Australian Federal Politics on the Eve of The Wentworth By-Election

In August 2018, the Westminster system of government took its toll, yet again, of an Australian prime minister. And, after three weeks of parliamentary power play, former PM Malcolm Turnbull resigned his seat of Wentworth bringing on a much-contested by-election. Amid accusations of a “women problem”, the pre-selection for the Liberal candidate in Wentworth instead produced Dave Sharma – a male contestant living far from the Wentworth electorate. The new PM, Scott Morrison, faced a formidable task with Labor continuing to register higher in voter preference after 40 consecutive Newspolls. To discuss all this and more, Aaron Patrick, Senior writer at The Australian Financial Review and Sharri Markson, National political editor at The Daily Telegraph, two of Australia’s most experienced journalists, addressed on Monday 17 September 2018.

AUSTRALIAN FEDERAL POLITICS ON THE EVE OF THE WENTWORTH BY-ELECTION

AARON PATRICK

Malcolm Turnbull should have been one of Australia’s great leaders. The son of a Sydney hotel broker and absent academic theorist had lived a rich a life that represented the best Australia could bestow on one of its sons. Turnbull took his first-class education and natural intelligence and developed an urbanity, sophistication and worldliness that could have made him a politician of international standing.

Turnbull tried to redefine right-of-center politics in Australia. Against a deeply conservative Liberal Party and a Labor opposition opportunistically sliding to the left, he advanced a progressive social agenda and sensible economic policies. He protected Australia’s international position in a world order titled on its axis by the Trump presidency.

Turnbull governed optimistically, and wanted to bring the best out in Australians, rather than set them against each other. He encouraged Australians to feel more upbeat about their lives, a rare approach in a polity that usually rewards victimhood. He was optimistic about Australia’s prospects and realistic about its challenges. He was handsome and charming. He was diligent, thoughtful and cautious. He was determined to be a good leader, practically and morally.

He failed. Turnbull’s ascension to the pinnacle of public life exposed his flaws as a politician, and ultimately as a man. One of the most impressive men of his generation – a person who embodied modern Australia – became just another flawed, discardable politician.

After the initial burst of enthusiasm towards Turnbull waned, so did his confidence. His lost his judgment. His charm failed. His inner paranoia took over. Eventually his colleagues expelled and humiliated him, and he lashed out. He wasn’t strong enough to hide the pain.

Turnbull thought managerial competence would lead to political success. Once he may have been right. But the forces against him were too strong, and his political skills insufficiently sharp enough to prevail.

Lets go over some of his achievements. He legalised same-sex marriage against huge internal opposition. Mostly symbolic in a legal and religious sense – defacto couples had had equal rights and protection from discrimination for years – the change was a powerful assertion of the equality of homosexual and heterosexual relationships. The gay community never gave Turnbull credit for the huge political and personal risk he took on its behalf.

By persuading a resentful President Trump to accept some 1250 Afghani, Pakistani and Iraqi refugees unwillingly living in Papua New Guinea and Nauru, Turnbull began the tortuous process of resolving one of Australia’s great shames.  Convincing one of the most insular presidents in modern US history to uphold a refugee-swap deal negotiated by a predecessor was one of the bigger successes in Australian post-Cold War diplomacy. The left gave him no credit, and ignored that the previous Labor Government had used desolate camps on Pacific islands to dissuade asylum seekers making the treacherous journey to Australian territory.

One of his most underrated decisions was to accept the experts’ advice cutting business taxes would be good for employment. In a political environment hostile towards business, the tax cut presented a perfect target for his opportunistic Labor opponent, Bill Shorten. Most voters struggled to believe or understand that Australia would lose important investment from taxes higher than elsewhere. Even prominent left-wing economic commentators agreed. For xxx years Turnbull stuck with the worthy but politically damaging policy. When the tax cut was partially adopted by the Senate, giving Turnbull the opportunity to declare victory, he continued to push for the full package, which lingered like a symbol of his decaying authority until the Senate finally, definitively said no. Within days Turnbull was gone too.

Australia used to rank among the world’s most stable democracies. Three weeks ago Scott Morrison became Australia’s seventh prime minister in eleven years.

The seven prior prime ministers had governed for 39 years. Australia can no longer claim it is a stable democracy. The benefits of continuity had been surrendered: policy consistency, trust in government and party leaders, and the political space politicians need to make tough decisions.

Turnbull and his immediate predecessors are victims of a great paradox of modern politics: politicians today are paying the price for the success of the neo-liberal consensus embraced by an earlier generation.

As well all know, from 1983 to 2007, under three prime ministers and two opposing political parties, Australia went through a period of economic development that helped make it one of the most prosperous countries. The major political parties embraced the expert advice of the day: free markets, less government intervention and a robust safety social net.

John Howard introduced a new tax on almost everything, the goods and services tax, and won the following election. His predecessor, Paul Keating, forced the entire workforce to lock up part of their income until retirement.

Rising affluence followed, led by cheaper imports, a fairer tax system and limited poverty. Australians enjoyed, and still do, spacious houses, world-class education and health services, beautiful beaches and great coffee. Life had never been more comfortable.

American writer Claire Boothe Luce and others have said: “No good deed ever goes unpunished.”

The political system wasn’t rewarded for its success. Quite the opposite.

Now that the major parties largely agreed over the structure of the economy, many voters didn’t see why they should stick with one over the other. Party loyalty began to break down. The proportion of swinging voters increased. Party members dropped out. The base shrank.

The proportion of Australians who always vote for the same party has fallen from 72% in 1967 to 40% in 2016, according to a study by the Australian National University. Over the same timeframe, the proportion who always vote for the Coalition has fallen from 36% to 21%, and for Labor from 32% to 16%.

Australian politics moved into a post-ideological state.

In theory, governing should have easier under the new consensus. If politicians and experts broadly agree on prescriptions to improve society, what stands in the way of implementing them, right?

This is where the political-policy paradox kicked in. It turns out a bedrock of political support is extremely useful – perhaps even necessary – for democratic leaders who chose to implement unpopular policies. Political parties with a large base of deeply loyal supporters can survive periods of turbulence while they take on vested interests. Political ballast helps deliver stable government.

Today, those sorts of policy leaps are unimaginable. Turnbull was removed over a plan – which he abandoned – to modestly lower electricity prices and limit emissions of greenhouse gases.

He also suffered from the decay of his own political party. Declining memberships has left the Liberal and Labor parties more populated by people on the fringes of the political spectrum. The Liberal Party membership is inordinately influenced by socially conservative media outlets and commentators who were threatened by Turnbull’s urbane liberalism.

Turnbull lacked authority within his own, hollowed-out party. The plan to honour reductions in carbon dioxide emissions that Australia had agreed to do at an international conference two years earlier roused a dormant suspicion among regular climate-sceptic party members that he was not – gasp – one of them.

They were right, he wasn’t. Turnbull accepted the scientific consensus that humans are heating the atmosphere. As the leader as the world’s biggest exporter of coal, Turnbull accepted Australia’s moral obligation to contribute to the solution.

The irony of Turnbull’s failure was that his removal was triggered by a sensible policy embraced by the mainstream and fought on the fringes. The modest scheme to reduce emissions of greenhouse gases, protect the reliability of the grid and lower power prices drew opponents driven largely by ideological motivations. Coal advocates in the Liberal and National parties believed Turnbull was giving in to the renewable energy lobby, which they regarded as a rent-seeking front for the cultural left. Green activists and politicians saw a blatant attempt to revive the coal-power industry, which they believed was morally and environmentally bankrupt. Although the Labor Opposition didn’t advertise its support, it was largely in favour of the policy, as was most of the business community. Regular voters didn’t understand it.

Earlier Liberal prime ministers could have brushed off the internal opposition by appealing to the party’s broader support base. Turnbull didn’t have that option. His own members of parliament, selected and influenced by a party membership out of touch with science and expert opinion, removed him.

Turnbull’s commitment to the policy was admirable. His neglect of the politics was grossly negligent. When Turnbull wrenched Tony Abbott out of office in 2015, it became quickly clear to the political class that the new prime minster had created a hostile government in exile. Turnbull would later aptly describe it as an insurgency. Unlike Turnbull’s own campaign against Abbott, it was largely waged in the open.

The movement was driven by frustrated political ambition and personal animosity towards Turnbull from those who had lost power. The fuel came from a persecution complex rooted in their conservative supporters, who were threatened by the rise of progressive politics epitomised by Barack Obama. Oxygen came from right-wing media figures resentful at Turnbull’s popularity among the centre, which they perceived as a threat to their own political influence.

Turnbull adopted a two-pronged response: co-opt and punish. He promoted a few select conservatives, placed the careers of others on hold, and banished those most threatening. He declined a peace offer in return for bringing back Abbott or one of his main allies to cabinet. There they stewed, plotting revenge.

The circumstances of Turnbull’s ascension complicated his ability to unify the party. Despite his convincing win at the 2013 election, Abbott’s inconsistent political judgment made him vulnerable within two years.

Turnbull and the left-wing faction of the Liberal Party were eager to take control. They leaked sensitive government information and discussions, embarrassing Abbott and creating a sense of disunity that undermined Abbott’s legitimacy as a leader. They also engaged in an information campaign to destroy the reputation of Abbott’s closest confidant, Peta Credlin. Abbott’s personal sense of loyalty wouldn’t allow him to dump Credlin, and they were removed from power on the same day.

The way Turnbull had obtained power deprived him of the moral standing to call on his internal rivals to stop undermining him. To plea for unity would have been hypocritical. His only option was to govern and fight.

He was cursed by a devastatingly effective opposition leader. Bill Shorten had watched Abbott’s success at bringing down the Gillard and Rudd governments, and replicated his approach of relentless negativity. Abbott and Shorten were on good terms, personally. Abbott’s professional success had propelled Shorten’s. Each time Rudd and Gillard were removed, Shorten took a step up.

Even Turnbull acknowledged Shorten was the better politician. Turnbull tried to impress voters with his knowledge and intellect, an indulgence the disciplined Shorten never engaged in. Shorten knew how to set expectations low, and exceed them.

Aware he wasn’t as popular as Turnbull, Shorten never allowed the political contest to become a test of their personalities. When Turnbull set up a direct contest over their leadership credentials during a crucial byelection, Shorten let him. Labor won.

The Coalition’s right and its media allies portrayed Turnbull as interloper not truly of the Liberal Party. The characterisation denied him of political legitimacy in a way entirely alien to the treatment of John Howard, who was so unpopular with voters that he lost his own seat. Nonetheless Howard was venerated in the party.

The disciplined Labor party, aided by well-funded and well-organised campaign allies, deprived Turnbull of credit for good government. Through oft-dishonest but effective critiques of policy decisions, and exploitation of sometimes-minor mishaps, the opposition made the Turnbull Government appear less professional than it was.

Turnbull was squeezed from both sides. This is not unusual in politics. He could have overcome both if he had been a more strategic politician and a better orator. For all his intelligence and worldliness, Turnbull was never able to encapsulate the complex desires, hopes and fears of the Australian nation in powerful oratory. Turnbull never convincingly explained what he stood for, and where he was taking the country.