Reviews and Comments

Our Members Be Unlimited by Sam Wallman is an fun alternative to what is often a frustratingly academic, and philosophical topic. In this full-colour graphic novel Wallman breaks up this topic into bite-sized chapters that flip between Wallman's (presumed) experience working at an Amazon Warehouse as a picker, the philosophical challenges of labor organising—such as what happens when a union acts against its members’ interests or becomes co-opted—and the historical successes of labor movements worldwide.

The story Wallman tells is an important one because it fills in so much of the historical context for where unions and labor movements came from and why they’re still at risk today. It highlights how collective organizing was once (and in some places, is still) extremely illegal, with workers risking their lives and livelihoods to fight for fair conditions, and shows how the struggle for labor rights has always been met with resistance from those in power. In one chapter, Wallman touches on how historically figures like Walt Disney actively worked to undermine unions, illustrating how these movements have faced opposition not just from governments but also from influential individuals and corporations.

This isn't just an exercise in history, academia or philosophy though. Amongst its stories and facts and figures, Wallman offers tips for navigating labor conversations—like engaging with hesitant coworkers—and ways to resist or act in solidarity, even in high-stakes situations.

One of my only complaints about this book, is that at times the font is difficult to read, in places I found the contrast too low or the typeface too small, so make sure you have your reading light and glasses on hand.

Despite this, Our Members Be Unlimited is an essential read for anyone in the labor movement—and beyond. I think it’s the kind of book that falls into the 'reading for life' category, not just for seasoned unionists but also for anyone curious about unions, labor movements, or the fight for workers’ rights. It offers a deeper understanding of the historical and ongoing struggles that unions face. This book is especially great to pick up towards the end of time off from work, as it can help reignite that fire for standing up for what’s right and remind readers of the power and potential of solidarity. Whether you're in a union, considering joining one, or just want to learn more about the labor movement, it’s a great read.

Rinsed: From Cartels to Crypto: How the Tech Industry Washes Money for the World's Deadliest Crooks by Geoff White is a compelling but ultimately frustrating read. The book sets out to explore how technological innovations—like cryptocurrency, video games, and alternative routing protocols (such as Tor)—have provided new systems for laundering money. White argues that these innovations threaten to overwhelm authorities, destabilise economies, and disrupt societies (if only).

The stories White tells are undeniably gripping. The book begins with drug cartels, delves into sex trafficking and exploitation, and then moves on to nation-state hacking. However, while the narrative is sensational and the topics undeniably important, it often feels like White loses sight of the bigger picture. His focus on technology as the root of modern-day laundering and exploitation oversimplifies these deeply entrenched issues.

Yes, technology has allowed these problems to scale, but that's because we’ve never truly addressed the root causes: the criminalisation of drugs, the lack of systemic solutions to prevent human trafficking, and the broader socio-political structures that enable exploitation. White’s narrow lens on technology as the primary culprit ignores this context, and his arguments can feel reductive, especially to readers familiar with topics like information security, decriminalisation and human trafficking.

White’s perspective often comes across as overly deferential to government narratives, (bordering on bootlicking). His portrayal of privacy feels especially hollow—while he does make occasional nods to its importance, these moments are overshadowed by sensationalist claims like “North Korea has weapons of mass destruction” or “12-year-olds being sex trafficked on the dark web.” These juxtapositions feel like attempts to placate privacy-conscious readers, but instead, they dilute his credibility and make it hard to take his arguments seriously.

While Rinsed aims to shed light on the intersection of technology and criminality, it ultimately sensationalises its subject matter to a degree that risks misinforming readers. Someone unfamiliar with technology, decriminalisation, human trafficking, or privacy might walk away with the wrong idea, conflating the tools with the underlying systemic problems.

To White’s credit, the book is full of compelling stories, but the lack of nuance and critical engagement with the root causes of these issues prevents it from being the insightful exploration it could have been.

Holocaust Island by Graeme Dixon is a collection of poetry written during his time in prison. While the poems were penned decades ago, their themes remain relevant today. The collection serves as a plea for Aboriginal justice, addressing issues like Black deaths in custody and the ongoing fight for Land Rights—struggles that continue to resonate within contemporary Australia. These poems bear witness to the lasting effects of British Imperialism, illustrating how colonization’s legacy persists in systemic injustices faced by Indigenous communities.

Dixon’s work is heartfelt, sharing his grief, loss, and resistance. He writes about the impact of Indigenous deaths in custody, painting a picture of his personal grief over losing his brothers. Through his words, Dixon sheds light on the generational trauma caused by colonization and institutional violence, bringing readers face-to-face with the reality of contemporary Australia.

While a lot of the poems are about prison, grief and resistance, Dixon also offers glimpses of love and tenderness. Among the heavier poems, the piece for his wife, Sharmaine, feels like a rare moment of light, it sparkles with tenderness and care, offering a counterbalance to the collection’s heavier themes.

Holocaust Island isn’t written as a plea for sympathy, instead, it’s an unapologetic look at colonial Australia and the lasting scars of imperialism. Dixon doesn’t sugarcoat his words or frame his experiences for the comfort of his audience. His poetry confronts systemic injustices and personal grief with raw honesty, forcing readers to grapple with the brutal truth of Indigenous dispossession, deaths in custody, and cultural erasure.

This collection captures the anger, grief, and resilience of someone who has lived through the generational trauma inflicted by colonization. While the pain in these poems is palpable, so too is the strength and resistance. Holocaust Island is not just a historical document or a personal testimony—it’s a call to action for accountability, recognition, and justice.