John Batman the mass murderer has become a Jesus Christ figure. By blaming him, White Australia absolves itself of the sins of the past. Perhaps he’s the saviour we deserve.

In the mass media and cultural institutions, we have just marked the 100-year anniversary of Armistice by continuing to fixate on warfare – at the expense of our remarkable history in peace.

In 1998, nearly thirty years after the discovery of these ancient shipwrecks, another boat left Greece for Italy and ran aground near Riace. This time its cargo was human beings: nearly two hundred Kurdish asylum seekers whose journey had begun in northern Iraq. They walked into the town along the highway, in single file, and the people of Riace did their best to welcome them.

On 5 January, around 150 fascists and far-right sympathisers gathered in an anti-African migrant rally on St Kilda beach. The event was organised by well-known extremists Neil Erikson and Blair Cottrell and was also attended by Senator for Queensland Fraser Anning. The ABC was criticised for using the term ‘far-right activist’ in the lead up to the event, with others suggesting that ‘extremist’ was a more suitable term. There has been debate over whether those who attended should be described as ‘Nazis’.

Pindi remembers running from the cops with Roberta at her side. It was Darlinghurst in the late 1970s, when being a sex worker was a crime, and transgender sex workers in particular were targeted by police. Scared of being arrested, Pindi stuck out her leg, apologised, and sent her friend flailing to the ground. Through the tumble of her own limbs, Roberta may have seen Pindi dart around a corner and disappear.

Despite its impressive scope, and obvious personal investment, Griffiths’ much-praised book fails to uns­ettle. It re-affirms the role of science and knowledge, provoking the question of a standing unsettlement between colonial settlers and the original inhabitants of the Australian continent.

‘The whole truth about the treatment of blacks in the Norwest hasn’t been written. It may never be written. Only a book written by a man who knows both peoples could express and number the horrible cruelties inflicted by savage, brutish dogs in the shape of white men on the helpless men and women and children in their power.’

In May 1925, Australian seaman and returned serviceman Noel Lyons was deported from New Zealand. His crime: encouraging fellow workers to slow down. The quality of food served to trans-Tasman seamen had always caused discontent, especially when compared to the fine dining lavished upon first-class passengers. The situation came to a head aboard the Manuka when the crew refused to leave New Zealand’s capital of Wellington until their food was improved.

Why has it never been brought to my attention, throughout my primary, secondary and tertiary education, that Australia has a vast queer history? Only independent research has led me to discover the extent of Australia’s homosexual colonial past. The teachers and lecturers of Australian history, whom I have been a student of, have never touched upon the country’s queer histories.

However, the very existence of this regularly run tour raises serious concerns about ‘dark tourism’ and the need to respectfully handle a historical site’s devastating past. No matter how tastefully it is done, can a ghost tour of a former asylum ever be an appropriate method of generating greater interest in local history?

If you have ever sought a book about the rise and consequences of capitalism that is both deeply, morally serious and a rollicking good read, then search no more. This narrative’s truly global sweep is a welcome antidote to triumphalist, anglocentric tales of the Protestant work ethic and suchlike, and the central argument about the role of nature in human economic activity is persuasive.

This article was sparked by the jacket that Melania Trump wore as she travelled to a detention camp for migrant children, but my intent isn’t to argue that she or her staff chose that jacket in order to send a coded message to the president’s far-right followers. It is, rather, to highlight some of the historical echoes of that phrase – ‘I don’t care’.

Political unrest had already begun on 22 March, at the new University of Nanterre, a branch of the Sorbonne. Students agitated about their living conditions, the restrictive rules on visiting times to the women’s dormitories and the rigid, archaic academic environment. The police repeatedly broke up protest meetings, provoking the students to go on strike and occupy the campus.

In the wake of Invasion Day 2018, two works – Warwick Thornton’s Sweet Country and Richard Lewer’s exhibition The History of Australia ­– highlight Australia’s desperate and increasing need to confront its foundations. Here are two art projects that swipe and paw at Australia’s historical consciousness and demand that we do better.

The glitzy extravaganza that parades down Oxford Street each year began with an impromptu celebration organised by the Gay Solidarity Group. Hundreds of people walked down Oxford street, shouting ‘Out of the bars and into the streets!’. They were met in Kings Cross by police, bashed, and thrown into paddy wagons.

The letter was written secretly in my cell in ‘A’ Division when I was a prisoner in Pentridge Gaol with two comrades, Brian Pola and Fergus Robinson. There was no shortage of time to write it, as we were in solitary confinement, in our separate cells, for sixteen hours each day.