The Queensland State Parliament has recently banned two specific antiSemitic slogans, when used to menace or offend someone. The slogan “Globalise the Intifada” has already been explained here.
The slogan “From the river to the sea” refers to the geographic area between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea. This stretch of land includes Israel, the West Bank, and the Gaza Strip. The full slogan commonly used is:
“From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.”
What supporters mean by it
Among many pro-Palestinian activists, the slogan expresses the idea that Palestinians should have freedom and rights across the entire territory between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea.
However, supporters do not all mean the same thing. Some interpret it as:
a single democratic state in the whole territory with equal rights for everyone
an end to Israeli control over Palestinian territories
a symbolic expression of Palestinian national aspiration
Why it is controversial
Many Israelis and Jewish organisations interpret the slogan differently. They argue that:
Because the phrase refers to the entire territory, it implies the elimination of Israel as a Jewish state.
Historically, the slogan was used by some militant groups such as Hamas, which openly called for Israel’s destruction.
For that reason, critics say the slogan can be understood as advocating the replacement of Israel with a Palestinian state across the whole land.
Legal and political status
Because of these conflicting interpretations:
Some governments and institutions treat the slogan as antisemitic or extremist.
Others argue it is political speech about Palestinian self-determination.
Different countries, universities, and organisations therefore handle it differently.
In short
The slogan refers to the entire land between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea and expresses a demand that Palestine be “free” across that whole territory.
The controversy arises because some people hear it as a call for equal rights in one state, while others hear it as a call for the elimination of Israel.
There is something profoundly wrong with a moral culture that shouts genocide at Israel’s war against Hamas while averting its gaze from an actual genocide unfolding in Sudan. Words matter, especially words that name humanity’s gravest crimes. When they are deployed selectively—loudly against one conflict, quietly or not at all against another—they cease to illuminate injustice and instead reveal hypocrisy. In calling a war that your side is losing ‘genocide’, you lessen the seriousness of real genocide.
In Sudan, particularly in Darfur, armed militias have engaged in systematic violence against civilians based on ethnicity. Villages are destroyed, populations forcibly displaced, mass killings documented, and sexual violence used deliberately as a weapon of terror. These actions are not incidental to some other military goal; they are the goal. The targeting of protected groups, the sustained nature of the campaign, and the evident intent to eradicate communities all align closely with the legal and historical definition of genocide.
Yet this catastrophe has failed to ignite sustained outrage in the West. There are few mass protests, little campus activism, and limited political pressure commensurate with the scale of the crime. Instead, the moral energy of protest culture is overwhelmingly directed elsewhere—toward Israel’s war against Hamas.
That war, whatever one thinks of its conduct, was initiated in response to a large-scale terror attack and is officially aimed at dismantling an armed organisation that embeds itself within a civilian population. Civilian deaths in Gaza are tragic and morally serious; they warrant scrutiny, investigation, and, where appropriate, accountability. But tragedy is not genocide. Civilian suffering, however severe, does not by itself establish genocidal intent. If it did, the term would apply indiscriminately to most modern wars and would thereby lose all meaning.
This distinction is not a semantic quibble. Genocide is a specific crime, defined by intent: the intent to destroy a people as such. Israel has not articulated such an aim, nor structured its military campaign around the extermination of Palestinians. Hamas, by contrast, has repeatedly expressed genocidal aspirations toward Jews, and in Sudan those aspirations are being acted upon with terrifying clarity by forces such as the Rapid Support Forces and allied militias.
Why, then, is the language of genocide applied so readily in one case and so sparingly in the other? The answer does not lie in the comparative suffering of civilians, nor in the legal criteria of international law. It lies in politics, symbolism, and moral fashion. Israel is Western-aligned, highly visible, and symbolically loaded within contemporary ideological debates about power, colonialism, and identity. Sudan is geopolitically marginal, lacks media saturation, and offers no convenient canvas onto which Western activists can project their preferred narratives. Its victims are real—but rhetorically inconvenient.
This selective outrage carries serious consequences. It cheapens the concept of genocide by turning it into a slogan rather than a diagnosis. It collapses vital moral and legal distinctions between war crimes, crimes against humanity, and genocide—each grave, but not interchangeable. And it makes it harder, not easier, to mobilise international action when genocide is truly occurring, because the term has already been exhausted through overuse.
If the goal is genuinely to oppose genocide, then Sudan should command urgent attention, sustained pressure, and unequivocal condemnation. If, instead, outrage is distributed according to political usefulness rather than human suffering, then claims of moral universalism ring hollow. A principled commitment to human rights demands consistency: disciplined language, proportional concern, and the courage to confront atrocity wherever it occurs—not only where it is fashionable to look.
Selective outrage is not justice. It is moral performance, and its cost is paid by those whose extermination goes unnoticed.
A useful way to think about Islamist terrorism is that it sits at the intersection of religious ideology and political objectives, with neither side fully explaining it on its own.
The religious dimension
Islamist terrorist groups frame their actions in religious language and claim theological justification. Common features include:
A literalist, selective reading of Islamic texts, often detached from mainstream Islamic scholarship.
The idea of jihad reinterpreted primarily as violent struggle, rather than its broader moral and spiritual meanings.
Takfir: declaring other Muslims (and all non-Muslims) to be legitimate targets.
Appeals to divine command, martyrdom, and eternal reward.
This religious framing is not incidental. It provides:
Moral certainty (“God commands this”)
Legitimacy for extreme violence
Motivation and discipline among followers
That said, most Muslim scholars and institutions explicitly reject these interpretations as heretical.
The political dimension
At the same time, Islamist terrorism is deeply political. Its core goals typically include:
Seizing or reshaping political power
Overthrowing existing governments (especially secular or Western-aligned ones)
Establishing an Islamic state or caliphate
Expelling foreign influence or military presence
Redrawing borders imposed by colonial or post-colonial settlements
Groups such as Al-Qaeda and Islamic State were explicit about these aims. Their violence was not random religious frenzy but strategic coercion—designed to destabilise states, provoke overreaction, recruit supporters, and control territory.
How the two combine
The most accurate description is that Islamist terrorism is political violence justified through religion.
Religion supplies the worldview and moral license
Politics supplies the targets, strategy, and objectives
This is why:
Attacks are often directed at symbols of state power (police, soldiers, government buildings)
Violence intensifies during political crises (wars, occupations, regime collapse)
Groups issue manifestos and demands, not just sermons
If the motivation were purely religious, we would expect violence to be less strategic and less focused on state power. If it were purely political, we would not see such intense theological argumentation or apocalyptic language.
An important distinction
It helps to separate:
Islam (a diverse world religion)
Islamism (a political ideology seeking to organise society and the state according to a particular interpretation of Islam)
Islamist terrorism (a violent subset of Islamism)
Conflating these obscures more than it explains—and is one reason extremists succeed in portraying political conflicts as religious wars.
Bottom line
Islamist terrorism is neither simply religious nor merely political. It is best understood as:
A form of revolutionary political violence that uses religious ideology as its moral framework and mobilising force.
Paying ransoms—whether to kidnappers, terrorists or online scammers—may seem an act of compassion or expedience in the moment, but it is a grave error in principle and practice. It fuels further criminality, undermines justice, and endangers others by perpetuating a market in human misery. While the emotional pressure on victims and their families can be immense, public policy and moral reasoning both demand that ransom payments be firmly rejected.
1. Encouragement of Further Crime
The foremost reason not to pay ransoms is that doing so rewards and incentivises criminal behaviour. Every successful payment confirms to criminals that abduction or extortion is profitable. Historical data from law enforcement and intelligence agencies show that regions or organisations known to pay ransoms experience repeated kidnappings, whereas those that refuse eventually see incidents decline. Criminal networks operate on rational calculation: if the expected profit is high and the risk tolerable, the crime continues. By refusing to pay, society raises the cost and lowers the benefit, reducing future offences.
2. Undermining Law and Justice
Paying a ransom subverts the rule of law by placing private expediency above public justice. It shifts power from lawful authorities to those who violate the law, rewarding coercion over cooperation. Governments that pay ransoms to terrorists or kidnappers weaken their moral and political authority; individuals who pay scammers often become unwitting accomplices in sustaining organised cybercrime. Law enforcement agencies depend on public cooperation and collective discipline to dismantle criminal enterprises. Payment, even out of desperation, erodes that solidarity and hinders prosecution.
3. The Ethical and Social Consequences
Beyond legality lies a deeper moral issue. To pay a ransom is to accept the kidnapper’s premise—that human life, trust, or dignity can be monetised. This corrupts moral reasoning by allowing evil to dictate terms. While refusing to pay may seem heartless in the face of suffering, the long-term ethical cost of yielding to extortion is far greater. Each payment tells perpetrators that threats to life or deception are legitimate means of gain. Society’s moral integrity requires that such acts be rendered futile.
4. The Practical Futility of Payment
Even in pragmatic terms, paying ransoms seldom guarantees a positive outcome. Many victims of scams find that the payment only leads to further demands; kidnappers often break promises once they have received money. In the digital age, ransomware attackers may not even have the technical ability—or intention—to restore access to stolen data after payment. Thus, payment provides no assurance of resolution but almost always ensures financial loss and greater vulnerability.
5. Constructive Alternatives
The alternative to payment is not passivity but coordinated resistance. Governments should strengthen international cooperation against kidnapping and cyber-extortion, tracing funds, freezing assets, and prosecuting perpetrators. Individuals and organisations must invest in prevention—secure travel practices, data protection, and awareness campaigns—rather than relying on ransom as a last resort. Compassion should express itself not through payment but through supporting victims, funding rescue efforts, and reforming policies that make people susceptible to coercion.
Conclusion
Paying ransoms for kidnappings or scams is not an act of mercy but of surrender. It sustains the very evil it seeks to end and imperils countless others by keeping the business of extortion alive. True compassion and justice lie not in giving criminals what they demand, but in denying them the power to profit from fear. A firm refusal to pay is the only moral and practical path toward ending the cycle of abduction and fraud.
The banning of terrorist organisations and the advocacy of terrorism is essential for maintaining national security, protecting human life, and upholding democratic principles. Terrorist groups represent a unique and severe threat, intentionally employing violence and intimidation to achieve ideological or political goals. Thus, the prohibition of these entities and their advocacy is justified through both moral and pragmatic grounds.
Firstly, the primary duty of any government is to ensure the safety and security of its citizens. Terrorist organisations actively seek to destabilize societies, disrupt social order, and cause harm to innocent civilians through coordinated acts of violence. Banning these groups undermines their ability to organize, fundraise, recruit, and execute attacks, significantly reducing the likelihood of successful terrorism. The suppression of terrorist entities helps dismantle logistical and operational networks crucial to their functionality.
Secondly, advocating terrorism serves as a direct incitement to violence, fostering environments conducive to radicalization and extremism. Publicly endorsing terrorism not only legitimizes violent methods but also poses a direct threat to social harmony and stability. Advocacy acts as a catalyst, encouraging susceptible individuals towards violent radicalization, potentially leading to devastating consequences for society. Hence, criminalizing advocacy for terrorism curbs the spread of extremist ideologies and reduces radicalization risks.
Thirdly, banning terrorist organisations reinforces international collaboration against terrorism. Most terrorist activities have transnational components, necessitating international cooperation for effective prevention and response. By banning these organisations, states send clear signals of solidarity and commitment to global security partnerships. This enables better intelligence sharing, coordinated law enforcement efforts, and joint actions aimed at dismantling terrorist networks worldwide.
Moreover, prohibiting terrorist organisations and the advocacy of terrorism aligns with preserving democratic values. Democracies rest on principles such as freedom of expression and association; however, these freedoms are not absolute. Democracies have consistently recognized the need to limit freedoms when exercised in ways that threaten public safety or national security. Terrorism inherently seeks to destroy democratic systems by spreading fear and violence; therefore, banning organisations and advocacy that explicitly promote terrorism serves to protect rather than undermine democratic institutions.
Critics may argue such bans infringe on individual freedoms, potentially leading to misuse or suppression of legitimate dissent. Nevertheless, the principle of proportionality mitigates such risks. Laws designed to ban terrorism and its advocacy must be clearly defined, transparent, and narrowly applied, with rigorous judicial oversight to ensure they target genuinely harmful actions rather than legitimate political expression.
In conclusion, the banning of terrorist organisations and advocacy of terrorism is justified on national security grounds, safeguarding human lives, democratic integrity, and international stability. Such prohibitions form a necessary and proportionate response to the profound threat terrorism poses to societies globally.
Democratic governments, despite their commitment to rule of law, civil liberties, and political accountability, have occasionally undertaken temporary extreme measures when facing grave national crises. These actions are typically justified as necessary to preserve the state or protect the population, though they can be controversial or later seen as overreach. Here are several notable examples:
1. Suspension of Habeas Corpus – United States (Civil War)
What happened: President Abraham Lincoln suspended habeas corpus in 1861 to detain suspected Confederate sympathizers without trial.
Why: To suppress internal dissent and sabotage during the Civil War.
Outcome: Criticized for violating civil liberties, but defended as essential to preserve the Union in a time of rebellion.
2. Japanese-American Internment – United States (WWII)
What happened: Over 110,000 Japanese-Americans were forcibly relocated and interned by executive order (EO 9066) in 1942.
Why: Alleged national security concerns after Pearl Harbor.
Outcome: Widely condemned in hindsight as racially motivated and unjustified; the U.S. government later formally apologized and paid reparations.
3. War Measures Act – Canada (October Crisis, 1970)
What happened: Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau invoked the War Measures Act to confront the FLQ terrorist group.
Why: The FLQ had kidnapped government officials and called for a Quebec revolution.
Outcome: Civil liberties were temporarily suspended; over 400 people were detained without charge. Controversial but popular at the time.
4. Emergency Powers – United Kingdom (World Wars)
What happened: During both World Wars, the British government passed sweeping Defence of the Realm Acts(DORA) and later Emergency Powers Acts.
Why: To control the economy, censor the press, detain enemy aliens, and direct wartime production.
Outcome: These powers were gradually relinquished after the wars but highlighted how democratic norms can be suspended under threat.
5. Post-9/11 Legislation – United States (Patriot Act)
What happened: The U.S. passed the Patriot Act in 2001, vastly expanding surveillance powers and reducing judicial oversight.
Why: To detect and prevent terrorism in the aftermath of the September 11 attacks.
Outcome: Criticized for eroding privacy and civil liberties, though widely supported initially under fear of further attacks.
What happened: Democracies worldwide (e.g. Italy, Australia, India, UK) imposed mass lockdowns, travel bans, and curfews.
Why: To slow the spread of COVID-19 and prevent health system collapse.
Outcome: Effective in reducing death rates, but raised concerns about freedom of movement, emergency powers, and democratic oversight.
7. Israeli Actions in National Security
What happened: Israel, a parliamentary democracy, has imposed military curfews, preventive detentions, and targeted assassinations in response to threats.
Why: Often justified by immediate security risks from terrorism or neighboring hostility.
Outcome: Constant domestic debate and international scrutiny over balance between security and democracy.
8. Australia’s ‘War Cabinet’ and Press Censorship – WWII
What happened: The Australian government created a centralised War Cabinet and imposed press censorshipduring WWII.
Why: To coordinate war production and prevent morale collapse.
Outcome: Largely supported during wartime, though press restrictions were lifted post-war.
Final Reflection
These examples show that democracies are not immune to extremity, especially when facing existential threats. However, a crucial difference from authoritarian regimes is that such measures are often temporary, debated, and subject to later accountability—such as judicial review, public inquiries, or legislative reform. The risk, of course, lies in overreach, where emergency powers become normalized or abused.
The terrorist atrocities of September 11, 2001, and October 7, 2023, stand starkly as brutal attacks not only against innocent civilians but against humanity’s collective moral conscience. Yet, disturbingly, in the aftermath of both events, voices in Western nations emerged either explicitly supporting or subtly excusing the perpetrators’ actions, claiming moral justifications grounded in geopolitics or historical grievances. Such positions reveal moral bankruptcy and ethical confusion to say the least.
At the core of this moral failing is a troubling conflation of legitimate political critique with the justification of deliberate, indiscriminate violence against innocent civilians. Those who rationalized these terrorist attacks frequently invoked historical injustices or perceived political provocations committed by Western countries or their allies. While criticism of Western foreign policy can sometimes be legitimate and even necessary, using it to justify or even tacitly condone acts of terrorism crosses into a moral abyss. Terrorism, by definition, seeks not negotiation or justice but intimidation, fear, and the destabilization of civil society. Supporting or excusing terrorism implicitly endorses the idea that innocent lives can be instrumentally destroyed to make political statements—a stance ethically indefensible.
Moreover, attempts to contextualize or mitigate these atrocities by emphasizing the attackers’ grievances or frustrations gravely distort moral reasoning. Such relativistic thinking erodes the essential distinction between combatants and non-combatants, between political disagreement and violent atrocity. When victims become expendable symbols in ideological or political disputes, fundamental human dignity is undermined, and the perpetrators’ nihilistic worldview gains unwarranted legitimacy.
Furthermore, excusing terrorism damages societal solidarity and moral clarity necessary for constructive political discourse. By blurring the lines between justified resistance and outright murder, apologists erode the universal principles upon which peace and justice must be built. They unwittingly embolden future violence, signaling that terrorism can achieve the attention and influence terrorists crave, creating incentives for further atrocities. The failure to draw a moral distinction between combatants and non-combatants is symptomatic of a failure of Western education curricula.
Ultimately, the moral bankruptcy of those who supported or excused the 9/11 and October 7 attacks lies in their betrayal of universal human rights and the foundational ethical principle that innocent human life is sacrosanct. No grievance, no matter how deeply felt or historically grounded, can morally justify the deliberate targeting of innocents. In defending humanity and upholding justice, it is imperative that societies unequivocally reject such morally compromised positions and reaffirm their commitment to universal ethical standards that categorically condemn terrorism.
Understanding the Differences Between Terrorism and Guerrilla Warfare or ‘Freedom Fighting’
The terms terrorism, guerrilla warfare, and freedom fighting are often used interchangeably in popular discourse, yet they embody distinct concepts with unique characteristics and implications. This essay explores the differences between these three terms, focusing on their methodologies, objectives, and the ethical considerations that surround them.
Definitions and Core Characteristics
Terrorism is generally defined as the use of violence and threats to intimidate or coerce, especially for political purposes. The key characteristic of terrorism is its focus on creating fear and chaos to influence a wider audience beyond the immediate victims. Terrorism often involves attacks on civilian targets and is typically conducted by non-state actors or clandestine groups.
Guerilla Warfare, on the other hand, refers to a form of irregular warfare in which a small group of combatants, such as paramilitary personnel, armed civilians, or irregulars, use military tactics including ambushes, sabotage, raids, petty warfare, and mobility to fight a larger and less-mobile traditional military. Guerilla fighters typically aim to challenge the existing government or occupying force and may seek to gain control of territory.
Freedom Fighting is a term often used to describe actions carried out by individuals or groups who believe they are fighting against oppression and striving for a noble cause—freedom. This term is subjective and depends greatly on perspective; one person’s freedom fighter can be another’s terrorist or rebel, depending on which side of the conflict one supports, and whether the meanings of these terms are understood.
Methodological Differences
The methodology of terrorism involves acts that are intended to instill fear and terror, often through random or symbolic attacks on civilian populations. Terrorists might use tactics such as bombings, hostage-taking, and assassinations to achieve psychological impact.
Guerilla warfare, in contrast, usually targets military and governmental entities and avoids large-scale attacks on civilian populations to maintain local support. Guerillas engage in hit-and-run tactics and often retreat into safe havens among sympathetic civilian populations.
Objectives
The objectives of terrorists and guerilla fighters can overlap but generally diverge in their ultimate goals. Terrorists seek to achieve political change by undermining civilians’ sense of security, thus putting pressure on governments to concede to their demands. Their goals can be ideological, religious, or political.
Guerilla fighters, while also aiming for political goals, often have more concrete objectives related to national liberation or revolution against a ruling power. Their use of warfare is thus seen as a tool to disrupt the normal functioning of a government and gain territory or autonomy.
Ethical Considerations
The ethical implications of terrorism and guerilla warfare are profoundly different. Terrorism is widely condemned because it typically targets civilians and seeks to achieve objectives through fear and intimidation. International laws, including protocols from the United Nations, explicitly condemn terrorism, especially when it harms non-combatants.
Guerilla warfare, while also contentious, is often viewed through a more nuanced lens, particularly when guerilla fighters adhere to the laws of war, avoid civilian casualties, and fight against perceived tyranny or occupation. The term “freedom fighting” is used to cast such actions in a morally favorable light, suggesting a struggle against oppression.
Conclusion
While terrorism and guerilla warfare share similarities in their use of unconventional tactics, they are fundamentally different in their targets, objectives, and ethical implications. Understanding these differences is crucial in addressing the root causes of each and in formulating appropriate responses by governments and international bodies. The subjective nature of the term “freedom fighting” further complicates the discourse, highlighting the importance of perspective in international conflicts. Thus, a nuanced understanding of these terms is essential for any meaningful discussion about conflict, power, and resistance in the modern world.
It is difficult not to give in to cynical impulses over Tuesday’s announcement that the government will create a Department of Home Affairs.
Described as a “federation of border and security agencies”, the home affairs minister – set to be the current immigration minister, Peter Dutton – will be responsible for ASIO, the AFP, Border Force, the Australian Criminal Intelligence Commission, the Australian Transaction Reports and Analysis Centre, and the Office of Transport Authority.
The Home Affairs department was announced at the same time the government released an eagerly awaited review of Australia’s intelligence agencies. But the rationale for the creation of a “super ministry” seems to conflate the well-intentioned and important intelligence review with an inadequately justified yet major rearrangement of federal government executive agencies.
Fraught with danger
The Home Affairs model appears to stand on contestable grounds.
There may be an argument to be made about potentially improving internal bureaucratic efficiencies by having power centralised under one minister. However, this is debatable. And the move upends long-standing conventions on how security intelligence and executive police powers are managed separately.
Bringing ASIO and the AFP together in one department and away from the attorney-general is a fraught move.
Multiple royal commissions and a protective security review following the Hilton Hotel bombing in February 1978 saw the police, security and intelligence functions tried and tested by fire. They were found wanting, but were then subject to significant review and reform.
That reform led to an understanding about how best to delineate and maintain the separation of powers while upholding robust accountability. That understanding has come to be broadly accepted as the best way of managing intelligence and security affairs.
This model includes a high degree of healthy contestability concerning intelligence judgements and operational options. This is thanks in large part to the diffusion of power between ministries, and authority between agencies, departments and ministers. These arrangements mean there are clear lines of accountability and responsibility.
Mechanisms for prioritisation and avoiding overlap exist with the Heads of Intelligence Agencies Meetings, the Secretaries Committee on National Security, cabinet’s National Security Committee, and the National Intelligence Collection Requirement Priorities mechanisms. It’s unclear how the new arrangements will alter the dynamics in these contexts.
Under the previous arrangements, in authorising a warrant the attorney-general had to be satisfied it was justified, recognised as consistent with agreed-upon national intelligence collection priorities, resourced appropriately, executed within the legal guidelines, and then suitably reported on in a timely manner.
Under the new arrangements, the attorney-general – having relinquished management responsibility for ASIO – will retain responsibility for issuing warrants and ministerial authorisations. Yet the attorney-general will not, seemingly, be responsible for seeing the process through to its completion.
This change risks diminishing the prospects of a clear connection between ministerial authority and ministerial responsibility. The two functions look set to be performed separately, by the attorney-general and the home affairs minister.
The inspector-general, for instance, has the enduring powers of a royal commissioner. They are able to walk into any sensitive intelligence facility and ask to see any files virtually at any time.
Like the monitor, the inspector-general can report directly to the prime minster. This is a powerful tool to ensure accountability. It is hard to think of a compelling reason for their lines of reporting responsibility to be altered.
What role did the intelligence review play?
Announcing the changes on Tuesday, Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull did not speak about the intelligence review – undertaken by former senior public servants Michael L’Estrange and Stephen Merchant – in great detail.
However, Turnbull did mention the headline items. These include:
the creation of an office of national intelligence (a sensible and graduated move);
the better resourcing and management of intelligence capabilities (also a reasonable step);
the establishment of the Australian Signals Directorate as a statutory body within the Department of Defence (something talked about for years by insiders); and
a bolstering of the profile and placement of the Australian Cyber Security Centre (an unsurprising step given the high profile of cyber affairs this year).
The review also proposed:
an expansion of the Inspector-General of Intelligence and Security’s remit to cover agencies with intelligence collection and reporting functions not previously counted as part of the six agencies in the Australian Intelligence Community over which he exercised oversight; and
a slightly expanded, operationally-oriented role for the Parliamentary Joint Committee on Intelligence and Security to request briefings and initiate inquiries.
These recommendations are sound. But they were made in isolation of the Home Affairs proposal.
By announcing the review and the new arrangements together, the issues appear conflated. The Intelligence review is well considered and reasonable. The new governance arrangements lack the same level of intellectual rigour for the public to consider and accept.
Put together, it suggests this is more about politics than substantive fact-based organisational reform.
A common argument against counter-terrorism measures is that more people are killed each year by road accidents than by terrorists. Whilst this statistic may be true, it is a false analogy and a red herring argument against counter-terrorism. It also ignores the fact that counter-terrorism deters and prevents more terrorist attacks than those that are eventually carried out.
This fallacious argument can be generalised as follows: ‘More people are killed by (fill-in-the-blank) than by terrorists, so why should we worry about terrorism?’ In recent media debates, the ‘blank’ has included not only road accidents, but also deaths from falling fridges and bathtub drownings. However, for current purposes let us assume that more people do die from road accidents than would have died from either prevented or successful terrorist attacks.
Whenever we travel in a car, almost everybody is aware that there is a small but finite risk of being injured or killed. Yet this risk does not keep us away from cars. We intuitively make an informal risk assessment that the level of this risk is acceptable in the circumstances. In other words, we consent to take the risk of travelling in cars, because we decide that the low level of risk of an accident does not outweigh the benefits of car transport.
On the other hand, in western countries we do not consent to take the risk of being murdered by terrorists, unless we deliberately decide to visit a terrorist-prone area like Gaza, Syria, northern Iraq or the southern Philippines. A terrorist attack could occur anywhere in the West, so unlike the road accident analogy, there is no real choice a citizen can make to consent or not consent to the risk of a terrorist attack.
The Consent to risk fallacy omits this critical factor of choice from the equation, so the analogy between terrorism and road accidents is false.
Put together, it suggests this is more about politics than substantive fact-based organisational reform.
The Logical Place 