Following the recent announcement that Australia would acquire three submarines already in US service rather than two used submarines and one new one, AUKUS has again dominated headlines.

AUKUS is a defence capability agreement between the United States, the United Kingdom and Australia. Since it was announced in 2021, it’s rarely been out of the news.

But how much of what you have heard is true?

As a former Navy officer specialising in anti-submarine warfare, I am frequently asked the same questions about AUKUS. While I can’t address everything in one article, here are the details behind some of the most common claims.

Why is Australia buying used submarines?

Australia has Collins class submarines that entered service between 1996 and 2003. Work should already be underway to replace them, but decades of delays and underfunding have left us with an ageing fleet.

Though the Collins class submarines will each go through a multi-year maintenance period extending their life, they won’t last long enough. They will need to be decommissioned before Australia can co-design, build and produce submarines here under AUKUS.

A stopgap solution is required. The purchase of three Virginia class submarines in 2032, 2035 and 2038 will provide this, and also give Australia the ability to start operating nuclear-powered submarines.

Think of it as a “crawl, walk, run” approach. The Virginias are the walk phase before we start building our own nuclear-powered submarines.

Acquiring submarines already in service reduces risk and complexity, avoids the challenges of introducing a new submarine, and removes the need for initial certification trials.

Is Australia getting a less capable submarine?

Not in any meaningful sense, though the third Virginia will be an older version than planned, so its sensors will probably be slightly less capable.

Australia will now receive three Block IV Virginia class submarines. These remain among the most capable attack submarines in the world. They carry more than 20 torpedoes and 12 Tomahawk land strike missiles.

Much of the commentary this week has suggested Australia has lost additional missile capacity because the submarines we’re receiving won’t have the “Virginia Payload Module” – a new hull section that allows the submarines to carry more missiles.

But that commentary is incorrect.

The submarine Australia was expected to receive in 2038 was never intended to have that capability.

In conflict, Australia would predominantly use these submarines in an anti-submarine and anti-ship role. Land strike missiles are not used for this and so the extra capacity isn’t essential. It’s also capability the US has said it is not willing to provide.

The main difference is the third submarine will have fewer years of life remaining than a new boat. A Virginia class submarine off the production line would normally have a 33-year life.

At Senate estimates this week, the Australian Submarine Agency said each boat will have more than 20 years of life remaining when we receive them.

Claims these submarines would only have eight years of life do not withstand scrutiny. The kind of submarines Australia will receive only started entering service in 2020.

Are we paying $368 billion for three used submarines?

The figure most often quoted for AUKUS is $368 billion. While technically correct, this figure covers costs through to 2055 including infrastructure, workforce and maintenance costs over 31 years, plus the purchase of Virginia class submarines to Australia and building our own submarines.

Of the total, about $244 billion is the projected cost, while the remaining $122.9 billion is a 50% contingency on top. This is money set aside to cover risks, cost growth and unforeseen problems. Most defence projects carry 5–10% contingency.

The Department of Defence’s 2026 Integrated Investment Program states nuclear-powered submarines will cost between $71 billion and $96 billion over the next decade.

Against projected defence funding of about $887 billion over the same period, this equates to around 8–11% of defence spending.

Read more: In view of Trump’s review of AUKUS, should Australia cancel the subs deal? We asked 5 experts

Can the US build enough submarines for Australia?

This is one of the most legitimate points of debate in the discussion.

The US reduced its production rate of submarines after the Cold War. Since 2011 it has set a goal of increasing its build rate to two submarines a year. From 2016–19 it averaged 1.9 boats a year.

According to the US Congressional Research report on Virginia class submarines, this build rate dropped off due to workforce issues during COVID and challenges associated with moving to the build of the new Block V submarine, which is 2,000 tonnes larger than the Block IV Virginia. The US is investing billions of dollars into its submarine industrial base to address this issue.

In May, Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Daryl Caudle told Congress he expects Virginia production to reach two boats per year in around 2032. He previously said the US will need to get to a 2.3 production rate to get to its 2054 goal, including the sale of three Virginias to Australia. The US is presently building 1.3 a year.

The US submarine industrial base challenges are real, and will take significant effort to address. Has the US said it will not sell submarines to Australia if it doesn’t get there? No.

Is AUKUS risky?

Yes.

AUKUS is the most complex defence project in Australian history. There are risks in the US and UK industrial bases, workforce growth, infrastructure and funding. Anyone claiming otherwise is not engaging with reality.

But much has been achieved in less than five years.

Australia has established a submarine base near Perth, embedded personnel in US and UK submarine programs, commenced major infrastructure works, trained hundreds of personnel, and secured US congressional approval for the submarine transfers.

At the recent AUKUS Defence Ministers’ Meeting, all three countries stated the program remained on track. Based on the evidence available today, I agree.

This is a multi-decade program. There will be changes along the way. Not every adjustment is evidence of failure.

What happens if Australia abandons AUKUS?

Australia cannot simply walk away from AUKUS and pick another submarine off the shelf. Any alternative would require a new acquisition process, a new agreement and years of negotiation.

There is also no obvious replacement. France’s nuclear-powered submarines, for example, are built through a single shipyard and can take more than a decade to complete.

If Australia was to abandon a second submarine program in little more than a decade, this time with our closest ally, it would be hard to imagine another country lining up to partner with Australia on a future submarine project. After cancelling the French submarine program and significantly reducing other naval programs, our reputation for delivering in this area is already under pressure.

AUKUS should continue to be scrutinised. But that scrutiny should be anchored in facts. Any proposal to abandon it must also explain what replaces it and how Australia avoids a submarine capability gap.

Having spoken with officials in our partner nations, the concern raised most often is not the US or UK industrial base. It is Australian political will. As a nation, we should be mindful of that and measured in our debate.

Jennifer Parker does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

The weekend exchange of strikes between Iran and Israel has put US President Donald Trump under even more domestic and international pressure to end the unpopular war he launched with Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu more than three months ago.

The Israeli leader favours the continuation of the war until Iran is reduced to a feeble state. This would enable him to win the Israeli general elections later this year and further his goal of expanding Israel’s borders and regional domination in pursuit of a so-called “Greater Israel”.

Netanyahu is against any US–Iran deal that doesn’t meet his objectives. Israel’s invasion of southern Lebanon to repel the Iran-backed Hezbollah group is part of his strategy, which has been boldly countered by Iran.

Tehran, meanwhile, has shown a steely resilience to ensure the war is settled in its favour as a formidable regional actor.

As a result of all this, Trump faces the difficult task of reaching an acceptable deal with Iran and restraining an unruly Netanyahu.

Why the standoff has gone on so long

At this point in the war, what would constitute a “victory” for Trump?

He wants an outcome that can vindicate his decision for starting the war, which has proved to be very costly, generating a worldwide energy crisis and a great deal of economic pain. The war could cause Trump political problems in the midterm elections later this year, too.

He also wants an agreement on Iran’s nuclear program that he could claim is better than the 2015 deal Tehran struck with the Obama administration and its international partners, called the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action. Trump withdrew the US from the deal in 2018.

But Iran’s Islamic government has so far not been willing to bend to Trump’s demands.

Relying on a mix of ideological devotion to Shia Islam, a strong sense of historical nationalism, and an effective military capability, the regime has not only survived, but made strategic gains.

It has destroyed or damaged many US bases in the Persian Gulf, hit Israel hard with missile and drone strikes, and above all gained control of the Strait of Hormuz. The strait – a critical oil and fertiliser chokepoint – has now become Iran’s most potent lever of resistance and punishment.

The conflict has also given renewed life to the Islamic government and its instruments of power. Many citizens who were opposed to the regime have rallied around the flag in the face of the external threats and for the love of their country.

Further, the war has propelled the government’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, which is designated by the US and many of its allies as a terrorist organisation, to new heights. It has been able to prove its worth as the key actor defending Iran and its Islamic system.

Meanwhile, Tehran is not as isolated as the Trump administration believes, either. It has the support of both Russia and China. And Iran’s geographical location has worked to its advantage, enabling it to access markets by road through its neighbours and via the Caspian Sea to the north.

The US and Israel still have the advantage when it comes to military power and they can inflict heavy damage on Iran. But Tehran’s strategic gains have placed it in a stronger bargaining position in the peacemaking process.

No matter the level of US military and economic pressure, Tehran is unlikely to succumb to US and Israeli demands to dismantle its nuclear program or relinquish control over the Strait of Hormuz.

The regime was designed to be resilient. It has built a system based on defiance, resistance and pragmatic decision making when faced with serious threats from both inside and outside Iran.

As such, it has the patience and endurance to outlast Trump – and for that matter, Netanyahu.

Echoes of 1979

The regime also has a history of outlasting the United States.

For instance, there are some parallels that can be drawn between the way the founder of the Islamic Republic, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, dealt with the hostage crisis of 1979–81 – when a militant group of his supporters ransacked the US embassy and took 66 Americans hostage – and the manner in which his successors are now managing negotiations with the US.

Khomeini let that episode drag on for 444 days to both consolidate his power and humiliate the US for having backed the pro-Western monarchy of his predecessor, Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi.

His approach played a key role in then-President Jimmy Carter’s defeat to Ronald Reagan in the 1980 US presidential election. The regime released the remaining 52 hostages just minutes after Reagan was inaugurated in January 1981.

The current standoff with Iran is only 100 days old, and it appears the regime is now prepared to use a similar strategy to punish Trump and Netanyahu for attacking Iran.

Iran’s leaders are seemingly determined to turn the tables on their adversaries and humiliate them. Whether they succeed will depend on what Trump does next – and what he’s willing to compromise on to bring Iran to the table for a lasting, mutually acceptable agreement.

Amin Saikal does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Pride is primarily a social emotion. It is about position, confidence, and power. This is why, for the LGBTQIA+ community, collective pride is adopted as the primary emotion to fuel unity and belonging.

June is Pride Month, celebrated the world over by LGBTQIA+ individuals as a reclamation of strength. But there’s a much longer history to this emotion, which can be produced in a great variety of contexts.

The circumstances of “pride” change over time, and the way this emotion is felt is directly tied to the social, cultural and political reality of different eras, and different places.

Pride, like the diametrically opposed shame, cannot be locked down.

Tracing the history of this emotion can help us understand how it came to be the empowering concept it is today – even as certain groups try and hijack it for their own means.

Religious influence

In classic Judeo-Christian thinking, pride was originally one of “eight evil thoughts” identified by the Christian monk Evagrius Ponticus (345–399 CE), who characterised it as an overblown sense of self-importance.

Pride was also closely related to another of Ponticus’ “evil thoughts”: vainglory. This referred to an excessive, disordered craving of praise and recognition from others. Both pride and vainglory were considered vices.

Ponticus’ thoughts on these matters were widely influential, and made their way to the Western Church in the early 5th century. By the 6th century, Pope Gregory I formalised the eight evil thoughts into the seven deadly sins, with “pride” and “vainglory” bundled together.

Gregory I named the feeling of pride as the root cause of all sins. This is because the serpent found resonance in Eve’s pride and ambition – two emotions that tempted her to eat the forbidden fruit.

In the 14th century, the rising European English nobility – and an increasingly wealthy merchant class – began adapting chivalric codes.

So, despite condemnation in the church, pride became associated with slightly more positive, secular concepts of honour and glory in battle, and a strong sense of personal renown. This pride was considered more genuine, authentic and justified.

In English, however, the word was always tainted by its first meaning – no matter how impressive the justification.

A few centuries later, Scottish philosopher David Hume, in his famous Treaty of Human Nature of 1740, observed:

pride and humility, tho’ directly contrary, have yet the same object. This object is self.

Hume went further to claim the things that make us feel “proud” only matter insofar as others are aware of them. He argued the pleasurable feeling of pride came from the satisfaction of being respected and valued by others.

Pride in war, and in whiteness

In the long Western tradition, the feeling of pride is predicated on hierarchy, determining whom one should feel for, or against. This positions the emotion as politically significant.

In 1945, when Britain and the Allies declared peace, headlines flooded British and Australian newspapers decreeing “pride” for the nameless millions who had worked for six years without reward to protect the cause of democracy and freedom against an unjust and tyrannical dictator.

The Allies’ “pride” became the losing powers’ shame. German historian Ute Frevert explains that:

maintaining and restoring national honour was of vital importance to any state that claimed a powerful position within the European system, and the interests, principles and moral laws it stood for.

Honour and national pride were equivalent to power. So when these were threatened, war became justified.

In 2005, 5,000 mostly white Australians gathered at the Cronulla beach in Sydney to seemingly, “reclaim the beach from outsiders”.

The violence that ensued toward people who appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent was claimed to be justified by the “pride” the white Australians ostensibly held for their country. They etched the words “100% Aussie Pride” into the shoreline – a visual display of how emotions can be employed as political weaponry.

Pride as an opposition to shame

Gay pride is celebrated in direct opposition to shame, an emotion that seeks cover and is often hidden from view. For generations, LGBTQIA+ individuals were forced to hide their identities out of social stigma and fear. “Pride” serves as a defiant, outward-facing emotion in the face of this systemic marginalisation.

As we celebrate another Pride Month, let’s remember the many ways in which this emotion has been politicised.

In the context of LGBTQIA+ communities, pride calls for belonging, tolerance, equality and acceptance.

Yet it continues to be hijacked by some in a bid to demarcate unjust boundaries, defining who belongs and who doesn’t.

Melissa Black is affiliated with the Society for the History of Emotions

Mining giant BHP has come under fire for spending hundreds of millions of dollars on new diesel trucks in the Pilbara, despite promising a transition to electric trucks in its climate strategy.

Like other mining companies, BHP’s diesel-driven fleet is eligible for fuel tax credits on diesel. The company’s controversial decision to shelve its plans raises the pressing issue of the diesel fuel rebate.

This rebate began as targeted support for a struggling agricultural sector in the 1980s, but has morphed into an almost $5 billion subsidy for some of the nation’s most profitable corporations.

So, what is the diesel fuel rebate? And is this fossil fuel subsidy still fit for purpose?

Why do we have a diesel rebate?

Since federation in 1901, diesel and petroleum products imported into Australia have been subject to import taxes. Since 1929, tax collected from the petrol pump has been earmarked to build and maintain the nation’s road network.

Australia’s diesel fuel rebate scheme was introduced in 1982. The Fuel Tax Credits Scheme, as it’s officially known, was designed to cushion farmers from rising fuel costs.

Farm and mine businesses buying diesel for off-road uses like tractors, harvesters and irrigation pumps could claim a rebate. At the time, Australia’s mining sector was far smaller.

Now, 44 years later, the rebate scheme still allows businesses like agriculture and mining to claim back the federal fuel tax paid on diesel used in eligible machinery, equipment and heavy vehicles.

Today, the mining industry receives about half of the diesel rebate.

Diesel up, petrol down

Since 2010, Australia’s consumption of liquid fuel has changed dramatically, with official statistics showing falling petrol demand and rising diesel use over the past decade. Petrol use has gradually declined as vehicle efficiency has improved. In contrast, diesel consumption has nearly doubled.

This surge in diesel consumption reflects Australia’s growth in freight, heavy vehicles and, particularly, mining. The diesel rebate scheme is now one of Australia’s largest fossil fuel subsidies, alongside tax concessions for aviation fuel and a range of support measures for coal and gas production, with recent analysis putting its annual cost at around $11.2 billion by 2026–27.

Mining is by far the largest beneficiary, claiming about $5 billion a year in diesel rebates according to one analysis. This includes roughly $1.5 billion for coal mining alone. Agriculture receives only a fraction of the total.

What began as support for farmers using off-road fuel has become a standing subsidy for Australia’s most profitable miners.

Meanwhile, aviation fuel pays little excise – about 3 cents per litre – to fund the Civil Aviation Safety Authority. This compares to a fuel excise rate of 52c per litre on petrol and diesel, which the Australian government halved on April 1 this year in response to fuel price spikes from the US-Israeli war in Iran.

Since 1992, the formal link between petrol and diesel excise and road funding has ended, with fuel tax now flowing into general revenue rather than a dedicated roads fund. The rebate was originally justified on fairness grounds – off‑road users were not meant to subsidise public roads – but once fuel tax stopped being a dedicated roads charge, that logic largely evaporated.

Fuel tax cuts in response to war

The May 2026 federal budget fuel package was worth more than $10 billion, centred on a permanent government-owned fuel reserve.

These are reminders Australia’s fuel security problem is immediate, not theoretical. The government’s response has been to buy and store more fuel, rather than reduce our structural dependence on imported oil and support a shift to electrification and renewable energy.

Australia’s fuel rebate entrenches higher diesel use. But the “we need more fuel” argument ignores the fact Australia’s economy is decisively decoupling from fossil energy consumption.

Uncoupling from oil is not a theoretical future possibility – it is slowly happening. Oil consumption in particular has plateaued since the early 2000s, even as GDP has roughly doubled. If Australia wants to meet its emissions-reduction commitments, it should hasten the shift away from fossil oil, not maintain a subsidy for it.

A fair share of resources

Australia has long failed to gain a fair share of revenue from our finite mineral wealth. Our petroleum resource rent tax is notoriously weak.

Mining companies argue tougher taxes will drive investment offshore. But Australia has some of the world’s highest-grade iron ore, coal and critical minerals. A tax regime would have to be extraordinarily high to make extraction unprofitable.

We are now in the fourth major oil crisis.

Unlike the others, this one arrives with cheaper renewable alternatives readily available. Wind, solar, batteries and electric vehicles are now cheaper than fossil alternatives and faster to deploy.

During a fuel crisis, we should scrutinise where our finite tax revenues are directed. The fuel rebate was designed mostly for farmers, when the mining industry was a fraction of its current size.

Does the policy need to return to its original aim? Or is a new form of road user tax required?

Whatever the mechanism, it makes sense to direct revenue towards electrification, not lock in another decade of diesel dependence.

Response from BHP:

In a statement, a spokesperson for BHP said it has net zero goal for reducing its scope 1 and 2 greenhouse gas emissions to net zero by 2050.

Despite this progress, many of the technologies the resources industry will need to achieve net zero are not yet ready to be deployed, BHP said.

“For example, no Australian mining operation is currently utilising critical 240-ton battery-electric haul trucks as the technology is not advanced enough to scale to an operational fleet,” the spokesperson said.

BHP is partnering with equipment producers to run trials of battery-electric equipment, including two 240-ton battery electric haul trucks, on a BHP site in the Pilbara, and four battery-electric locomotives which we plan to commence trialling in coming months.

Ray Wills does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would directly benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Peter Newman receives funding from the federal government to attend IPCC meetings as a lead author on transport and cities, and receives funding for a research project on Net Zero Precincts from CRC RACE.

Buying groceries at a big supermarket is a relatively new phenomenon. Prior to the early 1900s you would have done your shop in the small, family-owned, butchers, bakeries or greengrocers that lined our high streets.

Now, online shopping, “dark stores” and AI chatbots are helping with your groceries, and supermarkets are adapting. It might sound exciting, or terrifying, but what we’re most interested in is what happens next. Will we trade choice, autonomy and our health for convenience? And will we even have a say when huge corporate profits are at stake?

➡️ Click here to read the full interactive story

Gary Mortimer has received past funding from the Building Employer Confidence and Inclusion in Disability Grant, the AusIndustry Entrepreneurs' Program, the National Clothing Textiles Stewardship Scheme, the National Retail Association and the Australian Retailers Association. He is an independent director and board chair of Services and Creative Skills Australia, a federally-funded jobs and skills council.

Paul J. Maginn does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.