Author: Helen Irving

Almost every history book contains factual errors. These can usually be corrected in later histories or pointed out in reviews. But errors that are repeated over time become difficult to shake. They transform into myths. Myths may be relied upon to support arguments for political or legal reform. Proponents of reform may, unwittingly, expose themselves to scepticism about the soundness of their proposal once the errors are identified. The force of their argument may be diluted. Erstwhile or potential supporters may conclude that there is no need for reform.
The place of Australia’s Indigenous people in the Constitution abounds with myths. Many have been repeated in the current discussion about Indigenous constitutional recognition. It is in everyone’s interest that these should be explained. This has no bearing on whether or not particular proposals for constitutional change are worthy.
Below, I identify the commonly-repeated myths, and explain the relevant facts. First, a few words about what the Constitution does not say:
THE CONSTITUTION
The Australian Constitution makes no mention of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders. Prior to 1967, it referred to the people of the “Aboriginal race” (but not the Torres Strait Islanders) in two separate sections. These sections said nothing about the identity of the Aboriginal people or the definition of “Aboriginal”, or about Aboriginal citizenship or rights. The Constitution has never described or defined Aboriginal people. It has never referred to the doctrine of “terra nullius.”
THE MYTHS
The 1967 referendum
The 1967 referendum has become iconic and inspirational for proponents of indigenous constitutional recognition. It is, however, poorly understood.
The question put to the voters in the 1967 referendum was: Do you approve the proposed law for the alteration of the Constitution entitled: “An Act to alter the Constitution so as to omit certain words relating to the people of the Aboriginal race in any state and so that Aboriginals are to be counted in reckoning the population?”
More than 90% of the nation and a majority in all States said Yes. As a result, two changes were made to the Constitution.
1. Certain words were omitted
The “certain words” that were omitted were from section 51 (xxvi). Prior to 1967, this section gave the Commonwealth the power to make laws with respect to “[t]he people of any race, other than the aboriginal race in any State, for whom it is deemed necessary to make special laws”. This meant that the Commonwealth could not make special laws for the Aboriginal people, except in the Territories. Aborigines were a subject for State laws.
In 1967 the words “other than the aboriginal people in any State” were struck out. As a consequence, the Commonwealth gained the power to make special laws for the Aboriginal people (Native Title laws are an example).
The Constitution, it should be noted, refers only to “special laws”. It is neutral regarding the content of such laws. It does not say anything about whether those laws must be beneficial or adverse.
2. Aboriginals are to be counted
Secondly, following the 1967 referendum, section 127 of the Constitution was removed. This section said: In reckoning the numbers of the people of the Commonwealth, or of a State or other part of the Commonwealth, aboriginal natives shall not be counted.
It is a common myth that the section excluded Aboriginal people from being counted in the census, and that the 1967 referendum meant that they would henceforth be counted. It did not. The Aboriginal people have always been counted, from the very first Commonwealth census in 1911. In fact, census statistics specifically recorded the populations of Aboriginal Australians. “Half-blood” Aborigines were considered to be white and were included in the general census.
The purpose of section 127 (admittedly, not obvious from its words) was to guide the calculation of the numbers of parliamentary representatives per State and also to determine certain State financial entitlements and obligations, based on State populations. When these calculations were made, the numbers of Aboriginal people, as counted, were excluded.
The right to vote
Another common myth is that the 1967 referendum gave the Aboriginal people the right to vote. This is incorrect. The 1967 referendum had nothing to do with this right (or “equal rights” or rights at all).
Aboriginal people were able to vote in all States and in the Commonwealth by 1967. From 1949 they could vote in Commonwealth elections if they were enrolled to vote in NSW, Victoria, South Australia or Tasmania. Indigenous people who had been in military service also had the right to vote. In 1962, all other Aboriginal people became entitled to vote in Commonwealth elections.
At the State level, Aboriginal people were able to vote in South Australia, NSW, Tasmania and Victoria throughout the 20th century. In Western Australia and Queensland they gained the State vote, respectively, in 1962 and 1965.
It should also be noted that the official definition of Aboriginal has changed over time, and voting rights of individuals have therefore changed accordingly. Many Aboriginal people today would not have been excluded from the right to vote under the former laws.
In any case (with the exception of a now-spent transitional provision – section 41), neither eligibility to vote nor the franchise is mentioned in the Constitution. The right to vote is a matter for ordinary legislation. The Constitution did not need to be altered for Aboriginal people to gain the right to vote.
Citizenship
A further common myth is that the 1967 referendum gave citizenship to the Aboriginal people. This is incorrect. Between 1788 and 1949, everyone born in Australia (or any other part of the British Empire) acquired the legal status of “British subject” (“subject” was the term used for British nationality at that time). In 1949, under new legislation every person born in Australia, regardless of race or colour, became simultaneously a British subject and Australian citizen. Subsequent changes in legislation meant that Australians are no longer British subjects.
Eligibility for Australian citizenship has changed over the years. Citizenship laws, however, have never differentiated between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal persons.
Again, citizenship is not defined in the Constitution. A referendum would not be required to amend the citizenship law.
“Flora and fauna”
The myth that the Constitution included a reference to the Aboriginal people under a “flora and fauna” section is entirely erroneous. The words “flora and fauna” do not appear anywhere in the Constitution, nor did they prior to 1967. There was no “Flora and Fauna Act” either. No legislation referred to or classified the Aboriginal people in such terms.
White Australia
It is sometimes thought that the “White Australia” policy was enshrined in the Constitution and/or directed at Aboriginal people. It was not. It is certainly true that Australian attitudes and policy favoured “white” people generally and, in many respects, discriminated against non-whites on the basis of their race or colour.
However, the White Australia policy was specifically about immigration, and not about the Indigenous people. The Commonwealth has power to pass laws with respect to immigration (section 51 (xxvii) ), but immigration policy is not mentioned in the Constitution. It was expressed in legal terms in the Commonwealth Immigration Restriction Act of 1901. Under this Act, an intending immigrant could be denied entry into Australia if he or she failed a “dictation test”. The test involved writing down 50 words that were dictated by an immigration officer, in any European language. If a person could not write as dictated, he or she was refused entry. The test was mostly applied to Asian persons. It did not apply to people living in Australia, whether white or non-white.
It is also frequent asserted that the Immigration Restriction Act was the Commonwealth Parliament’s very first Act. This is incorrect. It was the seventeenth Act of 1901 – the last Act of that year.
Indigenous recognition
None of these myths is essential to the argument for indigenous recognition. Today, Indigenous Australians have equal legal status with non-Indigenous Australians, but no one can claim that they have gained full equality or recognition in other terms. The fact that Australia had a native population prior to the arrival of the British in 1788 is still not recognized in the Constitution.
The Commonwealth’s Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Peoples Recognition Act, passed in 2013, recognized that “The Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples were the first inhabitants of Australia.” The Act was designed to be preparatory to a referendum on Indigenous constitutional recognition and has a two-year “sunset” clause. The referendum date has not yet been set. However, Prime Minister Abbott has indicated that 27 May 2017 – the fiftieth anniversary of the 1967 referendum – may be chosen.
If so, it will be an opportunity for clarifying what really happened in that event, and for arguing for Indigenous recognition in its own right.
For further information on myths about the 1967 referendum, see http://parlinfo.aph.gov.au/parlInfo/download/library/prspub/JTZM6/upload_binary/jtzm62.pdf

The recent death in an Israeli prison of an Israeli-Australian citizen, Ben Zygier, has escalated into a multidimensional drama. Claims of spying and counter-spying, speculations about Zygier’s plans and their potential to damage Australian-Israeli relations, have multiplied. Allegations of anti-Semitic motives on the part of critics of Israel’s response face allegations of Israeli complicity in Zygier’s death.
In its latest iteration, the drama has moved beyond the particular, and reached into the policy of dual citizenship for Australians. More than one commentator has suggested that dual citizenship should be questioned and perhaps ruled out, in cases where the Australian citizen works for the secret service or even just the government of another country. Some have implied that dual citizenship as such should be reconsidered.
These are knee-jerk responses. Apart from their impracticality, they overlook a long and cautionary history surrounding citizenship laws. It was not until well after the Second World War that dual nationality was accepted by the international community, and then, in many countries, only reluctantly, and in some still not at all. Before then, embarrassments in diplomatic relations, the threat of divided allegiance in wartime, and the principle of single family citizenship were regularly advanced as reasons against permitting what was then called ‘double nationality’. This policy produced many hardships for individuals. Persons who had acquired citizenship by the accident of birth in a country that practiced the jus soli rule (for example, Britain and its Dominions until relatively recently, and the United States, still, as guaranteed by the Fourteenth Amendment) found themselves unable to acquire the citizenship of the country in which they lived, and, as aliens, were consequently denied the rights and security of abode that come with citizenship. Refugees, driven by crisis or persecution, were unable to take the citizenship of their country of refuge or were forced to abandon their former citizenship and therefore, in many cases, their right eventually to return home.
Under the laws of virtually every country in the world (including Australia and, notwithstanding its apparent constitutional guarantee, the United States), between the mid-nineteen century and the mid-twentieth century, women who married foreign men were automatically stripped of their citizenship, in part because it was assumed that they would acquire their husband’s citizenship, and dual nationality was not permitted. Where new citizenship was not acquired, the women were rendered stateless – one of the most pitiable experiences a human being can suffer. Countless other hardships were produced, for example, for women who were deserted by their husband, who, even in their own country, could not regain their former citizenship and, thus, were condemned to live as aliens. The decades-long campaign against these laws was finally successful, with the UN Convention on the Nationality of Married Women in 1958, but its success depended in significant part on the willingness of countries to accept dual nationality.
We recognise, today, that dual nationality is a matter of considerable convenience in the lives of those many who live and work in more than one country, that it facilitates commerce and is an core aspect of globalisation. We also need to remember that the denial of dual citizenship would have commensurable negative consequences, and would create problems going well beyond the scale of anything at issue in the Zygier case.
The constitutional framework needs to be understood. Australian citizenship is not guaranteed or defined under the Constitution, but the Commonwealth parliament has the power, under the ‘Naturalization and aliens’ provision (section 51 (xxix) ) to pass laws with respect to the acquisition of citizenship and governing the conditions on which it can be held. Australia did not permit dual nationality until 2002 (much later than most ‘western’ countries). Before then, an Australian who was naturalized in another country (or who automatically acquired a foreign citizenship, for example, by marriage) lost their Australian citizenship. Those who acquired Australian citizenship by naturalization were, however, able to hold more than one. While the Australian naturalization oath for a time required ‘new Australians’ to renounce their former nationality, it had no such legal effect. Australia could not control whether the laws of other countries did or did not permit their citizens to hold another nationality. The naturalization oath today requires a pledge of loyalty to ‘Australia and its people’; that loyalty does not have to be exclusive, nor can Australia, in practice, require it to be.
Those who are currently suggesting that Australia should reconsider its approval of dual citizenship overlook the fact that it can be acquired by naturalization, as well as by birth and parentage. It would be a dramatic, and internationally-questionable step to offer naturalization only to those immigrants who had, prior to the ceremony, legally renounced their former citizenship, rendering themselves, for a time at least, stateless. It would also be irrational to deny dual nationality to Australians by birth or parentage for fear of hostile allegiances, but not to those who acquired Australian nationality by naturalization. No one, surely, is arguing that naturalization should be prohibited.
The Constitution does include a provision in which issues of dual nationality and allegiance are addressed. Section 44 (i) disentitles a person who is ‘under any acknowledgment of allegiance, obedience, or adherence to a foreign power, or is a subject or a citizen … of a foreign power’ from standing as a candidate for either House of federal Parliament. The High Court held in Sykes v Cleary in 1992, that this extended to dual citizens and had the purpose, in the words of Justice Deane, of ‘prevent[ing] persons with foreign loyalties or obligations from being members of the Australian Parliament.’ The 1890s Federal Convention debates reveal that the concern of the framers of the Constitution was primarily with the possibility that Members of Parliament might, during wartime, hold loyalties to an enemy state. The High Court concluded that dual citizens wishing to stand for Parliament needed to take every available step to divest themselves of their non-Australian citizenship.
This may be hard on individuals who stand but are not successful, and who find themselves, thereafter, deprived of the second (or more) citizenship they once held. But, it is limited and proportionate, and serves a clearly-defined purpose. Whatever the hardship, it can be assumed that the prospect of a seat in Parliament has been weighed against the loss of citizenship status. But, in no case, does the Constitution force an individual to renounce his or her citizenship for other reasons. Nor does it require or even assume a policy of single Australian nationality or a demonstration of exclusive allegiance. This, too, should be remembered by those who are currently over-excited by the citizenship implications of the Zygier affair.

The storm of protest that greeted the Commonwealth’s Exposure Draft of the Human Rights and Anti-Discrimination Bill last month was just the latest affirmation that rights instruments, whatever their form, are inherently controversial. We tend to think of Americans and their Bill of Rights as joined at the hip, but let’s not forget that the U.S. Constitution’s framers decided against one in 1787, setting off an intense political debate before the first ten amendments were ratified in 1791. More than two centuries later, bills of rights and controversy still go together. And so it has proved in the United Kingdom, where, just before Christmas, the Commission on a Bill of Rights released its much-anticipated report: two volumes, entitled ‘A UK Bill of Rights? The Choice Before Us.’
The appointment of the Commission in March 2011, ten months after the election of the Conservative – Liberal Democrat coalition government, followed a history of inconclusive inquiries and official reports: a Labour Green Paper in 2007 which proposed developing a British statement of values and a British ‘Bill of Rights and Duties’; an all party parliamentary Joint Committee on Human Rights whose report in 2008 was entitled ‘A Bill of Rights for the UK?’; a second Green Paper, in 2009, on ‘Rights and Responsibilities.’ All were careful and dispassionate in tone, but in the background loomed a long-running, angry debate over the respective rights of prisoners, accused persons, asylum seekers, terrorist suspects and members of minorities, against the rights of the general public. In simple terms, the antagonists saw each other as either too soft or too hard on rights, as bleeding-heart liberals or cruel-hearted conservatives. The UK Human Rights Act (1998), the European Convention on Human Rights and the rulings of Strasbourg provided the libretto.
The Conservative Party’s 2010 Election Manifesto had included a pledge: ‘To protect our freedoms from State encroachment and encourage greater social responsibility, we will replace the Human Rights Act with a UK Bill of Rights.’ But the realities of coalition with the Liberal Democrats saw the Commission’s terms of reference confined to investigating the creation of a UK Bill which incorporated and built on the European Convention, while examining the operation of the Convention and consulting widely (including with the devolved governments) and considering ways of promoting a better public understanding of Britain’s rights obligation. Whether the existing Human Rights Act should be jettisoned was a secondary consideration.
In the eyes of many, the task was doomed from the start. The Chair, Sir Leigh Lewis, alone was a self-declared neutral, but the eight commissioners, appointed by the Minister for Justice and the Deputy Prime Minister, personified the lines of division: variously, champions of UK parliamentary sovereignty or the European Court, universal human rights or distinct national rights, together on the same platform. At times at least, each side appeared to believe that the other was getting the more sympathetic hearing. One of the commissioners resigned in early 2012, publicly claiming that the goal of repatriating rights from Europe to the UK parliament had been sidelined. Two members, Helena Kennedy and Philippe Sands, wrote a minority report, ‘In Defence of Rights’, which they re-published in the London Review of Books in January this year, claiming the opposite.
The Commission’s Report begins ominously, with the admission that, unlike many government commissions, the members already had ‘well defined views on the protection of fundamental rights.’ A tone of weariness pervades what follows: two volumes of summaries of conflicting views and surveys of how things are done in other countries. It comes as no surprise that the sole decision was to delay deciding. The impact on the devolved governments of any changes, it was agreed, needed further consideration and nothing could be done before the Scottish independence referendum in 2014. After that, a Constitutional Convention should be held. The Commission itself was wound up. The Report’s title captured the moment: no conclusions, only ‘choices’, and these remained to be made.
The likelihood that time and the referendum result will blur the lines of disagreement seems small. The minority report’s re-publication was accompanied by its authors’ observation that the circumstances of the Commission’s appointment ‘were not auspicious’; the composition (unimaginable in an Australian analogue) – all white, all men except for Kennedy herself, and ‘almost all lawyers and London-based’ – had undermined its legitimacy from the start. The conservative government, Kennedy and Sands wrote bitterly, had always been committed to ‘tearing up’ the UK Human Rights Act, which many Tories saw as ‘little more than a charter for foreign terrorists and local criminals.’
The Report itself is more courteous. The commissioners, it notes, had treated each other’s views with respect, and their most significant source of disagreement was over how ‘creative’ the courts should be in applying existing rights (not a small disagreement, it must be said). Nevertheless, it regretted that public debate had too often been characterised by ‘polarised and sometimes exaggerated polemic’; cases involving extraditions or deportations had attracted particularly high levels of media attention; ‘stereotypes and caricatures’ abounded. In the Report’s melancholic words: ‘Into such waters was the Commission launched.’
The sense of déjà vu is strong, at least for those who took part in Australia’s National Human Rights Consultation and the debate following its 2009 proposal that the Commonwealth should adopt a UK style Human Rights Act. The only real surprise was the relatively small number of ‘substantive’ submissions received by the Commission (around 1,000, out of a population of more than 63 million). Perhaps, however, rather than lack of interest, this may have indicated the complexities involved. Among those who responded to the public consultations, some thought that the UK Human Rights Act should not change because they feared getting something worse; others because they were happy with it; some thought it should be amended to reduce the rights it protects and others to enlarge them; still others thought a British Bill of Rights should replace it for similarly negative or positive reasons; some wanted the Act, or a new Bill, to be supplemented with a special Bill for Northern Ireland, and so on. The permutations were exhausting even to a Bill of Rights junkie.
In the end, the schisms seemed unbridgeable: between those who wanted more justiciable and legally-enforceable rights (socio-economic rights, in particular, such as education and housing) or more powerful judicial review, and those who wanted the courts to play a more restricted role in rights enforcement or to butt out altogether; between those who have faith in the courts and those who have faith in parliamentary processes; between those who wanted greater internationalisation, and those who wanted less.
Three ‘lessons’ for Australians emerge. First, public confusion about what’s at stake in adopting or declining a national bill of rights happens in other countries too. The first task of any government wanting to understand why ‘stereotypes and caricatures’ abound is to recognise this. It was evident to me, as an outsider attending the Charter 88/IPPR Constitutional Convention in Manchester back in 1991 (at which a Bill of Rights was promoted as a panacea for virtually all of Britain’s social ills), that aspirations and legal capacity are not comfortable partners. Then, during a sabbatical semester in London in 2009, as well as on my many visits over the years, I learned that ‘ordinary’ Britons – even well-educated ones – do not understand, for example, the precise differences between the UK Human Rights Act and the European Convention; between the European Union and the Council of Europe; between judicial review of legislation and judicial enforcement of laws; between international law and foreign law.
Analogous confusions can be found in Australia, although there are also important contextual differences. Unlike in Britain, where it has happened many times, Australia has never experienced a direct terrorist attack; Australian law is not subject to the supervision of an extra-territorial court; it is also geographically more isolated. The stakes are higher and the fear more present in Britain. It would be easy to overlook this in assessing the public mind or taking a position on what Kennedy and Sands call the ‘delusional idyll’ of an earlier age of national sovereignty.
Secondly, debates about rights are complicated, because the issues themselves are complicated. Rights, as the famous expression goes, ‘collide’, and so do views about their protection. No one should be surprised. One of the virtues of a democratic system is its encouragement of alternative perspectives and debate. While the issue of whether to renovate or replace the UK Human Rights Act needs to be settled at some time, the UK Commission should celebrate the diversity of views it drew forth (as Australia’s parallel debates have done), rather than regret it.
Thirdly, all those in Australia who, during the debate on the proposed Human Rights Act, worried about our ‘pariah’ status and lamented that Australia, alone in the democratic world, lacked an entrenched bill of rights, should take heart. The British feel similarly about themselves! Despite its long tradition of parliamentary democracy, it sees itself – so we learn from the Report – as standing alone among the democracies without a written national constitution in which rights can be entrenched. Even Australia comes out clean in comparison. Indeed, Australia’s lacuna is scarcely noticeable, at least to the British. Australia is barely on the radar. The Commission’s Report contains a lengthy survey of the constitutions of democratic countries and their rights protection regimes. A team of top UK Post-Graduate students, we learn, was enlisted to help with the relevant research. They would have done better to shoot off a couple of emails. The survey of our constitutional rights is confused and incomplete, and it is almost amusing to find that Australia’s Constitution Act is dated 1960 – not just once, as might happen with a typo, but twice, clearly and unambiguously. If we are fretting about how the world sees us, we can relax. Even the country whose parliament passed our Constitution Act in 1900, hasn’t noticed.

(An edited version of this entry appears in The Conversation, 24/1/13)
Australia lacks a national bill of rights and the many attempts of Labor Governments over the years to adopt one – whether statutory or constitutional – have failed. But Australia already has a raft of human rights laws, including many anti-discrimination Acts. The Gillard government has now turned to these Acts, proposing their consolidation into a single Human Rights and Anti-Discrimination Bill. The government’s stated aim is to harmonise and simplify the law, and to facilitate compliance. That the existing Acts have created a complicated, sometimes inconsistent, rights landscape is not open to doubt. But, many who campaigned in 2009-10 against the Human Rights Act that was proposed by the National Human Rights Consultation Committee and reluctantly abandoned by the government, will be scrutinising this new Bill for signs that it is intended as a surrogate.
The Bill, indeed, goes further than simply bringing the existing Acts together. No one should be surprised that it is already deeply controversial. Among the hundreds of submissions on the ‘Exposure Draft’ that have been received by the Senate’s Legal and Constitutional Affairs Committee, many have raised objections, including about the Bill’s constitutional validity.
The legal issues are complex, but there is some relief, at least, for those who fear a ‘back-door’ bill of rights. Debate about the desirability of a bill of rights is rarely about whether ‘rights’ should be protected. Mostly, it is about the recognition of particular rights, and, in particular, about who should enforce them. Bill of rights opponents (like myself) rarely oppose the legal protection of rights but, rather, resist the idea of rights-based judicial review; that is to say, the power of courts to determine whether legislation, as such, is rights-compliant. They believe that parliament should make the law without courts looking over its shoulder, and that the courts should enforce the law, and not decline to enforce it or declare it ‘incompatible’, because, in the judges’ opinion, it does not protect rights. Contentious legislation should be subject to political debate and, if it is objectionable, ultimately ‘sentenced’ at the ballot box.
One of the main objections to the Human Rights and Anti-Discrimination Bill is that it extends the scope of rights protection, creating, in effect, new rights. But at least it does not attempt to create a ‘superstatute’ – an Act that ‘trumps’ all other Acts. The Constitution makes Commonwealth laws override inconsistent State laws, but a ‘superstatute’ would override all other Acts or laws, including those passed by the Commonwealth parliament itself. It would effectively ‘constitutionalise’ rights, making all other laws subordinate to it, and thus subject to a judicial determination about their conformity. The creation of such an Act was probably tempting. Unique among the anti-discrimination Acts, the Racial Discrimination Act (1975) includes a provision that makes the Act prevail over all other Australian laws. The government might have generalised this provision, importing it from the Racial Discrimination Act, and applying it to all types of discrimination. It has not done so. It has included a ‘trumping’ provision in the Bill, but, as before, this is confined to laws concerning racial equality.
So, whatever the government’s intention, the Bill is not quasi-constitutional, at least not in this sense. But is it constitutionally valid? Constitutional invalidity is the ultimate trump card of a law’s opponents. Every Commonwealth Act must rest on a constitutional power. The current anti-discrimination Acts rely on the Constitution’s ‘external affairs’ power which, among other things, permits the parliament to incorporate Australia’s international treaty or convention obligations into legislation. The Bill makes it clear that this is its ‘main constitutional basis’. (It names several supplementary powers, but these are unlikely to be controversial.) The recitation of constitutional powers, however, does not make an Act constitutionally valid.
Law Professors, Nicholas Aroney and Patrick Parkinson, believe the Bill gives the Commonwealth powers that exceed what the Constitution grants. The Act’s provisions extend to persons in non-official roles (including volunteers) and even in informal settings, under the broad heading of ‘public life’. Additionally, discrimination can be claimed because a person, in public life, feels insulted or offended. School yard bullies, rude customers, gossiping employees, abusive sporting spectators, Aroney and Parkinson suggest, may become liable. But, as they know, this is not a constitutional argument.
The Bill, they add, goes beyond the terms of the human rights conventions upon which the parliament relies. Those conventions target particular ‘vertical’ conduct: that of employers, providers of services, and so on, people in positions of power. They do not require, or authorise, the regulation of all ‘public life’. Furthermore, Aroney and Parkinson say, the Bill ‘cherry-picks’ among obligations, protecting certain rights over others, whereas the conventions require implementation, and balancing, of all rights. The Bill also breaches the Constitution’s freedom of political communication, by making political opinion that offends (in a work context) a ground for alleging discrimination. (This particular argument has attracted the greatest attention in the media, and made odd bedfellows of critics across the political spectrum.) Additionally, the Bill gives excessive power to the Commonwealth, depriving the States of their constitutionally protected sphere of power.
So, are Aroney and Parkinson right? Is the Bill unconstitutional?
The High Court has overseen a significant expansion of the external affairs power over the years. Few limitations now surround what the parliament can do with this power, so long as the law in question concerns a geographically external matter. International conventions are unquestionably ‘external.’ But adherence to a convention must be bona fides; that is, not merely an excuse for expanding Commonwealth power. The latter, however, is almost impossible to demonstrate, and no Act has been struck down under that test. Furthermore, although the High Court has questioned the validity of laws relying on vague and open-ended international aspirations, it has rejected claims that all of a convention’s obligations must be included in an Australian Act or that the Act must precisely reflect the convention’s terms. Still, an Act must be reasonably appropriate and adapted to, or in conformity with, the convention upon which it relies. Aroney and Parkinson write that parts of the Bill ‘rely upon tenuous extrapolations from the texts’ of international treaties; if the Court agreed, these parts, at least, might be in doubt. The Court, however, has been fairly deferential to the parliament in identifying conformity to a convention, and in allowing the parliament to decide the manner of implementing international obligations.
International human rights conventions are not the only aspect of the external affairs power upon which the Bill relies. The Bill also states that the Act relates to ‘matters of international concern’, and ‘matters external to Australia’. These expressions are drawn from cases where legislation has been held to be valid, notwithstanding the absence of a relevant international instrument. Australia’s law that criminalises ‘sex tourism’, for example, is valid under these tests. But it will be harder to demonstrate that the regulation of Australian conduct in ‘public life’ is a matter of international concern. Again, however, no law has yet been struck down on this ground.
The current case law, it must be said, is not highly encouraging for the Aroney and Parkinson argument. They themselves describe the chance of success only as ‘not weak’. On the other hand, no constitutional power is entirely open-ended. The argument that a law giving effect to a convention cannot stray too far from the convention’s terms has a reasonable chance of success (the federalism argument is probably weaker). In the past, after decades of expansion in other constitutional powers, the Court has drawn a line. The external affairs power may now be ripe for line-drawing.
In contrast, the freedom of political communication argument is relatively strong, since the court has previously ruled against laws that inhibited political speech, even though the latter was intentionally offensive. But this would only result in the ‘severing’ or removal of the political opinion offence section from the Bill. Unless the external affairs argument succeeded, the rest would remain.
The current Court is difficult to predict. Not only has it recently enjoyed two new appointments, its record is mixed. In the recent past, it has given expanded application to the Constitution’s rights provisions. In the 2012 Schools Chaplains case, it reined in Commonwealth executive power. But, in the same year, in the tobacco plain packaging case, it rejected the argument for expanding property rights and the consequential restriction of Commonwealth power.
In any case, constitutional challenges are uncertain, time-consuming, and costly. Aroney and Parkinson make the valid point that many claims of discrimination are best handled outside the law. The same should apply to this Bill. The Bill clearly goes too far in subjecting non-coercive conduct to the courts (or the alternative dispute resolution table). Even the Australian Human Rights Commission questions the ‘offend or insult’ discrimination ground. The Attorney-General should take note of public opinion, amend the Bill, and not wait for a legal challenge. Political common sense is always preferable to litigation; it should prevail.

It is rare for the world to be watching when the High Court of Australia makes a decision. But so it was yesterday with British American Tobacco Australasia Limited & Ors v Commonwealth, the so-called ‘plain packaging’ case. The case concerned a challenge by several multinational cigarette companies (aka ‘Big Tobacco’) to the federal Tobacco Plain Packaging Act 2011, due to come into effect in December this year. The Act prohibits, among other things, the use of logos and trademarks on cigarette packets, and requires in their place health warnings on a background described as ‘drab dark brown’, and the printing of brand names in a small, generic font. The idea is to make packets as unglamorous, indeed disgusting, as possible and thus reduce smoking by repelling purchasers. Several other countries, apparently, are contemplating similar legislation; they watched for confirmation that this world-first initiative would survive. The decision, upholding the Act in its entirety and ordering the plaintiffs to pay costs, was greeted with resounding applause.
The international interest, no doubt, is encouraging for the Australian government and inspiring for anti-smoking campaigners. Still, it is intriguing, even faintly nonsensical, for other countries to take heart from this decision. The BATA challenge was mounted on numerous grounds, but revolved, essentially, around the particular constitutional claim that the Act compulsorily acquires the companies’ intellectual property without proper compensation. Section 51 (xxxi) of the Australian Constitution (the provision that starred, albeit misleadingly, in the iconic 1997 comedy ‘The Castle’) empowers the Commonwealth to acquire property, but requires ‘just terms’ in return. There may well be counterparts in the laws and constitutions of other countries, but existing Australian case law is unlikely to provide a trans-national precedent, and this latest case is unlikely to alter this.
Fascinating and frustrating at the same time, the Court only handed down its Orders yesterday, telling us that ‘at least a majority’ had found the law to be constitutionally valid (is someone still making up his or her mind?) and reserving the reasons for a later date. Analysis of the reasoning must therefore be speculative. But while we don’t know what the Court will say, we have some idea of what it will not say. Australia, it seems clear, has resisted the invitation to go down the ‘regulatory takings’ road that the United States has pioneered and other countries have followed.
The Fifth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution (upon which Australia’s section 51 (xxxi) was more or less modelled) requires that ‘just compensation’ must be given when private property is taken for public use. This provision evolved in the twentieth century to apply not only to actual acquisition, but also to the regulation of property that goes ‘too far’, not merely impairing value or utility, but depriving the owner of the property’s use or economic value, or thwarting ‘investment backed expectations’. Zoning and land use laws were the seedbed of the doctrine in the 1920s, and have generated the greatest challenges. The Supreme Court has not been consistent in its approach, however, and it has looked to the degree to which the public interest is served by the relevant law against the extent of the regulation. This of course, is the rub in the present case. There can be no doubt that the cigarette companies’ economic value and investment backed expectations will be affected by the Act, and that such an argument would be central if a similar U.S. law were to pass, but how much weight would the countervailing public interest be given? As Chief Justice French said, when invited by BATA to consider the regulatory takings argument, ‘none of the [U.S.] cases to which you have taken us involve somebody putting into the marketplace a substance which places at risk of serious and fatal disease … all who use it.’
But this aside, no one on the Court seemed to want to bite at the regulatory takings carrot. The decision, at a guess, will rest instead on the familiar argument (one that does not arise under U.S. takings law) that the Act (which merely adjusts statutory rights) does not involve an acquisition. To breach section 51 (xxxi) something first has to be ‘acquired’ by the Commonwealth. What is acquired does not have to be the same as what was lost, but some Commonwealth benefit has to be made out. No one was seriously arguing that the cigarette companies’ intellectual property had been transferred to the Commonwealth. BATA, however, submitted that a benefit lay in the ‘negative use’ of property, in the Commonwealth’s ability to impose its own design, etc, on BATA’s property, and in its use of the property for its own ends. The Court, it is clear, did not embrace these propositions. We wait now, to find out why.
Meanwhile, other countries should not celebrate too soon, but would be wise to hold off for the WTO’s ruling in the challenge brought by Ukraine, Honduras, and the Dominican Republic to the Australian Act alleging breach of international trade law. That is where the international lesson will really lie. Meanwhile, in Australia (with a ruling that paradoxically reverses the grounds for the fictional ‘little man’s’ victory against big commercial interests depicted in ‘The Castle’) the government and, with it, the ordinary public can breathe freely. At least for the moment.

National Federation of Independent Business, et al., v. Sebelius (USSC 28 June, 2012).
Yesterday morning (Washington time), as Australians slept, the United States Supreme Court handed down its much-anticipated decision on the constitutional validity of the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act (aka ‘Obamacare’). The Act, a keystone in Obama’s credentials as a progressive and reforming President, had proven as controversial and politically-charged (if not more so) as any law in post-war U.S. history. Challenges to the Act were immediate; Florida and twelve other States filed a complaint on the day the President signed the Act into law.
The 900+ page Act involved a complex matrix of provisions, designed to universalise health insurance coverage for Americans, and to extend the reach of existing Medicaid schemes (State medical coverage for classes of poor and disabled persons, funded through federal grants). At the Act’s heart, the most controversial provision was the ‘individual mandate’, requiring (almost) all persons, not otherwise covered by health insurance (through their employer or under Medicaid), to purchase private health insurance. A penalty was to be levied on those who did not.
It was this (unpopular) provision that commentators regarded as the soft underbelly of the Act, and many thought most likely to be defeated. (Would its invalidation have destroyed the whole scheme? For the constitutional lawyers, assuming invalidation, the next question was whether the provision could be severed, leaving the rest of the Act intact. The District Court of Northern Florida had already said that it couldn’t; the Appeals Court of the Eleventh Circuit had disagreed.) Congress had sought to persuade the Supreme Court that the provision was supported by the Constitution’s Commerce Clause. Like the Australian Constitution’s Trade and Commerce power (s 51 (i) ), the Commerce power is confined to interstate and international commerce, but (unlike in Australia) it had been given a vastly expanded scope over the years, at least until relatively recently, permitting Congress to do many things that appeared (to Australian eyes) only loosely concerned with ‘commerce’. In this case, Congress argued that the health insurance mandate was part of the regulation of interstate commerce (in the health industry), or alternatively, that it substantially affected interstate commerce, or that it was ‘necessary and proper’ (like Australia’s incidental power) for the regulation of interstate commerce.
The Court’s decision took almost everyone by surprise. By a 5:4 majority, it upheld the whole Act. This was not the only surprise. It was Chief Justice Roberts who proved to be the ‘swing’ judge (not, as considered most likely, Justice Kennedy). Indeed, it was Roberts (a conservative, who had locked horns with President Obama in the recent past) who wrote the Opinion of the Court (some, it is true, had predicted this – although not what the Opinion would be). But, perhaps the biggest surprise was that the Court based validity not on the Commerce Clause, but on a constitutional provision that had been argued in support of the provision only as an alternative, and fairly weakly at that: Congress’s Taxation power.
In an exercise that is entirely familiar to Australian constitutional lawyers, the Court took the provision through a test of characterisation. It held that the fact that the Act spoke of a ‘penalty’, rather than a tax was not fatal; that, indeed, a penalty could be a tax, regardless of what it was called. (Our Australian students would immediately know this as ‘dual characterisation.’) What made the ‘penalty’ a tax? The amount was capped at no more than the average annual insurance premium; it did not involve punitive measures or prosecution for noncompliance (effectively, people could choose to pay the ‘tax’ as an alternative to paying health insurance); and it was to be collected by the IRS, alongside regular taxes.
A consequential surprise was the Court’s attention to the Anti-Injunction Act of 1867. This Act bars suits for ‘restraining the assessment or collection of any tax’, prior to the tax being imposed and a plaintiff being sued for failure to pay (its purpose is to protect the government’s capacity to collect revenue without interruption). If the mandate had been characterised as a tax, the Court might have lacked jurisdiction to hear the challenge. The plaintiffs in this case wanted their day in court, and they needed, therefore, to avoid the tax argument. They got both. No commentators, however, had really seemed to treat the Anti-Injunction Act as a genuine threat. By contrast, the Court spent significant time on it. How, then, did the suit proceed? The Court found that, although the Affordable Care Act’s mandate ‘penalty’ was in fact a tax, Congress had effectively legislated around the Anti-Injunction Act, as it was entitled to do.
Why was the Act not supported by the Commerce Clause? Congress, the Court concluded, could not regulate the failure to engage in or enter commerce. It could only regulate commerce that already existed (this, it said, was what ‘regulate’ implied: you can’t regulate nothing.) And the ‘necessary and proper’ argument failed similarly.
Interestingly, it was the latter that had been the quiet hope of supporters of the Act who feared that what could be called the ‘broccoli mandate argument’ might otherwise work to defeat it. The ‘broccoli’ argument (arising from a question put to the Solicitor-General during oral argument by the ever-colourful Justice Scalia) had gone along these lines: if Congress is empowered to make people do things (like buying health insurance) just because these are good for their health, then what were the limits on what Congress could make people do? Could they force people to eat broccoli? The ‘necessary and proper’ response was that compulsory health insurance membership was necessary to regulate the health care industry, but compulsory eating of broccoli was not. In the end, this saving device was not needed (although broccoli did get a mention in the dissent.)
The second key issue was the Medicaid Expansion provisions of the Act. These rested on the capacity of Congress to make conditional grants to the States, via the Constitution’s ‘Spending’ power (Congress is empowered ‘to pay the Debts and provide for the … general Welfare of the United States’). The Act provided for increased federal grants to the States to support the expansion of existing Medicaid schemes, and also provided that all Medicaid grants to any State that would not comply would be withdrawn. Could Congress use the Spending power coercively (withdrawal was a significant threat: Medicaid currently makes up more than 10% of States’ budgets)? The Court concluded that it could not. (The principle, then, holds, that the Spending power cannot be used coercively, although, in fact, no Act has ever been found to be relevantly coercive. In this, as in its reach, we are reminded of section 96 of the Australian Constitution.) Again, the objection did not prove fatal: the provision was saved by the canon of statutory interpretation that requires every effort to uphold the constitutionality of an Act; the Court read the provision to mean that only the extra ‘Expansion’ grants could be withheld.
The dissenting Justices – Scalia, Kennedy, Thomas, and Alito – found the Act entirely invalid. They agreed that the Act was beyond the Commerce Clause, because it purported to ‘direct creation of commerce’; and that failure to engage in commerce was not ‘commerce’. They agreed that ‘the failure to purchase health insurance, unlike the failure to purchase… broccoli, creates a national, social-welfare problem..’ But they rejected the proposition that this difference demonstrated that the failure to enter the health-care insurance market ‘unlike the failure to buy … broccoli, is an activity that Congress can “regulate” ’. They virtually laughed out loud at the proposition that an exaction of money can simultaneously be a penalty and a tax. That, they said, would be ‘a creature never hitherto seen in the United State Reports’.
The ‘creature,’ it seems, has arrived. For those in Australia who watch U.S. constitutional law (at least those with the patience to plough through the 193 pages) this case will hold more than usual interest. It offers a counterfactual on what might have happened had the 1946 referendum (which added section 51 (xxiiiA) to the Constitution) not been successful. For the present, it provides an interesting glimpse into another country’s constitutional battles over federal spending. Along with challenges to taxation laws, these (as we have just seen with Williams v. Cth) promise much rich fare for Australia’s constitutional lawyers.