved, processed, marketed and circulated.Nowadays, the Internet has become ubiquitous in many parts of the world. So, the changes in people’s interactions have influenced their lives. Fuchs (Introduction 15) argues that ‘information technology enables surveillance at a distance…in real time over networks at high transmission speed’. Therefore, visibility touches different aspects of people’s lives and living in a “glasshouse” has caused a lot of fear and anxiety about privacy.Iran’s Green Movement is one of many cases for studying surveillance and counter-surveillance technologies in social and mobile media. Government Surveillance on Social and Mobile Media in Iran, 2009 In 2009 the Iranian government controlled technology that allowed them to monitor, track, and limit access to the Internet, social media and mobiles communication, which has resulted in the surveillance of Green Movement’s activists. The Iranian government had improved its technical capabilities to monitor the people’s behavior on the Internet long before the 2009 election. The election led to an increase in online surveillance. Using social media the Iranian government became even more powerful than it was before the election. Social media was a significant factor in strengthening the government’s power. In the months after the election the virtual atmosphere became considerably more repressive. The intensified filtering of the Internet and implementation of more advanced surveillance systems strengthened the government’s position after the election. The Open Net Initiative revealed that the Internet censorship system in Iran is one of the most comprehensive and sophisticated censorship systems in the world. It emphasized that ‘Advances in domestic technical capacity have contributed to the implementation of a centralized filtering strategy and a reduced reliance on Western technologies’.On the other hand, the authorities attempted to block all access to political blogs (Jaras), either through cyber-security methods or through threats (Tusa). The Centre for Investigating Organized Cyber Crimes, which was founded in 2007 partly ‘to investigate and confront social and economic offenses on the Internet’ (Cyber Police), became increasingly important over the course of 2009 as the government combated the opposition’s online activities (Beth Elson et al. 16). Training of "senior Internet lieutenants" to confront Iran's "virtual enemies online" was another attempt that the Intelligence minister announced following the protests (Iran Media Program).In 2009 the Iranian government enacted the Computer Crime Law (Jaras). According to this law the Committee in Charge of Determining Unauthorized Websites is legally empowered to identify sites that carry forbidden content and report that information to TCI and other major ISPs for blocking (Freedom House). In the late fall of 2009, the government started sending threatening and warning text messages to protesters about their presence in the protests (BBC). Attacking, blocking, hacking and hijacking of the domain names of some opposition websites such as Jaras and Kaleme besides a number of non-Iranian sites such as Twitter were among the other attempts of the Iranian Cyber Army (Jaras).It is also said that the police and security forces arrested dissidents identified through photos and videos posted on the social media that many imagined had empowered them. Furthermore, the online photos of the active protesters were posted on different websites, asking people to identify them (Valizadeh).In late June 2009 the Iranian government was intentionally permitting Internet traffic to and from social networking sites such as Facebook and Twitter so that it could use a sophisticated practice called Deep Packet Inspection (DPI) to collect information about users. It was reportedly also applying the same technology to monitor mobile phone communications (Beth Elson et al. 15).On the other hand, to cut communication between Iranians inside and outside the country, Iran slowed down the Internet dramatically (Jaras). Iran also blocked access to Facebook, YouTube, Wikipedia, Twitter and many blogs before, during and after the protests. Moreover, in 2009, text message services were shut down for over 40 days, and mobile phone subscribers could not send or receive text messages regardless of their mobile carriers. Subsequently it was disrupted on a temporary basis immediately before and during key protests days.It was later discovered that the Nokia Siemens Network provided the government with surveillance technologies (Wagner; Iran Media Program). The Iranian government built a complicated system that enabled it to monitor, track and intercept what was said on mobile phones. Nokia Siemens Network confirmed it supplied Iran with the technology needed to monitor, control, and read local telephone calls [...] The product allowed authorities to monitor any communications across a network, including voice calls, text messaging, instant messages, and web traffic (Cellan-Jones). Media sources also reported that two Chinese companies, Huawei and ZTE, provided surveillance technologies to the government. The Nic Payamak and Saman Payamak websites, that provide mass text messaging services, also reported that operator Hamrah Aval commonly blocked texts with words such as meeting, location, rally, gathering, election and parliament (Iran Media Program). Visibility and Counter-Surveillance The panopticon is not limited to the watchers. Similarly, new kinds of panopticon and visibility are not confined to government surveillance. Foucault points out that ‘the seeing machine was once a sort of dark room into which individuals spied; it has become a transparent building in which the exercise of power may be supervised by society as a whole’ (Discipline 207). What is important is Foucault's recognition that transparency, not only of those who are being observed but also of those who are observing, is central to the notion of the panopticon (Allen) and ‘any member of society will have the right to come and see with his own eyes how schools, hospitals, factories, and prisons function’ (Foucault, Discipline 207). Counter-surveillance is the process of detecting and mitigating hostile surveillance (Burton). Therefore, while the Internet is a surveillance instrument that enables governments to watch people, it also improves the capacity to counter-surveille, and draws public attention to governments’ injustice. As Castells (185) notes the Internet could be used by citizens to watch their government as an instrument of control, information, participation, and even decision-making, from the bottom up.With regards to the role of citizens in counter-surveillance we can draw on Jay Rosen’s view of Internet users as ‘the people formerly known as the audience’. In counter-surveillance it can be said that passive citizens (formerly the audience) have turned into active citizens. And this change was becoming impossible without mobile and social media platforms. These new techniques and technologies have empowered people and given them the opportunity to have new identities. When Thompson wrote ‘the exercise of power in modern societies remains in many ways shrouded in secrecy and hidden from the public gaze’ (Media 125), perhaps he could not imagine that one day people can gaze at the politicians, security forces and the police through the use of the Internet and mobile devices.Furthermore, while access to mobile media allows people to hold authorities accountable for their uses and abuses of power (Breen 183), social media can be used as a means of representation, organization of collective action, mobilization, and drawing attention to police brutality and reasons for political action (Gerbaudo).There is no doubt that having creativity and using alternative platforms are important aspects in counter-surveillance. For example, images of Lt. Pike “Pepper Spray Cop” from the University of California became the symbol of the senselessness of police brutality during the Occupy Movement (Shaw). Iranians’ Counter-Surveillance on Social and Mobile Media, 2009 Iran’s Green movement (2009) triggered a lot of discussions about the role of technology in social movements. In this regard, there are two notable attitudes about the role of technology: techno-optimistic (Shriky and Castells) and techno-pessimistic (Morozov and Gladwell) views should be taken into account. While techno-optimists overrated the role of social media, techno-pessimists underestimated its role. However, there is no doubt that technology has played a great role as a counter-surveillance tool amongst Iranian people in Iran’s contemporary politics.Apart from the academic discussions between techno-optimists and techno-pessimists, there have been numerous debates about the role of new technologies in Iran during the Green Movement. This subject has received interest from different corners of the world, including Western countries, Iranian authorities, opposition groups, and also some NGOs. However, its role as a means of counter-surveillance has not received adequate attention.As the tools of counter-surveillance are more or less the tools of surveillance, protesters learned from the government to use the same techniques to challenge authority on social media.Establishing new websites (such as JARAS, RASA, Kalemeh, and Iran green voice) or strengthening some previous ones (such as Saham, Emrooz, Norooz), also activating different platforms such as Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube accounts to broadcast the voice of the Iranian Green Movement and neutralize the government’s propaganda were the most important ways to empower supporters of Iran’s Green Movement in counter-surveillance.‘Reporters Without Borders issued a statement, saying that ‘the new media, and particularly social networks, have given populations collaborative tools with which they can change the social order’. It is also mentioned that despite efforts by the Iranian government to prevent any reporting of the protests and due to considerable pressure placed on foreign journalists inside Iran, social media played a significant role in sending the messages and images of the movement to the outside world (Axworthy). However, at that moment, many thought that Twitter performed a liberating role for Iranian dissenters. For example, Western media heralded the Green Movement in Iran as a “Twitter revolution” fuelled by information and communication technologies (ICTs) and social media tools (Carrieri et al. 4). “The Revolution Will Be Twittered” was the first in a series of blog posts published by Andrew Sullivan a few hours after the news of the protests was released.According to the researcher’s observation the numbers of Twitter users inside Iran who tweeted was very limited in 2009 and social media was most useful in the dissemination of information, especially from those inside Iran to outsiders. Mobile phones were mostly influential as an instrument firstly used for producing contents (images and videos) and secondly for the organisation of protests. There were many photos and videos that were filmed by very simple mobile cell phones, uploaded by ordinary people onto YouTube and other platforms. The links were shared many times on Twitter and Facebook and released by mainstream media. The most frequently circulated story from the Iranian protests was a video of Neda Agha-Sultan. Her final moments were captured by some bystanders with mobile phone cameras and rapidly spread across the global media and the Internet. It showed that the camera-phone had provided citizens with a powerful means, allowing for the creation and instant sharing of persuasive personalised eyewitness records with mobile and globalised target populations (Anden-Papadopoulos).Protesters used another technique, DDOS (distributed denial of service attacks), for political protest in cyber space. Anonymous people used DDOS to overload a website with fake requests, making it unavailable for users and disrupting the sites set as targets (McMillan) in effect, shutting down the site. DDOS is an important counter-surveillance activity by grassroots activists or hackers. It was a cyber protest that knocked the main Iranian governmental websites off-line and caused crowdsourcing and false trafficking. Amongst them were Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Iran's supreme leader’s websites and those which belong to or are close to the government or security forces, including news agencies (Fars, IRNA, Press TV…), the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Ministry of Justice, the Police, and the Ministry of the Interior.Moreover, as authorities uploaded the pictures of protesters onto different platforms to find and arrest them, in some cities people started to put the pictures, phone numbers and addresses of members of security forces and plain clothes police officers who attacked them during the protests and asked people to identify and report the others. They also wanted people to send information about suspects who infringed human rights. Conclusion To sum up, visibility, surveillance and counter-surveillance are not new phenomena. What is new is the technology, which increased their complexity. As Foucault (Discipline 200) mentioned ‘visibility is a trap’, so being visible would be the weakness of those who are being surveilled in the power struggle. In the convergent era, in order to be more powerful, both surveillance and counter-surveillance activities aim for more visibility. Although both attempt to use the same means (technology) to trap the other side, the differences are in their subjects, objects, goals and results.While in surveillance, visibility of the many by the few is mostly for the purpose of control and influence in undemocratic ways, in counter-surveillance, the visibility of the few by the many is mostly through democratic ways to secure more accountability and transparency from the governments.As mentioned in the case of Iran’s Green Movement, the scale and scope of visibility are different in surveillance and counter-surveillance. The importance of what Shaw wrote about Sydney occupy counter-surveillance, applies to other places, such as Iran. She has stressed that ‘protesters and police engaged in a dance of technology and surveillance with one another. Both had access to technology, but there were uncertainties about the extent of technology and its proficient use…’In Iran (2009), both sides (government and activists) used technology and benefited from digital networked platforms, but their levels of access and domains of influence were different, which was because the sources of power, information and wealth were divided asymmetrically between them. Creativity was important for both sides to make others more visible, and make themselves invisible. Also, sharing information to make the other side visible played an important role in these two areas. References Alen, David. “The Trouble with Transparency: The Challenge of Doing Journalism Ethics in a Surveillance Society.” Journalism Studies 9.3 (2008): 323-40. 8 Dec. 2013 ‹http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/14616700801997224#.UqRFSuIZsqN›. 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Property as both an idea and a practice has been interpreted through the prism of a liberal, law and economics paradigm since at least the 18th century. This dominant (and domineering) perspective stresses the primacy of individualism, the power of exclusion, and the values of private commodity. By contrast, concepts of property that evolved out of the counterculture of the 1960s and early 1970s challenged this hegemony. Countercultural, or Aquarian, ideas of property stressed pre-liberal, long forgotten property norms such as sociability, community, inclusion and personhood, and contested a private uniformity that seemed “totalizing and universalizing” (Blomley, Unsettling 102). This paper situates what it terms “Aquarian property” in the context of emergent property theory in the 1960s and 1970s, and the propertied practices these new theories engendered. Importantly, this paper also grounds Aquarian ideas of property to location. As legal geographers observe, the law inexorably occurs in place as well as time. “Nearly every aspect of law is located, takes place, is in motion, or has some spatial frame of reference” (Braverman et al. 1). Property’s radical yet simultaneously ancient alter-narrative found fertile soil where the countercultural experiment flourished. In Australia, one such place was the green, sub-tropical landscape of the New South Wales Northern Rivers, home of the 1973 Australian Union of Student’s Aquarius Festival at Nimbin. The Counterculture and Property Theory Well before the “Age of Aquarius” entered western youth consciousness (Munro-Clark 56), and 19 years before the Nimbin Aquarius Festival, US legal scholar Felix Cohen defined property in seminally private and exclusionary terms. To the world: Keep off X unless you have my permission, which I may grant or withhold.Signed: Private citizenEndorsed: The state. (374) Cohen’s formula was private property at its 1950s apogee, an unambiguous expression of its centrality to post-war materialism. William Blackstone’s famous trope of property as “that sole and despotic dominion” had become self-fulfilling (Rose, Canons). Why had this occurred? What had made property so narrow and instrumentalist to a private end? Several property theorists identify the enclosure period in the 17th and 18th centuries as seminal to this change (Blomley, Law; Graham). The enclosures, and their discourse of improvement and modernity, saw ancient common rights swept away in favour of the liberal private right. Property diversity was supplanted by monotony, group rights by the individual, and inclusion by exclusion. Common property rights were rights of shared use, traditionally agrarian incidents enjoyed through community membership. However, for the proponents of enclosure, common rights stood in the way of progress. Thus, what was once a vested right (such as the common right to glean) became a “mere practice”, condemned by its “universal promiscuity” and perceptions of vagrancy (Buck 17-8). What was once sited to context, to village and parish, evolved into abstraction. And what had meaning for person and place, “a sense of self; […] a part of a tribe’ (Neeson 180), became a tradable commodity, detached and indifferent to the consequences of its adverse use (Leopold). These were the transformed ideas of property exported to so-called “settler” societies, where colonialists demanded the secure property rights denied to them at home. In the common law tradition, a very modern yet selective amnesia took hold, a collective forgetting of property’s shared and sociable past (McLaren). Yet, property as commodity proved to be a narrow, one-sided account of property, an unsatisfactory “half right” explanation (Alexander 2) that omits inconvenient links between ownership on the one hand, and self and place on the other. Pioneering US conservationist Aldo Leopold detected as much a few years before Felix Cohen’s defining statement of private dominance. In Leopold’s iconic A Sand County Almanac, he wrote presciently of the curious phenomenon of hardheaded farmers replanting selected paddocks with native wildflowers. As if foreseeing what the next few decades may bring, Leopold describes a growing resistance to the dominant property paradigm: I call it Revolt – revolt against the tedium of the merely economic attitude towards land. We assume that because we had to subjugate the land to live on it, the best farm is therefore the one most completely tamed. These […] farmers have learned from experience that the wholly tamed farm offers not only a slender livelihood but a constricted life. (188)By the early 1960s, frustrations over the constrictions of post-war life were given voice in dissenting property literature. Affirming that property is a social institution, emerging ideas of property conformed to the contours of changing values (Singer), and the countercultural zeitgeist sweeping America’s universities (Miller). Thus, in 1964, Charles Reich saw property as the vanguard for a new civic compact, an ambitious “New Property” that would transform “government largess” into a property right to address social inequity. For Joseph Sax, property scholar and author of a groundbreaking citizen’s manifesto, the assertion of public property rights were critical to the protection of the environment (174). And in 1972, to Christopher Stone, it seemed a natural property incident that trees should enjoy equivalent standing to legal persons. In an age when “progress” was measured by the installation of plastic trees in Los Angeles median strips (Tribe), jurists aspired to new ideas of property with social justice and environmental resonance. Theirs was a scholarly “Revolt” against the tedium of property as commodity, an act of resistance to the centuries-old conformity of the enclosures (Blomley, Law). Aquarian Theory in Propertied Practice Imagining new property ideas in theory yielded in practice a diverse Aquarian tenure. In the emerging communes and intentional communities of the late 1960s and early 1970s, common property norms were unwittingly absorbed into their ethos and legal structure (Zablocki; Page). As a “way out of a dead-end future” (Smith and Crossley), a generation of young, mostly university-educated people sought new ways to relate to land. Yet, as Benjamin Zablocki observed at the time, “there is surprisingly little awareness among present-day communitarians of their historical forebears” (43). The alchemy that was property and the counterculture was given form and substance by place, time, geography, climate, culture, and social history. Unlike the dominant private paradigm that was placeless and universal, the tenurial experiments of the counter-culture were contextual and diverse. Hence, to generalise is to invite the problematic. Nonetheless, three broad themes of Aquarian property are discernible. First, property ceased being a vehicle for the acquisition of private wealth; rather it invested self-meaning within a communitarian context, “a sense of self [as] a part of a tribe.” Second, the “back to the land” movement signified a return to the country, an interregnum in the otherwise unidirectional post-enclosure drift to the city. Third, Aquarian property was premised on obligation, recognising that ownership was more than a bundle of autonomous rights, but rights imbricated with a corresponding duty to land health. Like common property and its practices of sustained yield, Aquarian owners were environmental stewards, with inter-connected responsibilities to others and the earth (Page). The counterculture was a journey in self-fulfillment, a search for personal identity amidst the empowerment of community. Property’s role in the counterculture was to affirm the under-regarded notion of property as propriety; where ownership fostered well lived and capacious lives in flourishing communities (Alexander). As Margaret Munro-Clark observed of the early 1970s, “the enrichment of individual identity or selfhood [is] the distinguishing mark of the current wave of communitarianism” (33). Or, as another 1970s settler remarked twenty years later, “our ownership means that we can’t liquefy our assets and move on with any appreciable amount of capital. This arrangement has many advantages; we don’t waste time wondering if we would be better off living somewhere else, so we have commitment to place and community” (Metcalf 52). In personhood terms, property became “who we are, how we live” (Lismore Regional Gallery), not a measure of commoditised worth. Personhood also took legal form, manifested in early title-holding structures, where consensus-based co-operatives (in which capital gain was precluded) were favoured ideologically over the capitalist, majority-rules corporation (Munro-Clark). As noted, Aquarian property was also predominantly rural. For many communitarians, the way out of a soulless urban life was to abandon its difficulties for the yearnings of a simpler rural idyll (Smith and Crossley). The 1970s saw an extraordinary return to the physicality of land, measured by a willingness to get “earth under the nails” (Farran). In Australia, communities proliferated on the NSW Northern Rivers, in Western Australia’s southwest, and in the rural hinterlands behind Queensland’s Sunshine Coast and Cairns. In New Zealand, intentional communities appeared on the rural Coromandel Peninsula, east of Auckland, and in the Golden Bay region on the remote northwestern tip of the South Island. In all these localities, land was plentiful, the climate seemed sunny, and the landscape soulful. Aquarians “bought cheap land in beautiful places in which to opt out and live a simpler life [...] in remote backwaters, up mountains, in steep valleys, or on the shorelines of wild coastal districts” (Sargisson and Sargent 117). Their “hard won freedom” was to escape from city life, suffused by a belief that “the city is hardly needed, life should spring out of the country” (Jones and Baker 5). Aquarian property likewise instilled environmental ethics into the notion of land ownership. Michael Metzger, writing in 1975 in the barely minted Ecology Law Quarterly, observed that humankind had forgotten three basic ecological laws, that “everything is connected to everything else”, that “everything must go somewhere”, and that “nature knows best” (797). With an ever-increasing focus on abstraction, the language of private property: enabled us to create separate realities, and to remove ourselves from the natural world in which we live to a cerebral world of our own creation. When we act in accord with our artificial world, the disastrous impact of our fantasies upon the natural world in which we live is ignored. (796)By contrast, Aquarian property was intrinsically contextual. It revolved around the owner as environmental steward, whose duty it was “to repair the ravages of previous land use battles, and to live in accord with the natural environment” (Aquarian Archives). Reflecting ancient common rights, Aquarian property rights internalised norms of prudence, proportionality and moderation of resource use (Rose, Futures). Simply, an ecological view of land ownership was necessary for survival. As Dr. Moss Cass, the Federal environment minister wrote in the preface to The Way Out: Radical Alternatives in Australia, ‘”there is a common conviction that something is rotten at the core of conventional human existence.” Across the Tasman, the sense of latent environmental crisis was equally palpable, “we are surrounded by glistening surfaces and rotten centres” (Jones and Baker 5). Property and Countercultural Place and Time In the emerging discipline of legal geography, the law and its institutions (such as property) are explained through the prism of spatiotemporal context. What even more recent law and geography scholarship argues is that space is privileged as “theoretically interesting” while “temporality is reduced to empirical history” (Braverman et al. 53). This part seeks to consider the intersection of property, the counterculture, and time and place without privileging either the spatial or temporal dimensions. It considers simply the place of Nimbin, New South Wales, in early May 1973, and how property conformed to the exigencies of both. Legal geographers also see property through the theory of performance. Through this view, property is a “relational effect, not a prior ground, that is brought into being by the very act of performance” (Blomley, Performing 13). In other words, doing does not merely describe or represent property, but it enacts, such that property becomes a reality through its performance. In short, property is because it does. Performance theory is liberating (Page et al) because it concentrates not on property’s arcane rules and doctrines, nor on the legal geographer’s alleged privileging of place over time, but on its simple doing. Thus, Nicholas Blomley sees private property as a series of constant and reiterative performances: paying rates, building fences, registering titles, and so on. Adopting this approach, Aquarian property is described as a series of performances, seen through the prism of the legal practitioner, and its countercultural participants. The intersection of counterculture and property law implicated my family in its performative narrative. My father had been a solicitor in Nimbin since 1948; his modest legal practice was conducted from the side annexe of the School of Arts. Equipped with a battered leather briefcase and a trusty portable typewriter, like clockwork, he drove the 20 miles from Lismore to Nimbin every Saturday morning. I often accompanied him on his weekly visits. Forty-one years ago, in early May 1973, we drove into town to an extraordinary sight. Seen through ten-year old eyes, surreal scenes of energy, colour, and longhaired, bare-footed young people remain vivid. At almost the exact halfway point in my father’s legal career, new ways of thinking about property rushed headlong and irrevocably into his working life. After May 1973, dinnertime conversations became very different. Gone was the mundane monopoly of mortgages, subdivisions, and cottage conveyancing. The topics now ranged to hippies, communes, co-operatives and shared ownerships. Property was no longer a dull transactional monochrome, a lifeless file bound in pink legal tape. It became an idea replete with diversity and innovation, a concept populated with interesting characters and entertaining, often quirky stories. If property is a narrative (Rose, Persuasion), then the micro-story of property on the NSW Northern Rivers became infinitely more compelling and interesting in the years after Aquarius. For the practitioner, Aquarian property involved new practices and skills: the registration of co-operatives, the drafting of shareholder deeds that regulated the use of common lands, the settling of idealistic trusts, and the ever-increasing frequency of visits to the Nimbin School of Arts every working Saturday. For the 1970s settler in Nimbin, performing Aquarian property took more direct and lived forms. It may have started by reading the open letter that festival co-organiser Graeme Dunstan wrote to the Federal Minister for Urban Affairs, Tom Uren, inviting him to Nimbin as a “holiday rather than a political duty”, and seeking his support for “a community group of 100-200 people to hold a lease dedicated to building a self-sufficient community [...] whose central design principles are creative living and ecological survival” (1). It lay in the performances at the Festival’s Learning Exchange, where ideas of philosophy, organic farming, alternative technology, and law reform were debated in free and unstructured form, the key topics of the latter being abortion and land. And as the Festival came to its conclusion, it was the gathering at the showground, titled “After Nimbin What?—How will the social and environmental experiment at Nimbin effect the setting up of alternative communities, not only in the North Coast, but generally in Australia” (Richmond River Historical Society). In the days and months after Aquarius, it was the founding of new communities such as Co-ordination Co-operative at Tuntable Creek, described by co-founder Terry McGee in 1973 as “a radical experiment in a new way of life. The people who join us […] have to be prepared to jump off the cliff with the certainty that when they get to the bottom, they will be all right” (Munro-Clark 126; Cock 121). The image of jumping off a cliff is a metaphorical performance that supposes a leap into the unknown. While orthodox concepts of property in land were left behind, discarded at the top, the Aquarian leap was not so much into the unknown, but the long forgotten. The success of those communities that survived lay in the innovative and adaptive ways in which common forms of property fitted into registered land title, a system otherwise premised on individual ownership. Achieved through the use of outside private shells—title-holding co-operatives or companies (Page)—inside the shell, the norms and practices of common property were inclusively facilitated and performed (McLaren; Rose, Futures). In 2014, the performance of Aquarian property endures, in the dozens of intentional communities in the Nimbin environs that remain a witness to the zeal and spirit of the times and its countercultural ideals. Conclusion The Aquarian idea of property had profound meaning for self, community, and the environment. It was simultaneously new and old, radical as well as ancient. It re-invented a pre-liberal, pre-enclosure idea of property. For property theory, its legacy is its imaginings of diversity, the idea that property can take pluralistic forms and assert multiple values, a defiant challenge to the dominant paradigm. Aquarian property offers rich pickings compared to the pauperised private monotone. Over 41 years ago, in the legal geography that was Nimbin, New South Wales, the imaginings of property escaped the conformity of enclosure. The Aquarian age represented a moment in “thickened time” (Braverman et al 53), when dissenting theory became practice, and the idea of property indelibly changed for a handful of serendipitous actors, the unscripted performers of a countercultural narrative faithful to its time and place. References Alexander, Gregory. Commodity & Propriety: Competing Visions of Property in American Legal Thought 1776-1970. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1999. Aquarian Archives. "Report into Facilitation of a Rural Intentional Community." Lismore, NSW: Southern Cross University. Blomley, Nicholas. Law, Space, and the Geographies of Power. New York: Guildford Press, 1994. Blomley, Nicholas. Unsettling the City: Urban Land and the Politics of Property. New York: Routledge, 2004. Blomley, Nicholas. “Performing Property, Making the World.” Social Studies Research Network 2053656. 5 Aug. 2013 ‹http://ssrn.com/abstract=2053656›. Braverman, Irus, Nicholas Blomley, David Delaney, and Sandy Kedar. The Expanding Spaces of Law: A Timely Legal Geography. Stanford: Stanford UP, 2014. Buck, Andrew. The Making of Australian Property Law. Sydney: Federation Press, 2006. Cock, Peter. Alternative Australia: Communities of the Future. London: Quartet Books, 1979. Cohen, Felix. “Dialogue on Private Property.” Rutgers Law Review 9 (1954): 357-387. Dunstan, Graeme. “A Beginning Rather than an End.” The Nimbin Good Times 27 Mar. 1973: 1. Farran, Sue. “Earth under the Nails: The Extraordinary Return to the Land.” Modern Studies in Property Law. Ed. Nicholas Hopkins. 7th edition. Oxford: Hart, 2013. 173-191. Graham, Nicole. Lawscape: Property, Environment, Law. Abingdon: Routledge, 2011. Jones, Tim, and Ian Baker. A Hard Won Freedom: Alternative Communities in New Zealand. Auckland: Hodder & Staughton, 1975. Leopold, Aldo. A Sand County Almanac with Other Essays on Conservation from Round River. New York: Ballantine Books, 1966. Lismore Regional Gallery. “Not Quite Square: The Story of Northern Rivers Architecture.” Exhibition, 13 Apr. to 2 June 2013. McLaren, John. “The Canadian Doukhobors and the Land Question: Religious Communalists in a Fee Simple World.” Land and Freedom: Law Property Rights and the British Diaspora. Eds. Andrew Buck, John McLaren and Nancy Wright. Farnham: Ashgate Publishing, 2001. 135-168. Metcalf, Bill. Co-operative Lifestyles in Australia: From Utopian Dreaming to Communal Reality. Sydney: UNSW Press, 1995. Miller, Timothy. The 60s Communes: Hippies and Beyond. Syracuse: Syracuse UP, 1999. Munro-Clark, Margaret. Communes in Rural Australia: The Movement since 1970. Sydney: Hale & Iremonger, 1986. Neeson, Jeanette M. Commoners: Common Right, Enclosure and Social Change in England, 1700-1820. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1996. Page, John. “Common Property and the Age of Aquarius.” Griffith Law Review 19 (2010): 172-196. Page, John, Ann Brower, and Johannes Welsh. “The Curious Untidiness of Property and Ecosystem Services: A Hybrid Method of Measuring Place.” Pace Environmental Law Rev. 32 (2015): forthcoming. Reich, Charles. “The New Property.” Yale Law Journal 73 (1964): 733-787. Richmond River Historical Society Archives. “After Nimbin What?” Nimbin Aquarius file, flyer. Lismore, NSW. Rose, Carol M. Property and Persuasion Essays on the History, Theory, and Rhetoric of Ownership. Boulder: Westview, 1994. Rose, Carol M. “The Several Futures of Property: Of Cyberspace and Folk Tales, Emission Trades and Ecosystems.” Minnesota Law Rev. 83 (1998-1999): 129-182. Rose, Carol M. “Canons of Property Talk, or Blackstone’s Anxiety.” Yale Law Journal 108 (1998): 601-632. Sargisson, Lucy, and Lyman Tower Sargent. Living in Utopia: New Zealand’s Intentional Communities. Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, 2004. Sax, Joseph L. Defending the Environment: A Strategy for Citizen Action. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1971. Singer, Joseph. “No Right to Exclude: Public Accommodations and Private Property.” Nw. U.L.Rev. 90 (1995): 1283-1481. Smith, Margaret, and David Crossley, eds. The Way Out: Radical Alternatives in Australia. Melbourne: Lansdowne Press, 1975. Stone, Christopher. “Should Trees Have Standing? Toward Legal Rights for Natural Objects.” Southern Cal. L. Rev. 45 (1972): 450-501. Tribe, Laurence H. “Ways Not to Think about Plastic Trees: New Foundations for Environmental Law.” Yale Law Journal 83 (1973-1974): 1315-1348. Zablocki, Benjamin. Alienation and Charisma: A Study of Contemporary American Communes. New York: Free Press, 1980.

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.

While the term “visual literacy” has grown in popularity in the last 50 years, its meaning remains nebulous. It is described variously as: a vehicle for aesthetic appreciation, a means of defence against visual manipulation, a sorting mechanism for an increasingly data-saturated age, and a prerequisite to civic inclusion (Fransecky 23; Messaris 181; McTigue and Flowers 580). Scholars have written extensively about the first three subjects but there has been less research on how visual literacy frames civic life and how it might help the public as a tool to address disadvantage and assist in removing social and cultural barriers. This article examines a forerunner to visual literacy in the push to create an international symbol language born out of popular education movements, a project that fell short of its goals but still left a considerable impression on graphic media. This article, then, presents an analysis of visual literacy campaigns in the early postwar era. These campaigns did not attempt to invent a symbolic language but posited that images themselves served as a universal language in which students could receive training. Of particular interest is how the concept of visual literacy has been mobilised as a pedagogical tool in design, digital humanities and in broader civic education initiatives promoted by Third Space institutions. Behind the creation of new visual literacy curricula is the idea that images can help anchor a world community, supplementing textual communication. Figure 1: Visual Literacy Yearbook. Montebello Unified School District, USA, 1973. Shedding Light: Origins of the Visual Literacy Frame The term “visual literacy” came to the fore in the early 1970s on the heels of mass literacy campaigns. The educators, creatives and media theorists who first advocated for visual learning linked this aim to literacy, an unassailable goal, to promote a more radical curricular overhaul. They challenged a system that had hitherto only acknowledged a very limited pathway towards academic success; pushing “language and mathematics”, courses “referred to as solids (something substantial) as contrasted with liquids or gases (courses with little or no substance)” (Eisner 92). This was deemed “a parochial view of both human ability and the possibilities of education” that did not acknowledge multiple forms of intelligence (Gardner). This change not only integrated elements of mass culture that had been rejected in education, notably film and graphic arts, but also encouraged the critique of images as a form of good citizenship, assuming that visually literate arbiters could call out media misrepresentations and manipulative political advertising (Messaris, “Visual Test”). This movement was, in many ways, reactive to new forms of mass media that began to replace newspapers as key forms of civic participation. Unlike simple literacy (being able to decipher letters as a mnemonic system), visual literacy involves imputing meanings to images where meanings are less fixed, yet still with embedded cultural signifiers. Visual literacy promised to extend enlightenment metaphors of sight (as in the German Aufklärung) and illumination (as in the French Lumières) to help citizens understand an increasingly complex marketplace of images. The move towards visual literacy was not so much a shift towards images (and away from books and oration) but an affirmation of the need to critically investigate the visual sphere. It introduced doubt to previously upheld hierarchies of perception. Sight, to Kant the “noblest of the senses” (158), was no longer the sense “least affected” by the surrounding world but an input centre that was equally manipulable. In Kant’s view of societal development, the “cosmopolitan” held the key to pacifying bellicose states and ensuring global prosperity and tranquillity. The process of developing a cosmopolitan ideology rests, according to Kant, on the gradual elimination of war and “the education of young people in intellectual and moral culture” (188-89). Transforming disparate societies into “a universal cosmopolitan existence” that would “at last be realised as the matrix within which all the original capacities of the human race may develop” and would take well-funded educational institutions and, potentially, a new framework for imparting knowledge (Kant 51). To some, the world of the visual presented a baseline for shared experience. Figure 2: Exhibition by the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum in Vienna, photograph c. 1927. An International Picture Language The quest to find a mutually intelligible language that could “bridge worlds” and solder together all of humankind goes back to the late nineteenth century and the Esperanto movement of Ludwig Zamenhof (Schor 59). The expression of this ideal in the world of the visual picked up steam in the interwar years with designers and editors like Fritz Kahn, Gerd Arntz, and Otto and Marie Neurath. Their work transposing complex ideas into graphic form has been rediscovered as an antecedent to modern infographics, but the symbols they deployed were not to merely explain, but also help education and build international fellowship unbounded by spoken language. The Neuraths in particular are celebrated for their international picture language or Isotypes. These pictograms (sometimes viewed as proto-emojis) can be used to represent data without text. Taken together they are an “intemporal, hieroglyphic language” that Neutrath hoped would unite working-class people the world over (Lee 159). The Neuraths’ work was done in the explicit service of visual education with a popular socialist agenda and incubated in the social sphere of Red Vienna at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum (Social and Economic Museum) where Otto served as Director. The Wirtschaftsmuseum was an experiment in popular education, with multiple branches and late opening hours to accommodate the “the working man [who] has time to see a museum only at night” (Neurath 72-73). The Isotype contained universalist aspirations for the “making of a world language, or a helping picture language—[that] will give support to international developments generally” and “educate by the eye” (Neurath 13). Figure 3: Gerd Arntz Isotype Images. (Source: University of Reading.) The Isotype was widely adopted in the postwar era in pre-packaged sets of symbols used in graphic design and wayfinding systems for buildings and transportation networks, but with the socialism of the Neuraths’ peeled away, leaving only the system of logos that we are familiar with from airport washrooms, charts, and public transport maps. Much of the uptake in this symbol language could be traced to increased mobility and tourism, particularly in countries that did not make use of a Roman alphabet. The 1964 Olympics in Tokyo helped pave the way when organisers, fearful of jumbling too many scripts together, opted instead for black and white icons to represent the program of sports that summer. The new focus on the visual was both technologically mediated—cheaper printing and broadcast technologies made the diffusion of image increasingly possible—but also ideologically supported by a growing emphasis on projects that transcended linguistic, ethnic, and national borders. The Olympic symbols gradually morphed into Letraset icons, and, later, symbols in the Unicode Standard, which are the basis for today’s emojis. Wordless signs helped facilitate interconnectedness, but only in the most literal sense; their application was limited primarily to sports mega-events, highway maps, and “brand building”, and they never fulfilled their role as an educational language “to give the different nations a common outlook” (Neurath 18). Universally understood icons, particularly in the form of emojis, point to a rise in visual communication but they have fallen short as a cosmopolitan project, supporting neither the globalisation of Kantian ethics nor the transnational socialism of the Neuraths. Figure 4: Symbols in use. Women's bathroom. 1964 Tokyo Olympics. (Source: The official report of the Organizing Committee.) Counter Education By mid-century, the optimism of a universal symbol language seemed dated, and focus shifted from distillation to discernment. New educational programs presented ways to study images, increasingly reproducible with new technologies, as a language in and of themselves. These methods had their roots in the fin-de-siècle educational reforms of John Dewey, Helen Parkhurst, and Maria Montessori. As early as the 1920s, progressive educators were using highly visual magazines, like National Geographic, as the basis for lesson planning, with the hopes that they would “expose students to edifying and culturally enriching reading” and “develop a more catholic taste or sensibility, representing an important cosmopolitan value” (Hawkins 45). The rise in imagery from previously inaccessible regions helped pupils to see themselves in relation to the larger world (although this connection always came with the presumed superiority of the reader). “Pictorial education in public schools” taught readers—through images—to accept a broader world but, too often, they saw photographs as a “straightforward transcription of the real world” (Hawkins 57). The images of cultures and events presented in Life and National Geographic for the purposes of education and enrichment were now the subject of greater analysis in the classroom, not just as “windows into new worlds” but as cultural products in and of themselves. The emerging visual curriculum aimed to do more than just teach with previously excluded modes (photography, film and comics); it would investigate how images presented and mediated the world. This gained wider appeal with new analytical writing on film, like Raymond Spottiswoode's Grammar of the Film (1950) which sought to formulate the grammatical rules of visual communication (Messaris 181), influenced by semiotics and structural linguistics; the emphasis on grammar can also be seen in far earlier writings on design systems such as Owen Jones’s 1856 The Grammar of Ornament, which also advocated for new, universalising methods in design education (Sloboda 228). The inventorying impulse is on display in books like Donis A. Dondis’s A Primer of Visual Literacy (1973), a text that meditates on visual perception but also functions as an introduction to line and form in the applied arts, picking up where the Bauhaus left off. Dondis enumerates the “syntactical guidelines” of the applied arts with illustrations that are in keeping with 1920s books by Kandinsky and Klee and analyse pictorial elements. However, at the end of the book she shifts focus with two chapters that examine “messaging” and visual literacy explicitly. Dondis predicts that “an intellectual, trained ability to make and understand visual messages is becoming a vital necessity to involvement with communication. It is quite likely that visual literacy will be one of the fundamental measures of education in the last third of our century” (33) and she presses for more programs that incorporate the exploration and analysis of images in tertiary education. Figure 5: Ideal spatial environment for the Blueprint charts, 1970. (Image: Inventory Press.) Visual literacy in education arrived in earnest with a wave of publications in the mid-1970s. They offered ways for students to understand media processes and for teachers to use visual culture as an entry point into complex social and scientific subject matter, tapping into the “visual consciousness of the ‘television generation’” (Fransecky 5). Visual culture was often seen as inherently democratising, a break from stuffiness, the “artificialities of civilisation”, and the “archaic structures” that set sensorial perception apart from scholarship (Dworkin 131-132). Many radical university projects and community education initiatives of the 1960s made use of new media in novel ways: from Maurice Stein and Larry Miller’s fold-out posters accompanying Blueprint for Counter Education (1970) to Emory Douglas’s graphics for The Black Panther newspaper. Blueprint’s text- and image-dense wall charts were made via assemblage and they were imagined less as charts and more as a “matrix of resources” that could be used—and added to—by youth to undertake their own counter education (Cronin 53). These experiments in visual learning helped to break down old hierarchies in education, but their aim was influenced more by countercultural notions of disruption than the universal ideals of cosmopolitanism. From Image as Text to City as Text For a brief period in the 1970s, thinkers like Marshall McLuhan (McLuhan et al., Massage) and artists like Bruno Munari (Tanchis and Munari) collaborated fruitfully with graphic designers to create books that mixed text and image in novel ways. Using new compositional methods, they broke apart traditional printing lock-ups to superimpose photographs, twist text, and bend narrative frames. The most famous work from this era is, undoubtedly, The Medium Is the Massage (1967), McLuhan’s team-up with graphic designer Quentin Fiore, but it was followed by dozens of other books intended to communicate theory and scientific ideas with popularising graphics. Following in the footsteps of McLuhan, many of these texts sought not just to explain an issue but to self-consciously reference their own method of information delivery. These works set the precedent for visual aids (and, to a lesser extent, audio) that launched a diverse, non-hierarchical discourse that was nonetheless bound to tactile artefacts. In 1977, McLuhan helped develop a media textbook for secondary school students called City as Classroom: Understanding Language and Media. It is notable for its direct address style and its focus on investigating spaces outside of the classroom (provocatively, a section on the third page begins with “Should all schools be closed?”). The book follows with a fine-grained analysis of advertising forms in which students are asked to first bring advertisements into class for analysis and later to go out into the city to explore “a man-made environment, a huge warehouse of information, a vast resource to be mined free of charge” (McLuhan et al., City 149). As a document City as Classroom is critical of existing teaching methods, in line with the radical “in the streets” pedagogy of its day. McLuhan’s theories proved particularly salient for the counter education movement, in part because they tapped into a healthy scepticism of advertisers and other image-makers. They also dovetailed with growing discontent with the ad-strew visual environment of cities in the 1970s. Budgets for advertising had mushroomed in the1960s and outdoor advertising “cluttered” cities with billboards and neon, generating “fierce intensities and new hybrid energies” that threatened to throw off the visual equilibrium (McLuhan 74). Visual literacy curricula brought in experiential learning focussed on the legibility of the cities, mapping, and the visualisation of urban issues with social justice implications. The Detroit Geographical Expedition and Institute (DGEI), a “collective endeavour of community research and education” that arose in the aftermath of the 1967 uprisings, is the most storied of the groups that suffused the collection of spatial data with community engagement and organising (Warren et al. 61). The following decades would see a tamed approach to visual literacy that, while still pressing for critical reading, did not upend traditional methods of educational delivery. Figure 6: Beginning a College Program-Assisting Teachers to Develop Visual Literacy Approaches in Public School Classrooms. 1977. ERIC. Searching for Civic Education The visual literacy initiatives formed in the early 1970s both affirmed existing civil society institutions while also asserting the need to better inform the public. Most of the campaigns were sponsored by universities, major libraries, and international groups such as UNESCO, which published its “Declaration on Media Education” in 1982. They noted that “participation” was “essential to the working of a pluralistic and representative democracy” and the “public—users, citizens, individuals, groups ... were too systematically overlooked”. Here, the public is conceived as both “targets of the information and communication process” and users who “should have the last word”. To that end their “continuing education” should be ensured (Study 18). Programs consisted primarily of cognitive “see-scan-analyse” techniques (Little et al.) for younger students but some also sought to bring visual analysis to adult learners via continuing education (often through museums eager to engage more diverse audiences) and more radical popular education programs sponsored by community groups. By the mid-80s, scores of modules had been built around the comprehension of visual media and had become standard educational fare across North America, Australasia, and to a lesser extent, Europe. There was an increasing awareness of the role of data and image presentation in decision-making, as evidenced by the surprising commercial success of Edward Tufte’s 1982 book, The Visual Display of Quantitative Information. Visual literacy—or at least image analysis—was now enmeshed in teaching practice and needed little active advocacy. Scholarly interest in the subject went into a brief period of hibernation in the 1980s and early 1990s, only to be reborn with the arrival of new media distribution technologies (CD-ROMs and then the internet) in classrooms and the widespread availability of digital imaging technology starting in the late 1990s; companies like Adobe distributed free and reduced-fee licences to schools and launched extensive teacher training programs. Visual literacy was reanimated but primarily within a circumscribed academic field of education and data visualisation. Figure 7: Visual Literacy; What Research Says to the Teacher, 1975. National Education Association. USA. Part of the shifting frame of visual literacy has to do with institutional imperatives, particularly in places where austerity measures forced strange alliances between disciplines. What had been a project in alternative education morphed into an uncontested part of the curriculum and a dependable budget line. This shift was already forecasted in 1972 by Harun Farocki who, writing in Filmkritik, noted that funding for new film schools would be difficult to obtain but money might be found for “training in media education … a discipline that could persuade ministers of education, that would at the same time turn the budget restrictions into an advantage, and that would match the functions of art schools” (98). Nearly 50 years later educators are still using media education (rebranded as visual or media literacy) to make the case for fine arts and humanities education. While earlier iterations of visual literacy education were often too reliant on the idea of cracking the “code” of images, they did promote ways of learning that were a deep departure from the rote methods of previous generations. Next-gen curricula frame visual literacy as largely supplemental—a resource, but not a program. By the end of the 20th century, visual literacy had changed from a scholarly interest to a standard resource in the “teacher’s toolkit”, entering into school programs and influencing museum education, corporate training, and the development of public-oriented media (Literacy). An appreciation of image culture was seen as key to creating empathetic global citizens, but its scope was increasingly limited. With rising austerity in the education sector (a shift that preceded the 2008 recession by decades in some countries), art educators, museum enrichment staff, and design researchers need to make a case for why their disciplines were relevant in pedagogical models that are increasingly aimed at “skills-based” and “job ready” teaching. Arts educators worked hard to insert their fields into learning goals for secondary students as visual literacy, with the hope that “literacy” would carry the weight of an educational imperative and not a supplementary field of study. Conclusion For nearly a century, educational initiatives have sought to inculcate a cosmopolitan perspective with a variety of teaching materials and pedagogical reference points. Symbolic languages, like the Isotype, looked to unite disparate people with shared visual forms; while educational initiatives aimed to train the eyes of students to make them more discerning citizens. The term ‘visual literacy’ emerged in the 1960s and has since been deployed in programs with a wide variety of goals. Countercultural initiatives saw it as a prerequisite for popular education from the ground up, but, in the years since, it has been formalised and brought into more staid curricula, often as a sort of shorthand for learning from media and pictures. The grand cosmopolitan vision of a complete ‘visual language’ has been scaled back considerably, but still exists in trace amounts. Processes of globalisation require images to universalise experiences, commodities, and more for people without shared languages. Emoji alphabets and globalese (brands and consumer messaging that are “visual-linguistic” amalgams “increasingly detached from any specific ethnolinguistic group or locality”) are a testament to a mediatised banal cosmopolitanism (Jaworski 231). In this sense, becoming “fluent” in global design vernacular means familiarity with firms and products, an understanding that is aesthetic, not critical. It is very much the beneficiaries of globalisation—both state and commercial actors—who have been able to harness increasingly image-based technologies for their benefit. To take a humorous but nonetheless consequential example, Spanish culinary boosters were able to successfully lobby for a paella emoji (Miller) rather than having a food symbol from a less wealthy country such as a Senegalese jollof or a Morrocan tagine. This trend has gone even further as new forms of visual communication are increasingly streamlined and managed by for-profit media platforms. The ubiquity of these forms of communication and their global reach has made visual literacy more important than ever but it has also fundamentally shifted the endeavour from a graphic sorting practice to a critical piece of social infrastructure that has tremendous political ramifications. Visual literacy campaigns hold out the promise of educating students in an image-based system with the potential to transcend linguistic and cultural boundaries. This cosmopolitan political project has not yet been realised, as the visual literacy frame has drifted into specialised silos of art, design, and digital humanities education. It can help bridge the “incomplete connections” of an increasingly globalised world (Calhoun 112), but it does not have a program in and of itself. Rather, an evolving visual literacy curriculum might be seen as a litmus test for how we imagine the role of images in the world. 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