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The Vietnam antiwar movement: Three
articles by Helen Palmer:
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Three snapsnots of
the Vietnam antiwar movement
in
Australia between 1965 and 1970
Introduction
By Bob Gould
In his History of
the Democratic Socialist Party and Resistance, John Percy
crudely portrays the socialist magazine, Outlook, as being
isolated from the antiwar movement of the 1960s.
The three articles reproduced here capture the antiwar movement at
three phases, from small beginnings in 1965 to the first of the massive
Moratorium mobilisations in the early 1970s.
They were all written by Outlook's
editor, Helen Palmer. They capture the atmosphere of the movement as
it developed and evolved.
The Vietnam antiwar movement waxed and waned over seven years, and the
lessons for the agitation against the Iraq war are
obvious: antiwar movements can decline and revive.
Helen Palmer and the other people involved in Outlook were up to their
ears in the Vietnam agitation and mobilisations against the war. John
Percy
should be more careful than to dismiss them from history in his
summary way.
Sit down and
speak up
View from the ground
By Helen Palmer
After half an hour of circling the Martin Place block
slowly with a sandwich board, it's a change to be setting off at a
brisk patter down the centre of Pitt Street, the peak-hour traffic
honking and nudging us in the rear. For days the city has been
plastered with stickers: "Vietnam Protest Rally 5pm Martin Place
Friday 22 October" – the Vietnam Action Committee's contribution to the
International Day of Protest. By 5.30 there are some hundreds of
after-work protestors – enough to set off to the Town Hall, we think,
to
hold a meeting. Those who wish to are taking the direct route. (Later
the police documents will refer to it as the "carriageway".)
"One-two-three-four! We-don't-want-war! Five-six-seven-eight!
We say – negotiate!" Simple enough, but it's not often one hears
mass
chanting in the middle of Sydney, at this time on a weekday. (An
idea for the Waratah Festival?) But one block, and Phase I is over.
Just past King Street the police have re-assembled and the carriageway
is no longer ours. "Sit down!", someone calls out. It seems a good
idea. Those who have been following on the footpath come to a halt,
placards raised, and we hold ours up like a phalanx.
The street is, of course, dirty; the prudent unfold newspapers.
Suddenly there are swarms of police, not merely the dozen or so
who supervised our earlier perambulations. Ordinary point-duty types;
leggings-and-caps; the Top Brass ... Conferring with personages in
plain clothes ... The little group of anti-protestors who had waved
Woolworths Australian flags and given out DLP leaflets in Martin
Place ("You are witnessing a COMMUNIST DEMONSTRATION!") don't seem to
have made it yet ... On second glance, no wonder; the traffic's banked
up (one lane is left, along which buses are edging precariously) and
pavements are jam-packed.
The police back in a panel van and open the door. Three or four of the
front row of sitters are seized; if they resist, four policemen
leg-and-arm them in. How many does it hold? It fills in no time,
the door clangs shut and it's away. Boos and shouts from the pavement.
Another backs in ... Meanwhile buses are nudging along the single
lane. One young sitter, judging the distance and refusing to budge an
unnecessary millimetre, gets his coat-sleeve caught by a bumper
bar and is toppled; a flushed, zealous policeman roars, "It's your own
fault!" (It is, of course; fault – or decision.)
We've been here for ten minutes; footpaths are packed solid;
windows are crowded, traffic is piled up for blocks around. Man
with camera appears on balcony rooftop. More police. One of the
plainclothes men seems to be master-minding things; another,
lantern-jawed, hat pulled over his nose, with a beck and a nod
indicates to the uniformed men whom to single out next. Is that
the third police van or the fourth? Most arrested people go limp; some
resist, and are thrust bodily into the van. There's an awkward gap,
almost a silence, each time before the next van arrives. It must be an
odd experience for these men to stand passively in the middle of Pitt
Street while a hundred people confront them from the ground, and Big
Brother flashes his Walk and Don't Walk unheeded.
Bob Gould is up on a stand shouting through a megaphone improvised
from a folded placard: this is intended as a peaceful protest against
what is being done in our name in Vietnam; he has a five-yearold
daughter and doesn't want her to grow up into a world that ... The
five-year-old daughter, veteran of demonstrations, is clamouring to be
lifted up to see what's going on ... "This is a moral question" comes
through clearly and hangs in the air ... If enough people ask
themselves the moral question ... What are the onlookers making of
it? Hard to tell – craned necks, curious faces, but one can't read
thoughts. What will they tell their families when they get home?
Certainly, that Sydney has never seen the like of this before.
The van door clangs shut every three or four minutes. There's a lot of
noise, but somehow the thump of bodies, the scuffle of feet come
through. Difficult to see from down here – too much going on in all
directions at once; we need trained, well-placed observers ... The
atmosphere is changing: things are getting nasty. Several women on the
pavement are crying; there are shrieks as demonstrators are
manhandled into the van; a girl is dragged across to the van,
friends rush protesting after her. Two sitters on the outside are
picked up bodily and thrown back into the crowd; everyone winces. How
many vans – six-seven-eight? A young cop grins as arrested people
inside one van rock it so vigorously that the flustered driver cannot
start it; three policemen hold it steady and it backs out. Lantern-jaw
moves ominously through the crowd singling out the victims.
6.15, and a change of policy: we are being picked off systematically,
row after row – and there aren't so many left now. The word comes to
disperse: some to a nearby park to drum up defence money, the rest to
the police station. We move off, making our own traffic
regulations ... A young policeman is being a Dinkum Aussie to a
woman demonstrator: "Why should we worry? We're getting paid for it!"
"Aren't you lucky?" she parries, jabbing him in the chest with a
forefinger. "Careful, madam; you must not lay hands on a person
unless you intend to arrest!" He gets his laugh ... But Lantern-jaw,
hand bloodied (we learn later this happened when he pounded his fist on
the hand of a demonstrator who happened to be wearing a ring), moves
among us, snarling, "All right, you can go home now! You've done your
job! They've got their pictures for Moscow
News and Peking Daily!"
...
And, dusting ourselves off, we realise the sober truth, that in
Menzies' Australia, power is in fact in the hands of people who
believe that this is what protest is all about.
Outlook,
December 1965
Student power
If the Establishment had set out to show high school students that it
doesn't want their participation in democracy, it could hardly have
done a better job. Seen through the drizzle, Canberra police and
officials looked apprehensive at the approach of the three buses
carrying
120 young Sydney student protestors as if expecting them to start
tearing up the paving-stones in Mugga Way or to bring the Cultural
Revolution to the nation's capital. At the session of the House at
which Cairns and other Labor MPs presented the students' petition
against the Vietnam war and in favour of U Thant's three points, a
Liberal
questioner carefully elicited the announcement that the
Attorney-General would make a statement that night about "the
manipulation of children by communists", and Cairns' demand that he see
and hear them first was dismissed out of hand. (One could detect a
sense of shame for his colleague's blundering discourtesy in
Wentworth's careful apology soon afterwards for not being able to
receive a pensioners' deputation.) If the parliamentary system whose
virtues these students study at school is to save face, it is perhaps a
good thing that they were not all in the House when another Liberal MP
was describing its perfunctory handling of all those hopeful documents
that end "and your petitioners will ever pray", and their likely
despatch, unread and unanswered, to Parliament House's nether regions.
The evening session brought the Attorney-General's 20-minute-long
revelation that Vietnam protest is a communist plot, and that
demonstrations are not "spontaneous" but organised. In contrast,
presumably, with the spontaneous overflow of feeling at the Waratah
Festival, "Captive Nations Week" and the Billy Graham Crusade. The
media had been alerted to this one. Channel 10's man from Telescope,
riding in the buses with the kids, not only made a down-beat theme of
the rain to support his argument that it was a washout, but pursued a
series of questions designed to convey to the not-too-bright viewer
that the students, if articulate, were tools, and if simpler in
their responses, dupes. Fortunately the students were indeed organised,
and well briefed; many turned the tables on their interviewers, and
they made their point that they ran their own affairs (the preparation
leaflet said, "A few responsible adults will act as chaperones,
but will not be organising our activities").
In their crash course in Instant Civics, it will not have escaped the
students' notice that the two champions of their right to act were Jim
Cairns ("The people who should be criticised are not those who do their
best to make democracy work, but those who criticise it and want to
stop it from working, or who are apathetic and never try. Don't be
discouraged but continue to be interested in national political matters
and be confident you can do something") and Gordon Bryant, who led some
of them into the parliamentary precincts over the red carpet left over
from the Lion of Judah's state luncheon, and in the evening
refused to let the Attorney-General get away with his
pontifications unscathed.
The authorities were of course right to see in the secondary students'
peace ride the shape of things to come: for there are major
developments in the student world. The affluent society tries to
get at them all ways. It forces social and sexual precocity on young
people to sustain its own creation, the teenage market, yet when
it comes to participation in the democratic process, calls them
"children". It entices them with earlier driving licences and credit
accounts while keeping them longer in school. In three Australian
states
the full secondary course is now six years; a few years ago the same
students would have been undergraduates. Girls go straight from the
classroom into marriage, boys are touching call-up age. Most of them
are better educated than their parents and often than their rulers (how
many MPs had read Levien's Vietnam study, Myth and Reality?).
The Universities are painfully beginning to learn that students are
serious about their right to participate in their own way in public
affairs and in their education; the spectre of Student Power haunts the
campus. But it is not the threat of Berkley or the Sorbonne that should
determine how educationists react. Secondary school administrators and
teachers would do well to get this development rapidly in perspective.
It is no threat to education but a thoroughly heartening sign that
young students, with little enough help from the system, are finding
their own ways of contributing to the vitality of public life. The high
schools should welcome it by recognising that this generation has a
life of its own and the capacity to conduct its own affairs, and should
give encouragement by building into the senior school a recognised
place for self-determining student extra-curricular activities without
adult intervention. This is, after all, what education is about.
Outlook,
June 1968
Moratorium: what went right?
Manifestly, it was a success. The planning had begun with considerable
doubt, disunity and apathy, in the slump of politics. Then the expected
attacks and witch-hunts had attempted to frighten people away with the
myth-word "violence". Then suddenly the Moratorium had become a major
public issue, reported and debated in the mass media, its badge a
familiar symbol and even its awkward title a household word.
Supporters who feared they would spend May 11 asking what went
wrong found themselves asking: what went right?
Recent events were on its side. The extension of the war into
Cambodia stiffened the sinews of many who had thought it was all
over bar the shouting. The total disruption of business-as-usual by the
Captain Cook junketings and the Royals helped strengthen the argument
that other gatherings also had a right to the streets. And in the
event, the refusal of the dissenters to be provoked (though the only
opposition was from a few handfuls of army unfortunates who thought
they should fight the Vietcong in the streets of home) effectively made
the point that the violence is on the part of those who drop the bombs
and give the orders to search and destroy.
Our masters are frightened men. Something is happening in the world
that they don't understand, and they are in two minds how to handle it.
Accustomed to taking their concepts from the US, they assume that if
protest ends in "violence" there it will do the same here. Yet by
finally conceding the right to the streets and instructing the police
not to start anything, they tacitly admit that "violence" is a
function of repression.
However, it's not the question of confrontation on the streets that is
the important one; that's merely a symbol. The real confrontation
needed is with the whole bureaucratic, authoritarian structure of
Australian society and its built-in repressive responses – bans,
censorship, philistinism, racism, the stifling of information and
criticism, the defensive closing of the ranks against any
expression of human vitality, independence or conscience that may rock
the boat.
In this context the pre-Moratorium activities were as important as
those of May 8-9-10. The hundred thousand who stood up to be counted
came from innumerable small social groupings – on the job, in
universities and schools, in organisations and local areas – where much
larger numbers had discussed and considered, questioned and
pondered, accepted or rejected. There were also individuals,
traditional "non-participants", reacting to the unique experience of
serious, sustained public debate on significant issues. All, including
those who kept their thoughts to themselves, were involved in watching
what happens in the conformist society when a sizeable, determined
minority sets out to make an assertion of conscience against policies
it considers intolerable.
The lessons were plain, and did not go unnoticed.
First, the authoritarian system reacts instantly and with all its
entrenched powers to reject the dissenters. It is they who are
"introducing violence" into the community, bringing the disturbance of
"politics" into places where there should be no disturbance, creating
discord, outraging the comfortable conventions, challenging the
"neutrality" of the education system, questioning the primacy of the
commercial ethic of business-as-usual-and-before-all-else, and the
concept that democracy is epitomised in the citizen's right to
cast a vote every three years. There will always be an Askin or a
Snedden to knock out the purple phrase to express the Establishment's
reaction, but "political bikies pack-raping democracy" and "ride over
the bastards!" are not such caricatures as they seem. It would be
interesting to know just how many of the people who brought
capital-city life to a standstill on May 8 were there not because they
had originally intended to take part, but because the revelation of how
completely the authoritarian society stamps on any flicker of dissent
braced them to challenge this kind of society at home and the export of
its values abroad at the end of a machine-gun.
Second, the question of numbers. Most Moratorium-watchers
underestimated those who would turn out, which means they
underestimated the depth of normally unexpressed dissent. The students
were the biggest single component – augmented, for the first time,
by high school students in strength. Here again it would be revealing
to know how many formerly silent dissenters were moved to join in
because of the sorry and ludicrous spectacle (in NSW) of senior high
school students – engaged in senior studies, soon to be conscripted and
soon to receive the vote – being prevented from discussion of the
Vietnam issues and even suspended for wearing a Moratorium badge.
Numbers are important; there is a threshold above which nothing
succeeds like success. It was the aura of mounting support that held
many Labor MPs who had signed the original sponsorship but then stood
back to see how things would go. More honour to the handful who battled
it out even when prospects looked doubtful.
The basic organisations of the Labor Party; however, were
completely untouched. And even more serious, the participation of
the trade unions was very meagre indeed in relation to other sections
of the community. Perhaps we have now reached the point where it is the
traditional working class that is the most securely gripped by the
ideology of the Establishment, the most firmly enslaved by the
parochialism and economism that have been part of its history, the most
readily confined within the values of the consumer society, the least
aware of any community of interest with the strivings of other peoples,
particularly resurgent Asia. If this is so, it is indeed a victory for
the ruling class.
Perhaps too this is the answer to those socialist groups who felt that
the two aims of the Moratorium – withdrawal of all foreign troops from
Vietnam, repeal of the National Service Act – were too moderate,
and who
sought to convert them into something more militant, more
"advanced". The job of moving the millions of rank-and-file trade
unionists to support even these two extremely moderate proposals still
remains to be done; and this failure must be offset against the
Moratorium's successes.
Marches, says the PM, will not alter the Government's policy; policy is
made at the ballot box. It is unfortunate for his shaky credibility
that so many people are aware that it's made on the hot line from
Washington. But in any case, this vote-and-trust-for-three-years
definition of the citizen's participation in the democratic process
just isn't good enough any more. The original government majority was
nominal; it's become even less secure since. Last September a Gallup
poll showed 55 per cent as unwilling to support our Vietnam policy;
after
Cambodia, this figure must have increased. What the Moratorium campaign
has demonstrated beyond question is that even in our supposedly
apathetic political climate, this is an issue that splits the
community, and that there is a minimum of a hundred thousand people and
those they influence who in their political decisions will put Vietnam
and conscription first. The ALP, as much as the government, should take
note.
Outlook, June 1970
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