In 2016, the then Prime Minister Tony Abbott penned a passionate column on the relevance of Anzac Day to modern Australia. For Abbott, the Anzacs serve as the moral role models that Australians should seek to emulate. He wrote, “We hope that in striving to emulate their values, we might rise to the challenges of our time as they did to theirs”.

The notion that Anzacs embody a quintessentially Australian spirit is a century old. The official World War I journalist C.E.W. Bean wrote Gallipoli was the crucible in which the rugged resilience and camaraderie of (white) Australian masculinity, forged in the bush, was decisively tested and proven on the world stage.

At the time, this was a potent way of making sense out of the staggering loss of 8000 Australian lives in a single military campaign. Since then, it has been common for politicians and journalists to claim that Australia was ‘baptised’ in the ‘blood and fire’ of Gallipoli.

The dark side to the Anzac myth is a view of violence as powerful and creative.

However, public interest in Anzac Day has fluctuated over the course of the 20th century. Ambivalence over Australia’s role in the Vietnam War had a major role in dampening enthusiasm from the 1970s.

The election of John Howard in 1996 signalled a new era for the Anzac myth. The ‘digger’ was, for Prime Minister Howard, the embodiment of Australian mateship, loyalty and toughness. Since then, government funding has flowed to Anzac-related school curricula as well as related books, films and research projects. Old war memorials have been refurbished and new ones built. Attendance at Anzac events in Australia and overseas has swelled.

On Anzac Day, we are reminded how crucial it is for individuals to be willing to forgo self-interest in exchange for the common national good. Theoretically, Anzac Day teaches us not to be selfish and reminds us of our duties to others. But it does so at a cost. Because military role models bring with them militarism – which sees the horror and tragedy of war as a not only justifiable but desirable way to solve problems.

The dark side to the Anzac myth is a view of violence as powerful and creative. Violence is glorified as the forge of masculinity, nationhood and history. In this process, the acceptance and normalisation of violence culminates in celebration.

The renewed focus on the Anzac legend in Australian consciousness has brought with it a pronounced militarisation of Australian history, in which our collective past is reframed around idealised incidents of conflict and sacrifice. This effectively takes the politics out of war, justifying ongoing military deployment in conflict overseas, and stultifying debate about the violence of invasion and colonisation at home.

In the drama of militarism, the white, male and presumptively heterosexual soldier is the hero. The Anzac myth makes him the archetypical Australian, consigning the alternative histories of women, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders, and sexual and ethnic minorities to the margins. I’d argue that for right-wing nationalist groups, the Anzacs have come to represent their nostalgia for a racially purer past. They have aggressively protested against attempts to critically analyse Anzac history.

Turning away from militarism does not mean devaluing the military or forgetting about Australia’s military history.

Militarism took on a new visibility during Abbott’s time as Prime Minister. Current and former military personnel have been appointed to major civilian policy and governance roles. Police, immigration, customs, and border security staff have adopted military-style uniforms and arms. The number of former military personnel entering state and federal politics has risen significantly in the last 15 years.

The notion that war and conflict is the ultimate test of Australian masculinity and nationhood has become the dominant understanding not only of Anzac day but, arguably, of Australian identity. Any wonder that a study compiled by McCrindle Research reveals that 34% of males, and 42% of Gen Y males, would enlist in a war that mirrored that of WWI if it occurred today.

This exaltation of violence sits uncomfortably alongside efforts to reduce and ultimately eradicate the use of violence in civil and intimate life. Across the country we are grappling with epidemic of violence against women and between men. But when war is positioned as the fulcrum of Australian history, when our leaders privilege force in policy making, and when military service is seen as the penultimate form of public service, is it any wonder that boys and men turn to violence to solve problems and create a sense of identity?

The glorification of violence in our past is at odds with our aspirations for a violence-free future.

In his writings on the dangers of militarism, psychologist and philosopher William James called for a “moral equivalent of war” – a form of moral education less predisposed to militarism and its shortcomings.

Turning away from militarism does not mean devaluing the military or forgetting about Australia’s military history. It means turning away from conflict as the dominant lens through which we understand our heritage and shared community. It means abjuring force as a means of solving problems and seeking respect. However, it also requires us to articulate an alternative ethos weighty enough to act as a substitute for militarism.

At a recent domestic violence conference in Sydney, Professor Bob Pease called for the rejection of the “militarisation of masculinity”, arguing that men’s violence in war was linked to men’s violence against women. At the same time, however, he called on us to foster “a critical ethic of care in men”, recognising that men who value others and care for them are less prone to violence.

For as long as militarism and masculinity are fused in the Australian imagination, it’s hard to see how this ethos of care can take root. It seems that the glorification of violence in our past is at odds with our aspirations for a violence-free future. The question is whether we value this potential future more than an idealised past.

What do you do when a crucial knowledge system is under-resourced, highly valued, and is having its integrity undermined? That’s the question facing those working in academic research and publishing. There’s a risk Australians might lose trust in one of the central systems on which we rely for knowledge and innovation.

It’s one of those problems that defies easy solutions, like obesity, terrorism or a tax system to suit an entire population. Academics call these “wicked problems” – meaning they’re resistant to easy solutions, not that they are ‘evil’.

Charles West Churchman, who first coined the term, described them as:

That class of social system problems which are ill-formulated, where the information is confusing, where there are many clients and decision makers with conflicting values and where the ramifications in the whole system are thoroughly confusing.

The wicked problem I face day-to-day is that of research and publication ethics. Though most academics do their best within a highly pressured system I see many issues, which span a continuum, starting with cutting corners in the preparation of manuscripts and ending with outright fraud.

It’s helpful to know whether the problem we are facing is a wicked one or not. It can help us to rethink the problem, understand why conventional problem-solving approaches have failed and encourage novel approaches, even if solutions are not readily available.

Though publication ethics, which considers academic work submitted for publication, has traditionally been considered a problem solely for academic journal editors and publishers, it is necessarily entwined with research ethics – issues related to the actual performance of the academic work. For example, unethical human experimentation may only come to light at the time of publication though it clearly originates much earlier.

Given the pressure editors are under, the system is vulnerable to subversion.

Consider the ethical issues surrounding peer review, the process by which academic experts (peers) assess the work of others.

Though imperfect, formalisation of peer review has become an important mark of quality for a journal. Peer review by experts, mediated by journal editors, usually determines whether a paper is published. Though seemingly simple, there are many points where the system can be gamed or even completely subverted – a major one being in the selection of reviewers.

As the number of academics and submissions to journals increase, editors face a logistical challenge in keeping track of an ever-increasing number of submissions needing review. However, as the rise in submissions has not corresponded with a rise in editors – many of whom are volunteers – these journals are overworked and often don’t have a big enough circle of reviewers to call on for the papers being submitted.

A simple approach to increase the pool of reviewers adopted by a number of journals is to allow authors to suggest reviewers for their paper via the online peer review system. These suggestions can be valuable if overseen by editors who can assess reviewers’ credentials. But they are already overworked and often handling work at the edge of their area of expertise, meaning time is at a premium.

Given the pressure editors are under, the system is vulnerable to subversion. It’s always been a temptation for authors to submit the name of reviewers who they believed would view their work favourably. Recently, a small number took it a step further, suggesting fake reviewer names for their papers.

These fake reviewers (usually organised via a third party) promptly submitted favourable reviews which led to papers inappropriately being accepted for publication. The consequences were severe – papers had to be retracted with consequent potential reputational damage to the journal, editors, authors and their institutions. Note how a ‘simple’ view of a ‘wicked’ problem – under resourced editors can be helped by authors suggesting their reviewers – led to new and worse problems than before.

Removing the ability of authors to suggest reviewers … would be treating a symptom rather than the cause.

But why would some authors go to such extreme ends as submitting fake reviews? The answer takes us into a related problem – the way authors are rewarded for publications.

Manipulating peer review gives authors a higher chance of publication – and academic publications are crucial for being promoted at universities. Promotion often provides higher salary, prestige, perhaps less teaching allocation and other fringe benefits. So for those at the extreme, who lack the necessary skills to publish (or even firm command of academic English), it’s logical to turn to those who understand how to manipulate the system.

We could easily fix the problem of fake reviews by removing an author’s ability to suggest reviewers but this would be treating a symptom rather than the cause. Namely, a perverse reward system for authors.

Removing author suggestions does nothing to help overworked editors deal more easily with the huge amount of submissions they receive. Nor do editors have the power to address the underlying problem – an inappropriate system of academic incentives.

There are no easy solutions but accepting the complexity may at least help to understand what it is that needs to be solved. Could we change the incentive structure to reward authors for more than merely being published in a journal?

There are moves to understand these intertwined problems but all solutions will fail unless we come back to the first requirement for approaching a wicked problem – agreement it’s a problem shared by many. So while the issues are most notable in academic journals, we won’t find all the solutions there.

A recent article in ABC Religion by Steve Fuller described philosophy being “at the crossroads”. The article explores philosophy’s relationship to universities and what living a “philosophical life” really looks like.

Reading it, my mind whisked me back to some of my earliest days at The Ethics Centre. Before returning to Sydney, I enjoyed the good fortune to complete my doctorate at Cambridge – one of the great universities of the world. While there, I mastered the disciplines of academic philosophy. However, I also learned the one lesson that my supervisor offered me at our first meeting – I should always “go for the jugular”. As it happens, I was quite good at drawing blood.

Perhaps this was a young philosopher’s sport because, as I grew older and read more deeply, I came to realise what I’d learned to do was not really consistent with the purpose and traditions of philosophy at all. Rather, I had become something of an intellectual bully – more concerned with wounding my opponents than with finding the ‘truth’ in the matter being discussed.

This realisation was linked to my re-reading of Plato – and his account of the figure of Socrates who, to this day, remains my personal exemplar of a great philosopher.

The key to my new understanding of Socrates lay in my realisation that, contrary to what I had once believed, he was not a philosophical gymnast deliberately trying to tie his interlocutors in knots (going for the jugular). Rather, he was a man sincerely wrestling, with others, some of the toughest questions faced by humanity in order to better understand them. What is justice? What is a good life? How are we to live?

The route to any kind of answer worth holding is incredibly difficult – and I finally understood (I was a slow learner) that Socrates subjected his own ideas to the same critical scrutiny he required of others.

In short, he was totally sincere when he said that he really did not know anything. All of his questioning was a genuine exploration involving others who, in fact, did claim to ‘know’. That is why he would bail up people in the agora (the town square) who were heading off to administer ‘justice’ in the Athenian courts.

Surely, Socrates would say, if you are to administer justice – then you must know what it is. As it turned out, they did not.

The significance of Socrates’ work in the agora was not lost on me. Here was a philosopher working in the public space. The more I looked, the more it seemed that this had been so for most of the great thinkers.

So that is what I set out to do.

One of my earliest initiatives was to head down to Martin Place, in the centre of Sydney, where I would set up a circle of 10 plastic chairs and two cardboard signs that said something like, “If you want to talk to a philosopher about ideas, then take a seat”. And there I would sit – waiting for others.

Without fail they would come – young, old, rich, poor – wanting to talk about large, looming matters in their lives. I remember cyclists discussing their place on our roads, school children discussing their willingness to cheat in exams (because they thought the message of society is ‘do whatever it takes’).

Occasionally, people would come from overseas – having heard of this odd phenomenon. A memorable occasion involved a discussion with a very senior and learned rabbi from Amsterdam – the then global head (I think) of Progressive Judaism. On another occasion, a woman brought her mother (visiting from England) to discuss her guilt at no longer believing in God. I remember we discussed what it might mean to feel guilt in relation to a being you claimed not to exist. There were few answers – but some useful insights.

Anyway, I came to imagine a whole series of philosophers’ circles being dotted around Martin Place and other parts of Sydney (and perhaps Australia). After all, why should I be the only philosopher pursuing this aspect of the philosophical life. So I reached out to the philosophy faculty at Sydney University – thinking (naively as it turned out) I would have a rush of colleagues wishing to join me.

Alas – not one was interested. The essence of their message was that they doubted the public would be able to engage with ‘real philosophy’ – that the techniques and language needed for philosophy would be bewildering to non-philosophers. I suspect there was also an undeclared fear of being exposed to their fellow citizens in such a vulnerable position.

Actually, I still don’t really know what led to such a wholesale rejection of the idea.

However, I think it was a great pity other philosophers should have felt more comfortable within the walls of their universities rather than out in the wider world.

I doubt that anything I write or say will be quoted in the centuries to come. However, I would not, for a moment, change the choice I made to step outside of the university and work within the agora. Life then becomes messy and marvellous in equal measure. Everything needs to be translated into language anyone can understand (and I have found that this is possible without sacrificing an iota of philosophical nuance).

I think it was a great pity other philosophers should have felt more comfortable within the walls of their universities rather than out in the wider world.

You constantly need to challenge unthinking custom and practice most people simply take for granted. This does not make you popular. You are constantly accused of being ‘unethical’ because you entertain ideas one group or another opposes. You please almost nobody. You cannot aim to be liked. And you have to deal with the rawness of people’s lives – discovering just how much the issues philosophers consider (especially in the field of ethics) really matter.

This is not to say that ‘academic’ philosophy should be abandoned. However, I can see no good reason why philosophers should think this is the only (or best) way to be a philosopher. Surely, there is room (and a need) for philosophers to live larger, more public lives.

You constantly need to challenge unthinking custom and practice most people simply take for granted. This does not make you popular.

I have scant academic publications to my name. However, at the height of the controversy surrounding the introduction of ethics classes for children not attending scripture in NSW, I enjoyed the privilege of being accused of “impiety” and “corrupting the youth” by the Anglican and Catholic Archbishops of Sydney. Why a ‘privilege’? Because these were precisely the same charges alleged against Socrates. So far, I have avoided the hemlock. For a philosopher, what could be better than that?

“This is a worldwide phenomenon in which men die at four times the rate of women. The four to one ratio gets closer to six or seven to one as people get older.”

That’s Professor Brian Draper, describing one of the most common causes of death among men: Suicide.

Suicide is the cause of death with the highest gender disparity in Australia – an experience replicated in most places around the world, according to Draper.

So what is going on? Draper is keen to avoid debased speculation – there are a lot of theories but not much we can say with certainty. “We can describe it, but we can’t understand it,” he says. One thing that seems clear to Draper is it’s not a coincidence so many more men die by suicide than women.

If you are raised by damaged parents, it could be damaging to you.

“It comes back to masculinity – it seems to be something about being male,” he says.

“I think every country has its own way of expressing masculinity. In the Australian context not talking about feelings and emotions, not connecting with intimate partners are factors…”

The issue of social connection is also thought to be connected in some way. “There is broad reluctance by many men to connect emotionally or build relationships outside their intimate partners – women have several intimate relationships, men have a handful at most,” Draper says.

You hear this reflection fairly often. Peter Munro’s feature in the most recent edition of Good Weekend on suicide deaths among trade workers tells a similar story.

Mark, an interviewee, describes writing a suicide note and feeling completely alone until a Facebook conversation with his girlfriend “took the weight of his shoulders”. What would have happened if Mark had lost Alex? Did he have anyone else?

None of this, Draper cautions, means we can reduce the problem to idiosyncrasies of Aussie masculinity – toughness, ‘sucking it up’, alcohol… It’s a global issue.

“I’m a strong believer in looking at things globally and not in isolation. Every country will do it differently, but you’ll see these issues in the way men interact – I think it’s more about masculinity and the way men interact.”

Another piece of the puzzle might – Draper suggests – be early childhood. If your parents have suffered severe trauma, it’s likely to have an effect.

“If you are raised by damaged parents, it could be damaging to you. Children of survivors of concentration camps, horrendous experiences like the killing fields in Cambodia or in Australia the Stolen Generations…”

It comes back to masculinity – it seems to be something about being male.

There is research backing this up. For instance, between 1988 and 1996 the children of Vietnam War veterans died by suicide at over three times the national average.

Draper is careful not to overstate it – there’s still so much we don’t know, but he does believe there’s something to early childhood experiences. “Sexual abuse in childhood still conveys suicide risk in your 70s and 80s … but there’s also emotional trauma from living with a person who’s not coping with their own demons.”

“I’m not sure we fully understand these processes.” The amount we still need to understand is becoming a theme.

What we don’t know is a source of optimism for Draper. “We’ve talked a lot about factors that might increase your risk but there’s a reverse side to that story.”

“A lot of our research is focussed predominantly on risk rather than protection. We don’t look at why things have changed for the better … For example, there’s been a massive reduction in suicides in men between 45-70 in the last 50 years.”

“Understanding what’s happened in those age groups would help.”

It’s pretty clear we need to keep talking – researchers, family, friends, support workers and those in need of support can’t act on what they don’t know.

If you or someone you know needs support, contact:

• Lifeline 13 11 14

• Men’s Line 1300 78 99 78

• beyondblue 1300 224 636

• Kids Helpline 1800 551 800