the thin end of the wedge—always has been, always will be
In Queensland, a new conservative government is advancing policies that those with long memories find hauntingly familiar — quietly defunding Indigenous services, restricting transgender healthcare, and curtailing protest rights, all while presenting a moderate face to urban voters. Aunty Sandra King, a Yagara, Quandamooka and Bundjalung elder, and barrister Joshua Creamer are among those drawing a line between the present and the repressive decades of Joh Bjelke-Petersen, warning that history has a way of returning when institutional memory fades. The deeper question Queensland now faces is not merely political but civilisational: whether a society that has forgotten what authoritarianism felt like can recognise it when it arrives wearing a reasonable suit.
- Indigenous leaders are sounding the alarm over what barrister Joshua Creamer calls 'project invisibility' — a systematic dismantling of First Nations programs, voices, and services from Queensland's public institutions.
- The LNP government has moved simultaneously on multiple fronts: banning puberty blockers in public hospitals, passing hate speech laws that have silenced pro-Palestine protesters, and exempting Olympic venues from fifteen state laws including heritage protections.
- The political calculation is deliberate — target issues deemed peripheral to suburban anxieties about crime and cost of living, while maintaining a moderate, sensible image that keeps urban voters from looking too closely.
- Academics and civil libertarians warn that the generational loss of institutional memory about the Bjelke-Petersen era is precisely what makes the current moment dangerous — fewer people in power remember what that shape of governance actually felt like.
- Premier Crisafulli walks a careful tightrope between rural populism and urban moderation, but as the consequences of these policies become visible, the question is whether Queensland's voters still possess the historical literacy to name what they are seeing.
When Aunty Sandra King, a Yagara, Quandamooka and Bundjalung elder in her seventies, spotted a sign reading "I Preferred Joh" at a Brisbane protest last month, it stopped her cold. In Queensland, invoking Joh Bjelke-Petersen — the former premier remembered as a hillbilly dictator who ruled through repression — is never done lightly by those who lived through it. But as she surveyed the current LNP government's policy direction, the comparison began to feel less like hyperbole and more like recognition.
This month, prominent Indigenous barrister Joshua Creamer gave that recognition a name: "project invisibility." He described a coordinated effort to eliminate Indigenous affairs, programs, and voices from government altogether — evidenced by the defunding of services like Murri Watch, plans to contest all native title claims, and the quiet removal of First Nations people from the public service. "That is going back to Joh Bjelke-Petersen, who we did not like," King told a rally. "Who was just against us."
The government's reach extends further. It has introduced populist juvenile crime laws, banned puberty blockers for transgender patients in public hospitals, and passed hate speech legislation that civil libertarians say has functioned to suppress pro-Palestine protest — echoing Bjelke-Petersen's 1977 ban on all marches during a tour by an all-white South African rugby team. Olympic venue plans have been exempted from fifteen state laws, drawing comparisons to Bjelke-Petersen's enabling act for the 1988 World Expo. Even the state library became a flashpoint when a $15,000 fellowship was stripped from author Karen Wyld hours before it was to be awarded, reportedly over her comments on Gaza.
Academic Julianne Schultz has long observed that First Nations people were the earliest target of Bjelke-Petersen's government — always the thin end of the wedge. Nearly two decades after she wrote about the cohort shaped by those years, many of those voices have receded from public life, and institutional memory with them.
The LNP's strategy appears to rest on a calculation: that Indigenous rights, LGBTQ+ healthcare, and protest freedoms are peripheral concerns for voters whose real anxieties are crime and cost of living. Premier Crisafulli has repeatedly compared himself to Frank Nicklin, the 1957 conservative premier, carefully avoiding mention of the more controversial figures who followed. Political scientist Paul Williams describes the government as capital-C conservative — not the centrist outfit voters tend to perceive — and warns that the disconnect between image and reality is itself part of the story.
Whether the tightrope between rural populism and urban moderation can hold remains an open question. What is less open is the warning embedded in the pattern: that the policies now emerging from the shadows carry a shape that Queensland has seen before, and that recognising it depends on a memory the state may be losing.
Aunty Sandra King, an elder of the Yagara, Quandamooka and Bundjalung people now in her seventies, was speaking at a protest last month against plans to build an Olympic stadium in Brisbane's Victoria Park when she spotted a homemade sign in the crowd. It read: "I Preferred Joh." The words stopped her. In Queensland, comparisons to Joh Bjelke-Petersen—the state's former premier, remembered as a "hillbilly dictator" who ruled through repression—are never invoked lightly by those who lived through his decades in power. King said she was shocked at first. But as she looked around at the policies the current LNP government was advancing, the comparison began to feel uncomfortably apt.
This month, prominent Indigenous barrister Joshua Creamer described what he called a "project invisibility"—a coordinated strategy, in his words, to eliminate Indigenous affairs, Indigenous initiatives, and Indigenous voices from government altogether. The evidence was concrete: defunding of programs like Murri Watch, which provides services to Indigenous children in watch houses; plans to contest all native title claims; the quiet removal of First Nations people and programs from the public service. King's assessment was blunt. "That is going back to Joh Bjelke-Petersen, who we did not like," she told the rally. "Who was just against us."
But the government's moves extend well beyond Indigenous policy. The LNP has introduced "adult time" crime laws following a populist election campaign focused on juvenile crime. It has banned puberty blockers for transgender healthcare in public hospitals. It has passed "hate speech" laws that have restricted expressions linked to pro-Palestine protests—restrictions that civil libertarians have compared to the police-led suppression of demonstrations under Bjelke-Petersen, particularly his 1977 ban on all protest marches during a tour by an all-white rugby team from apartheid South Africa. The government has also exempted its planned Olympic venues from fifteen state laws, including heritage and planning acts, drawing parallels to Bjelke-Petersen's enabling act for the 1988 World Expo, which compulsorily acquired forty hectares of inner-city riverfront land. Even the state library has become a flashpoint: last year, apparently on political orders, it stripped author Karen Wyld of a fifteen-thousand-dollar fellowship less than five hours before it was to be awarded, citing her comments about the Gaza conflict.
Academic Julianne Schultz, writing in her 2008 essay "Disruptive Influences," observed that a cohort of Queenslanders shaped by the tumultuous Bjelke-Petersen years had emerged at the forefront of national public life. Nearly two decades later, many of those voices are gone. Fewer people in positions of influence carry institutional memory of what that era actually meant. Schultz notes that First Nations people were an early target of Bjelke-Petersen's government. "A lot of the early starting point was around race, about Aboriginal rights," she says. "It's always been, and always will be, the thin end of the wedge."
The current government's strategy appears to rely on a calculation: that these issues—Indigenous rights, LGBTQ+ healthcare, protest restrictions—are marginal concerns for most suburban and regional voters, whose primary anxieties center on cost of living and crime. Rural Queensland and regional cities, where perceptions of crime run high, have proven receptive to harsh populist solutions. Meanwhile, the government has managed to present itself to urban and suburban voters as a different breed of conservative—moderate, sensible, not the sort that would sack thousands of public servants or drastically cut spending.
Premier David Crisafulli has repeatedly compared himself to Frank Nicklin, who became premier in 1957. Since Nicklin, the only other conservative leaders to win general elections in Queensland have been Bjelke-Petersen and Campbell Newman—both of whom carry controversial legacies. Privately, at least one senior Liberal has described Bjelke-Petersen as "the best premier Queensland ever had," though such praise is rarely voiced in public. Crisafulli has commented several times about how long it has been since a Queensland government abolished a tax, but omitted mention of the premier who scrapped death duties in the 1970s. Mining magnate Gina Rinehart, a key financial backer of One Nation, was less circumspect in a recent YouTube video, offering unashamed praise of Bjelke-Petersen's government.
Paul Williams, an associate professor of politics and journalism at Griffith University, observes that Queensland voters tend to perceive the LNP as centrist or centre-right. "But it's not," he says. "It's a capital-C conservative government." There is, he suggests, a disconnect between how voters see the government and what it actually is. Even so, Williams cautions that comparisons to the Bjelke-Petersen era are "exaggerated" and unhelpful—though he adds that "a One Nation state government would be a repeat of Joh." Polling shows the LNP has managed to insulate itself somewhat from the damage One Nation has inflicted on conservative parties elsewhere, by offering just enough to maintain appeal in rural Queensland while presenting itself as moderate to urban voters.
Whether that tightrope can hold remains uncertain. As the realities of policies like "project invisibility" emerge from the shadows, the question becomes whether Queensland's voters—and its institutions—have retained enough memory of the past to recognize the shape of the present.
Citas Notables
That is going back to Joh Bjelke-Petersen, who we did not like. Who was just against us.— Aunty Sandra King, Yagara, Quandamooka and Bundjalung elder
There's an organised strategy and that is to ultimately eliminate, remove, reduce the Indigenous affairs, Indigenous initiatives, Indigenous voices.— Joshua Creamer, Indigenous barrister
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does the comparison to Bjelke-Petersen matter so much? He's been gone for decades.
Because the people who lived through his government—who saw what unchecked power looks like—are aging out of positions where they can warn others. When you lose that institutional memory, you lose the ability to recognize the pattern as it's happening.
But the current government says it's different. More moderate. More sensible.
That's exactly the calculation they're making. They're betting that issues like Indigenous rights and protest restrictions feel marginal to suburban voters worried about crime and bills. So they can move on those fronts while maintaining a moderate image elsewhere.
Is the comparison actually fair, though? One academic said it was exaggerated.
Fair is complicated. The methods aren't identical. But the strategy—targeting marginalized groups first, betting that most voters won't care—that's the same logic. And without people around who remember what happened last time, there's less resistance.
What happens if the tightrope breaks?
Then you find out whether voters actually want what they're getting, or whether they were just distracted by the moderate packaging. By then, the damage to Indigenous communities and civil liberties is already done.
Is there any sign that's happening?
Not yet. The government has managed to hold its appeal in rural Queensland while looking reasonable to urban voters. But as policies like "project invisibility" become public knowledge, that balance gets harder to maintain.