Western Australia

Opening

Thank you to the organisers for inviting me to speak this evening. I acknowledge the Whadjuk people of the Noongar nation, on whose land we meet, and pay my respects to their Elders past and present.

Looking back over my career, I found myself thinking—perhaps a little unexpectedly for an after-dinner occasion—of the biblical Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: pestilence on the white horse, war on the red, famine on the black and death on the pale. I was not planning to ride off into the sunset with them. Rather, much of my working life has been spent helping to limit the effects of two: pestilence and plague, and disaster and famine. Tonight, I would like to share a few reflections from that journey and four observations from COVID that may help when the next crisis arrives.

The metaphor may be a little overly dramatic, but it underlines how quickly a crisis becomes intensely personal. An emerging crisis, described in official or scientific language, becomes a family waiting for news, health staff working beyond exhaustion, a business unsure whether it can open tomorrow, or public servants making consequential decisions before all the facts are known.

Encounters with crisis

My first close encounter with plagues came in the mid-1990s, when I worked in biological and chemical weapons control. I spent five months in Iraq with the United Nations Special Commission as a biological weapons’ chief inspector. Iraq was a beautiful country, but still under Saddam Hussein’s autocratic rule. I helped unravel the biological weapons program, centred on anthrax and botulinum toxin, and weaponised in SCUD missiles and R-400 bombs before the 1991 Gulf War. Our work help secure an Iraqi admission of responsibility, documented the program’s major elements and helped prevent its resurgence before the second Gulf War. There is some irony that, three decades later, botulinum toxin is now mostly discussed for its cosmetic uses.

That work taught me an early lesson about evidence, especially with something as elusive as biological weapons. Intelligence can suggest where to look, but verification demands curiosity, patience, technical discipline and a willingness to test assumptions. The picture did not emerge from one dramatic discovery—although there were exceptions, such as the chicken-farm documents which Iraq staged—but from fragments: interviews, inspections, production records and inconsistencies that became meaningful only when assembled together. It was forensic work, with fewer revelations than television suggests, and considerably more paperwork. It was also dangerous at times, particularly at sensitive sites such as Republican Guard bases.

My introduction to disaster response came on 5 May 1998, when I helped evacuate injured sailors from HMAS Westralia after an engine-room fire that killed four sailors and officers. After the 2002 Bali bombings, I was recruited to build and consolidate WA Health’s emergency-management capability. Over the next two decades, it was tested by various disaster – the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami, the 2005 Bali bombing, the 2006 Java earthquake, the 2009 Ashmore Reef explosion, the 2011 Fukushima accident and the 2015 Nepal earthquake. In several of these, I fronted the media with then Deputy Commissioner Chris Dawson. You should remember that name, as he does reappear in this narrative.

These deployments differed greatly, but the first hours shared the same pattern: incomplete information, damaged local systems and competing demands for communications, transport, triage, health support and family liaison. The best responses came from people who knew their roles, trusted one another, shared information quickly and improvised without losing sight of the mission. Above all, local resilience mattered—the support of neighbouring islands in the Maldives or nearby towns in Java was critical. Even in serious work there were lighter moments. When our 747 carrying the medical team landed on Malé’s short runway, we were told permission had been granted because of Qantas’s safety record. We were relieved not to have damaged it.

These experiences changed how I thought about preparedness. A plan on a shelf is not preparedness, although it may be a useful doorstop. As Field Marshal Helmuth von Moltke observed, “No plan of operations survives first contact with the enemy.” Preparedness is a living capability: people who have planned and exercised together; laws and powers tested before they are needed; supply-chain vulnerabilities understood; and leaders able to distinguish a genuine warning from background noise.

Pestilence returned in 2009 with swine flu. I was in Medicine Hat, Canada—a place whose name sounds reassuringly medicinal—when that same Deputy Commissioner called to ask what should happen next. It is remarkable how often a major event begins with a phone call that quietly ruins the rest of your day. The outbreak was less deadly than first feared, but it offered a glimpse of what a future pandemic would demand: planning, logistics and clear public communication. Which brings us to COVID.

COVID-19: four observations from the crisis

First, plans matter—but adaptability matters more. Everyone here lived through 2020 to 2023. Despite extensive preparation, no one anticipated COVID’s full impact. Medical school and military service did not prepare me to close borders, run hotel quarantine or manage AFL teams, but planning gave us the structure to respond. As Eisenhower noted, “Plans are useless, but planning is indispensable.” We tested worst cases, used modelling and revised our approach continually. Logistics became strategy: late-night conversations turned to arranging 747s for personal protective equipment and medical supplies. I suspect Russ Russell-Weisz, my Director General and a trained pilot, was quietly hoping to volunteer for the cockpit.

Adaptability meant reviewing evidence, responsibility and decisions, as variants, supplies, data, cruise ships and football teams changed the picture. Revision was learning, not failure.

COVID crossed every organisational boundary, becoming an education, transport, economic, industrial and social-cohesion issue—from school closures and masks to distancing, pubs, clubs and the Fremantle Crab Fest. WA’s response connected agencies with different laws and priorities. Chris Dawson, now Police Commissioner, was critical as State Emergency Coordinator; relationships built before the emergency saved time when it mattered.

Second, crisis leadership requires disciplined decisions under uncertainty. We weighed risk amid conflicting evidence and rapid change, working closely with Police, Premier and Cabinet, Education and other agencies. We used legislation never before applied in anger, accepted that mistakes were possible, and published my medical advice in the interests of transparency.

Decisions ranged from borders, testing and quarantine to AFL fixtures, the play Chess and face-painting. No leadership manual contains a chapter titled “Face-Painting in a Pandemic,” although perhaps the next edition will. Leadership had to shift from collaborative to directive while remaining calm, approachable, expert, empathetic and, when possible, humorous.

This was a marathon, not a sprint. Decision fatigue, disrupted routines and scrutiny impaired judgement. Leaders had to protect their teams’ stamina—and remember that senior leaders also needed recovery.

Third, proportionality is the ethical centre of public health. A crisis forces a balance between individual freedom and protection from a shared threat.

Under the Public Health Act 2016, government and the CHO had extraordinary powers over travel, lockdowns, venues, testing and vaccination. The Act even contemplated building tunnels, although I never discovered why. Such powers had to follow the best available information—the precautionary principle—and remain proportionate to the risk.

Every decision on borders, lockdowns, distancing or vaccination required judgement about benefits, harms and duration. Would it protect the health system? Was there a less restrictive option? Was the burden fair? Emergency powers may be broad, but their use must be specific, explainable, reviewed and time-limited.

Fourth, public trust is an operational capability. Transparency, privacy and clear communication were central. The media was vital, if frustrating: a question to the Premier about running with a kebab went viral—not the viral event we were trying to manage—while misinformation, legal challenges and protests consumed time. Hotel quarantine produced attempted escapes and ill-advised liaisons. Yet public support was remarkable, and I still receive thanks six years later.

Trust grew from competence, consistency and candour, including saying what we did not know. We explained what had been decided, why, for how long and what could change the advice. Networks built in ordinary times mattered, as did communication: our respective partners observed that Chris, Russ and I spent far more time talking to each other than to them.

By 17 April 2023, WA had recorded 11.7 per cent of Australia’s cases but 5.2 per cent of its deaths. For nearly two years, community transmission remained low while schools, businesses and tourism operated largely as normal. That outcome belonged to health workers, police, public servants, educators, transport operators, businesses and citizens—and also to geography and timing. We should learn from what worked while examining the costs and unintended consequences, without pretending there was a risk-free alternative.

Closing

If I reduce the experience to four sentences, they are these: plan thoroughly, but design plans to change. Decide on the best evidence available, while making room for respectful dissent. Use extraordinary powers only to the extent the risk requires. And treat public trust as a capability to be earned, maintained and never taken for granted.

The Black and White Horsemen still roam, now joined in sharper relief by climate change, geopolitical instability and war—the Red Horse. The Pale Horse is ever present. We cannot know the exact form of the next crisis; mine was a lost radioactive source somewhere in Newman in January 2023; but we can anticipate what will be expected: preparation without rigidity, courage without recklessness, authority tempered by proportionality, and communication worthy of public trust. Our responsibility is to remember them, strengthen our institutions and be ready to act together when the next horse appears on the horizon—although, after this evening’s apocalyptic theme, I hope your journey home involves nothing more alarming than an Uber. Thank you.