Introduction
The narratives crafted by Daniel Defoe and RM Ballantyne during the height of the British Empire vividly illustrate a deep-seated white/non-white dualism that profoundly influenced colonial perspectives not just in the Americas, but also throughout Australia and the expansive regions of the Pacific. In Defoe’s seminal work, Robinson Crusoe, published in 1719, the central character’s interaction with the figure known as Friday epitomises the unequal power dynamics between the European coloniser and the indigenous individual, portraying the latter as inherently subservient and eternally grateful for the intervention of the former. Similarly, Ballantyne’s adventure tale, The Coral Island, released in 1858, idealises a group of British youths who assert dominance over a seemingly idyllic Pacific island, depicting the local inhabitants as either dangerous savages or individuals who can be civilised, but never elevated to equal status. These stories, though rooted in fictional settings far from home, mirror the imperial forces that shaped interactions in Australia and the area often referred to as the “arc of instability”, which encompasses various Pacific island nations prone to political and social upheaval. From the viewpoint of what is commonly termed White Australia, every Indigenous person residing in these territories is perceived as little more than a modern-day Friday, compelled to recognise their designated role within white-dominated society, which involves deferring to the white individual as a master. In this entrenched relationship, the Indigenous person is perpetually denied equality, forever cast as a marginalised companion rather than a peer. This essay delves into the historical origins of this dualism, its expressions in literature, and its persistent consequences, utilising insights from postcolonial analysis to draw parallels between its implementations in the Americas, Australia, and the Pacific. By examining the annals of colonial expansion, governmental policies, and ongoing disparities, the argument posits that this dichotomous framework continues to sustain systematic oppression, necessitating a fundamental reassessment to achieve genuine fairness.
The notion of white/non-white dualism, as explored in postcolonial discourse, establishes a stark opposition in which the white coloniser symbolises progress, logic, and dominance, whereas the non-white colonised individual represents primitivism, illogic, and subordination. This binary structure forms the foundation of colonial authority, rationalising exploitation and domination. In the Americas, this duality manifested through the bondage and relocation of Indigenous populations and enslaved Africans, much like the allegorical depiction in Defoe’s story of a master exerting control over a perceived savage. When extending this lens to Australia and the Pacific, one observes remarkable similarities, including the seizure of Aboriginal territories, the coerced integration of Torres Strait Islanders, and the condescending supervision of Pacific states. The term arc of instability, introduced in the late 1990s to characterise countries such as Papua New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, and Fiji, portrays these areas as naturally disordered, thereby warranting Australian involvement that echoes the purported civilising endeavours in colonial fiction. However, this designation often conceals the fact that much of the unrest originates from colonial inheritances, such as the plundering of natural resources and the imposition of foreign administrative systems.
This post begins by examining Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe as a cornerstone text that establishes colonial dominance. It then analyses RM Ballantyne’s The Coral Island for its adaptations specific to the Pacific context. Following this, the discussion compares these literary elements to actual colonial practices in the Americas before turning attention to Australia’s historical treatment of Indigenous peoples under policies like White Australia and subsequent developments. Finally, it addresses the metaphor of Friday in present-day scenarios, emphasising continuing inequalities and the imperative for decolonisation efforts.
Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe: The Archetype of Colonial Mastery
Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe stands as a foundational piece in English literature, rich with motifs of imperialism, self-reliance, and ethnic hierarchy. Released in 1719, the narrative chronicles the experiences of Crusoe, an Englishman marooned on a remote island following a shipwreck, who ingeniously converts his surroundings into a miniature version of the British colonial enterprise. At the heart of this transformation lies his encounter with Friday, a native from the Caribbean whom he saves from imminent death at the hands of cannibals. Crusoe bestows upon him the name Friday, based solely on the day of their initial meeting, effectively erasing any trace of the man’s original cultural identity and superimposing a European sense of time and order.
Postcolonial interpreters regard this interaction as a quintessential example of white/non-white dualism. Crusoe embodies the illuminated European figure, while Friday serves as the uncultured entity requiring redemption. In various literary examinations, the overarching motif is one of racial superiority, highlighting the authority of white individuals over those they colonise. Defoe, inspired by authentic colonial expeditions, uses the story to allegorise the plantation economy, where enslaved or native labourers function as mere tools for white overseers. Friday’s prompt adoption of the term master to address Crusoe solidifies this disparity; he emerges as the archetype of the noble savage, capable of improvement only through absolute yielding to European ways.
This dualism transcends the pages of the novel, shaping real-world colonial mindsets in the Americas. Across North and South America, settlers from Europe legitimised their appropriation of lands and the enslavement of peoples by characterising Indigenous groups as barbaric, akin to Friday prior to his supposed enlightenment. The book’s exploration of solitude, community building, and cultural advancement reinforces the coloniser’s assumed pre-eminence, motifs that echo in subsequent literature and legislative measures. Some interpretations suggest that Crusoe subtly critiques slavery, presenting it as a transient condition that evolves into informed servitude, yet the narrative ultimately reinforces colonial structures by endorsing such hierarchies.
In re-evaluations through a postcolonial prism, Friday symbolises the broader colonial interplay, where non-white individuals are consigned to roles as secondary figures, valued yet belittled. This symbolic representation migrates across geographical boundaries, taking root in the soils of Australia and the Pacific, where Indigenous communities endure comparable forms of identity suppression and marginalisation.
To fully appreciate the depth of this archetype, one must consider the historical backdrop against which Defoe wrote. The early 18th century marked a period of aggressive European expansion, with Britain establishing footholds in the Caribbean and Americas through trade, conquest, and the transatlantic slave trade. Crusoe’s island becomes a metaphor for these new worlds, ripe for exploitation. His methodical taming of the land – planting crops, building shelters, and domesticating animals – mirrors the real-life processes of colonisation, where European technologies and ideologies were imposed to extract value. Friday’s introduction adds a human dimension to this exploitation. Rescued and then educated in English, Christianity, and labour skills, he represents the ideal colonial subject: grateful, loyal, and productive without challenging the status quo.
Moreover, Defoe’s portrayal draws on contemporary travelogues and philosophical debates about human nature. Thinkers like John Locke influenced ideas of property and governance, which Crusoe applies unilaterally. The novel’s popularity ensured its ideas permeated British society, influencing policymakers and adventurers alike. In the Americas, this translated into doctrines like terra nullius in some contexts, though more overtly in Australia, where lands were deemed empty despite Indigenous presence. The psychological impact on colonised peoples was profound, internalising inferiority as they were forced into roles mirroring Friday’s subservience.
Expanding on Friday’s character, he is not merely a passive recipient; Defoe grants him intelligence and adaptability, yet these traits serve to highlight Crusoe’s benevolence rather than Friday’s autonomy. When Friday teaches Crusoe about local flora or assists in defence, it is always within the framework of master-servant. This dynamic prefigures later colonial education systems, designed to produce compliant workers rather than independent thinkers. In essence, Robinson Crusoe codifies the blueprint for colonial relationships, one that priorities white agency and relegates others to perpetual support roles.
RM Ballantyne’s The Coral Island: Imperial Adventure in the Pacific
Transitioning to the Victorian period, RM Ballantyne’s The Coral Island extends the dualistic framework established by Defoe into the Pacific realm, romanticising colonial exploits through the lens of youthful adventure. Issued in 1858, the book recounts the escapades of three young British boys, Ralph Rover, Jack Martin, and Peterkin Gay, who find themselves stranded on a picturesque South Pacific atoll after a shipwreck. Through ingenuity and moral fortitude, they construct a semblance of British society on the island, complete with hierarchies and rules, while interacting with the native population in ways that underscore imperial attitudes.
Ballantyne’s narrative embodies the racial ideologies prevalent in the mid-19th century, equating Indigenous peoples with childlike immaturity and Europeans with adult sophistication. The boys’ confrontations with cannibalistic tribes and marauding pirates delineate a clear divide: the refined British versus the untamed islanders. Such juxtapositions reflect Ballantyne’s endorsement of colonial and imperial ideologies. This approach parallels Defoe’s, but tailors it to the Pacific, a region where British influence expanded via missionary activities, commerce, and territorial claims.
In contrast to Crusoe’s lone dominion, The Coral Island stresses collective imperialism, with the protagonists civilising the locals through demonstration and when necessary, coercion. Native figures are portrayed either as adversaries to be overcome or as potential converts, but never as equals, thereby perpetuating the notion of the Indigenous person as a lesser companion. Postcolonial critiques highlight how this aligns with wider imperial stories, viewing Pacific islands as vacant canvases awaiting European artistry.
In the Americas, analogous tales of adventure bolstered concepts like Manifest Destiny, framing Indigenous Americans as impediments to advancement. Ballantyne’s impact on later literature, such as William Golding’s Lord of the Flies, demonstrates the longevity of these dualisms, which Golding subverts but does not entirely dismantle.
Delving deeper, Ballantyne wrote during an era of heightened British imperialism in the Pacific. The 19th century saw the annexation of Fiji, the establishment of protectorates in the Solomon Islands, and missionary incursions across Polynesia and Melanesia. The Coral Island captures this spirit, presenting the Pacific as a playground for British valour. The boys’ survival skills, hunting, fishing, building, echo real colonial practices, while their moral superiority justifies intervention in native affairs.
The novel’s depiction of natives is particularly telling. Early encounters portray them as bloodthirsty cannibals, reinforcing stereotypes that rationalised conquest. Later, through Christian influence, some natives reform, becoming allies but remaining subordinate. This mirrors missionary narratives, where conversion was seen as upliftment, yet it preserved power imbalances. Ballantyne, a devout Christian, infused the story with evangelical zeal, making it a tool for promoting empire to young readers.
Critically, the book’s optimism contrasts with harsher realities. Actual Pacific colonisation involved violence, disease introduction, and cultural disruption. Labour practices like blackbirding, kidnapping Islanders for plantations, echo the enslavement themes in Crusoe. Ballantyne’s sanitised version glosses over these, focusing on adventure to inspire future colonisers.
Furthermore, the gender dynamics add layers; the all-male cast emphasises masculine imperialism, with natives often feminized or infantilised. This dualism extends to environment: The Coral Island is beautiful yet dangerous, needing taming like its inhabitants. Overall, The Coral Island reinforces the white saviour trope, where non-whites benefit from but never match white ingenuity.
Comparative Colonialism: Americas vs. Australia and the Pacific
Postcolonial frameworks reveal commonalities in dualistic applications across different geographies, despite unique circumstances. In the Americas, colonialism by Spain, Portugal, and Britain entailed outright conquest, slavery, and cultural obliteration, reducing Indigenous populations to sources of labour or subjects for religious conversion. Australia, proclaimed as terra nullius in 1788 upon Captain Cook’s arrival, experienced the wholesale dispossession of Aboriginal lands without formal agreements, resulting in a drastic population drop from an estimated 750,000 to a fraction due to massacres, illnesses, and displacement.
The Pacific’s arc of instability includes islands subjected to multiple colonial powers, leading to fragmented national identities and persistent volatility stemming from arbitrarily drawn boundaries. Australian foreign policy often positions this arc as a peril to regional security, legitimising interventions that recall Crusoe’s authoritative role. Studies comparing settler societies like Australia and the United States note shared Anglo-Saxon roots, fostering parallel approaches to Indigenous exclusion.
Acts of genocide, such as the 1830 Black Line in Tasmania, a military operation to corral Aboriginals, resemble the Indian Wars in America, where native peoples were viewed as barriers to white settlement. In both regions, myths of empty lands justified expansion, ignoring sophisticated Indigenous societies with complex land management systems.
Expanding this comparison, the Americas’ colonialism often involved direct exploitation through encomienda systems or plantations, blending economic and religious motives. In contrast, Australia’s was more settler-focused, aiming for permanent white occupation, leading to policies of protection that segregated Aboriginals on reserves. The Pacific featured a patchwork: some islands annexed outright, others influenced indirectly via trade and missions.
Economic drivers varied: Americas for gold and agriculture, Australia for wool and mining, Pacific for copra and phosphates. Yet, the human cost was uniform – cultural erasure through language bans, forced relocations, and identity suppression. Resistance movements, like the M?ori Wars or American Indian uprisings, highlight Indigenous agency often overlooked in colonial narratives.
Contemporary legacies differ: Americas grapple with multiculturalism, Australia with reconciliation, Pacific with neocolonial aid dependencies. Understanding these parallels underscores dualism’s adaptability, perpetuating inequality across contexts.
Australia’s Colonial Legacy: The White Australia Policy and Indigenous Subjugation
Within Australia, the White Australia policy, enforced from 1901 until its gradual dismantling by 1973, formalised racial dualism by limiting immigration from non-European sources while systematically sidelining Indigenous populations. Aboriginal peoples were excluded from citizenship counts until a 1967 referendum, enduring assimilation strategies that included the removal of children from families, known as the Stolen Generations, to strip away cultural heritage and instil white values.
This approach mirrored Friday’s compelled subservience, demanding that Indigenous individuals conform to European standards without granting parity. Present-day disparities endure, with elevated rates of imprisonment, diminished health outcomes, and economic disadvantages traceable to historical traumas.
Historically, the policy stemmed from fears of Asian influx during gold rushes, evolving into a national identity cornerstone. It involved dictation tests to exclude non-whites, while Aboriginals faced mission controls and wage theft. Post-World War II, assimilation intensified, viewing Indigenous culture as obsolete.
The Stolen Generations, affecting up to one in three children, aimed at biological absorption, causing intergenerational trauma. Land rights struggles, like the 1966 Wave Hill strike, challenged this, leading to milestones such as the 1992 Mabo decision overturning terra nullius.
Yet, inequalities persist: Indigenous life expectancy lags by years, suicide rates soar, and overrepresentation in custody highlights systemic bias. Closing the Gap initiatives aim to address this, but progress is slow, reflecting entrenched dualism.
Culturally, Indigenous resilience shines through art, like dot paintings, and activism, such as the Uluru Statement calling for voice in parliament. However, media stereotypes reinforce Friday-like perceptions, portraying Indigenous as problematic rather than empowered.
The Pacific Arc of Instability: Neo-Colonial Oversight
The arc of instability in the Pacific, spanning from Timor-Leste to Fiji, is frequently seen by Australia as requiring paternalistic guidance, sustaining dualistic relations. Much of the turmoil arises from colonial remnants, including resource mismanagement and ethnic divisions from imposed borders, yet the term itself bolsters notions of inherent inferiority.
Indigenous Pacific voices in literature and politics counter this, reframing regional issues through local perspectives. Coups in Fiji or conflicts in Bougainville stem from colonial legacies, not innate flaws.
Australian aid and interventions, like in Solomon Islands’ RAMSI, mix support with control, echoing master-servant dynamics. Climate change exacerbates vulnerabilities, with rising seas threatening low-lying islands, yet responses often prioritise strategic interests over equity.
Pacific nations assert sovereignty through forums like the Pacific Islands Forum, challenging neocolonialism. Cultural revivals, blending tradition with modernity, resist dualism.
The Friday Metaphor in Contemporary Indigenous Experiences
In modern times, Indigenous Australians and Pacific Islanders are frequently regarded as contemporary Fridays – valuable yet secondary. Indigenous-authored works decolonize narratives, prioritising native viewpoints over white interpretations. Systemic racism in justice and society upholds disparities.
Movements like Black Lives Matter resonate, highlighting police brutality. Economic empowerment through land rights and tourism offers paths forward, but barriers remain.
Education reforms incorporating Indigenous knowledge aim to break cycles, fostering equality.
Conclusion
The dualism evident in Defoe and Ballantyne’s writings parallels the imbalanced interactions in Australia and the Pacific. Achieving true equality demands deconstructing these frameworks via decolonisation, acknowledgment of past wrongs, and empowerment of Indigenous voices.