Few phrases generate more heat and less light in contemporary Australian political debate than “cancel culture.” For those on the right, it describes a terrifying new form of mob justice in which any deviation from progressive orthodoxy can result in the destruction of a career, a reputation, or a life. For those on the left, it’s a convenient fiction invented by powerful people to escape accountability for genuinely harmful behaviour.
Both framings are too simple. The reality — as with most contested social phenomena — is more complicated, more interesting, and more important to get right.
The Case for Accountability
For most of human history, powerful people faced very little public accountability for harmful behaviour. A media executive who sexually harassed employees, an academic who plagiarised research, a politician who made racist statements — these people could reasonably expect that any consequences would be managed quietly, internally, and in their favour. The victims had little recourse.
Social media has changed this calculus. Ordinary people now have the ability to make harmful behaviour visible, to organise pressure on institutions to act, and to ensure that victims’ accounts reach audiences that the powerful previously could have suppressed. The #MeToo movement, which reached Australia in significant ways, demonstrated that this power can produce genuinely just outcomes — holding serial abusers accountable in ways that formal institutions had repeatedly failed to do.
When critics dismiss “cancel culture” wholesale, they often implicitly argue for a return to a system in which harm was routinely covered up and power was routinely abused. That argument deserves scrutiny.
The Case for Concern
And yet. There are genuine problems with the way online accountability campaigns sometimes operate that a clear-eyed observer cannot dismiss.
The first is proportionality. The punishment inflicted by a successful online pile-on — loss of employment, public humiliation, ongoing harassment — is often wildly disproportionate to the actual harm caused. A thoughtless tweet made a decade ago should not necessarily end a career. The moral ledger of most human beings is complicated; the internet has a tendency to flatten it.
The second is due process. Online accountability campaigns frequently proceed without any meaningful investigation of the facts. The accused has no real right of reply, no opportunity to present context or evidence, and no appeal mechanism. Trial by social media is still trial, but without any of the procedural protections we have developed precisely because we know that mob justice is unreliable.
The third is the chilling effect. When the penalty for any misstep is potentially catastrophic, reasonable people become less willing to speak honestly, engage with challenging ideas, or take intellectual risks. This is particularly damaging in universities, journalism, and the arts — places where the free exploration of difficult ideas is supposed to be valued.
The Centrist Position
The line between accountability and mob justice is real, even if it isn’t always clear. Accountability is proportionate, factual, and oriented toward changing harmful behaviour or protecting future victims. Mob justice is disproportionate, often based on incomplete or distorted information, and oriented toward punishment and humiliation.
Australia needs both more accountability for genuine abuse of power and more resistance to the mob dynamic that social media enables. These positions are not contradictory — they are complementary. The challenge is holding both simultaneously, rather than retreating to the tribal position that one’s own side is always doing accountability and the other side is always doing mob justice.
