Journal articles on the topic 'Hand-to-hand fighting injuries'

Purpose: To survey participants at various experience levels of different martial arts (MA) about upper extremity injuries sustained during training and fighting. Materials: A 21-s question survey was designed and utilised. The survey was divided into four groups (Demographics, Injury Description, Injury Mechanism, and Miscellaneous information) to gain knowledge about upper extremity injuries sustained during martial arts participation. Chi-square testing was utilised to assess for significant associations. Results: Males comprised 81% of respondents. Involvement in multiple forms of MA was the most prevalent (38%). The hand/wrist was the most common area injured (53%), followed by the shoulder/upper arm (27%) and the forearm/elbow (19%). Joint sprains/muscle strains were the most frequent injuries reported overall (47%), followed by abrasions/bruises (26%). Dislocations of the upper extremity were reported by 47% of participants while fractures occurred in 39%. Surgeries were required for 30% of participants. Females were less likely to require surgery and more likely to have shoulder and elbow injuries. Males were more likely to have hand injuries. Participants of Karate and Tae Kwon Do were more likely to have injuries to their hands, while participants of multiple forms were more likely to sustain injuries to their shoulders/upper arms and more likely to develop chronic upper extremity symptoms. With advanced level of training the likelihood of developing chronic upper extremity symptoms increases, and multiple surgeries were required. Hand protection was associated with a lower risk of hand injuries. Conclusion: Martial arts can be associated with substantial upper extremity injuries that may require surgery and extended time away from participation. Injuries may result in chronic upper extremity symptoms. Hand protection is important for reducing injuries to the hand and wrist.

The nature of military medical support necessarily changes in the transition from war fighting to the post-conflict phase. This paper examines the activity in the only British Military Hospital serving a multi-national divisional area in Iraq over 2004 during this post-conflict phase. Hand injuries were common and formed a large proportion of the workload seen at the military field hospital on operations. The overwhelming majority of hand trauma resulted in soft tissue injury. There was a clear predisposition to hand trauma for males, manual workers, combat soldiers and engineers/mechanics. While most hand injuries do not require surgical intervention, they impact on the effectiveness of the military population as a result of the large proportion of patients who are placed on restricted duties following hand trauma, 157 of 241 in this study, and the number of soldiers who require aeromedical evacuation for further treatment, 38 of 360 in this study. These injuries require that military surgeons and emergency physicians should be experienced in the initial management of hand trauma and hand trauma should be a core component of their training. The skills of the specialist hand surgeon may be required for definitive management of these injuries at a later stage.

Background: Multi-fragmental intra-articular middle phalanx base fractures mostly occur in young adults during sports or work-related activities. If left untreated properly proximal interphalangeal joint (PIPJ) instability and pain persists, thus impairing the hand’s function and the patient’s quality of life. Joint surface reconstruction with hamate osteochondral graft can be used for multi-fragmental middle phalanx base reconstruction. Methods: A retrospective study was conducted. The technique was used for 17 patients. Follow-up was performed at least 6 months after the surgery. Patients were asked to fulfil multiple surveys: Disabilities of the Arm, Shoulder and Hand (DASH), Patient-Rated Wrist Evaluation (PRWE) and Modern Activity Subjective Survey 2007 (MASS07). Objective measurements included strength of the power and pinch grip, range of motions (ROM) in both proximal interphalangeal and distal interphalangeal (DIPJ) joints. All measurements were taken on both hands, on operated and contralateral fingers. Results: Out of 17 patients 5 were females and 12 males, mean age 40 (ranged 22-65 years) Eleven patients agreed to participate in the follow-up. All patients were right-handed, 8 patients had injured their right hand. The injuries’ aetiologies were sports (n = 3), fighting (n = 2) and work-related (n = 4). Six patients were treated with immobilisation before the surgery, which was performed on average 45 days after the injury (ranged 1–184 days). Two patients developed arthrosis post-operatively and received synthetic joints. Mean DASH score was 6.9, PRWE score was 5.2 and mean MASS07 score was 6.8. Patients achieved on average 90% of power grip and 100% of pinch grip with their injured hand compared to their healthy hand. Average ROM in PIPJ was 82.2° and in DIPJ 68.9°. No patients experienced joint instability or chronic pain. Conclusions: Hemi-hamate arthroplasty provides satisfactory results in patients with both acute and chronic dislocated intra-articular middle phalanx base fractures.

Relevance. The job of Federal Fire-Fighting Service (FFS) officers of the State Fire-Fighting Service of the EMERCOM of Russia is among the global top 10 occupations with evident risk of health functional reserves depletion, prevalence of early occupational diseases, injuries and even death. Traditionally, investigators focus on circulatory diseases and how they affect firefighters’ occupational health.The objective is to provide research-based evidence showing that musculoskeletal and connective tissue parameters provide a reliable estimate of the health status in Russian Federal Fire-Fighting Service officers.Methodology. The authors analyzed the research papers included in the Russian Science Citation Index mostly within the last 10 years and the studies carried out at the Nikiforov Russian Center of Emergency and Radiation Medicine and at the All-Russian Research Institute for Fire Protection of the EMERCOM of Russia. Morbidity was calculated in ppm (‰), industrial injury and primary disability rates were estimated per 10,000 (×104), mortality (deaths) – per 100,000 (×105) people. The indicators dynamics was estimated based on dynamic sets of data applying the 2nd order polynomial trend; the Pearson correlation coefficient was utilized to verify consistency of the trends.Results and analysis. In 2003–2015 the average annual incidence rate of cases with labor losses (across all ICD-10 chapters of diseases) among the EMERCOM Federal Fire Service officers was (407.0 ± 30.4) ‰ which was statistically significantly lower than among the Russian armed forces officers (508.5 ± 35.6) ‰ (p < 0.05); the number of lost workdays was higher, i.e. (5139 ± 402) and (4174 ± 123) ‰ respectively (p < 0.05). Consistency in the dynamics of case number, rate of lost workdays, and day/incident ratio among firefighters and military officers is low and negative, potentially due to the impact of different factors on lost workdays rate. Assuming the macrosocial factors are identical, organisational and/or occupational factors could be the key contributors to labor losses. Rates of injuries, poisoning and other external impacts (chapter XIX in ICD-10), as well as musculoskeletal and connective tissue diseases (chapter XIII) play the leading role in morbidity dynamics among firefighters. The mortality rate among the Russian EMERCOM FFS officers with chapter XIX injuries was 8.5 times lower than that among the Russian male population, although the population cohort was 2.5 times more numerous. Occupational injury rate of (14.66 ± 2.01) • 10–4 of injuries/(firefighter • year) and firefighter fatalities (8.53 ± 0.83) • 10–5 deaths/(firefighter • year) in 2006–2020 were statistically significantly lower than among economically active working male population in Russia: (22.73 ± 2.8) • 10–4 (p < 0.01) and (13.23 ± 1.12) • 10–5 (p < 0.05) respectively. Considering the work schedule of firefighters, the annual amount of work in extreme environments was carried out within 6 months; whereas the level of industrial traumatism due to fire extinguishing and elimination of other emergency situations calculated for 12 months should be doubled, to say the least. The level of primary disability among Russian Federal Fire Service employees was (15.98 ± 0.99) • 10–4, i.e. statistically reliably lower (p < 0.001) than among the working population of Russia aged 18–44 years (25.51 ± 1.19) • 10–4. On the one hand, the data demonstrates efficient labor set-up and labor protection of the EMERCOM FFS employees, whereas disability rate among the adult population of Russia stays at a high level, on the other hand.Conclusion. Although not entirely eliminated, negative occupational impacts (i.e. diseases, injuries) can be reduced to minimal rates. Preventing the early onset of occupational diseases, especially traumas and musculoskeletal diseases, has a huge health sparing potential to ensure professional longevity of the EMERCOM FFS employees.

Relevance.Profession of firefighters is considered to refer to extreme activities, which have high risks of health disorders, injuries and even death.Intention– to analyze occupational traumatism and deaths from injuries in Russian State Fire Service (SFS) (1996–2004) and the Federal Fire Service of EMERCOM of Russia (2005–2015) employees for 20 years and to compare these data with the indicators of Russian workers.Methods.Information on occupational traumas and deaths of employees and response personnel of Russian SFS was gathered. The annual number of examined firefighters of special military ranks (officer, warrant officer, sergeant, common soldier) was (108.8 ± 6.2) thousand people, which was not less than 80 % of personnel of Russian SFS. The levels of occupational injuries, deaths from occupational injuries of Russian workers, mortality in the XIX Chapter of the International Statistical Classification of Diseases and Health Problems, 10th edition (ICD-10) of men of working age in Russia were received from the official website of the Federal Agency for Statistics. Database «FDB «Fires» was used for the distribution of fires in Russia over time periods. The dynamics of indicators of health disorders of firefighters and of fire distribution was evaluated by the method of time series analysis, which used a polynomial trend of the 2nd order.Results and Discussion.The average annual level of occupational traumatism in 20 years (1996–2015) in Russian SFS staff amounted to (3.795 ± 0.390)‰, in response staff for 1999–2015 – (5.295 ± 0.644)‰. The level of occupational traumatism among Russian workers during these periods was (3.410 ± 0.351) and (3.000 ± 0.318)‰ respectively, which is significantly less than that of the response personnel (p < 0.05). A positive statistically significant relationship between the number of injuries and combat performances (r = 0.51; p < 0.05), the number of injuries and accident rate in the staff of Russian SFS with the complexity of fire-fighting tasks and number of use of personal respiratory protection (r = 0.53 and r = 0.46, respectively, p < 0.05). The cyclical nature of risks of traumatism in response staff of Russian SFS, depending on hours of the day, days of the week and months of the year, due to the nature of combat performance and other professional factors was found. This phenomenon requires additional research. The mortality rate of SFS staff from occupational injuries in 1996–2015 was (0.125 ± 0.011)‰, response personnel – (0.149 ± 0.014)‰. The mortality rate of Russian workers was statistically significantly less (0.116 ± 0.007)‰ compared to the response personnel (p < 0.05). There are decreases in occupational traumatism and deaths from occupational injuries in SFS staff and Russian workers.Conclusion.In general, level of occupational traumatism and mortality from occupational injuries in employees and response personnel of the Russian SFS can be comparable with level revealed among the Russian workers. It indicates, on the one hand, the effective organizational and technological measures for the prevention of occupational injuries and the death of firefighters, and, on the other hand, high level of occupational traumatism of the Russian workers.

ІIn 2016, the Slobozhanska Early Medieval Archaeological Expedition has excavated the complex 16 — a pit-cellar, quite typical for sites of the forest-steppe variant of the Saltiv culture in the Siverskyi Dinets basin. The small material is also quite typical for the Saltiv population. The pottery is represented by two fragments of pithos and a fragment of an amphora handle with a neck. The kitchenware from the assemblage was a hand-made: touched up on a potter’s wheel and shaped by hand. The handle and walls of the jars of good quality were also found. The compact find of five bones of roosters tarsometatarsus from the filling of the assemblage attracts attention. This paper attempts to analyze this unique find. The role and significance of the bird in the Saltiv culture is also analyzed. The birds were of normal size, the length of the bones differs from the roosters from earlier sites as well as from some modern outbred roosters by less than 1 cm. Signs that they were fighting roosters (as a result of fights, the birds get leg injuries which remain the marks on the bones) are visible. The small number of finds of chickens in general at the sites of the Saltiv culture does not allow us to claim that they were used in the economy. Currently, this is only the second find of tarsometatarsi of roosters at the sites of the Saltiv culture (the first one comes from the so-called ritual assemblage from Mayaki). In the scientific literature, accordingly, there have been no attempts to interpret such cases. Taking into account the historiographic review of the problems of interpretation of roosters in general from archaeological sites, we come to the conclusion that the tarsometatarsus of roosters could be a symbol (amulets) of bravery and militancy, respectively, most likely, of warriors. And the act of burying this symbol (amulets) can be an act of taking away the powers of a warrior.

Driver behavior factors, including road rage factor, are often responsible for increasing traffic accidents that result in deaths, physical injuries, psychological problems, and financial losses. In order to improve traffic safety problems in our country, road rage issues related to anger-provoking situations were explored. To collect data, two questionnaire survey forms related to road rage level, traffic characteristics, and demographics of the drivers were prepared. The road rage questionnaire form included 12 questions related to popular anger-provoking situations. Six Likert scales were scored starting from 0% to 100%. Out of 600 spread forms, 463 valid forms were accepted to be analyzed. Different participants having different gender, age, education level, driving experience, vehicle type, daily travel time, vehicles’ price, traffic accidents, and the road rage history were contributed. A statistical software program (SPSS 26) was utilized to analyze the data. It was obtained that there are significant correlations among road rage-provoking anger questions and the total overall rate of the road rage. On the other hand, the results showed that male drivers are angrier than female drivers during driving. The older the drivers, the less overall road rage values were obtained. The overall road rage value decreased as the education level of the drivers raised to higher level. Driver skills had significant effects on the results of the overall road rage value of the drivers in which the drivers having 4 to 6 years of driving license were angrier than the other drivers, while drivers having driving license more than 6 years had the less feeling of anger during driving. Regarding types of vehicles, the bus, taxi, and then truck drivers had more overall road rage values than PC and SUV drivers. As the drivers traveled more distances, the obtained results of the overall road rage values became greater. The drivers who have high-price vehicles were angrier than those have low-price vehicles. The Drivers’ accident history did not significantly relate to overall road rage values. In addition, the drivers who did not have any road rage history in their real life had the smallest overall road rage values; while those drivers faced physical fighting and engaged police stations due to road rage problems had the greatest overall road rage value.

Fighting the threat of possible assimilation of the Ukrainian ethnic group combined with the necessity for successful socio-economic integration into the multiethnic Canadian society, on the one hand, and the need for Uk-rainian women to protect their rights on the other hand, prompted Ukrainian Canadian women to establish the UCC (– UCC – Ukrainian Canadian Congress) (Ukrainian Women’s Association of Canada) in 1926. Founded as a voluntary association to overcome illiteracy and to provide mutual assi¬stance in the adaptation of emigrant women and their families, the UCC has over time developed into a full-fledged public organization with a wide range of activity. This became possible due to the well-organized work of the leadership of the Ukrainian Women’s Association of Canada and the change of attitude towards gender equality. One of the important tasks of the Associa¬tion was the fostering of an educated nationally conscious mother and public person, educator of the younger generation, guardian of her religion and traditional customs. In addition to education and art events, the Ukrainian Women’s Association of Canada also organized assistance to the Ukrainian liberation movement by collecting donations to help political prisoners and injured soldiers of the Ukrainian army and shaping the public position and national consciousness of Ukrainian women. Publications in calendars and almanacs of the 1920’s–1930’s clearly testify to the great work done by the Ukrainian Women’s Association of Canada. It was a self-sufficient multi-level organization that effectively encouraged Ukrainian women to work sys¬tematically in the community and their family. Keywords: Ukrainian diaspora of Canada, women’s movement, Ukrainian Women’s Association of Canada, liberals, calendars, “Ukrainian Voice”.

In Indonesia, da’wah activities have been implemented in various ways, including mountaineering. However, data showed that many mountain hikers in Indonesia had been seriously injured (even died) due to a lack of knowledge and preparation for hiking. This article aimed to analyze the goals of mountain hiking and fulfilling the reproductive health conducted by Pendaki Hijabers community members. The authors used a phenomenological approach with a descriptive-analytical type of qualitative research. The research was conducted at Mount Merapi and Prau Dieng, Indonesia, from 2019 until 2020 with 25 informants. The data were analyzed using Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination against Women (CEDAW) and Maqāşid al-Syarī'ah theory. The results showed that the goals of Pendaki Hijabers community activities varied, such as meditation on nature, exploration of nature verses ‘āyāt kauniyah’, da’wah through mountaineering, deepening mountaineering skills, eliminating negative stereotypes of hijab, ideological deconstruction of society through the hijab, and fighting developmentalism through social service, sport, education, and religious activities. Based on the CEDAW review, mountaineering for women, on the one hand, had a positive impact on psychology because it can eliminate double burden concepts and negative stereotypes for women. On the other hand, mountain hiking has a potential negative impact on women's reproductive health because luggage is too heavy, hiking during menstruation, and consumption of food and drinks that are not ideal. Based on the Maqāşid al-Syarī'ah review, mountaineering activities supported ḥifẓ dīn ‘safeguarding the religion’ because they are oriented towards the da’wah of Islam. But, mountaineering that does not pay attention to aspects of reproductive health potentially harms the goals of sharia in the form of ḥifẓ nafs ‘safeguarding the soul’ and ḥifẓ nasal ‘safeguarding offspring’.

In this study the author indicates the main problems that appeared in Poland as a result of the opening of borders after the transition to a new economic and political system launched in 1989. The list is headed by offenses committed by foreign nationals, smuggling activities, illegal crossing of frontiers, and population movements, especially from very low-income countries. Border crime is defined here as both illegal border crossing, customs and currency offenses, forgery of documents and crime againts institutions. Border crime can be examined in a large numer of aspects as offenses which ere a threat to fundamental public policy interests. The crux of the matter lies in the motives and aims of the perpetrator. When we refer to border crime we have in mind the kind of offenses that are associated with cross-border movement of persons and objects involved in an illegal activity The commission of offenses falling into this category is not confined solely to border regions. The area of operations of criminals of this kind may be the whole of a country. Border crime is crime of a special kind. Its effects and in particular its further consequences are not always visible. Nor in all such cases is there an injured party, though it should be noted that serious harm may be suffered by people smuggled across borders and that injury is caused to victims of smuggling-related car theft. It is worth drawing attention to the etiology of this kind of crime. Among the internal influences contributing to its growth should be included the closure or collapse of workplaces, state farms and industrial enterprises, especially along Poland’s eastern border, and the consequent rise in unemployment. In recent years there has been a notable decline in the public’s standard of living, which has prompted some of them to seek alternative or additional sources of income.With increasing frequency people set their sights on swift multiplication of wealth and see in smuggling, for instance, a relatively simple and low-risk way of making money. It is worth noting a judicial tendency towards unduly lenient treatment of perperators of border crime and to hand down light sentences (most glaringly, for organizacion of illegal border crossing). Another development has been a steep rise in the incidence of pathological phenomena among officials, such as forgery or falsification of documents, bribery or entry into the structures of criminal groups. Much more dangerous are the external factors driving border crime, such as steadily worsening economic decline in parts o fthe Middle East, Asia and the former Soviet Union and rising unemployment and inflation in the countries concerned. Other causes are wars, national, ethnic and religious conflicts and the inadequacy of the technical protection of frontiers. Not without significance is the continuing demand in the East for cars of Western make and the possibility of legalizing their acquisition if they have been stolen. There has also been an intensification of corrupt practices among public officials with an influence on the state of national security and inviolability of frontiers (especially among the border guard forces in Belarus and Ukraine). Also conducive to the growth of crime is the further organization and specialization of criminal groups pursuing activities on both sides of the frontier. The author also offers a detailed picture of selected types of border crime. Her study centers on the legal and criminological aspects of the crime of illegal entry. She indicates the methods of committing this crime employed by its perpetrators at both border crossings and along smuggling routes. She depicts the mechanisms involved in the smuggling of persons with particular emphasis on the role played in such trafficking by organized criminal groups. Another criminal activity worth attention is smuggling, chiefly of liquor, cigarettes, cars, drugs, animals, guns, etc. This crime is a threat to the economic interests of the state which incurs significant losses of revenue in this respect. The author brings out the complex, underground modus operandi of the criminals involved and stresses the prominence in this illicit activity of organized criminal groups. The data illustrating border crime points to the continued persistence of threats from illegal immigration into Poland, including in many cases in organized forms, and its transformation from a transit to a destination country. Because of the unabating demand in the former Soviet republics for Western cars rhe organizers of smuggling rings will probably develop more sophisticated methods of falsifying the documents of cars (mostly luxury models) stolen in West-European countries. As at present there will be continued smuggling, both by individuals and in organized forms (of considerable value per consignment), of liquor into Poland and of cigarettes bound for Poland and Germany. Intensification of attempts to corrupt the personnel (including senior officers) of watchtowers and border crossings. The most important role in prevention and suppression of border crime is played by Border Guard personnel. More and more often they are equipped with modern equipment for X-raying baggage and carry out passport checks by means of readers connected to a computer database. Border Guard personel also engage in operations outside the border zone and conduct searches of dwellings and premises belonging to the organizers of illegal cross-border traffic. Not infrequently they face an increased element of risk. Criminals often possess firearms, gas and other dangerous implements. Hence the importance of specialist training, physical fitness, unarmed combat skills and the ability to handle weapons. An important erement in fighting border crime is cooperation with other public institutions. Preventive action and operational, surveillance and investigative measures aimed at improving the state of security and public order and detection and expulsion of foreign nationals who have entered Poland illegally are carried out in the border zone in collaboration with the police. Because of the nature or its responsibilities and the international connections of criminal groups the Border Guard maintains day-to-day liaison with its counterparts in other countries. Among the most important areas of cooperation between the border authorities of European Union members, Central and East European countries, the United States and Canada are interchange of information about tasks, structures, jurisdictions, powers and problems relating to cross-border traffic and border crime and interaction in operational and investigative activities. There is a particularly successful record of cooperarion with the German authorities (specifically the BGS). It is worth stressing that amendmends to the Border Guard Act adopted in 2001 provide for its equipment with additional powers for combating corruption, including operational oversight, „sting” operations, the offering or acceptance of bribes, and imposes on Border Guard personnel and employees the requirement to file declarations of assets. The powers in question could be a significant boost to the prevention and suppression of border crime.

The paper is a continuation of the previous analyses of penal policy pursued by Polish courts. The directions and shape of penal policy are the resultant of many different elements. Analysed in the present paper is the impact on that policy of changes in: penal law; detected crime; and some characteristics of the population of convicted persons. The 1980s abounded in far-reaching changes of penal legislation. In the years 1980-1981, the tremendous “Solidarity” movement failed to bring about a penal law reform despite the fact that its representatives started intensive work toward that aim, preparing and stimulating others to prepare drafts of such reform. The imposition of martial law secured continued power to the communists; its social costs, however, were extremely high. An item on the bill society were forced to pay was the inclusion into penal law of many elements typical of the law of war which aggravated criminal responsibility. Thus (1) the competence of military courts was extended to various categories of civilians; (2) the application of special modes of procedure was introduced or extended, including the single-instance summary proceedings; (3) many statutory penalties were aggravated; (4) many different categories of acts were penalized which had not been punishable before, including in particular pursuit of trade union activities and organization of strikes and protests; (5) internment was introduced as an administrative form of preventive deprivation of liberty. The abrogation of martial law resulted in removal of most but not all of the above aggravations. A new tide of severe provisions came with the acts of May 1985 which in fact created a new “martial law” in penal law. It consisted in: (1) extension of applicability of the existing and introduction of new “simplified” modes of procedure which involved limitation of the defendant’s right to defence; (2) aggravation of the statutory penalties for many acts; (3) vast extension of the application of additional penalties; (4) limitation of the applicability of suspended sentences; (5) exclusion of conditional release of multiple recidivists; (6) extension of the conditions of withdrawal of parole. Therefore, penal policy was shifted twice towards aggravation in the 1980s, the first such shift was made in 1982 and continued with reduced force throughout 1983, and the second one taking place in the years 1985‒1988. Departure from the over-punitive penal law of People’s Republic of Poland started in 1989 with the emergence of the new political order which created the initial conditions for the building of the Third Republic. In 1989, just the first steps were made, followed by few farther in the years 1990‒1991, towards changing the contens of penal law and reforming the most glaring effects of its abuse. Such steps met with immense difficulties. The attachment to former penal law proved strong: to penal law with indefinite statutory features of situences, with severe penalties which could be accumulated and imposed in the conditions of far-reaching limitation of the right to defence or even by default. According to an opinion often expressed in official statements, penal policy was to be determined first and foremost by the state of crime. The extent and trends of crime in general and of the separate offences were to “force” the authorities accordingly to shape penal policy. The incessantly growing threat to public order and citizens’ safety, and to social property in particular, was to justify the need for aggravated and accumulated penalties. Also penal lawyers who noticed the direct relationship between crime and punishment tended ‒ and still tend today for that matter ‒ to suppose that an identical relationship can be found between crime as a mass phenomenon and punishment as a proces of distribution of condemnations through the imposition of penalties by courts. Yet whatever the relations between punishment ‒ its severity in particular ‒ and crime, they are in fact very weak indeed. This is shown by facts: crime comparable as to extent and gravity meets with most different punishment in different countries. A growth in crime sometimes leaves penal policy unchanged, and at other times results in its aggravation or mitigation; similar are the effects of a decrease in crime. Poland is a good example here: in the 1970s, detected crime was on the decrease but penal policy gained in strictness; in the 1980s, crime went up and the aggravation of penal policy continued. In the first of those decades, the decrease in crime was said to have resulted from the particular shape of penal policy pursued then; in the next one, the need forstrict penal policy was argued to follow from the growth in crime. Never mentioned, instead, was a trend of crime which would actually justify a mitigation of penal policy. As we know, the extent and also largely the structure of detected crime, that is of crime recorded by the police, is the resultant of many different organizational, legal, and often also political factors. The real extent and structure of crime can hardly be seen through that screen, and its picture is often distorted. In the former “socialist” states, the extent of crime was a political issue: generally speaking, it shaped the way the authorities expected it to shape. During the 1970s and even in 1980, the number of detected offences ‒ those confirmed in preparatory proceedings ‒ was 320‒350 thousand a year. Starting from 1981, it went up rapidly to 540 thousand in 1984. For the next few years, it was falsely kept at a similar or even somewhat lower level which was to manifest the effectiveness of the drastic statutes of May 1985. Early in the 1990s, the situation was changed radically: the extent of detected crime was no longer perceived as a political issue regulated as the authorities requested. In the years 1990‒1992, the number of detected offences became stabilized at 860‒880 thousand a year. It is believed to have actually gone up, and it no doubt did go up in the economy-related spheres: the real number of offences against foreign currency and customs regulations, tax offences, frauds, embezzlements etc. was indeed greater. III. The above-mentioned growth in the number of detected offences was hardly reflected in the numer of persons found guilty in criminal proceedings. There were about 200 thousand such persons a year, and the numer only went down in years when amnesty laws were passed. Penal legislation provides for different penalties for the separate offences. Therefore, in order to appraise the enhanced or reduced severity of penal policy, it is important to investigate any possible changes in the proportions of those offences throughout the 1980s. In the years 1980‒1991, convictions for crimes (where the statutory penalty is deprivation of liberty for at least 3 years) regularly amounted to 3‒4%, and those for the more serious offences (statutory pelalty of at least 1 or 2 years imprisonment) – to 19‒31%. In the early half of the 1980s, there was a shift towalds a greater proportion of convictions for the less serious offences. The opposite trend could be noticed in the latter half of the decade. Generally speaking, the bulk of convicted persons were guilty of less and less serious offences during the discussed decade, the proportion of convictions for serious crimes remaining rather stable in that period. This trend could be noticed under the statutes of May 1985 which shows how unrelated they were to the real situation in the sphere of crime, and how much they depended on other factors such as e.g. the ruling elites’ desire to have their revenge on society for the events of 1980-1981. The situation changed in the years 1989‒1991 when the proportion of persons convicted for the more serious offences started to go up rapidly. This sole element considered – that is, the structure of crime – were penal policy stable throughout the years l980‒1988, there should have been more and more sentences to penalties not involving deprivation of liberty, and the length of inprisonment should have been reduced. In the years 1989‒1991, instead, a greater number of longer immediate prison sentences could be expected. The most severe, of all penalties provided for by Polish law is capitol puishment. In the years 1981‒1982, there were 3‒4 valid sentences to that pe- nalty a year, the number going up to a dozen or so in the years 1984‒1986. The common courts imposed death penalty for homicide only. Since 1988, not a single valid sentence to death has been imposed by those courts (though it was imposed by invalid sentences in isolated cases). This de facts abolition can be hoped to persist, especially as the new draft penal code does not provide for capital punishment. The death penalty has first of all a symbolic sense; it is difficult to say why the authorities insisted on rejecting all the postulates for its abolition. Instead, the basic instrument that determines the punitiveness of the Polish penal system is unconditional deprivation of liberty. Penal policy of the 1970s had few good points; one of them was a limitation of the use of that penalty, noticeable at the end of the decade. This trend was further intensified in 1981 when 19% of those found guilty were sentenced to immediate imprisonment. Under martial law and in the period of its suspension, there was a slight shift away from that policy (2l‒22%). It was finally abandoned in the years 1984‒1986: in 1986, 30% of those found guilty were sentenced to immediate inprisonment. In 1988, the policy-makers came back to their senses, and re-orientation of penal policy was started: sentenced to immediate imprisonment were 21% of those found guilty. This proportion went further down to 18% in 1989, but then proceeded to rise again in the years 1990‒1991 (19‒20%). The above-mentioned change in the structure of crime in those years considered, this fact cannot possibly be seen as evidencing the aggravation of penal policy. The imposition of unconditional deprivation of liberty evolved in a way that is worth mentioning here. In the latter half of the 1970s, the number of sentences to that penalty became stabilized at 190-200 per 100 thousand of adults, a great improvement compared to the early half of that decade (228‒273 per 100 thousand of adults). In the 1980s, the number of unconditional prison sentences went further down to about 150 per 100 thousand of adults, barring the period of validity of the acts of May 1985 when it again exceeded 200. Thus on the whole, the range of imposition of immediate impressonment was further reduced – a most satisfactory development. As regards the length of that penalty, that is the term to be spent in prison, there has been little improvement. Prison terms of under 1 year, considered short in Poland, still constitute a mere 8‒13% of all sentences to unconditional deprivation of liberty. Thus nearly 180 persons per 100 thousand of adults in the years of validity of the statuts of May 1985, and about 130-140 in the other years were sentenced to prison terms of at least one year, the number only going down to somewhat less than 100 in the years when amnesty laws were passed. Instead, the incidence of sentences to long prison terms of at least 3 years remained relatively stable: sentenced to that penalty were 30‒40 persons per 100 thousand of adults. The length of sentences can also be considered from a different angle, i.e. that of the average length of the discussed penalty. In the years 1980‒1991 the average length of unconditional prison term was practically unchanged and amounted to 24‒25 months (barring the year 1985 when it nearly reached 27 months). Therefore, the following trend emerped: the imposition of immediate imprisonment is gradually limited but its average length remains at a practically unchanged level. It is an extremely high level at that, the fact considered that the bulk of offences for which the Polish offenders were convicted involved the lower statutory penalty of 6 months deprivation of liberty at most. Of the greatest importance among the reactions to an offence which do not involve deprivation of liberty in Poland is the penalty of conditional deprivation of liberty. Its incidence went up rapidly under martial law (from 29% in 1980 to 37% in 1982) and remained at a high level for the next few years. It is only recently that the proportion of such sentences has been reduced to its original level. There is a great variety of shapes this particular penalty can assume: it can be combined with fine, supervision, and various duties imposed on the person sentenced to that penalty, and also with additional penalties and payment to the injured person or for a public purpose. In the years 1980‒1984, it was very often combined with fine (7l‒78% of cases). This proportion went down in the next years (to 55‒60%) which was however accompanied by an unusual growth in the imposition of additional penalties, such as in particular confiscation of property and forfeiture of things, and also of payment to the injured personor for a public purpose. In the years 1989‒1991, that is after abrogation of the states of May 1985, the proportion of cases where fine was imposed together with conditional deprivation of liberty again went up to two thirds of all cases of imposition of that penalty. (The amount of fines will be discussed further on). The penalty of limitation of liberty, introduced by tle 1969 penal code, had some problems fighting its way into the practice of criminal justice. In the latter half of the 1970s, though, its proportion among the bulk of penal measures became stabilized at 12‒14%. The same trend could be noticed in the years 1980‒1981. The aggravation of criminal responsibility under martial law resulted in reduction of sentences to that penalty (to as low a level as 7% in 1984). Instead, the next aggravation introduced by the statutes of May 1985 led to a growth in both the number and proportion of sentences to limitation of liberty. Surprising as it may seem at first sight this development can be explained by the fact that by force of the provisions adopted in 1985, that penalty could be imposed in proceedings by penal order, i.e. in the absence of the defendant. His objection to the decision admittedly rendered the order invalid, but he was not protected by the ban on reformatio in peius. In the years 1989–1991 the proportion of limitation of liberty in the bulk of penal measures imposed went down to the extent of rendering that penalty unimportant. In 1989, it was imposed on 7.4% of those found guilty; in 1990 – on 3.5%; and in l991 – on a mere 2.7%. In the 1990s, the relative incidence of imposition of the separate forms of that penalty started to change rapidly. Deduction from the remmeration for work was imposed on 53% of persons sentenced to limitation of liberty in 1989, on 38% in 1990, and on 21% in 1991. Unpaid supervised work came to the foreground (34, 56, and 78% respectively) while referral of the convicted person to work practically disappeared (l3, 6 and, 1% respectively). Fine as a self-standing penalty has never been extensively imposed in Poland as opposed to the situation in many other penal systems, the West European ones in particular. Late in ten 1970s, the proportion of fines became stabilized at 11–13% and remained unchanged throughout the early half of the 1980s. It then proceeded to go up a little in the years 1986–1988 (15–16%), and stopped at 13–15% in the years 1989–1991. The proportion of fines can be expected to grow in the future, mainly at the sacrifice of conditional deprivation of liberty combined with fine. As important as the length of a prison term is the amount of a fine imposed. The repressiveness of fines can be appraised through reference to the average monthly wages in socialized economy. Compared to them, the average fines under the 1969 code evolved significantly. The use of fines was intensified in two parallel ways. First, their imposition together with deprivation of liberty grew more and more frequent (up to 69% of all persons sentenced to a prison term in 1980). Second, the amount of fine was raised (to 2.5 times the monthly wages in 1980). Important changes in this respect took place in the 1980s. In the early half of the decade, the accumulation of fines with deprivation of liberty was further extended (to 75% of prison terms in 1984). On the other hand, the relative amount of fines went down (to about 1,5 times the monthly wages in socialized economy). This situation changed radically with the introduction of the statues of May 1985 which involved a drastic raise in the amount of fines (in the years 1986–1987, to about 4 times the average monthly wages in the case of fines as additional penalties combined with deprivation of liberty, and to 2.5 times – in the case of self-standing fines). A next far-reaching change took place in the years 1989–1991. The relative amount of fine went down to about 0.5 time the monthly wages – a considerable reduction of repressiveness, even the general impoverishment of society considered. One of the penal measures introduced by the 1969 penal code is conditional discontinuance of criminal proceedings. It can be applied to first offenders guilty of the less serious acts whose guilt is self-evident. The measure was appllied by the public prosecutor in nearly 90% of cases, and by the court in about l0% of cases only. Like unconditional deprivation of liberty, conditional discontinuance of proceedings can be seen as a specific gauge of aggravation or mitigation of penal policy. With growing severity of that policy, the proportion of persons sentenced to unconditional prison terms goes up, and that of conditionally discontinued proceedings goes down. Is penal policy mitigated, the above proportions are reversed. In the years 1981, 1988, and 1989–1991, proceedings were conditionally discontinued in 24–30% of cases where the suspect was found guilty. Under the special martial law legislation, the proportion was 19–20%, and under the acts of May 1985 – 16–19%. The remaining penal measures, that is additional penalty imposed as the main one, application of educational or corrective measures to persons aged 17 and guilty of misdemeanours, and renouncement of carrying out of the sentence, were used extremely seldom in spite of the considerable possibility of their application (the first two in particular). In the days when those in charge of criminal justice aimed at aggravation of responsibility, there was little room for its mitigation with the use of such measures. The years l980–1988 were characterized first and foremost by a tendency to aggravate penalties. After a short break in 1981, that tendency continued until 1989 when the first changes coul be noticed. In both cases, the period of reorientation of penal policy was too short to yield any farther-reaching changes. In the structure of penal measures, the aggravation of responsibility was expressed mainly in the growing proportion of sentendes to immediate imprisonment and the limited use of conditional discontinuance of proceedings and limitation of liberty when no special procedural provisions incited the use of those measures. The penal policy pursued in the years 1989-1991 was deeply rooted in the practices of people’s Republic of Poland; to be more exact, the trends of that period still today if in a mitigated form. The 1989–1991 mitigation took place on different planes: the legal one, through removal of the specially punitive and glaringly unjust provisions, on the plane of application of law through many small mitigations of penalties which add to a significant whole, and also through a radical reform of prison policy. But the actual mitigation does not go beyond the achievements of “Solidarity” of 1981. As a result, too many and too long sentences of immediate imprisonment are still imposed, and penal measures (imprisonment and fine in particular) are too often accumulated. Briefly speaking, Poland still has the style of punishming shaped after the penal code in force and its interpretation made in the 1970s. A radical abolition of this style and mitigatin of penalties still remains to be done, although the first steps have already been made by now (the virtual abolition of the death penalty and reduction of the amount of fines).

Background: Injuries are a significant public health issue and a leading cause of morbidity and mortality among adolescents. This study aimed to observe the incidence and risk factors of injury among urban adolescent students. Methods: The study was conducted at Dhanmondi high school in Dhaka, Bangladesh, from January to June 2018. A total of 325 students were purposefully selected for the study. The prevalence of injury, the pattern of injury, the socioeconomic and demographic characteristics, and the proportion of social determinants of injury were estimated. Results: 60% of the participants reported an injury in the last 6 months, with moderate injuries being the most common (63.59%). Seeking care was through visiting a doctor (28.72%) or hospital (33.33%). Most injuries occurred at home (33.33%) or in an institution of education (31.28%). The most common site of injury was the hand (39.49%) and the most common mode was sudden attack or fighting (28.21%). A significant association was found between injury occurrence and sex, grade of students, and age of students, but not with monthly income, education level of the father, occupation of the mother, or number of family members. Conclusions: The most prevalent risk factors for injury were fighting, violating traffic laws, and taking risks while getting into a vehicle. These factors were also statistically significant predictors of injury occurrence. The findings suggest a need for targeted injury prevention programs to address these risk factors among urban adolescent students in Bangladesh.

Abstract Background The second and third metacarpals are firmly attached, immobile structures which for the stable pillar of the hand. The trapezoid has been described as the keystone of the wrist, allowing a wide range of functional motion as well as inherent anatomic and biomechanical stability to the carpus. Case Description We describe a novel boxing injury with a 180-degree in situ dislocation of the right trapezoid with concomitant second and third carpometacarpal (CMC) joint dislocations. Open anatomic reduction of the trapezoid was obtained, and subsequent percutaneous pinning of the metacarpals allowed for a full functional recovery and return to sports at 6 months. Literature Review Combined trapezoid and CMC dislocations are extremely rare and have only been previously described in high-energy mechanism injuries, involving a direct dorsal force such as from the steering wheel in a motor vehicle collision. There are no previous reports of this injury occurring in the setting of direct axial load along the metacarpals in a clenched fist such as in a punch or fighting injury. Clinical Relevance The rare nature of this combined injury, its novel mechanism, and the difficulty in interpreting acute injury and postreduction radiographs require that the treating physician have a high degree of clinical suspicion for associated injuries when CMC dislocations are identified. Treatment strategies incorporating intraoperative fluoroscopy, open anatomic reduction of the trapezoid under direct visualization along with closed reduction, and pinning of the metacarpals reestablish carpal stability and provide excellent long-term results.

IntroductionWhat can we learn about anomaly from the strangeness of a puppet, a lifeless object, that can both bleed and die? How does the filming process of a puppet’s death engage across media and produce a new media genre that is not easily classified within traditional conventions? Why do these fighting and bleeding puppets’ scenes consistently attract audiences? This study examines how Pili puppetry (1984-present), a popular TV series depicting martial arts-based narratives and fight sequences, interacts with digital technologies and constructs a new media genre. The transmedia constitution of a virtual world not only challenges the stereotype of puppetry’s target audience but also expands the audience’s bodily imagination and desires through the visual component of death scenes. Hence, the show does not merely represent or signify an anomaly, but even creates anomalous desires and imaginary bodies.Cultural commodification and advancing technologies have motivated the convergence and displacement of traditional boundaries, genres, and media, changing the very fabric of textuality itself. By exploring how new media affect the audience’s visual reception of fighting and death, this article sheds light on understanding the metamorphoses of Taiwanese puppetry and articulates a theoretical argument regarding the show’s artistic practice to explain how its form transverses traditional boundaries. This critical exploration focusses on how the form represents bleeding puppets, and in doing so, explicates the politics of transmedia performing and viewing. Pili is an example of an anomalous media form that proliferates anomalous media viewing experiences and desires in turn.Beyond a Media Genre: Taiwanese Pili PuppetryConverging the craft technique of puppeteering and digital technology of filmmaking and animation, Pili puppetry creates a new media genre that exceeds any conventional idea of a puppet show or digital puppet, as it is something in-between. Glove puppetry is a popular traditional theatre in Taiwan, often known as “theatre in the palm” because a traditional puppet was roughly the same size as an adult’s palm. The size enabled the puppeteer to easily manipulate a puppet in one hand and be close to the audience. Traditionally, puppet shows occurred to celebrate the local deities’ birthday. Despite its popularity, the form was limited by available technology. For instance, although stories with vigorous battles were particularly popular, bleeding scenes in such an auspicious occasion were inappropriate and rare. As a live theatrical event featuring immediate interaction between the performer and the spectator, realistic bleeding scenes were rare because it is hard to immediately clean the stage during the performance. Distinct from the traditional puppet show, digital puppetry features semi-animated puppets in a virtual world. Digital puppetry is not a new concept by any means in the Western film industry. Animating a 3D puppet is closely associated with motion capture technologies and animation that are manipulated in a digitalised virtual setting (Ferguson). Commonly, the target audience of the Western digital puppetry is children, so educators sometimes use digital puppetry as a pedagogical tool (Potter; Wohlwend). With these young target audience in mind, the producers often avoid violent and bleeding scenes.Pili puppetry differs from digital puppetry in several ways. For instance, instead of targeting a young audience, Pili puppetry consistently extends the traditional martial-arts performance to include bloody fight sequences that enrich the expressiveness of traditional puppetry as a performing art. Moreover, Pili puppetry does not apply the motion capture technologies to manipulate the puppet’s movement, thus retaining the puppeteers’ puppeteering craft (clips of Pili puppetry can be seen on Pili’s official YouTube page). Hence, Pili is a unique hybrid form, creating its own anomalous space in puppetry. Among over a thousand characters across the series, the realistic “human-like” puppet is one of Pili’s most popular selling points. The new media considerably intervene in the puppet design, as close-up shots and high-resolution images can accurately project details of a puppet’s face and body movements on the screen. Consequently, Pili’s puppet modelling becomes increasingly intricate and attractive and arguably makes its virtual figures more epic yet also more “human” (Chen). Figure 1: Su Huan-Jen in the TV series Pili Killing Blade (1993). His facial expressions were relatively flat and rigid then. Reproduced with permission of Pili International Multimedia Company.Figure 2: Su Huan-Jen in the TV series Pili Nine Thrones (2003). The puppet’s facial design and costume became more delicate and complex. Reproduced with permission of Pili International Multimedia Company.Figure 3: Su Huan-Jen in the TV series Pili Fantasy: War of Dragons (2019). His facial lines softened due to more precise design technologies. The new lightweight chiffon yarn costumes made him look more elegant. The multiple-layer costumes also created more space for puppeteers to hide behind the puppet and enact more complicated manipulations. Reproduced with permission of Pili International Multimedia Company.The design of the most well-known Pili swordsman, Su Huan-Jen, demonstrates how the Pili puppet modelling became more refined and intricate in the past 20 years. In 1993, the standard design was a TV puppet with the size and body proportion slightly enlarged from the traditional puppet. Su Huan-Jen’s costumes were made from heavy fabrics, and his facial expressions were relatively flat and rigid (fig. 1). Pili produced its first puppetry film Legend of the Sacred Stone in 2000; considering the visual quality of a big screen, Pili refined the puppet design including replacing wooden eyeballs and plastic hair with real hair and glass eyeballs (Chen). The filmmaking experience inspired Pili to dramatically improve the facial design for all puppets. In 2003, Su’s modelling in Pili Nine Thrones (TV series) became noticeably much more delicate. The puppet’s size was considerably enlarged by almost three times, so a puppeteer had to use two hands to manipulate a puppet. The complex costumes and props made more space for puppeteers to hide behind the puppet and enrich the performance of the fighting movements (fig. 2). In 2019, Su’s new modelling further included new layers of lightweight fabrics, and his makeup and props became more delicate and complex (fig. 3). Such a refined aesthetic design also lends to Pili’s novelty among puppetry performances.Through the transformation of Pili in the context of puppetry history, we see how the handicraft-like puppet itself gradually commercialised into an artistic object that the audience would yearn to collect and project their bodily imagination. Anthropologist Teri Silvio notices that, for some fans, Pili puppets are similar to worship icons through which they project their affection and imaginary identity (Silvio, “Pop Culture Icons”). Intermediating with the new media, the change in the refined puppet design also comes from the audience’s expectations. Pili’s senior puppet designer Fan Shih-Ching mentioned that Pili fans are very involved, so their preferences affect the design of puppets. The complexity, particularly the layer of costumes, most clearly differentiates the aesthetics of traditional and Pili puppets. Due to the “idolisation” of some famous Pili characters, Shih-Ching has had to design more and more gaudy costumes. Each resurgence of a well-known Pili swordsman, such as Su Huan-Jen, Yi Ye Shu, and Ye Hsiao-Chai, means he has to remodel the puppet.Pili fans represent their infatuation for puppet characters through cosplay (literally “costume play”), which is when fans dress up and pretend to be a Pili character. Their cosplay, in particular, reflects the bodily practice of imaginary identity. Silvio observes that most cosplayers choose to dress as characters that are the most visually appealing rather than characters that best suit their body type. They even avoid moving too “naturally” and mainly move from pose-to-pose, similar to the frame-to-frame techne of animation. Thus, we can understand this “cosplay more as reanimating the character using the body as a kind of puppet rather than as an embodied performance of some aspect of self-identity” (Silvio 2019, 167). Hence, Pili fans’ cosplay is indicative of an anomalous desire to become the puppet-like human, which helps them transcend their social roles in their everyday life. It turns out that not only fans’ preference drives the (re)modelling of puppets but also fans attempt to model themselves in the image of their beloved puppets. The reversible dialectic between fan-star and flesh-object further provokes an “anomaly” in terms of the relationship between the viewers and the puppets. Precisely because fans have such an intimate relationship with Pili, it is important to consider how the series’ content and form configure fans’ viewing experience.Filming Bleeding PuppetsDespite its intricate aesthetics, Pili is still a series with frequent fighting-to-the-death scenes, which creates, and is the result of, extraordinary transmedia production and viewing experiences. Due to the market demand of producing episodes around 500 minutes long every month, Pili constantly creates new characters to maintain the audience’s attention and retain its novelty. So far, Pili has released thousands of characters. To ensure that new characters supersede the old ones, numerous old characters have to die within the plot.The adoption of new media allows the fighting scenes in Pili to render as more delicate, rather than consisting of loud, intense action movements. Instead, the leading swordsmen’s death inevitably takes place in a pathetic and romantic setting and consummates with a bloody sacrifice. Fighting scenes in early Pili puppetry created in the late 1980s were still based on puppets’ body movements, as the knowledge and technology of animation were still nascent and underdeveloped. At that time, the prestigious swordsman mainly relied on the fast speed of brandishing his sword. Since the early 1990s, as animation technology matured, it has become very common to see Pili use CGI animation to create a damaging sword beam for puppets to kill target enemies far away. The sword beam can fly much faster than the puppets can move, so almost every fighting scene employs CGI to visualise both sword beams and flame. The change in fighting manners provokes different representations of the bleeding and death scenes. Open wounds replace puncture wounds caused by a traditional weapon; bleeding scenes become typical, and a special feature in Pili’s transmedia puppetry.In addition to CGI animation, the use of fake blood in the Pili studio makes the performance even more realistic. Pili puppet master Ting Chen-Ching recalled that exploded puppets in traditional puppetry were commonly made by styrofoam blocks. The white styrofoam chips that sprayed everywhere after the explosion inevitably made the performance seem less realistic. By contrast, in the Pili studio, the scene of a puppet spurting blood after the explosion usually applies the technology of editing several shots. The typical procedure would be a short take that captures a puppet being injured. In its injury location, puppeteers sprinkle red confetti to represent scattered blood clots in the following shot. Sometimes the fake blood was splashed with the red confetti to make it further three-dimensional (Ting). Bloody scenes can also be filmed through multiple layers of arranged performance conducted at the same time by a group of puppeteers. Ting describes the practice of filming a bleeding puppet. Usually, some puppeteers sprinkle fake blood in front of the camera, while other puppeteers blasted the puppets toward various directions behind the blood to make the visual effects match. If the puppeteers need to show how a puppet becomes injured and vomits blood during the fight, they can install tiny pipes in the puppet in advance. During the filming, the puppeteer slowly squeezes the pipe to make the fake blood flow out from the puppet’s mouth. Such a bloody scene sometimes accompanies tears dropping from the puppet’s eyes. In some cases, the puppeteer drops the blood on the puppet’s mouth prior to the filming and then uses a powerful electric fan to blow the blood drops (Ting). Such techniques direct the blood to flow laterally against the wind, which makes the puppet’s death more aesthetically tragic. Because it is not a live performance, the puppeteer can try repeatedly until the camera captures the most ideal blood drop pattern and bleeding speed. Puppeteers have to adjust the camera distance for different bleeding scenes, which creates new modes of viewing, sensing, and representing virtual life and death. One of the most representative examples of Pili’s bleeding scenes is when Su’s best friend, Ching Yang-Zi, fights with alien devils in Legend of the Sacred Stone. (The clip of how Ching Yang-Zi fights and bleeds to death can be seen on YouTube.) Ting described how Pili prepared three different puppets of Ching for the non-fighting, fighting, and bleeding scenes (Ting). The main fighting scene starts from a low-angle medium shot that shows how Ching Yang-Zi got injured and began bleeding from the corner of his mouth. Then, a sharp weapon flies across the screen; the following close-up shows that the weapon hits Ching and he begins bleeding immediately. The successive shots move back and forth between his face and the wound in medium shot and close-up. Next, a close-up shows him stepping back with blood dripping on the ground. He then pushes the weapon out of his body to defend enemies; a final close-up follows a medium take and a long take shows the massive hemorrhage. The eruption of fluid plasma creates a natural effect that is difficult to achieve, even with 3D animation. Beyond this impressive technicality, the exceptional production and design emphasise how Pili fully embraces the ethos of transmedia: to play with multiple media forms and thereby create a new form. In the case of Pili, its form is interactive, transcending the boundaries of what we might consider the “living” and the “dead”.Epilogue: Viewing Bleeding Puppets on the ScreenThe simulated, high-quality, realistic-looking puppet designs accompanying the Pili’s featured bloody fighting sequence draw another question: What is the effect of watching human-like puppets die? What does this do to viewer-fans? Violence is prevalent throughout the historical record of human behaviour, especially in art and entertainment because these serve as outlets to fulfill a basic human need to indulge in “taboo fantasies” and escape into “realms of forbidden experience” (Schechter). When discussing the visual representations of violence and the spectacle of the sufferings of others, Susan Sontag notes, “if we consider what emotions would be desirable” (102), viewing the pain of others may not simply evoke sympathy. She argues that “[no] moral charge attaches to the representation of these cruelties. Just the provocation: can you look at this? There is the satisfaction of being able to look at the image without flinching. There is the pleasure of flinching” (41). For viewers, the boldness of watching the bloody scenes can be very inviting. Watching human-like puppets die in the action scenes similarly validates the viewer’s need for pleasure and entertainment. Although different from a human body, the puppets still bears the materiality of being-object. Therefore, watching the puppets bleeding and die as distinctly “human-like’ puppets further prevent viewers’ from feeling guilty or morally involved. The conceptual distance of being aware of the puppet’s materiality acts as a moral buffer; audiences are intimately involved through the particular aesthetic arrangement, yet morally detached. The transmedia filming of puppetry adds another layer of mediation over the human-like “living” puppets that allows such a particular experience. Sontag notices that the media generates an inevitable distance between object and subject, between witness and victim. For Sontag, although images constitute “the imaginary proximity” because it makes the “faraway sufferers” be “seen close-up on the television screen”, it is a mystification to assume that images serve as a direct link between sufferers and viewers. Rather, Sontag insists: the distance makes the viewers feel “we are not accomplices to what caused the suffering. Our sympathy proclaims our innocence as well as our impotence” (102). Echoing Sontag’s argument, Jeffrey Goldstein points out that “distancing” oneself from the mayhem represented in media makes it tolerable. Media creates an “almost real” visuality of violence, so the audience feels relatively safe in their surroundings when exposed to threatening images. Thus, “violent imagery must carry cues to its unreality or it loses appeal” (280). Pili puppets that are human-like, thus not human, more easily enable the audience to seek sensational excitement through viewing puppets’ bloody violence and eventual death on the screen and still feel emotionally secure. Due to the distance granted by the medium, viewers gain a sense of power by excitedly viewing the violence with an accompanying sense of moral exemption. Thus, viewers can easily excuse the limits of their personal responsibility while still being captivated by Pili’s boundary-transgressing aesthetic.The anomalous power of Pili fans’ cosplay differentiates the viewing experience of puppets’ deaths from that of other violent entertainment productions. Cosplayers physically bridge viewing/acting and life/death by dressing up as the puppet characters, bringing them to life, as flesh. Cosplay allows fans to compensate for the helplessness they experience when watching the puppets’ deaths on the screen. They can both “enjoy” the innocent pleasure of watching bleeding puppets and bring their adored dead idols “back to life” through cosplay. The onscreen violence and death thus provide an additional layer of pleasure for such cosplayers. They not only take pleasure in watching the puppets—which are an idealized version of their bodily imagination—die, but also feel empowered to revitalise their loved idols. Therefore, Pili cosplayers’ desires incite a cycle of life, pleasure, and death, in which the company responds to their consumers’ demands in kind. The intertwining of social, economic, and political factors thus collectively thrives upon media violence as entertainment. Pili creates the potential for new cross-media genre configurations that transcend the traditional/digital puppetry binary. On the one hand, the design of swordsman puppets become a simulation of a “living object” responding to the camera distance. On the other hand, the fighting and death scenes heavily rely on the puppeteers’ cooperation with animation and editing. Therefore, Pili puppetry enriches existing discourse on both puppetry and animation as life-giving processes. What is animated by Pili puppetry is not simply the swordsmen characters themselves, but new potentials for media genres and violent entertainment. AcknowledgmentMy hearty gratitude to Amy Gaeta for sharing her insights with me on the early stage of this study.ReferencesChen, Jasmine Yu-Hsing. “Transmuting Tradition: The Transformation of Taiwanese Glove Puppetry in Pili Productions.” Journal of the Oriental Society of Australia 51 (2019): 26-46.Ferguson, Jeffrey. “Lessons from Digital Puppetry: Updating a Design Framework for a Perceptual User Interface.” IEEE International Conference on Computer and Information Technology, 2015.Goldstein, Jeffrey. “The Attractions of Violent Entertainment.” Media Psychology 1.3 (1999): 271-282.Potter, Anna. “Funding Contemporary Children’s Television: How Digital Convergence Encourages Retro Reboot.” International Journal on Communications Management 19.2 (2017): 108-112.Schechter, Harold. Savage Pastimes: A Cultural History of Violent Entertainment. New York: St. Martin’s, 2005.Silvio, Teri. “Pop Culture Icons: Religious Inflections of the Character Toy in Taiwan.” Mechademia 3.1 (2010): 200-220.———. Puppets, Gods, and Brands: Theorizing the Age of Animation from Taiwan. Honolulu: U Hawaii P, 2019. Sontag, Susan. Regarding the Pain of Others. New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2004.Ting, Chen-Ching. Interview by the author. Yunlin, Taiwan. 24 June 2019.Wohlwend, Karen E. “One Screen, Many Fingers: Young Children's Collaborative Literacy Play with Digital Puppetry Apps and Touchscreen Technologies.” Theory into Practice 54.2 (2015): 154-162.

In the last months of his life, 86-year-old Albert Facey became a best-selling author and revered cultural figure following the publication of his autobiography, A Fortunate Life. Released on Anzac Day 1981, it was praised for its “plain, unembellished, utterly sincere and un-self-pitying account of the privations of childhood and youth” (Semmler) and “extremely powerful description of Gallipoli” (Dutton 16). Within weeks, critic Nancy Keesing declared it an “Enduring Classic.” Within six months, it was announced as the winner of two prestigious non-fiction awards, with judges acknowledging Facey’s “extraordinary memory” and “ability to describe scenes and characters with great precision” (“NBC” 4). A Fortunate Life also transformed the fortunes of its publisher. Founded in 1976 as an independent, not-for-profit publishing house, Fremantle Arts Centre Press (FACP) might have been expected, given the Australian average, to survive for just a few years. Former managing editor Ray Coffey attributes the Press’s ongoing viability, in no small measure, to Facey’s success (King 29). Along with Wendy Jenkins, Coffey edited Facey’s manuscript through to publication; only five months after its release, with demand outstripping the capabilities, FACP licensed Penguin to take over the book’s production and distribution. Adaptations soon followed. In 1984, Kerry Packer’s PBL launched a prospectus for a mini-series, which raised a record $6.3 million (PBL 7–8). Aired in 1986 with a high-rating documentary called The Facey Phenomenon, the series became the most watched television event of the year (Lucas). Syndication of chapters to national and regional newspapers, stage and radio productions, audio- and e-books, abridged editions for young readers, and inclusion on secondary school curricula extended the range and influence of Facey’s life writing. Recently, an option was taken out for a new television series (Fraser).A hundred reprints and two million readers on from initial publication, A Fortunate Life continues to rate among the most appreciated Australian books of all time. Commenting on a reader survey in 2012, writer and critic Marieke Hardy enthused, “I really loved it [. . .] I felt like I was seeing a part of my country and my country’s history through a very human voice . . .” (First Tuesday Book Club). Registering a transformed reading, Hardy’s reference to Australian “history” is unproblematically juxtaposed with amused delight in an autobiography that invents and embellishes: not believing “half” of what Facey wrote, she insists he was foremost a yarn spinner. While the work’s status as a witness account has become less authoritative over time, it seems appreciation of the author’s imagination and literary skill has increased (Williamson). A Fortunate Life has been read more commonly as an uncomplicated, first-hand account, such that editor Wendy Jenkins felt it necessary to refute as an “utter mirage” that memoir is “transferred to the page by an act of perfect dictation.” Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson argue of life narratives that some “autobiographical claims [. . .] can be verified or discounted by recourse to documentation outside the text. But autobiographical truth is a different matter” (16). With increased access to archives, especially digitised personnel records, historians have asserted that key elements of Facey’s autobiography are incorrect or “fabricated” (Roberts), including his enlistment in 1914 and participation in the Gallipoli Landing on 25 April 1915. We have researched various sources relevant to Facey’s early years and war service, including hard-copy medical and repatriation records released in 2012, and find A Fortunate Life in a range of ways deviates from “documentation outside of the text,” revealing intriguing, layered storytelling. We agree with Smith and Watson that “autobiographical acts” are “anything but simple or transparent” (63). As “symbolic interactions in the world,” they are “culturally and historically specific” and “engaged in an argument about identity” (63). Inevitably, they are also “fractured by the play of meaning” (63). Our approach, therefore, includes textual analysis of Facey’s drafts alongside the published narrative and his medical records. We do not privilege institutional records as impartial but rather interpret them in terms of their hierarchies and organisation of knowledge. This leads us to speculate on alternative readings of A Fortunate Life as an illness narrative that variously resists and subscribes to dominant cultural plots, tropes, and attitudes. Facey set about writing in earnest in the 1970s and generated (at least) three handwritten drafts, along with a typescript based on the third draft. FACP produced its own working copy from the typescript. Our comparison of the drafts offers insights into the production of Facey’s final text and the otherwise “hidden” roles of editors as transformers and enablers (Munro 1). The notion that a working man with basic literacy could produce a highly readable book in part explains Facey’s enduring appeal. His grandson and literary executor, John Rose, observed in early interviews that Facey was a “natural storyteller” who had related details of his life at every opportunity over a period of more than six decades (McLeod). Jenkins points out that Facey belonged to a vivid oral culture within which he “told and retold stories to himself and others,” so that they eventually “rubbed down into the lines and shapes that would so memorably underpin the extended memoir that became A Fortunate Life.” A mystique was thereby established that “time” was Albert Facey’s “first editor” (Jenkins). The publisher expressly aimed to retain Facey’s voice, content, and meaning, though editing included much correcting of grammar and punctuation, eradication of internal inconsistencies and anomalies, and structural reorganisation into six sections and 68 chapters. We find across Facey’s drafts a broadly similar chronology detailing childhood abandonment, life-threatening incidents, youthful resourcefulness, physical prowess, and participation in the Gallipoli Landing. However, there are also shifts and changed details, including varying descriptions of childhood abuse at a place called Cave Rock; the introduction of (incompatible accounts of) interstate boxing tours in drafts two and three which replace shearing activities in Draft One; divergent tales of Facey as a world-standard athlete, league footballer, expert marksman, and powerful swimmer; and changing stories of enlistment and war service (see Murphy and Nile, “Wounded”; “Naked”).Jenkins edited those sections concerned with childhood and youth, while Coffey attended to Facey’s war and post-war life. Drawing on C.E.W. Bean’s official war history, Coffey introduced specificity to the draft’s otherwise vague descriptions of battle and amended errors, such as Facey’s claim to have witnessed Lord Kitchener on the beach at Gallipoli. Importantly, Coffey suggested the now famous title, “A Fortunate Life,” and encouraged the author to alter the ending. When asked to suggest a title, Facey offered “Cave Rock” (Interview)—the site of his violent abuse and humiliation as a boy. Draft One concluded with Facey’s repatriation from the war and marriage in 1916 (106); Draft Two with a brief account of continuing post-war illness and ultimate defeat: “My war injuries caught up with me again” (107). The submitted typescript concludes: “I have often thought that going to War has caused my life to be wasted” (Typescript 206). This ending differs dramatically from the redemptive vision of the published narrative: “I have lived a very good life, it has been very rich and full. I have been very fortunate and I am thrilled by it when I look back” (412).In The Wounded Storyteller, Arthur Frank argues that literary markets exist for stories of “narrative wreckage” (196) that are redeemed by reconciliation, resistance, recovery, or rehabilitation, which is precisely the shape of Facey’s published life story and a source of its popularity. Musing on his post-war experiences in A Fortunate Life, Facey focuses on his ability to transform the material world around him: “I liked the challenge of building up a place from nothing and making a success where another fellow had failed” (409). If Facey’s challenge was building up something from nothing, something he could set to work on and improve, his life-writing might reasonably be regarded as a part of this broader project and desire for transformation, so that editorial interventions helped him realise this purpose. Facey’s narrative was produced within a specific zeitgeist, which historian Joy Damousi notes was signalled by publication in 1974 of Bill Gammage’s influential, multiply-reprinted study of front-line soldiers, The Broken Years, which drew on the letters and diaries of a thousand Great War veterans, and also the release in 1981 of Peter Weir’s film Gallipoli, for which Gammage was the historical advisor. The story of Australia’s war now conceptualised fallen soldiers as “innocent victims” (Damousi 101), while survivors were left to “compose” memories consistent with their sacrifice (Thomson 237–54). Viewing Facey’s drafts reminds us that life narratives are works of imagination, that the past is not fixed and memory is created in the present. Facey’s autobiographical efforts and those of his publisher to improve the work’s intelligibility and relevance together constitute an attempt to “objectify the self—to present it as a knowable object—through a narrative that re-structures [. . .] the self as history and conclusions” (Foster 10). Yet, such histories almost invariably leave “a crucial gap” or “censored chapter.” Dennis Foster argues that conceiving of narration as confession, rather than expression, “allows us to see the pathos of the simultaneous pursuit and evasion of meaning” (10); we believe a significant lacuna in Facey’s life writing is intimated by its various transformations.In a defining episode, A Fortunate Life proposes that Facey was taken from Gallipoli on 19 August 1915 due to wounding that day from a shell blast that caused sandbags to fall on him, crush his leg, and hurt him “badly inside,” and a bullet to the shoulder (348). The typescript, however, includes an additional but narratively irreconcilable date of 28 June for the same wounding. The later date, 19 August, was settled on for publication despite the author’s compelling claim for the earlier one: “I had been blown up by a shell and some 7 or 8 sandbags had fallen on top of me, the day was the 28th of June 1915, how I remembered this date, it was the day my brother Roy had been killed by a shell burst.” He adds: “I was very ill for about six weeks after the incident but never reported it to our Battalion doctor because I was afraid he would send me away” (Typescript 205). This account accords with Facey’s first draft and his medical records but is inconsistent with other parts of the typescript that depict an uninjured Facey taking a leading role in fierce fighting throughout July and August. It appears, furthermore, that Facey was not badly wounded at any time. His war service record indicates that he was removed from Gallipoli due to “heart troubles” (Repatriation), which he also claims in his first draft. Facey’s editors did not have ready access to military files in Canberra, while medical files were not released until 2012. There existed, therefore, virtually no opportunity to corroborate the author’s version of events, while the official war history and the records of the State Library of Western Australia, which were consulted, contain no reference to Facey or his war service (Interview). As a consequence, the editors were almost entirely dependent on narrative logic and clarifications by an author whose eyesight and memory had deteriorated to such an extent he was unable to read his amended text. A Fortunate Life depicts men with “nerve sickness” who were not permitted to “stay at the Front because they would be upsetting to the others, especially those who were inclined that way themselves” (350). By cross referencing the draft manuscripts against medical records, we can now perceive that Facey was regarded as one of those nerve cases. According to Facey’s published account, his wounds “baffled” doctors in Egypt and Fremantle (353). His medical records reveal that in September 1915, while hospitalised in Egypt, his “palpitations” were diagnosed as “Tachycardia” triggered by war-induced neuroses that began on 28 June. This suggests that Facey endured seven weeks in the field in this condition, with the implication being that his debility worsened, resulting in his hospitalisation. A diagnosis of “debility,” “nerves,” and “strain” placed Facey in a medical category of “Special Invalids” (Butler 541). Major A.W. Campbell noted in the Medical Journal of Australia in 1916 that the war was creating “many cases of little understood nervous and mental affections, not only where a definite wound has been received, but in many cases where nothing of the sort appears” (323). Enlisted doctors were either physicians or surgeons and sometimes both. None had any experience of trauma on the scale of the First World War. In 1915, Campbell was one of only two Australian doctors with any pre-war experience of “mental diseases” (Lindstrom 30). On staff at the Australian Base Hospital at Heliopolis throughout the Gallipoli campaign, he claimed that at times nerve cases “almost monopolised” the wards under his charge (319). Bearing out Facey’s description, Campbell also reported that affected men “received no sympathy” and, as “carriers of psychic contagion,” were treated as a “source of danger” to themselves and others (323). Credentialed by royal colleges in London and coming under British command, Australian medical teams followed the practice of classifying men presenting “nervous or mental symptoms” as “battle casualties” only if they had also been wounded by “enemy action” (Loughran 106). By contrast, functional disability, with no accompanying physical wounds, was treated as unmanly and a “hysterical” reaction to the pressures of war. Mental debility was something to be feared in the trenches and diagnosis almost invariably invoked charges of predisposition or malingering (Tyquin 148–49). This shifted responsibility (and blame) from the war to the individual. Even as late as the 1950s, medical notes referred to Facey’s condition as being “constitutional” (Repatriation).Facey’s narrative demonstrates awareness of how harshly sufferers were treated. We believe that he defended himself against this with stories of physical injury that his doctors never fully accepted and that he may have experienced conversion disorder, where irreconcilable experience finds somatic expression. His medical diagnosis in 1915 and later life writing establish a causal link with the explosion and his partial burial on 28 June, consistent with opinion at the time that linked concussive blasts with destabilisation of the nervous system (Eager 422). Facey was also badly shaken by exposure to the violence and abjection of war, including hand-to-hand combat and retrieving for burial shattered and often decomposed bodies, and, in particular, by the death of his brother Roy, whose body was blown to pieces on 28 June. (A second brother, Joseph, was killed by multiple bayonet wounds while Facey was convalescing in Egypt.) Such experiences cast a different light on Facey’s observation of men suffering nerves on board the hospital ship: “I have seen men doze off into a light sleep and suddenly jump up shouting, ‘Here they come! Quick! Thousands of them. We’re doomed!’” (350). Facey had escaped the danger of death by explosion or bayonet but at a cost, and the war haunted him for the rest of his days. On disembarkation at Fremantle on 20 November 1915, he was admitted to hospital where he remained on and off for several months. Forty-one other sick and wounded disembarked with him (HMAT). Around one third, experiencing nerve-related illness, had been sent home for rest; while none returned to the war, some of the physically wounded did (War Service Records). During this time, Facey continued to present with “frequent attacks of palpitation and giddiness,” was often “short winded,” and had “heart trouble” (Repatriation). He was discharged from the army in June 1916 but, his drafts suggest, his war never really ended. He began a new life as a wounded Anzac. His dependent and often fractious relationship with the Repatriation Department ended only with his death 66 years later. Historian Marina Larsson persuasively argues that repatriated sick and wounded servicemen from the First World War represented a displaced presence at home. Many led liminal lives of “disenfranchised grief” (80). Stephen Garton observes a distinctive Australian use of repatriation to describe “all policies involved in returning, discharging, pensioning, assisting and training returned men and women, and continuing to assist them throughout their lives” (74). Its primary definition invokes coming home but to repatriate also implies banishment from a place that is not home, so that Facey was in this sense expelled from Gallipoli and, by extension, excluded from the myth of Anzac. Unlike his two brothers, he would not join history as one of the glorious dead; his name would appear on no roll of honour. Return home is not equivalent to restoration of his prior state and identity, for baggage from the other place perpetually weighs. Furthermore, failure to regain health and independence strains hospitality and gratitude for the soldier’s service to King and country. This might be exacerbated where there is no evident or visible injury, creating suspicion of resistance, cowardice, or malingering. Over 26 assessments between 1916 and 1958, when Facey was granted a full war pension, the Repatriation Department observed him as a “neuropathic personality” exhibiting “paroxysmal tachycardia” and “neurocirculatory asthenia.” In 1954, doctors wrote, “We consider the condition is a real handicap and hindrance to his getting employment.” They noted that after “attacks,” Facey had a “busted depressed feeling,” but continued to find “no underlying myocardial disease” (Repatriation) and no validity in Facey’s claims that he had been seriously physically wounded in the war (though A Fortunate Life suggests a happier outcome, where an independent medical panel finally locates the cause of his ongoing illness—rupture of his spleen in the war—which results in an increased war pension). Facey’s condition was, at times, a source of frustration for the doctors and, we suspect, disappointment and shame to him, though this appeared to reduce on both sides when the Repatriation Department began easing proof of disability from the 1950s (Thomson 287), and the Department of Veteran’s Affairs was created in 1976. This had the effect of shifting public and media scrutiny back onto a system that had until then deprived some “innocent victims of the compensation that was their due” (Garton 249). Such changes anticipated the introduction of Post-Traumatic Shock Disorder (PTSD) to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) in 1980. Revisions to the DSM established a “genealogy of trauma” and “panic disorders” (100, 33), so that diagnoses such as “neuropathic personality” (Echterling, Field, and Stewart 192) and “soldier’s heart,” that is, disorders considered “neurotic,” were “retrospectively reinterpreted” as a form of PTSD. However, Alberti points out that, despite such developments, war-related trauma continues to be contested (80). We propose that Albert Facey spent his adult life troubled by a sense of regret and failure because of his removal from Gallipoli and that he attempted to compensate through storytelling, which included his being an original Anzac and seriously wounded in action. By writing, Facey could shore up his rectitude, work ethic, and sense of loyalty to other servicemen, which became necessary, we believe, because repatriation doctors (and probably others) had doubted him. In 1927 and again in 1933, an examining doctor concluded: “The existence of a disability depends entirely on his own unsupported statements” (Repatriation). We argue that Facey’s Gallipoli experiences transformed his life. By his own account, he enlisted for war as a physically robust and supremely athletic young man and returned nine months later to life-long anxiety and ill-health. Publication transformed him into a national sage, earning him, in his final months, the credibility, empathy, and affirmation he had long sought. Exploring different accounts of Facey, in the shape of his drafts and institutional records, gives rise to new interpretations. In this context, we believe it is time for a new edition of A Fortunate Life that recognises it as a complex testimonial narrative and theorises Facey’s deployment of national legends and motifs in relation to his “wounded storytelling” as well as to shifting cultural and medical conceptualisations and treatments of shame and trauma. ReferencesAlberti, Fay Bound. Matters of the Heart: History, Medicine, and Emotions. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2010. Butler, A.G. Official History of the Australian Medical Services 1814-1918: Vol I Gallipoli, Palestine and New Guinea. Canberra: Australian War Memorial, 1930.Campbell, A.W. “Remarks on Some Neuroses and Psychoses in War.” Medical Journal of Australia 15 April (1916): 319–23.Damousi, Joy. “Why Do We Get So Emotional about Anzac.” What’s Wrong with Anzac. Ed. Marilyn Lake and Henry Reynolds. Sydney: UNSWP, 2015. 94–109.Dutton, Geoffrey. “Fremantle Arts Centre Press Publicity.” Australian Book Review May (1981): 16.Eager, R. “War Neuroses Occurring in Cases with a Definitive History of Shell Shock.” British Medical Journal 13 Apr. 1918): 422–25.Echterling, L.G., Thomas A. Field, and Anne L. Stewart. “Evolution of PTSD in the DSM.” Future Directions in Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder: Prevention, Diagnosis, and Treatment. Ed. Marilyn P. Safir and Helene S. Wallach. New York: Springer, 2015. 189–212.Facey, A.B. A Fortunate Life. 1981. Ringwood: Penguin, 2005.———. Drafts 1–3. University of Western Australia, Special Collections.———. Transcript. University of Western Australia, Special Collections.First Tuesday Book Club. ABC Splash. 4 Dec. 2012. <http://splash.abc.net.au/home#!/media/1454096/http&>.Foster, Dennis. Confession and Complicity in Narrative. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1987.Frank, Arthur. The Wounded Storyteller. London: U of Chicago P, 1995.Fraser, Jane. “CEO Says.” Fremantle Press. 7 July 2015. <https://www.fremantlepress.com.au/c/news/3747-ceo-says-9>.Garton, Stephen. The Cost of War: Australians Return. Melbourne: Oxford UP, 1994.HMAT Aeneas. “Report of Passengers for the Port of Fremantle from Ports Beyond the Commonwealth.” 20 Nov. 1915. <http://recordsearch.naa.gov.au/SearchNRetrieve/Interface/ViewImage.aspx?B=9870708&S=1>.“Interview with Ray Coffey.” Personal interview. 6 May 2016. Follow-up correspondence. 12 May 2016.Jenkins, Wendy. “Tales from the Backlist: A Fortunate Life Turns 30.” Fremantle Press, 14 April 2011. <https://www.fremantlepress.com.au/c/bookclubs/574-tales-from-the-backlist-a-fortunate-life-turns-30>.Keesing, Nancy. ‘An Enduring Classic.’ Australian Book Review (May 1981). FACP Press Clippings. Fremantle. n. pag.King, Noel. “‘I Can’t Go On … I’ll Go On’: Interview with Ray Coffey, Fremantle Arts Centre Press, 22 Dec. 2004; 24 May 2006.” Westerly 51 (2006): 31–54.Larsson, Marina. “A Disenfranchised Grief: Post War Death and Memorialisation in Australia after the First World War.” Australian Historical Studies 40.1 (2009): 79–95.Lindstrom, Richard. “The Australian Experience of Psychological Casualties in War: 1915-1939.” PhD dissertation. Victoria University, Feb. 1997.Loughran, Tracey. “Shell Shock, Trauma, and the First World War: The Making of a Diagnosis and its Histories.” Journal of the History of Medical and Allied Sciences 67.1 (2012): 99–119.Lucas, Anne. “Curator’s Notes.” A Fortunate Life. Australian Screen. <http://aso.gov.au/titles/tv/a-fortunate-life/notes/>.McLeod, Steve. “My Fortunate Life with Grandad.” Western Magazine Dec. (1983): 8.Munro, Craig. Under Cover: Adventures in the Art of Editing. Brunswick: Scribe, 2015.Murphy, Ffion, and Richard Nile. “The Naked Anzac: Exposure and Concealment in A.B. Facey’s A Fortunate Life.” Southerly 75.3 (2015): 219–37.———. “Wounded Storyteller: Revisiting Albert Facey’s Fortunate Life.” Westerly 60.2 (2015): 87–100.“NBC Book Awards.” Australian Book Review Oct. (1981): 1–4.PBL. Prospectus: A Fortunate Life, the Extraordinary Life of an Ordinary Bloke. 1–8.Repatriation Records. Albert Facey. National Archives of Australia.Roberts, Chris. “Turkish Machine Guns at the Landing.” Wartime: Official Magazine of the Australian War Memorial 50 (2010). <https://www.awm.gov.au/wartime/50/roberts_machinegun/>.Semmler, Clement. “The Way We Were before the Good Life.” Courier Mail 10 Oct. 1981. FACP Press Clippings. Fremantle. n. pag.Smith, Sidonie, and Julia Watson. Reading Autobiography: A Guide for Interpreting Life Narratives. 2001. 2nd ed. U of Minnesota P, 2010.Thomson, Alistair. Anzac Memories: Living with the Legend. 1994. 2nd ed. Melbourne: Monash UP, 2013. Tyquin, Michael. Gallipoli, the Medical War: The Australian Army Services in the Dardanelles Campaign of 1915. Kensington: UNSWP, 1993.War Service Records. National Archives of Australia. <http://recordsearch.naa.gov.au/NameSearch/Interface/NameSearchForm.aspx>.Williamson, Geordie. “A Fortunate Life.” Copyright Agency. <http://readingaustralia.com.au/essays/a-fortunate-life/>.

Over the past century, many books for general readers have styled sharks as “monsters of the deep” (Steele). In recent decades, however, at least some writers have also turned to representing how sharks are seriously threatened by human activities. At a time when media coverage of shark sightings seems ever increasing in Australia, scholarship has begun to consider people’s attitudes to sharks and how these are formed, investigating the representation of sharks (Peschak; Ostrovski et al.) in films (Le Busque and Litchfield; Neff; Schwanebeck), newspaper reports (Muter et al.), and social media (Le Busque et al., “An Analysis”). My own research into representations of surfing and sharks in Australian writing (Brien) has, however, revealed that, although reporting of shark sightings and human-shark interactions are prominent in the news, and sharks function as vivid and commanding images and metaphors in art and writing (Ellis; Westbrook et al.), little scholarship has investigated their representation in Australian books published for a general readership. While recognising representations of sharks in other book-length narrative forms in Australia, including Australian fiction, poetry, and film (Ryan and Ellison), this enquiry is focussed on non-fiction books for general readers, to provide an initial review. Sampling holdings of non-fiction books in the National Library of Australia, crosschecked with Google Books, in early 2021, this investigation identified 50 Australian books for general readers that are principally about sharks, or that feature attitudes to them, published from 1911 to 2021. Although not seeking to capture all Australian non-fiction books for general readers that feature sharks, the sampling attempted to locate a wide range of representations and genres across the time frame from the earliest identified text until the time of the survey. The books located include works of natural and popular history, travel writing, memoir, biography, humour, and other long-form non-fiction for adult and younger readers, including hybrid works. A thematic analysis (Guest et al.) of the representation of sharks in these texts identified five themes that moved from understanding sharks as fishes to seeing them as monsters, then prey, and finally to endangered species needing conservation. Many books contained more than one theme, and not all examples identified have been quoted in the discussion of the themes below. Sharks as Part of the Natural Environment Drawing on oral histories passed through generations, two memoirs (Bradley et al.; Fossa) narrate Indigenous stories in which sharks play a central role. These reveal that sharks are part of both the world and a wider cosmology for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people (Clua and Guiart). In these representations, sharks are integrated with, and integral to, Indigenous life, with one writer suggesting they are “creator beings, ancestors, totems. Their lifecycles reflect the seasons, the landscape and sea country. They are seen in the movement of the stars” (Allam). A series of natural history narratives focus on zoological studies of Australian sharks, describing shark species and their anatomy and physiology, as well as discussing shark genetics, behaviour, habitats, and distribution. A foundational and relatively early Australian example is Gilbert P. Whitley’s The Fishes of Australia: The Sharks, Rays, Devil-fish, and Other Primitive Fishes of Australia and New Zealand, published in 1940. Ichthyologist at the Australian Museum in Sydney from the early 1920s to 1964, Whitley authored several books which furthered scientific thought on sharks. Four editions of his Australian Sharks were published between 1983 and 1991 in English, and the book is still held in many libraries and other collections worldwide. In this text, Whitley described a wide variety of sharks, noting shared as well as individual features. Beautiful drawings contribute information on shape, colouring, markings, and other recognisable features to assist with correct identification. Although a scientist and a Fellow and then President of the Royal Zoological Society of New South Wales, Whitley recognised it was important to communicate with general readers and his books are accessible, the prose crisp and clear. Books published after this text (Aiken; Ayling; Last and Stevens; Tricas and Carwardine) share Whitley’s regard for the diversity of sharks as well as his desire to educate a general readership. By 2002, the CSIRO’s Field Guide to Australian Sharks & Rays (Daley et al.) also featured numerous striking photographs of these creatures. Titles such as Australia’s Amazing Sharks (Australian Geographic) emphasise sharks’ unique qualities, including their agility and speed in the water, sensitive sight and smell, and ability to detect changes in water pressure around them, heal rapidly, and replace their teeth. These books also emphasise the central role that sharks play in the marine ecosystem. There are also such field guides to sharks in specific parts of Australia (Allen). This attention to disseminating accurate zoological information about sharks is also evident in books written for younger readers including very young children (Berkes; Kear; Parker and Parker). In these and other similar books, sharks are imaged as a central and vital component of the ocean environment, and the narratives focus on their features and qualities as wondrous rather than monstrous. Sharks as Predatory Monsters A number of books for general readers do, however, image sharks as monsters. In 1911, in his travel narrative Peeps at Many Lands: Australia, Frank Fox describes sharks as “the most dangerous foes of man in Australia” (23) and many books have reinforced this view over the following century. This can be seen in titles that refer to sharks as dangerous predatory killers (Fox and Ruhen; Goadby; Reid; Riley; Sharpe; Taylor and Taylor). The covers of a large proportion of such books feature sharks emerging from the water, jaws wide open in explicit homage to the imaging of the monster shark in the film Jaws (Spielberg). Shark!: Killer Tales from the Dangerous Depths (Reid) is characteristic of books that portray encounters with sharks as terrifying and dramatic, using emotive language and stories that describe sharks as “the world’s most feared sea creature” (47) because they are such “highly efficient killing machines” (iv, see also 127, 129). This representation of sharks is also common in several books for younger readers (Moriarty; Rohr). Although the risk of being injured by an unprovoked shark is extremely low (Chapman; Fletcher et al.), fear of sharks is prevalent and real (Le Busque et al., “People’s Fear”) and described in a number of these texts. Several of the memoirs located describe surfers’ fear of sharks (Muirhead; Orgias), as do those of swimmers, divers, and other frequent users of the sea (Denness; de Gelder; McAloon), even if the author has never encountered a shark in the wild. In these texts, this fear of sharks is often traced to viewing Jaws, and especially to how the film’s huge, bloodthirsty great white shark persistently and determinedly attacks its human hunters. Pioneer Australian shark expert Valerie Taylor describes such great white sharks as “very big, powerful … and amazingly beautiful” but accurately notes that “revenge is not part of their thought process” (Kindle version). Two books explicitly seek to map and explain Australians’ fear of sharks. In Sharks: A History of Fear in Australia, Callum Denness charts this fear across time, beginning with his own “shark story”: a panicked, terror-filled evacuation from the sea, following the sighting of a shadow which turned out not to be a shark. Blake Chapman’s Shark Attacks: Myths, Misunderstandings and Human Fears explains commonly held fearful perceptions of sharks. Acknowledging that sharks are a “highly emotive topic”, the author of this text does not deny “the terror [that] they invoke in our psyche” but makes a case that this is “only a minor characteristic of what makes them such intriguing animals” (ix). In Death by Coconut: 50 Things More Dangerous than a Shark and Why You Shouldn’t Be Afraid of the Ocean, Ruby Ashby Orr utilises humour to educate younger readers about the real risk humans face from sharks and, as per the book’s title, why they should not be feared, listing champagne corks and falling coconuts among the many everyday activities more likely to lead to injury and death in Australia than encountering a shark. Taylor goes further in her memoir – not only describing her wonder at swimming with these creatures, but also her calm acceptance of the possibility of being injured by a shark: "if we are to be bitten, then we are to be bitten … . One must choose a life of adventure, and of mystery and discovery, but with that choice, one must also choose the attendant risks" (2019: Kindle version). Such an attitude is very rare in the books located, with even some of the most positive about these sea creatures still quite sensibly fearful of potentially dangerous encounters with them. Sharks as Prey There is a long history of sharks being fished in Australia (Clark). The killing of sharks for sport is detailed in An American Angler in Australia, which describes popular adventure writer Zane Grey’s visit to Australia and New Zealand in the 1930s to fish ‘big game’. This text includes many bloody accounts of killing sharks, which are justified with explanations about how sharks are dangerous. It is also illustrated with gruesome pictures of dead sharks. Australian fisher Alf Dean’s biography describes him as the “World’s Greatest Shark Hunter” (Thiele), this text similarly illustrated with photographs of some of the gigantic sharks he caught and killed in the second half of the twentieth century. Apart from being killed during pleasure and sport fishing, sharks are also hunted by spearfishers. Valerie Taylor and her late husband, Ron Taylor, are well known in Australia and internationally as shark experts, but they began their careers as spearfishers and shark hunters (Taylor, Ron Taylor’s), with the documentary Shark Hunters gruesomely detailing their killing of many sharks. The couple have produced several books that recount their close encounters with sharks (Taylor; Taylor, Taylor and Goadby; Taylor and Taylor), charting their movement from killers to conservationists as they learned more about the ocean and its inhabitants. Now a passionate campaigner against the past butchery she participated in, Taylor’s memoir describes her shift to a more respectful relationship with sharks, driven by her desire to understand and protect them. In Australia, the culling of sharks is supposedly carried out to ensure human safety in the ocean, although this practice has long been questioned. In 1983, for instance, Whitley noted the “indiscriminate” killing of grey nurse sharks, despite this species largely being very docile and of little threat to people (Australian Sharks, 10). This is repeated by Tony Ayling twenty-five years later who adds the information that the generally harmless grey nurse sharks have been killed to the point of extinction, as it was wrongly believed they preyed on surfers and swimmers. Shark researcher and conservationist Riley Elliott, author of Shark Man: One Kiwi Man’s Mission to Save Our Most Feared and Misunderstood Predator (2014), includes an extremely critical chapter on Western Australian shark ‘management’ through culling, summing up the problems associated with this approach: it seems to me that this cull involved no science or logic, just waste and politics. It’s sickening that the people behind this cull were the Fisheries department, which prior to this was the very department responsible for setting up the world’s best acoustic tagging system for sharks. (Kindle version, Chapter 7) Describing sharks as “misunderstood creatures”, Orr is also clear in her opposition to killing sharks to ‘protect’ swimmers noting that “each year only around 10 people are killed in shark attacks worldwide, while around 73 million sharks are killed by humans”. She adds the question and answer, “sounds unfair? Of course it is, but when an attack is all over the news and the people are baying for shark blood, it’s easy to lose perspective. But culling them? Seriously?” (back cover). The condemnation of culling is also evident in David Brooks’s recent essay on the topic in his collection of essays about animal welfare, conservation and the relationship between humans and other species, Animal Dreams. This disapproval is also evident in narratives by those who have been injured by sharks. Navy diver Paul de Gelder and surfer Glen Orgias were both bitten by sharks in Sydney in 2009 and both their memoirs detail their fear of sharks and the pain they suffered from these interactions and their lengthy recoveries. However, despite their undoubted suffering – both men lost limbs due to these encounters – they also attest to their ongoing respect for these creatures and specify a shared desire not to see them culled. Orgias, instead, charts the life story of the shark who bit him alongside his own story in his memoir, musing at the end of the book, not about himself or his injury, but about the fate of the shark he had encountered: great whites are portrayed … as pathological creatures, and as malevolent. That’s rubbish … they are graceful, mighty beasts. I respect them, and fear them … [but] the thought of them fighting, dying, in a net upsets me. I hope this great white shark doesn’t end up like that. (271–271) Several of the more recent books identified in this study acknowledge that, despite growing understanding of sharks, the popular press and many policy makers continue to advocate for shark culls, these calls especially vocal after a shark-related human death or injury (Peppin-Neff). The damage to shark species involved caused by their killing – either directly by fishing, spearing, finning, or otherwise hunting them, or inadvertently as they become caught in nets or affected by human pollution of the ocean – is discussed in many of the more recent books identified in this study. Sharks as Endangered Alongside fishing, finning, and hunting, human actions and their effects such as beach netting, pollution and habitat change are killing many sharks, to the point where many shark species are threatened. Several recent books follow Orr in noting that an estimated 100 million sharks are now killed annually across the globe and that this, as well as changes to their habitats, are driving many shark species to the status of vulnerable, threatened or towards extinction (Dulvy et al.). This is detailed in texts about biodiversity and climate change in Australia (Steffen et al.) as well as in many of the zoologically focussed books discussed above under the theme of “Sharks as part of the natural environment”. The CSIRO’s Field Guide to Australian Sharks & Rays (Daley et al.), for example, emphasises not only that several shark species are under threat (and protected) (8–9) but also that sharks are, as individuals, themselves very fragile creatures. Their skeletons are made from flexible, soft cartilage rather than bone, meaning that although they are “often thought of as being incredibly tough; in reality, they need to be handled carefully to maximise their chance of survival following capture” (9). Material on this theme is included in books for younger readers on Australia’s endangered animals (Bourke; Roc and Hawke). Shark Conservation By 1991, shark conservation in Australia and overseas was a topic of serious discussion in Sydney, with an international workshop on the subject held at Taronga Zoo and the proceedings published (Pepperell et al.). Since then, the movement to protect sharks has grown, with marine scientists, high-profile figures and other writers promoting shark conservation, especially through attempts to educate the general public about sharks. De Gelder’s memoir, for instance, describes how he now champions sharks, promoting shark conservation in his work as a public speaker. Peter Benchley, who (with Carl Gottlieb) recast his novel Jaws for the film’s screenplay, later attested to regretting his portrayal of sharks as aggressive and became a prominent spokesperson for shark conservation. In explaining his change of heart, he stated that when he wrote the novel, he was reflecting the general belief that sharks would both seek out human prey and attack boats, but he later discovered this to be untrue (Benchley, “Without Malice”). Many recent books about sharks for younger readers convey a conservation message, underscoring how, instead of fearing or killing sharks, or doing nothing, humans need to actively assist these vulnerable creatures to survive. In the children’s book series featuring Bindi Irwin and her “wildlife adventures”, there is a volume where Bindi and a friend are on a diving holiday when they find a dead shark whose fin has been removed. The book not only describes how shark finning is illegal, but also how Bindi and friend are “determined to bring the culprits to justice” (Browne). This narrative, like the other books in this series, has a dual focus; highlighting the beauty of wildlife and its value, but also how the creatures described need protection and assistance. Concluding Discussion This study was prompted by the understanding that the Earth is currently in the epoch known as the Anthropocene, a time in which humans have significantly altered, and continue to alter, the Earth by our activities (Myers), resulting in numerous species becoming threatened, endangered, or extinct. It acknowledges the pressing need for not only natural science research on these actions and their effects, but also for such scientists to publish their findings in more accessible ways (see, Paulin and Green). It specifically responds to demands for scholarship outside the relevant areas of science and conservation to encourage widespread thinking and action (Mascia et al.; Bennett et al.). As understanding public perceptions and overcoming widely held fear of sharks can facilitate their conservation (Panoch and Pearson), the way sharks are imaged is integral to their survival. The five themes identified in this study reveal vastly different ways of viewing and writing about sharks. These range from seeing sharks as nothing more than large fishes to be killed for pleasure, to viewing them as terrifying monsters, to finally understanding that they are amazing creatures who play an important role in the world’s environment and are in urgent need of conservation. This range of representation is important, for if sharks are understood as demon monsters which hunt humans, then it is much more ‘reasonable’ to not care about their future than if they are understood to be fascinating and fragile creatures suffering from their interactions with humans and our effect on the environment. Further research could conduct a textual analysis of these books. In this context, it is interesting to note that, although in 1949 C. Bede Maxwell suggested describing human deaths and injuries from sharks as “accidents” (182) and in 2013 Christopher Neff and Robert Hueter proposed using “sightings, encounters, bites, and the rare cases of fatal bites” (70) to accurately represent “the true risk posed by sharks” to humans (70), the majority of the books in this study, like mass media reports, continue to use the ubiquitous and more dramatic terminology of “shark attack”. The books identified in this analysis could also be compared with international texts to reveal and investigate global similarities and differences. While the focus of this discussion has been on non-fiction texts, a companion analysis of representation of sharks in Australian fiction, poetry, films, and other narratives could also be undertaken, in the hope that such investigations contribute to more nuanced understandings of these majestic sea creatures. 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IntroductionThe horror film Hush (2016) has attracted attention since its release due to the uniqueness of its central character—a deaf–mute author who lives in a world of silence. Maddie Young (Kate Siegel) moves into a remote cabin in the woods to recover from a breakup and finish her new novel. Aside from a cat, she is alone in the house, only engaging with loved ones via online messaging or video chats during which she uses American Sign Language (ASL). Maddie cannot hear nor speak, so writing is her primary mode of creative expression, and a key source of information for the audience. This article explores both the presence and absence of text in Hush, examining how textual “captions” of various kinds are both provided and withheld at key moments. As an author, Maddie battles the limits of written language as she struggles with writer’s block. As a person, she fights the limits of silence and isolation as a brutal killer invades her retreat. Accordingly, this article examines how the interplay between silence, text, and sound invites viewers to identify with the heroine’s experience and ultimate triumph.Hush is best described as a slasher—a horror film in which a single (usually male) killer stalks and kills a series of victims with relentless determination (Clover, Men, Women). Slashers are about close, visceral killing—blood and the hard stab of the knife. With her big brown eyes and gentle presence, quiet, deaf Maddie is clearly framed as a lamb to slaughter in the opening scenes. Indeed, throughout Hush, Maddie’s lack of hearing is leveraged to increase suspense and horror. The classic pantomime cry of “He’s behind you!” is taken to dark extremes as the audience watches a nameless man (John Gallagher Jr.) stalk the writer in her isolated house. She is unable to hear him enter the building, unable to sense him looming behind her. Neither does she hear him killing her friend outside on the porch, banging her body loudly against the French doors.And yet, despite her vulnerability, she rises to the challenge. Fighting back against her attacker using a variety of multisensory strategies, Maddie assumes the role of the “Final Girl” in this narrative. As Carol Clover has explained, the Final Girl is a key trope of slasher films, forming part of their essential structure. While others in the film are killed, “she alone looks death in the face; but she alone also finds the strength either to stay the killer long enough to be rescued (ending A) or to kill him herself (ending B)” (Clover, Her Body, Himself). However, reviews and discussions of Hush typically frame Maddie as a Final Girl with a difference. Adding disability into the equation is seen as “revolutionising” the trope (Sheppard) and “updating the Final Girl theory” for a new age (Laird). Indeed, the film presents its Final Girl as simultaneously deaf and powerful—a twist that potentially challenges the dynamics of the slasher and representations of disability more generally.My Weakness, My StrengthThe opening sequence of Hush introduces Maddie’s deafness through the use of sound, silence, and text. Following an establishing shot sweeping over the dark forest and down to her solitary cottage, the film opens to warm domesticity. Close-ups of onion, eggs, and garlic being prepared are accompanied by clear, crisp sounds of crackling, bubbling, slicing, and frying. The camera zooms out to focus on Maddie, busy at her culinary tasks. All noises begin to fade. The camera focuses on Maddie’s ear as audio is eliminated, replaced by silence. As she continues to cook, the audience experiences her world—a world devoid of sound. These initial moments also highlight the importance of digital communication technologies. Maddie moves smoothly between devices, switching from laptop computer to iPhone while sharing instant messages with a friend. Close-ups of these on-screen conversations provide viewers with additional narrative information, operating as an alternate form of captioning from within the diegesis. Snippets of text from other sources are likewise shown in passing, such as the author’s blurb on the jacket of her previous novel. The camera lingers on this book, allowing viewers to read that Maddie suffered hearing loss and vocal paralysis after contracting bacterial meningitis at 13 years old. Traditional closed captioning or subtitles are thus avoided in favour of less intrusive forms of expositional text that are integrated within the plot.While hearing characters, such as her neighbour and sister, use SimCom (simultaneous communication or sign supported speech) to communicate with her, Maddie signs in silence. Because the filmmakers have elected not to provide captions for her signs in these moments, a—typically non-ASL speaking—hearing audience will inevitably experience disruptions in comprehension and Maddie’s conversations can therefore only be partially understood. This allows for an interesting role reversal for viewers. As Katherine A. Jankowski (32) points out, deaf and hard of hearing audiences have long expressed dissatisfaction with accessing the spoken word on television and film due to a lack of closed captioning. Despite the increasing technological ease of captioning digital media in the 21st century, this barrier to accessibility continues to be an ongoing issue (Ellis and Kent). The hearing community do not share this frustrating background—television programs that include ASL are captioned to ensure hearing viewers can follow the story (see for example Beth Haller’s article on Switched at Birth in this special issue). Hush therefore inverts this dynamic by presenting ASL without captions. Whereas silence is used to draw hearing viewers into Maddie’s experience, her periodic use of ASL pushes them out again. This creates a push–pull dynamic, whereby the hearing audience identify with Maddie and empathise with the losses associated with being deaf and mute, but also realise that, as a result, she has developed additional skills that are beyond their ken.It is worth noting at this point that Maddie is not the first Final Girl with a disability. In the 1967 thriller Wait until Dark, for instance, Audrey Hepburn plays Susy Hendrix, a blind woman trapped in her home by three crooks. Martin F. Norden suggests that this film represented a “step forward” in cinematic representations of disability because its heroine is not simply an innocent victim, but “tough, resilient, and resourceful in her fight against the criminals who have misrepresented themselves to her and have broken into her apartment” (228). Susy’s blindness, at first presented as a source of vulnerability and frustration, becomes her strength in the film’s climax. Bashing out all the lights in the apartment, she forces the men to fight on her terms, in darkness, where she holds the upper hand. In a classic example of Final Girl tenacity, Susy stabs the last of them to death before help arrives. Maddie likewise uses her disability as a tactical advantage. An enhanced sense of touch allows her to detect the killer when he sneaks up behind her as she feels the lightest flutter upon the hairs of her neck. She also wields a blaring fire alarm as a weapon, deafening and disorienting her attacker, causing him to drop his knife.The similarities between these films are not coincidental. During an interview, director Mike Flanagan (who co-wrote Hush with wife Siegel) stated that they were directly informed by Wait until Dark. When asked about the choice to make Maddie’s character deaf, he explained that “it kind of happened because Kate and I were out to dinner and we were talking about movies we liked. One of the ones that we stumbled on that we both really liked was Wait Until Dark” (cited in Thurman). In the earlier film, director Terence Young used darkness to blind the audience—at times the screen is completely black and viewers must listen carefully to work out what is happening. Likewise, Flanagan and Siegel use silence to effectively deafen the audience at crucial moments. The viewers are therefore forced to experience the action as the heroines do.You’re Gonna Die Screaming But You Won’t Be HeardHorror films often depend upon sound design for impact—the most mundane visuals can be made frightening by the addition of a particular noise, effect, or tune. Therefore, in the context of the slasher genre, one of the most unique aspects of Hush is the absence of the Final Girl’s vocalisation. A mute heroine is deprived of the most basic expressive tool in the horror handbook—a good scream. “What really won me over,” comments one reviewer, “was the fact that this particular ‘final girl’ isn’t physically able to whinge or scream when in pain–something that really isn’t the norm in slasher/home invasion movies” (Gorman). Yet silence also plays an important part in this genre, “when the wind stops or the footfalls cease, death is near” (Whittington 183). Indeed, Hush’s tagline is “silence can be killer.”The arrival of the killer triggers a deep kind of silence in this particular film, because alternative captions, text, and other communicative techniques (including ASL) cease to be used or useful when the man begins terrorising Maddie. This is not entirely surprising, as the abject failure of technology is a familiar trope in slasher films. As Clover explains, “the emotional terrain of the slasher film is pretechnological” (Her Body, Himself, 198). In Hush, however, the focus on text in this context is notable. There is a sense that written modes of communication are unreliable when it counts. The killer steals her phone, and cuts electricity and Internet access to the house. She attempts to use the neighbours’ Wi-Fi via her laptop, but does not know the password. Quick thinking Maddie even scrawls backwards messages on her windows, “WON’T TELL. DIDN’T SEE FACE,” she writes in lipstick, “BOYFRIEND COMING HOME.” In response, the killer simply removes his mask, “You’ve seen it now” he says. They both know there is no boyfriend. The written word has shifted from being central to Maddie’s life, to largely irrelevant. Text cannot save her. It is only by using other strategies (and senses) that Maddie empowers herself to survive.Maddie’s struggles to communicate and take control are integral to the film’s unfolding narrative, and co-writer Siegel notes this was a conscious theme: “A lot of this movie is … a metaphor for feeling unheard. It’s a movie about asserting yourself and of course as a female writer I brought a lot to that.” In their reflection on the limits of both verbal and written communication, the writers of Hush owe a debt to another source of inspiration—Joss Whedon’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer television series. Season four, episode ten, also called Hush, was first aired on 14 December 1999 and features a critically acclaimed storyline in which the characters all lose their ability to speak. Voices from all over Sunnydale are stolen by monstrous fairytale figures called The Gentlemen, who use the silence to cut fresh hearts from living victims. Their appearance is heralded by a morbid rhyme:Can’t even shout, can’t even cry The Gentlemen are coming by. Looking in windows, knocking on doors, They need to take seven and they might take yours. Can’t call to mom, can’t say a word, You’re gonna die screaming but you won’t be heard.The theme of being “unheard” is clearly felt in this episode. Buffy and co attempt a variety of methods to compensate for their lost voices, such as hanging message boards around their necks, using basic text-to-voice computer software, and drawing on overhead projector slides. These tools essentially provide the captions for a story unfolding in silence, as no subtitles are provided. As it turns out, in many ways the friends’ non-verbal communication is more effective than their spoken words. Patrick Shade argues that the episode:celebrates the limits and virtues of both the nonverbal and the verbal. … We tend to be most readily aware of verbal means … but “Hush” stresses that we are embodied creatures whose communication consists in more than the spoken word. It reminds us that we have multiple resources we regularly employ in communicating.In a similar way, the film Hush emphasises alternative modes of expression through the device of the mute Final Girl, who must use all of her sensory and intellectual resources to survive. The evening begins with Maddie at leisure, unable to decide how to end her fictional novel. By the finale she is clarity incarnate. She assesses each real-life scene proactively and “writes” the end of the film on her own terms, showing that there is only one way to survive the night—she must fight.Deaf GainIn his discussion of disability and cinema, Norden explains that the majority of films position disabled people as outsiders and “others” because “filmmakers photograph and edit their work to reflect an able-bodied point of view” (1). The very apparatus of mainstream film, he argues, is designed to embody able-bodied experiences and encourage audience identification with able-bodied characters. He argues this bias results in disabled characters positioned as “objects of spectacle” to be pitied, feared or scorned by viewers. In Hush, however, the audience is consistently encouraged to identify with Maddie. As she fights for her life in the final scenes, sound fades away and the camera assumes a first-person perspective. The man is above, choking her on the floor, and we look up at him through her eyes. As Maddie’s groping hand finds a corkscrew and jabs the spike into his neck, we watch his death through her eyes too. The film thus assists viewers to apprehend Maddie’s strength intimately, rather than framing her as a spectacle or distanced “other” to be pitied.Importantly, it is this very core of perceived vulnerability, yet ultimate strength, that gives Maddie the edge over her attacker in the end. In this way, Maddie’s disabilities are not solely represented as a space of limitation or difference, but a potential wellspring of power. Hence the film supports, to some degree, the move to seeing deafness as gain, rather than loss:Deafness has long been viewed as a hearing loss—an absence, a void, a lack. It is virtually impossible to think of deafness without thinking of loss. And yet Deaf people do not often consider their lives to be defined by loss. Rather, there is something present in the lives of Deaf people, something full and complete. (Bauman and Murray, 3)As Bauman and Murray explain, the shift from “hearing loss” to “deaf gain” involves focusing on what is advantageous and unique about the deaf experience. They use the example of the Swiss national snowboarding team, who hired a deaf coach to boost their performance. The coach noticed they were depending too much on sound and used earplugs to teach a multi-sensory approach, “the earplugs forced them to learn to depend on the feel of the snow beneath their boards [and] the snowboarder’s performance improved markedly” (6). This idea that removing sound strengthens other senses is a thread that runs throughout Hush. For example, it is the loss of hearing and speech that are credited with inspiring Maddie’s successful writing career and innovative literary “voice”.Lennard J. Davis warns that framing people as heroic or empowered as a result of their disabilities can feed counterproductive stereotypes and perpetuate oppressive systems. “Privileging the inherent powers of the deaf or the blind is a form of patronizing,” he argues, because it traps such individuals within the concept of innate difference (106). Disparities between able and disabled people are easier to justify when disabled characters are presented as intrinsically “special” or “noble,” as this suggests inevitable divergence, rather than structural inequality. While this is something to keep in mind, Hush skirts the issue by presenting Maddie as a flawed, realistic character. She does not possess superpowers; she makes mistakes and gets injured. In short, she is a fallible human using what resources she has to the best of her abilities. As such, she represents a holistic vision of a disabled heroine rather than an overly glorified stereotype.ConclusionHush is a film about the limits of text, the gaps where language is impossible or insufficient, and the struggle to be heard as a woman with disabilities. It is a film about the difficulties surrounding both verbal and written communication, and our dependence upon them. The absence of closed captions or subtitles, combined with the use of alternative “captioning”—in the form of instant messaging, for instance—grounds the narrative in lived space, rather than providing easy extra-textual solutions. It also poses a challenge to a hearing audience, to cross the border of “otherness” and identify with a deaf heroine.Returning to the discussion of the Final Girl characterisation, Clover argues that this is a gendered device combining both traditionally feminine and masculine characteristics. The fluidity of the Final Girl is constant, “even during that final struggle she is now weak and now strong, now flees the killer and now charges him, now stabs and is stabbed, now cries out in fear and now shouts in anger” (Her Body, Himself, 221). Men viewing slasher films identify with the Final Girl’s “masculine” traits, and in the process find themselves looking through the eyes of a woman. In using a deaf character, Hush suggests that an evolution of this dynamic might also occur along the dis/abled boundary line. Maddie is a powerful survivor who shifts between weak and strong, frightened and fierce, but also between disabled and able. This portrayal encourages the audience to identify with her empowered traits and in the process look through the eyes of a disabled woman. Therefore, while slashers—and horror films in general—are not traditionally associated with progressive representations of disabilities, this evolution of the Final Girl may provide a fruitful topic of both research and filmmaking in the future.ReferencesBauman, Dirksen, and Joseph J. Murray. “Reframing: From Hearing Loss to Deaf Gain.” Trans. Fallon Brizendine and Emily Schenker. Deaf Studies Digital Journal 1 (2009): 1–10. <http://dsdj.gallaudet.edu/assets/section/section2/entry19/DSDJ_entry19.pdf>.Clover, Carol J. Men, Women, and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film. New Jersey: Princeton UP, 1992.———. “Her Body, Himself: Gender in the Slasher Film.” Representations 20 (1987): 187–228.Davis, Lennard J. Enforcing Normalcy: Disability, Deafness, and the Body. London: Verso, 1995.Ellis, Katie, and Mike Kent. Disability and New Media. New York: Routledge, 2011.Gorman, H. “Hush: Film Review.” Scream Horror Magazine (2016) <http://www.screamhorrormag.com/hush-film-review/>.Jankowski, Katherine A. Deaf Empowerment: Emergence, Struggle, and Rhetoric. Washington: Gallaudet UP, 1997.Laird, E.E. “Updating the Final Girl Theory.” Medium (2016) <https://medium.com/@TheFilmJournal/updating-the-final-girl-theory-b37ec0b1acf4>.Norden, M.F. Cinema of Isolation: A History of Physical Disability in the Movies. New Jersey: Rutgers UP, 1994.Shade, Patrick. “Screaming to Be Heard: Community and Communication in ‘Hush’.” Slayage 6.1 (2006). <http://www.whedonstudies.tv/uploads/2/6/2/8/26288593/shade_slayage_6.1.pdf>.Sheppard, D. “Hush: Revolutionising the Final Girl.” Eyes on Screen (2016). <https://eyesonscreen.wordpress.com/2016/06/08/hush-revolutionising-the-final-girl/>.Thurman, T. “‘Hush’ Director Mike Flanagan and Actress Kate Siegel on Their New Thriller!” Interview. Bloody Disgusting (2016). <http://bloody-disgusting.com/interviews/3384092/interview-hush-mike-flanagan-kate-siegel/>.Whittington, W. “Horror Sound Design.” A Companion to the Horror Film. Ed. Harry M. Benshoff. Oxford: John Wiley & Sons, 2014: 168–185.

IllegitimacyBack in 1987, Gregory Bateson argued that:Kurt Vonnegut gives us wary advice – that we should be careful what we pretend because we become what we pretend. And something like that, some sort of self-fulfilment, occurs in all organisations and human cultures. What people presume to be ‘human’ is what they will build in as premises of their social arrangements, and what they build in is sure to be learned, is sure to become a part of the character of those who participate. (178)The human capacity to marginalise and discriminate against others on the basis of innate and constructed characteristics is evident from the long history of discrimination against people whose existence is ‘illegitimate’, defined as being outside the law. What is inside or outside the law depends upon the context under consideration. For example, in societies such as ancient Greece and the antebellum United States, where slavery was legal, people who were constructed as ‘slaves’ could legitimately be treated very differently from ‘citizens’: free people who benefit from a range of human rights (Northup). The discernment of what is legitimate from that which is illegitimate is thus implicated within the law but extends into the wider experience of community life and is evident within the civil structures through which society is organised and regulated.The division between the legitimate and illegitimate is an arbitrary one, susceptible to changing circumstances. Within recent memory a romantic/sexual relationship between two people of the same sex was constructed as illegitimate and actively persecuted. This was particularly the case for same-sex attracted men, since the societies regulating these relationships generally permitted women a wider repertoire of emotional response than men were allowed. Even when lesbian and gay relationships were legalised, they were constructed as less legitimate in the sense that they often had different rules around the age of consent for homosexual and heterosexual couples. In Australia, the refusal to allow same sex couples to marry perpetuates ways in which these relationships are constructed as illegitimate – beyond the remit of the legislation concerning marriage.The archetypal incidence of illegitimacy has historically referred to people born out of wedlock. The circumstances of birth, for example whether a person was born as a result of a legally-sanctioned marital relationship or not, could have ramifications throughout an individual’s life. Stories abound (for example, Cookson) of the implications of being illegitimate. In some social stings, such as Catherine Cookson’s north-eastern England at the turn of the twentieth century, illegitimate children were often shunned. Parents frequently refused permission for their (legitimate) children to play with illegitimate classmates, as if these children born out of wedlock embodied a contaminating variety of evil. Illegitimate children were treated differently in the law in matters of inheritance, for example, and may still be. They frequently lived in fear of needing to show a birth certificate to gain a passport, for example, or to marry. Sometimes, it was at this point in adult life, that a person first discovered their illegitimacy, changing their entire understanding of their family and their place in the world. It might be possible to argue that the emphasis upon the legitimacy of a birth has lessened in proportion to an acceptance of genetic markers as an indicator of biological paternity, but that is not the endeavour here.Given the arbitrariness and mutability of the division between legitimacy and illegitimacy as a constructed boundary, it is policed by social and legal sanctions. Boundaries, such as the differentiation between the raw and the cooked (Lévi-Strauss), or S/Z (Barthes), or purity and danger (Douglas), serve important cultural functions and also convey critical information about the societies that enforce them. Categories of person, place or thing which are closest to boundaries between the legitimate and the illegitimate can prompt existential anxiety since the capacity to discern between these categories is most challenged at the margins. The legal shenanigans which can result speak volumes for which aspects of life have the potential to unsettle a culture. One example of this which is writ large in the recent history of Australia is our treatment of refugees and asylum seekers and the impact of this upon Australia’s multicultural project.Foreshadowing the sexual connotations of the illegitimate, one of us has written elsewhere (Green, ‘Bordering on the Inconceivable’) about the inconceivability of the Howard administration’s ‘Pacific solution’. This used legal devices to rewrite Australia’s borders to limit access to the rights accruing to refugees upon landing in a safe haven entitling them to seek asylum. Internationally condemned as an illegitimate construction of an artificial ‘migration zone’, this policy has been revisited and made more brutal under the Abbot regime with at least two people – Reza Barati and Hamid Khazaei – dying in the past year in what is supposed to be a place of safety provided by Australian authorities under their legal obligations to those fleeing from persecution. Crock points out, echoing the discourse of illegitimacy, that it is and always has been inappropriate to label “undocumented asylum seekers” as “‘illegal’” because: “until such people cross the border onto Australian territory, the language of illegality is nonsense. People who have no visas to enter Australia can hardly be ‘illegals’ until they enter Australia” (77). For Australians who identify in some ways – religion, culture, fellow feeling – with the detainees incarcerated on Nauru and Manus Island, it is hard to ignore the disparity between the government’s treatment of visa overstayers and “illegals” who arrive by boat (Wilson). It is a comparatively short step to construct this disparity as reflecting upon the legitimacy within Australia of communities who share salient characteristics with detained asylum seekers: “The overwhelmingly negative discourse which links asylum seekers, Islam and terrorism” (McKay, Thomas & Kneebone, 129). Some communities feel themselves constructed in the public and political spheres as less legitimately Australian than others. This is particularly true of communities where members can be identified via markers of visible difference, including indicators of ethnic, cultural and religious identities: “a group who [some 585 respondent Australians …] perceived would maintain their own languages, customs and traditions […] this cultural diversity posed an extreme threat to Australian national identity” (McKay, Thomas & Kneebone, 129). Where a community shares salient characteristics such as ethnicity or religion with many detained asylum seekers they can become fearful of the discourses around keeping borders strong and protecting Australia from illegitimate entrants. MethodologyThe qualitative fieldwork upon which this paper is based took place some 6-8 years ago (2006-2008), but the project remains one of the most recent and extensive studies of its kind. There are no grounds for believing that any of the findings are less valid than previously. On the contrary, if political actions are constructed as a proxy for mainstream public consent, opinions have become more polarised and have hardened. Ten focus groups were held involving 86 participants with a variety of backgrounds including differences in age, gender, religious observance, religious identification and ethnicity. Four focus groups involved solely Muslim participants; six drew from the wider Australian community. The aim was to examine the response of different communities to mainstream Australian media representations of Islam, Muslims, and terrorism. Research questions included: “Are there differences in the ways in which Australian Muslims respond to messages about ‘fear’ and ‘terror’ compared with broader community Australians’ responses to the same messages?” and “How do Australian Muslims construct the perceptions and attitudes of the broader Australian community based on the messages that circulate in the media?” Recent examples of kinds of messages investigated include media coverage of Islamic State’s (ISIS’s) activities (Karam & Salama), and the fear-provoking coverage around the possible recruitment of Australians to join the fighting in Syria and Iraq (Cox). The ten focus groups were augmented by 60 interviews, 30 with respondents who identified as Muslim (15 males, 15 female) and 30 respondents from the broader community (same gender divisions). Finally, a market research company was commissioned to conduct a ‘fear survey’, based on an established ‘fear of rape’ inventory (Aly and Balnaves), delivered by telephone to a random sample of 750 over-18 y.o. Australians in which Muslims formed a deliberative sub-group, to ensure they were over-sampled and constituted at least 150 respondents. The face-to-face surveys and focus groups were conducted by co-author, Dr Anne Aly. General FindingsMuslim respondents indicate a heightened intensity of reaction to media messages around fear and terror. In addition to a generalised fear of the potential impact of terrorism upon Australian society and culture, Muslim respondents experienced a specific fear that any terrorist-related media coverage might trigger hostility towards Muslim Australian communities and their own family members. According to the ‘fear survey’ scale, Muslim Australians at the time of the research experienced approximately twice the fear level of mainstream Australian respondents. Broader Australian community Australian Muslim communityFear of a terrorist attackFear of a terrorist attack combines with the fear of a community backlashSpecific victims: dead, injured, bereavedCommunity is full of general victims in addition to any specific victimsShort-term; intense impactsProtracted, diffuse impactsSociety-wide sympathy and support for specific victims and all those involved in dealing with the trauma and aftermathSociety-wide suspicion and a marginalisation of those affected by the backlashVictims of a terrorist attack are embraced by broader communityVictims of backlash experience hostility from the broader communityFour main fears were identified by Australian Muslims as a component of the fear of terrorism:Fear of physical harm. In addition to the fear of actual terrorist acts, Australian Muslims fear backlash reprisals such as those experienced after such events as 9/11, the Bali bombings, and attacks upon public transport passengers in Spain and the UK. These and similar events were constructed as precipitating increased aggression against identifiable Australian Muslims, along with shunning of Muslims and avoidance of their company.The construction of politically-motivated fear. Although fear is an understandable response to concerns around terrorism, many respondents perceived fears as being deliberately exacerbated for political motives. Such strategies as “Be alert, not alarmed” (Bassio), labelling asylum seekers as potential terrorists, and talk about home-grown terrorists, are among the kinds of fears which were identified as politically motivated. The political motivation behind such actions might include presenting a particular party as strong, resolute and effective. Some Muslim Australians construct such approaches as indicating that their government is more interested in political advantage than social harmony.Fear of losing civil liberties. As well as sharing the alarm of the broader Australian community at the dozens of legislative changes banning people, organisations and materials, and increasing surveillance and security checks, Muslim Australians fear for the human rights implications across their community, up to and including the lives of their young people. This fear is heightened when community members may look visibly different from the mainstream. Examples of the events fuelling such fears include the London police killing of Jean Charles de Menezes, a Brazilian Catholic working as an electrician in the UK and shot in the month following the 7/7 attacks on the London Underground system (Pugliese). In Australia, the case of Mohamed Hannef indicated that innocent people could easily be unjustly accused and wrongly targeted, and even when this was evident the political agenda made it almost impossible for authorities to admit their error (Rix).Feeling insecure. Australian Muslims argue that personal insecurity has become “the new normal” (Massumi), disproportionately affecting Muslim communities in both physical and psychological ways. Physical insecurity is triggered by the routine avoidance, shunning and animosity experienced by many community members in public places. Psychological insecurity includes fear for the safety of younger members of the community compounded by concern that young people may become ‘radicalised’ as a result of the discrimination they experience. Australian Muslims fear the backlash following any possible terrorist attack on Australian soil and describe the possible impact as ‘unimaginable’ (Aly and Green, ‘Moderate Islam’).In addition to this range of fears expressed by Australian Muslims and constructed in response to wider societal reactions to increased concerns over radical Islam and the threat of terrorist activity, an analysis of respondents’ statements indicate that Muslim Australians construct the broader community as exhibiting:Fear of religious conviction (without recognising the role of their own secular/religious convictions underpinning this fear);Fear of extremism (expressed in various extreme ways);Fear of powerlessness (responded to by disempowering others); andFear of political action overseas having political effects at home (without acknowledging that it is the broader community’s response to such overseas events, such as 9/11 [Green ‘Did the world really change?’], which has also had impacts at home).These constructions, extrapolations and understandings by Australian Muslims of the fears of the broader community underpinning the responses to the threat of terror have been addressed elsewhere (Green and Aly). Legitimate Australian MuslimsOne frustration identified by many Muslim respondents centres upon a perceived ‘acceptable’ way to be an Australian Muslim. Arguing that the broader community construct Muslims as a homogenous group defined by their religious affiliation, these interviewees felt that the many differences within and between the twenty-plus national, linguistic, ethnic, cultural and faith-based groupings that constitute WA’s Muslim population were being ignored. Being treated as a homogenised group on a basis of faith appears to have the effect of putting that religious identity under pressure, paradoxically strengthening and reinforcing it (Aly, ‘Australian Muslim Responses to the Discourse on Terrorism’). The appeal to Australian Muslims to embrace membership in a secular society and treat religion as a private matter also led some respondents to suggest they were expected to deny their own view of their faith, in which they express their religious identity across their social spheres and in public and private contexts. Such expression is common in observant Judaism, Hinduism and some forms of Christianity, as well as in some expressions of Islam (Aly and Green, ‘Less than equal’). Massumi argues that even the ways in which some Muslims dress, indicating faith-based behaviour, can lead to what he terms as ‘affective modulation’ (Massumi), repeating and amplifying the fear affect as a result of experiencing the wider community’s fear response to such triggers as water bottles (from airport travel) and backpacks, on the basis of perceived physical difference and a supposed identification with Muslim communities, regardless of the situation. Such respondents constructed this (implied) injunction to suppress their religious and cultural affiliation as akin to constructing the expression of their identity as illegitimate and somehow shameful. Parallels can be drawn with previous social responses to a person born out of wedlock, and to people in same-sex relationships: a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ kind of denial.Australian Muslims who see their faith as denied or marginalised may respond by identifying more strongly with other Muslims in their community, since the community-based context is one in which they feel welcomed and understood. The faith-based community also allows and encourages a wider repertoire of acceptable beliefs and actions entailed in the performance of ‘being Muslim’. Hand in hand with a perception of being required to express their religious identity in ways that were acceptable to the majority community, these respondents provided a range of examples of self-protective behaviours to defend themselves and others from the impacts of perceived marginalisation. Such behaviours included: changing their surnames to deflect discrimination based solely on a name (Aly and Green, ‘Fear, Anxiety and the State of Terror’); keeping their opinions private, even when they were in line with those being expressed by the majority community (Aly and Green, ‘Moderate Islam’); the identification of ‘less safe’ and ‘safe’ activities and areas; concerns about visibly different young men in the Muslim community and discussions with them about their public behaviour and demeanour; and women who chose not to leave their homes for fear of being targeted in public places (all discussed in Aly, ‘Australian Muslim Responses to the Discourse on Terrorism’). Many of these behaviours, including changing surnames, restricting socialisation to people who know a person well, and the identification of safe and less safe activities in relation to the risk of self-revelation, were common strategies used by people who were stigmatised in previous times as a result of their illegitimacy.ConclusionConstructions of the legitimate and illegitimate provide one means through which we can investigate complex negotiations around Australianness and citizenship, thrown into sharp relief by the Australian government’s treatment of asylum seekers, also deemed “illegals”. Because they arrive in Australia (or, as the government would prefer, on Australia’s doorstep) by illegitimate channels these would-be citizens are treated very differently from people who arrive at an airport and overstay their visa. The impetus to exclude aspects of geographical Australia from the migration zone, and to house asylum seekers offshore, reveals an anxiety about borders which physically reflects the anxiety of western nations in the post-9/11 world. Asylum seekers who arrive by boat have rarely had safe opportunity to secure passports or visas, or to purchase tickets from commercial airlines or shipping companies. They represent those ethnicities and cultures which are currently in turmoil: a turmoil frequently exacerbated by western intervention, variously constructed as an il/legitimate expression of western power and interests.What this paper has demonstrated is that the boundary between Australia and the rest, the legitimate and the illegitimate, is failing in its aim of creating a stronger Australia. The means through which this project is pursued is making visible a range of motivations and concerns which are variously interpreted depending upon the position of the interpreter. The United Nations, for example, has expressed strong concern over Australia’s reneging upon its treaty obligations to refugees (Gordon). Less vocal, and more fearful, are those communities within Australia which identify as community members with the excluded illegals. The Australian government’s treatment of detainees on Manus Island and Nauru, who generally exhibit markers of visible difference as a result of ethnicity or culture, is one aspect of a raft of government policies which serve to make some people feel that their Australianness is somehow less legitimate than that of the broader community. AcknowledgementsThis paper is based on the findings of an Australian Research Council Discovery Project (DP0559707), 2005-7, “Australian responses to the images and discourses of terrorism and the other: establishing a metric of fear”, awarded to Professors Lelia Green and Mark Balnaves. 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