VICE AURSS feed for https://www.vice.com/enhttps://www.vice.com/en%3Flocale%3Den_auenTue, 19 Mar 2024 04:32:12 GMT<![CDATA[America's TikTok Ban Passed the Lower House. What Does that Mean for Australia?]]>https://www.vice.com/en_au/article/dy39zk/americas-tiktok-ban-passed-the-lower-house-what-does-that-mean-for-australiaTue, 19 Mar 2024 04:32:12 GMTConservative Australian politicians are calling on the government to act after a bill to force TikTok to divest from Chinese ownership passed the United States’ lower house last week.

On Wednesday the US House of Representatives voted to pass a bill that would give TikTok’s majority Chinese-owned parent company Bytedance just under six months to divest its interest from the app, or it will be banned in the US, its largest market.

While the bill is yet to pass the US senate, the proposed ban’s implications are significant, and likely to encourage change to Australia’s legislative approach towards platform regulation.

Like the US, Australian intelligence organisations are concerned about the Chinese Communist Party’s (CCP) access to data collected on TikTok. While Bytedance has said it has never and will never share data from the US or Australia with the CCP, under China’s 2017 National Intelligence Law the company could be compelled to do so.

Conservative politicians want Australia to follow the US’s lead. Opposition leader Peter Dutton called on Prime Minister Anthony Albanese to “show leadership” over the matter.

“So far the Prime Minister hasn’t done that. And I think the Prime Minister, particularly at a time like this, doesn’t need to be weak. He needs to be strong and show the leadership that’s required to keep Australian kids safe online,” Mr Dutton said.

Opposition home affairs spokesman James Paterson, who has labelled TikTok a “bad faith actor”, said Australia should not be “left behind”, and that “equivalent legislation” should be prepared.

But Albanese has said his government has no plans to outlaw the app in Australia, stating while the government would continue to follow security advice, it hadn’t received any advice to ban TikTok.

“You need to have an argument for it, rather than automatically just ban things,” Albanese told ABC Radio.

Is TikTok really a threat to Australia’s national security?

All social media apps should be considered a threat to national security. They collect data on users in Australia, and that information has been sold and influenced in the past to affect civilian behaviour.

The most notable example was in 2016, when political consulting firm Cambridge Analytica leaked the Facebook data of 87 million users to Russian intelligence entities, which influenced that year’s US election. Facebook was fined $5 billion for its recklessness.

And in Australia there are growing concerns around TikTok’s dissemination of content.

On Tuesday, the eSafety commissioner, Julie Inman Grant, announced she had issued legal notices to Google, Meta, Twitter/X, WhatsApp, Telegram and Reddit which would force them to report on steps they’d taken to remove violent and extremist content.

TikTok is the only major social media platform that isn’t signed up to a global anti-extremism pact. The Global Internet forum to Counter Terrorism was formed in 2017 and aims to share information to target violent content online.

Inman Grant said TikTok was “sort of behind the rest of the companies”.

Inman Grant noted that other members of the group may have been uncomfortable co-operating with a Chinese-owned firm, The Age reported.

The use of TikTok on government devices was outlawed in Australia in 2023, with the government citing “significant security and privacy risks”.

Australia has precedence for acting on security concerns over Chinese influence. In 2018, the government blocked Chinese telecommunications giant Huawei from rolling out on Australia’s 5G network, citing concerns over the vulnerability of telecoms systems to subversion for espionage, and interference from a foreign government.

Arielle Richards is the multimedia reporter at VICE Australia, follow her on Instagram and Twitter.

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dy39zkArielle RichardsBrad EspositoAustralia TodayAustraliaVICE AustraliaVICE Australia/NZAustralia/NZTikToktiktok banunited statesInternetprivacydataFacebookchina
<![CDATA[Local Access]]>https://www.vice.com/en_au/feature/z3m7b5/local-accessMon, 18 Mar 2024 05:29:18 GMTz3m7b5VICE NZSTAFF VICE Australia<![CDATA[Review Finds Deaths of Two First Nations Boys ‘Preventable’ After More Than 100 Days in Isolation]]>https://www.vice.com/en_au/article/7kxapd/solitary-confinement-youth-detention-first-nations-deathMon, 18 Mar 2024 02:24:36 GMTDISCLAIMER: This story contains details around the deaths of two Aboriginal youths, and may be distressing to some readers.

The death of two First Nations children with disabilities who spent extensive time in isolation while in youth detention has raised concerns about whether solitary confinement is a justified practice.

Last Thursday, The Child Death Review Board’s annual report for 2022-23 was tabled in Parliament. It highlighted an anonymised case of two First Nations children – one died by suicide, and the other by an overdose – after spending time in a youth detention centre. Both boys were suspected to have undiagnosed foetal alcohol syndrome which had not been properly identified before their sentencing.

The report found that the boys had a history of trauma, exposure to violence, substance abuse, disengagement in school and subsequent involvement in the criminal justice system.Of the 376 days one of the boys spent in youth detention, 78% of his time was spent in “separation”.

In Queensland, separation is defined as placing a young person in a locked room by themselves for a purpose defined in section 21 of the Youth Justice Regulation 2016.

The other boy, who spent 319 days in youth detention, was confined to his cell for more than 22 hours a day on 55 separate days. 22 days of his detention were spent in his cell for 23 hours, and on three occasions, he spent 24 hours in his cell without a break.

The report details incidents of bullying and victimisation of one of the boys from other young people in detention.

“Records show he was spat on by other young people, punched in the head, had water thrown on him and was bullied because of his size,” the report said.“

Records show this boy requested to move cells because he feels he is being bullied …[and]… that he is sick of the sexualised behaviours and inappropriate comment[s] by some of the other young people in the unit,”

“When he considered that this move was not actioned quickly enough, he tried to flood his cell and his access to water was turned off. He reported spending additional time in his cell by choice because he felt unsafe.”

Understaffing was found to be the reason for most of the recorded separations. A report by Guardian Australia last year into Cleveland youth detention centre’s use of solitary confinement discovered that children were locked in “separation” for weeks, receiving little to no school or alternative forms of rehabilitation. Cleveland is one of three youth prisons across Queensland.

The report claimed that these extensive separation periods “significantly impacted” one of the boy’s access to education, therapeutic and cultural programs, social and leisure activities, exercise, fresh air, and sunlight.

Records found that the boys would experience heightened emotions and behaviours as a result of periods of separation, and that the more they were locked in confinement, the more they were involved in incidents.

“Periods of separation, isolation, or solitary confinement can impact a child’s health and wellbeing in severe, long-term and irreversible ways,” it said.“

“Being confined in a cell for extended periods of time, without interaction with peers, family, culture, and support networks creates an environment of re-traumatisation. Research has shown pre-existing mental health problems are likely exacerbated by experiences during incarceration, such as isolation, boredom and victimisation.”

Separations were therefore labelled “counterproductive” by the Child Death Review Board, claiming that these practices “create problems with reintegration” and “fail to address the underlying causes of behaviour”.



Adele is the Junior Writer & Producer for VICE AU/NZ. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter here.

See more from Australia Today on vice.com and on TikTok.

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7kxapdAdele LuamanuvaeBrad EspositoYouthAustralia TodayVICE Australiayouth detentionFirst NationsQueenslandsolitary confinement
<![CDATA[The New Zealand Hunters Who Eat the Raw Heart of Their Kill]]>https://www.vice.com/en_au/article/y3wjzm/new-zealand-hunter-heartMon, 18 Mar 2024 02:20:16 GMTWould you eat the raw heart of a freshly killed animal? Plenty of hunters in Aotearoa do just that.

It can be tricky to find official citations of heart-chomping in history – with many US hunting articles making vague reference to it as a “Native American tradition” as if the Indigenous groups in America are one conglomerate culture. 

This article (from the aptly named themeateater.com), highlights the fact that many hunting traditions didn’t originate as part of ancient practices, as early colonisers of the 1600-1800s would’ve been the first hunters in their family lines. 

Anthropologist Marc Boglioli told Meateater that, in neo Euro-American hunting, “our practices are not collective rituals perpetuated by large, culturally defined groups with shared identities.” 

But even without clear historical origins, the eating of the heart can still be a ritual with personal value – and it’s something many hunters in Aotearoa have embraced. 

Tom, 25, from Whangarei, was first introduced to the concept by a group of hunters in their 70s who’ve upheld the tradition for decades. 

“I wouldn’t do it every time, it’s a celebration of hunting your first animal,” Tom told VICE. “They were, like, welcoming me into the club.”

After shooting his first deer on a hunting expedition, the animal’s heart was handed to Tom without warning and he was told to take a bite.

“I didn’t think they were actually gonna make me do it,” he said.  

According to 25-year-old Wellingtonian, Gus, biting into the heart of your kill is “part of tradition”. Gus’ first kill was a wild bore and, yes, he ate its raw heart after he shot it.

Meanwhile, Andrew*, 28, from Taranaki, said he and his mates “did it for a laugh”.

“It’s like testing if you’re man enough and you don’t wanna be the guy that doesn’t do it.” 

Unsurprisingly, it’s a controversial idea – even among avid hunters who are used to the guts and the gore. 

New Zealander Johnny Yulie made global news in 2016 when he posted a picture of his 8-year-old daughter Chloe taking a bite of a deer heart. The picture was met with many negative comments and assumptions that Yulie had “forced” his daughter to take the bite. 

But, as he explained to BuzzFeed News, Chloe was the one driving the idea. 

“She wanted to do it when she saw a picture of her uncle biting the heart of his first deer,” said Yulie.

And what is it like to bite into a raw heart? Tom described his experience with the freshly killed deer as “wet, slimy [and] bloody.” 

“It was a massive heart. Like, you can hold both your hands up and it'll feel heavy. And to sink your teeth into it, you really have to try. It is tough.”

“Once you sink your teeth in your mouth fills with blood if you get into an artery and get into a chamber,” he said. 

But the brutality is the part of acknowledging the reality of eating meat, Tom explained. 

“It's quite a primal thing to hunt. It's not something everybody wants to do, or feels comfortable doing. But I feel like there's something to be said for hunting your own meat. And If you don't even know what it looked like, if you're buying a package steak from the supermarket, you don’t appreciate what that animal has been through,” he said. 

“It’s almost a spiritual thing.”

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y3wjzmRachel BarkerBrad EspositoNEW ZEALANDVICE NZAotearoahunting
<![CDATA[‘Nowhere Else to Go’: Australian Government Cancels Visas of Palestinians Fleeing Gaza]]>https://www.vice.com/en_au/article/ak39zj/cancelled-palestine-visas-australiaFri, 15 Mar 2024 01:20:30 GMTSeveral Palestinians fleeing from Gaza to Australia have had their visas cancelled while waiting in transit countries.

Almost 2300 temporary visas were granted to Palestinians with connections to Australia between October 7 and February 6. The visas would theoretically allow people to travel to Australia but not work, access healthcare, or education. 

The Sydney Morning Herald spoke to two Gazan women who were in Cairo waiting to complete their journey to Australia having previously obtained visas. However, they said they would not be able to board their connecting flight after discovering their visas had been cancelled, and had in fact been turned back mid-transit while attempting to board a flight from another Middle Eastern country.

Speaking under the pseudonym Cassandra, one of the women said: “I was devastated. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I was very happy thinking that we can get help, we will finally be in a period of safety.”

A spokesperson for home affairs minister Clare O’Neil said the government would not comment on individual cases, but said “the Australian government reserves the right to cancel any issued visas if circumstances change.” 

It is standard practice for visa applicants from any country to undergo security checks and, in the lead up to their arrival in Australia, be subject to potential ongoing security assessments.

But Rasha Abbas, the co-founder of the Palestine Australia Relief and Action Foundation, told the ABC that many of these people had been “encouraged” by the Australian government to use the tourist visa clause that was now being rejected. “We are really perplexed as to what changed,” said Abbas.

Dr Graham Thom, the Refugee Coordinator for Amnesty International Australia, called the news “abhorrent” and “absolutely disgraceful” on Twitter (now X). “These were the visas people fleeing Gaza were told to apply for on the DHA website,” said Thom. “The same visas people fleeing Ukraine applied for.”

Earlier this week, SBS News reported of seven cases where visas initially issued by the Australian government had now been retracted.

On Thursday, the General Delegation of Palestine to Australia, Aotearoa New Zealand and the Pacific released a statement saying it had sent a letter to Foreign Affairs Minister Penny Wong stressing the cancellations could “widen the gap that is already growing” between the Australian government and the Palestinian community. 

“Transit countries permitted [people] entry for a limited time only because they held Australian visas: they will be forced to leave but they have nowhere else to go.”

“The General Delegation of Palestine urgently calls on Australian authorities to reconsider this decision and enable those who have been granted visas to travel safely to Australia.”

 Get the story that matters most each day.

Subscribe to Australia Today’s daily newsletter here.

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<![CDATA[Australia: The Land of Plagues, Pests and Poxes]]>https://www.vice.com/en_au/article/88x395/australia-plagues-pests-invasive-speciesFri, 15 Mar 2024 00:33:14 GMTAustralia has long been plagued. Rodents, insects, disease, poisonous toads, self-replicating, venomous starfish, flesh-eating bacteria, British people. We’ve got it all. 

You’d think that the 2020s would see some kind of progress. But you’d be wrong. 

I haven’t been sleeping well lately. For months, my REM has been interrupted by the sound of rats fucking in my bedroom walls.

The creeps made settlement in my inner-Melbourne sharehouse in early summer, but countless attempts to plug holes to the outside, store food in containers and souse surfaces with ammonia didn’t dull the incessant rattles, creaks and squeaks. (Neither did the few meagre handfuls of poison pellets my landlord lovingly dropped off in old margarine containers.) 

But a dozen professionally laid baits and $300 later, the scurrying has finally been silenced. 

“A significant amount of droppings up there,” the pest control person told me after climbing down from the attic.

“Looks like mostly rats. Likely mice, too.” 

Rodents were the very first of many plagues to befall Australia.  

European mice and rats were introduced by the First Fleet in 1788, bringing British diseases to our native fauna, decimating crops and infesting buildings for centuries.

australia-plagues-pests-invasive-species
Mice eating grains during the 2021 New South Wales mice plague. Photo: Nine.

To this day – and to the confusion of scientists – mice plagues have only ever occurred in two countries: China and Australia. 

The earliest mouse plagues struck in the late 1800s in South Australia and New South Wales, where farmers used ploughs to shred nests of thousands of scampering babies and have been increasing in frequency and severity ever since. 

The worst on record was in 2021 after heavy rain saw an abundance of plants and crops flourish following years of drought. Millions of vermin invaded and chewed through whole houses, inside and out, entered hospitals, bit patients, and “carpets” of them swarmed and stripped fields in days. It cost the economy about $1 billion. 

And that’s just one plague. The reality is Australia, despite being an island populated mainly by cute, herbivorous animals, has a long history of being overwhelmed by non-native creatures, bacteria and viruses at the beck and call of colonisers. 

In 1860, Victoria was so rife with disease the government built an infectious diseases hospital to deal with epidemics and treat patients with diphtheria, typhoid, small pox and scarlet fever. But after multiple revamps it was ultimately repurposed to become a psychiatry institute in 1996, two decades shy of the COVID-19 pandemic that overwhelmed our healthcare system and killed 20,000 Australians.

Australia has a delicate ecosystem with no shortage of space, delicious vegetation and dumbass imperial governments that continually introduce animals for sport, agriculture or even to quell other pests. 

When the First Fleet brought sugarcane to cultivate in our warm soil, native beetles had a field day munching on the sweet roots. So, in 1932, Arthur Bell, an entomologist working for the Bureau of Sugar Experiment Stations, found the solution: amphibians from Puerto Rico! Eureka. 

The cane toad, a poisonous, fast-breeding, hungry lump was unleashed – 2400 of them at once – without any studies or reports into the potential impact they could have on the Australian environment. 

100 years later, these practically unkillable invaders have spread halfway across the country and some communities hold an annual Toad Day Out for family-friendly cane toad collection and culling. But in 2010, the Australian Government declared: “There is unlikely to ever be a broadscale method available to control cane toads across Australia”. 

The only species to present any threat to the cane toad is the native Australian white ibis, aka the highly adaptable bin chicken, which has learned it can shake the toad by the neck so that it excretes all its toxin over its skin and then rinse it off in the river, rendering it safe to snack on. 

But not even the bin chicken can save us. 

In 2024, our ecosystem is choking in the talons of many, many plagues – mostly caused by climate change and, somehow, finding ways to outlive and overcome it. 

And the higher-ups set the stage for this: mining, logging, fracking, drilling, spraying and dragging their feet on emissions reductions and fossil fuel taxes while committing ongoing genocide against the people who truly know what this land needs to heal and survive. 

In January, fire ants, “one of the worst invasive species to reach Australia” according to the Department of Agriculture, were seen writhing in masses to create rafts across flood waters in Queensland that were meanwhile drowning our native species. 

During the school holidays, the Victorian coastline was littered with white cabbage moth corpses washed up in the waves. In their caterpillar stage, these moths are common pests for gardeners and farmers that annihilate young, tender leaves on a variety of vegetables. But warmer weather sparked a mass hatching in summer that left the windshields of luxury cars cruising along the Great Ocean Road splattered with white wings. 

australia-plagues-pests-invasive-species
Victorian beaches were littered with invasive white cabbage moth corpses washed up in the waves. Photo: Aleksandra Bliszczyk

In February, a new global study found rising temperatures and cycles of extreme droughts and rains could help locusts breed at a biblical rate. One swarm of locusts can consume more than 1000 kg of green vegetation a day and many have eaten millions of dollars worth of crops in the eight major locust plagues in Australia since record-keeping began in the 1930s.

Meanwhile, our wombats are infected with mange, a skin disease caused by introduced mites, our koala population is threatened by outbreaks of chlamydia, about 300 million of our native birds get torn apart by feral cats every year and our possums are carriers of the flesh-eating Buruli ulcer bacteria that made it way to Australia from West Africa via mosquitos. 

Now, more than ever, it feels like the day when Australia will be swallowed whole by a maelstrom of plagues is nearing, while we have to pay rid our homes of for rodents, shoot brumbies from helicopters and go on family hunting sprees for cane toads.

So, do we deserve this? The next time you hear the pitter-patter of a rat on your roof, I want you to have a long, hard think. 

Aleksandra Bliszczyk is the Deputy Editor of VICE Australia. Follow her on Instagram.

Get the story that matters most each day. Subscribe to Australia Today’s daily newsletter here.

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88x395Aleksandra BliszczykBrad EspositoEnvironmentclimate changeplagueAustraliaHealth
<![CDATA[What Is Cancel Culture and What Does It Mean in 2024?]]>https://www.vice.com/en_au/article/dy35jm/cancel-culture-meaningThu, 14 Mar 2024 02:47:00 GMTCancel culture, as a concept, has swept the globe in recent years. Though born from a specific social activist group it has exploded into the mainstream. 

It was the Australian Macquarie Dictionary’s word of the year in 2019 and was also on their shortlist for word of the decade in 2021. But, since at least 2020, it’s been deployed by conservatives as a catchy phrase to incite outrage alongside other ‘“leftie” agendas like political correctness or wokeness. 

But what is cancel culture? What does it mean to cancel someone or something? And is cancel culture a myth, anyway?

What is cancel culture?

You might be wondering how to define ‘cancelled’ – let’s start with the Macquarie Dictionary’s definition of cancel culture.

Cancel culture:

noun the attitudes within a community which call for or bring about the withdrawal of support from a public figure, such as cancellation of an acting role, a ban on playing an artist's music, removal from social media, etc., usually in response to an accusation of a socially unacceptable action or comment.

In other words, cancel culture is the act of collective boycotting of something or someone after a perceived wrongdoing. The act of getting cancelled is enabled by social media. 

Despite how Macquarie defines ‘cancelled’ or ‘cancel culture’, cancelling isn’t just targeted at public figures – any person, brand or thing can be cancelled. 

Author and academic Eve Ng points this out in her definition of the term in Cancel Culture: A Critical Analysis. Ng defines cancelling and cancel culture as both the practice of cancelling someone (an individual, group, organisation, brand or even nation) and the surrounding commentary about their wrongdoing. 

This means cancelling someone is less like hitting backspace and deleting their name from the page and more like striking through the name and continuing to write about it alongside other people. 

What are some cancel culture examples?

Some early cancel culture examples can be traced back to what Clyde McGrady, from the Washington Post, defines as the first usage of “cancel” in today’s understanding. The lyrics of Chic’s song “Your Love Is Cancelled”, off their 1981 album Take It Off, is a sparse track punctuated by slap-bass and an undeniably 80s flute synth, where Nile Rodgers sings the titular phrase and gives birth to the metaphor that would culturally peak decades later. 

Ten years later, the word “cancel” emerges again in a film that boasts an all-star cast including Ice-T and Chris Rock (who had his own brush with cancel culture). In New Jack City, rising drug lord Nino Brown, played by Wesley Snipes, yells “Cancel that bitch!” after a fight with his girlfriend. The same phrase and scene are directly referenced in 50 Cent’s 2005 song “Hustler’s Ambition” and in Lil Wayne’s 2009 track “I’m Single”, securing its existence in the cultural unconscious.

When the idea of cancelling re-emerges years later, the misogynistic undertones of these earlier contexts are repressed. 

The origins of cancel culture

But when did cancel culture start?

Cancel culture manifested itself into the online term we know and understand now heavily because of social media.

Social media was crucial in enabling cancel culture to develop, specifically the online realm of Black Twitter – a space for both serious conversation about matters that affect Black communities, but also a space for humour and entertainment, by and for a collective of Black identities. 

There, the idea of cancelling, adapting older traditions of dissing and calling out, started alongside hashtag movements like #MeToo and #BlackLivesMatter, which helped spread the action and language of cancel culture further. 

It’s clear that the verb “to cancel” (like the history of other words like “woke”, “cool” and “on fleek”) originated in Black culture but has been appropriated into white mainstream culture globally.

This is why it’s particularly interesting that a phrase like cancel culture can be awarded word of the year from Australia’s authority on our version of English, without clear reference to its origins. 

But, as McGrady points out, the notion of cancel culture has now been weaponised to “sneer at the values of many young Black liberals”, who were integral to the concept coming into popular circulation.

The evolution of cancel culture on social media

After decades of sexual abuse allegations, the hashtag #MuteRKelly led to a successful financial boycott of the now-convicted musician, who was handed a 20-year prison sentence for child pornography earlier this year. 

Other examples include Woody Allen, Louis C.K. and Kevin Spacey – who at various times were “cancelled” by various groups over abuse allegations. 

And Pepsi was cancelled after their ad featuring Kendall Jenner was condemned for appropriating a Black Lives Matter protest. 

But it’s not just happening in the United States, K-pop group BTS were cancelled by Chinese fans over a comment by a band member paying tribute to American and South Korean troops who fought in the Korean war. 

You also don’t have to be alive to be cancelled. For many, Picasso is cancelled and debates continue on whether Michael Jackson is cancelled

In Australia, more recently, student groups at the University of Melbourne have asked for philosophy academic Holly Lawford-Smith’s classes to literally be cancelled in a campaign on campus and online, that led to debate over academic free speech

Cancel culture vs. free speech 

Cancel culture has a fraught relationship with free speech. Some argue that cancelling gives rise to the voices of marginalised communities, who have previously had their opinions suppressed. Others say it stifles open debate. 

The examples listed above suggest there isn’t a specific way to cancel something – the effects of cancel culture are often quite disparate.

Different groups of people may consider someone to be cancelled when others do not. There doesn’t appear to be a One Size Fits All to cancelling. 

While some consider cancel culture as an act of free speech, conservatives have identified cancelling as a threat to free speech. In response, the US Conservative Political Action Conference in 2021 focused on the theme ‘America Uncancelled’. It’s a phrase that’s been plastered on t-shirts ever since. 

Is cancel culture just call out culture?

While it may seem that cancel culture and call out culture align with the same purpose, both concepts differ in resolution.

Call out culture has more of a direct focus on education and progress, provided the person being ‘called out’ has the desire to grow and learn from their wrongdoings or mistakes. Anyone can be called out, and by doing so, anyone can learn to educate themselves and/or change their perspective for the better.

Cancel culture aims to rid the person on the receiving end of any kind of redemption. So while the two are similar, keep in mind that they both come to different conclusions. And if you’re going to cancel or call someone out, remember what you want from it.

Negative effects of cancel culture

According to Refocus AU, cancel culture can have definitive effects on the mental health of the person being cancelled because of its ability to socially exclude and alienate. These feelings of isolation then potentially lead to depression and anxiety, and even exacerbate existing mental health conditions.

A sense of shame may also be felt by the cancelled person if they are concerned over what people think, or are dealing with the consequences of their actions, and therefore, facing backlash for it.

But the cancelled are not the only party affected by cancel culture.

The canceller also faces mental health challenges when they accept a fleeting sense of hope and justice as redemption from the cancelled. If the cancelled party doubles down on their opinion or continues to defend themselves from the backlash, this could compromise the sense of hope the canceller holds, and may make them feel like their work and effort wasn’t effective. This may result in feelings of self doubt and helplessness.

Carlow University asked counsellors about how to protect your mental health from cancel culture and found that the best solution is to unplug from social media, apologise, refrain from posting online when feeling emotional, consider the feelings of others, and talk to others about your feelings. A gradual sense of acceptance and forgiveness should develop thereafter, and sooner rather than later, you’ll be rid from the torturing dread that follows you (hopefully).

No one is ever truly safe from the mental anguish of cancel culture. No matter where you sit on the cancellation scale, you are still vulnerable to the repercussions of it, and its important to look out for yourself if you’re in deep.

The controversy surrounding cancel culture 

Many may find cancel culture problematic in itself, and may wonder why or how cancel culture is, or can be, toxic.

Cancelling is one way social media was used to establish social justice. But the idea of media or activists playing a role in delivering justice isn’t anything new. 

Concerns have been raised about the effects of cancel culture on everyday citizens who aren’t as well-resourced or powerful as high profile people. At the same time, cancel culture has brought significant attention to the shortcomings of the legal justice system, particularly in relation to cases of sexual assault. 

Like any social phenomena, cancel culture is complex, and has been interpreted and deployed in many, many ways.

Cancel culture in Australia

Australian society has seen engaged in it’s fair share of cancellations and cancel culture in recent years as social media becomes the birthing ground for holding people accountable.

One particular case, which has proven to be (somewhat) longwinded is the cancellation of Australian band Sticky Fingers.

The band’s frontman Dylan Frost was called out online in 2016 by the lead member of First Nations hardcore punk bank Dispossessed for complacent behaviour and shirtfronting at one of their gigs. Frost would be accused of violence in the same year after Indigenous singer Thelma Plum made an online statement detailing an altercation she had with the band member.

Many of the band’s attempts to rectify the situation wouldn’t suffice, and the band would essentially face pushback from radio stations, and be removed or blackballed from festival lineups.

While acts of cancelling are quite obvious throughout Australian society and culture, many believe that there is a double standard.

There have been countless celebrities or public figures who have gone on to be cancelled, however the effects of their cancellation aren’t as felt as people expected. Like when Sonia Krueger called for an end to Muslim migration because she “wants to feel safe” or Samantha Armytage said “good on her” to one twin on live TV for having lighter-coloured hair and eyes as opposed to her darker-haired and skinned twin. Even all-round awful politician Pauline Hanson has been cancelled multiple times for her often racist and xenophobic views, but she still has a backing because, well, we live in Australia.

So while the effects of cancel culture are most certainly felt, the length at which people remain cancelled works on a case-by-case basis.

But does cancel culture even exist?

The version of cancel culture that conservative factions of society decry, isn’t real.

Yes, people are called out for their questionable actions all the time, but a person is only truly cancelled if they face consequences, be they social and/or financial or within the justice system.

But we see time and time again that people’s reputations and livelihoods remain firmly in tact even after their wrongdoings are exposed. People and groups can and often are called out, yet they remain protected by the structures of our society – like the patriarchy – enough to hold onto their high-profile jobs or keep getting booked for gigs.

Without being held accountable, is someone really cancelled?

Madeline Lo-Booth is a journalist who writes on culture and politics.

Read more from VICE Australia and subscribe to our weekly newsletter, This Week Online.

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dy35jmMadeline Lo-BoothAleksandra BliszczykCultureAustraliaVICE Australiacancel culturejohnny depplouis ckwoody allenKEVIN SPACEYcancelled
<![CDATA[Tell Us What Matters Most To You And Win a $500 Voucher]]>https://www.vice.com/en_au/article/m7bnjb/tell-us-what-matters-most-to-you-and-win-a-dollar500-voucherThu, 14 Mar 2024 01:19:33 GMTWell, it’s that time of year again.

Every 12 months or so we put the call out across Australia to see how you’re all doing and what you want to see more (or less) of on VICEAU.

More food videos? More news? Better entertainment coverage? Longform essays about Married at First Sight (can’t promise we will actually deliver on that one). Or perhaps you want to send one of our Australian reporters to a war zone. Yes, we see your Instagram comments.

Whatever it is, we know nothing in this world should come 100% free. So we’ve organised a $500 voucher for one of you (chosen at random).

Anyway.

To go into the drawer for the $500 voucher all you need to do is:

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<![CDATA[The People Who Explore Australia's Abandoned Buildings]]>https://www.vice.com/en_au/article/5d9ezb/australia-abandoned-buildingsThu, 14 Mar 2024 00:19:40 GMTWhen I was on dating apps, I used to see profile after profile from users who claimed to love “going on adventures.” What are you talking about? I’d think. How do you just go on an adventure? I imagined they probably meant hiking, or visiting an axe throwing experience at a brewery. 

I think this is why I like the idea of urban exploration – also known as urbex – the community built around sneaking into abandoned, human-built structures. I like the idea that somewhere out there there’s real people venturing beyond the beaten path and discovering what’s out there.

Over the past few years, accounts have popped up on YouTube and TikTok, full of people breaking into abandoned houses, schools, warehouses, and any other shadowy liminal spaces they can find. The creators have amassed followings, but getting this footage isn’t exactly easy – urbexers have to take physical and legal risks to capture it. Some of the older buildings are structurally precarious, and if explorers get caught poking around, they’ll be charged with trespassing.

So, who are the people staring down rotted wood and hefty fines, and deciding to venture out anyway – despite the hazards, or possibly, because of them? Why do they want to go into dusty, crumbling hospitals so badly? What are they looking for? I decided to talk to a few and find out. 

The outside of an abandoned mansion
The outside of an abandoned mansion, now covered in graffiti.


@AbandonedOz

Phil Bates is a 32-year-old Sydney-based explorer who runs the @AbandonedOz account on YouTube, as well as @abandoned_oz on Instagram. 

When Phil was in his early twenties, he used to drive past an abandoned house on a Western Sydney road during his commute to work. Every time he spotted it, it tugged at an old childhood fascination with haunted houses, unearthing memories of Scooby Doo episodes and Stephen King novels.

One day, Phil decided to just do it: he pulled over and stepped inside. He loved the rush that came with being somewhere that not many people get to go, seeing a space that’s hidden from the world. After that, he caught the bug. At one point he was going urban exploring every other day, documenting his discoveries on YouTube and Instagram. Sometimes he’d go alone; sometimes with friends. He’s always seeking out locations with an element of grandness – dilapidated mansions and theatres with winding staircases, structures that rest squarely on the border of luxury and ruin. He says he likes buildings with a history attached to them. 

Sometimes this means exploring a soon-to-be-demolished aquarium that tells the story of an economic recession, but other times, the history comes from his online audience.

 “I get comments like, ‘Hey, my father used to work at that Coles there’,” he says over video call. He also tells me about messages he gets, with strangers sharing lost memories brought to the surface by his videos, like from the people who once rode the roller coasters in the abandoned amusement parks he was now exploring.

In a short video collaboration with @urbexsydney, a voiceover from Phil says, “The natural decay of a place is one of the things I appreciate so much.”

Then there is, of course, the thrill factor.

“I wouldn’t say I feel completely scared,” he says, “but you’re on edge.” You have to consider who else could be in the site, or how well the building will hold up. Once, while exploring a now-demolished orphanage in Goulburn, he saw that the floor was sagging with water damage. He decided to test how weak the wood was by tossing a brick a few feet in front of him and watched as the brick fell straight through. 

“I like the challenge of navigating these places, so, you know, I don’t fall through the floor.”

@urbexsydney

@urbexsydney – who asked to be identified by her TikTok handle – is a 17-year-old explorer, as well as a professional photographer and occasional ghost hunter. She took oour Zoom call from an unidentified grassy location, explaining that she’d been en route to an abandoned building (or, as she called it, an “abando”) when she realised it was, in fact, actively on fire. She won’t be returning there, because she has no interest in burned buildings: they’re unnecessarily risky, and everything compelling within them has been destroyed.


@urbexsydney came to urban exploration young. Like Phil, she grew up loving stories about haunted houses and old asylums. When she was 10 her dad took her to a birthday party in Callan Park – which, it turns out, was built on the grounds of an old asylum. She only knew one other kid at the party, which meant the whole thing was kind of boring, so the two of them ditched the birthday and spent the day wandering the grounds instead. Two years later, @urbexsydney fell down a research rabbit hole about Callan Park’s history and returned to look around and take photos.

“And I kind of just didn’t stop,” she explained. “My friends from school, they'll go out for dinners and movies. We just explore abandoned places.” She goes urbexing at least twice a week now, sometimes driving for hours to find an interesting location. 

Her favourite site was an old hospital, abandoned for a while, but somehow perfectly preserved. When she made it inside she found that, miraculously, there was no graffiti and not a single smashed window. What followed was the ultimate good feeling many urbexers chase: a sense of real discovery, like she was the first person to be there. “It’s crazy,” she said, “It’s just a beautiful place.” 

One misconception about urban explorers that irks @urbexsydney is the idea that they’re all teenage menaces who want to break into old homes and vandalise them. This is more or less the opposite of what she’s interested in. She prefers spaces left exactly as they were, like the 19th century schoolhouse she found in Sydney. When she walked inside the classroom there was still writing on the chalkboard from the last lesson that took place: a maths problem from over a hundred years ago. 

The school was in the city. Outside of the building life had carried on. People had been growing and dying and falling in love, going to the doctors, writing novels, waking up early for work, buying tomatoes at the grocery store – but, in this room, everything had stayed exactly the same. “It’s like a hands-on version of history,” she said.

I asked how she feels about museums – does she still feel inspired from artefacts and paintings once they make their way into an official setting, or do they lose their magic? She says it’s not the same. Museums are too predictable. You pay for a ticket, go see the famous bits, read the wall panel explaining everything and walk out unchanged. When you’re exploring an abandoned building, it’s entirely different. 

You never know what you’re going to find, and nobody tells you how to piece it together.

To be a teenager right now, forming your identity in a world of smartphones and pandemics, feeling connected to an increasingly isolated and digitised universe is one of life’s big challenges.

But @urbexsydney has built a community of friends (although she’s also had a few relationships tested when she took people who didn’t take safety protocols seriously.) She’s travelled to places and regions she otherwise would have never explored, combed through historical archives, and gained confidence as a photographer. 

How wonderful it would feel to be a 17-year-old – or, honestly, a person of any age – unearthing secret places with your friends, discovering that there is more to the world than commercially-viable forms of adventure. How exciting it must be to experience your city as a place with wonders hiding behind every corner; to grow up knowing that every space you touched was connected to a history of people who had touched the same thing.

It all seemed strangely wholesome.

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5d9ezbIlana BeanBrad EspositoAustraliaVICE AustraliaadventureAbandonedurbanx
<![CDATA[‘Stretched Between Heaven & Hell’: Marcus Whale’s Journey of Holy Eroticism]]>https://www.vice.com/en_au/article/4a3myd/sydney-artist-marcus-whale-vice-spotlightWed, 13 Mar 2024 22:51:05 GMTMarcus Whale’s music reads like a prayer. 

Submerged in tenderness, divinity and devotion, Marcus uses music to transport a  feeling of elevation, as if you’re being lifted above ground by a higher power. All is unravelled within Marcus’ blend of ambient electronic and synth-pop. But these labels simplify music that sounds inherently genreless – an auditory adventure best understood when felt rather than explained.

On their latest project “Ecstasy”, Marcus bewitches the listener through every twist and turn of their voice. With harmonies, haunting vocal echoes, relentless kick drums and synths, you’re taken into the middle of an empty dancefloor – a place of safety and comfort – and forces you to forfeit your body to the music. 


Marcus likens this experience to that of praise and worship, a sacred and vulnerable church tradition that allows you to surrender yourself to God. These themes of spirituality and submission stem from Marcus’ time singing in the Catholic Cathedral choir at Sydney’s St Mary’s Cathedral, a deeply influential and formative part of their music journey. 

“It was an incredible experience, but really intense,” they told VICE.

“Performing music every week, sometimes twice a week at mass, and practising three times a week, just being super immersed in the liturgy of Catholicism which is very picturesque and icon-based, that to this day has proved a really enduring influence on the stuff I make.”

Marcus describes the experience as almost like “eroticism of the Catholic service”, where they were drawn most to the smells, sounds and mysticism behind reaching for a higher power.

“Being gay made it a bit strange, and eventually made me draw away from the dogmatic aspects of it,” they said.

“I’m an atheist now, and to me, that’s not even relevant. It’s about the power of the music in the space, and the power of the liturgy and what that does to people in a room.”

When Marcus first shared the project with their loved ones, many described the listening experience like being “stretched between heaven and hell”. And from the first listen it’s obvious where this understanding comes from: the music is an out-of-body experience. And that comes down to Marcus’ decision to create the album without narrative, so that those who engage with it can interpret its messaging on a more personal and intimate level.


“If I make what I make for me, and to satisfy my desires and deepest impulses, then that counterintuitively is closer to something that someone can connect with because I’m leaving it open ended,” they said.

“I’m almost satisfied with my sensual urges as a listener, and I love that it’s openness can allow other people to have different responses to it. That’s why the project is more feelings based, it’s almost responding to the sensuality of the music.”

Taking a look into Marcus’ sonic world and seeing the sensitivity, consideration and careful thought put towards the sound and stories told, it’s clear that music goes beyond a lifestyle. Everything is created with intention and purpose. And when we ask Marcus about their reason why, it’s clear that music is an inherent need, not a want.

“I think I just need to do it,” they said.

“The process of making it and performing it feels like my purpose in life. It is what I am. Which I don’t think is necessarily healthy, people are more than what they make, right?”

“But performing, that’s when I feel that this is what my life is about,”

“It’s my comfort zone.”


Adele is the Junior Writer & Producer for VICE AU/NZ. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter here.

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