Urban Wronski Writes

Bondi deserves answers. A Royal Commission, right now, will struggle to deliver them. The nation is being sold catharsis; what is on offer is legally hobbled – a rarefied type of theatre that cannot go where the public most wants it to go.

There is a reflex in Australian politics that turns grief into a ladder-climbing contest. We are world champions at it. A calamity shatters lives. Families are inconsolable. Cameras roll. A chorus forms. And before the ambulances have finished their last run, someone on air is demanding the biggest, most theatrical instrument in the civic toolkit: a Royal Commission. After Bondi, that chorus has swelled into something close to compulsory. Families, community leaders, health professionals, MPs and commentators have all called for a federal Royal Commission, framed as the only “serious” response.

It’s our modern-day Malleus Maleficarum. This mirrors the 15th-century Malleus Maleficarum – the infamous “Hammer of Witches” – a witch-hunting playbook by Heinrich Kramer that turned folk panic into systematic purge. Written around 1486, it codified hysteria as policy: classify deviance as heresy, mandate torture for confessions, and execution as the only cure. Our modern model? Calamity spawns moral panic; the “inquiry” becomes the hammer smashing dissent, delay or difference.

A blast from the past

Kramer’s manual thrived on spectacle – public trials, devil pacts, women’s “weakness” fuelling mass executions (but not in England) – much like today’s commissions that amplify grief into political theatre before facts settle. In both, urgency trumps evidence; the ladder-climbers win by promising exorcism.

Time-wasters HQ and the live crime scene

You can see how this plays in Canberra. A reporter fronts the Prime Minister and asks whether “his man”, Dennis Richardson; retired spook, now hunched over Manila folders while staffers colour-code Post-it notes – will be given the same powers as the royal commissioner.

The daft question treats coercive powers like a staff entitlements issue, not a matter of statute and jurisdiction. It also sidesteps the central, inconvenient fact: Bondi is not just a national trauma; it is a live criminal matter.

Lawyer Michael Bradley puts it simply in Crikey: one alleged shooter is alive, in custody and facing charges; that makes Bondi, first and foremost, a crime scene. While that prosecution is afoot, the justice system’s first priority is the accused’s right to a fair trial – an obligation that exists not to protect the accused from scrutiny, but to protect the public from injustice and to preserve the integrity of verdicts. Sub judice rules are built precisely to prevent material with a real and definite tendency to prejudice a trial from being sprayed across the public square.

A Royal Commission inquiry; even one led by someone as formidable as Virginia Bell, the former High Court judge now appointed, does not sit outside those rules. It sits squarely within them. The terms of reference granted to Bell are careful, constrained and cognisant of the legal reality: while criminal proceedings remain on foot, what can be examined, what witnesses can be compelled to say, and what findings can be published are all subject to the overriding requirement not to interfere with the trial.

Virginia Bell: distinguished, yes – but hamstrung by design

Virginia Bell is not the problem. She is a jurist of the highest calibre. Her terms of reference ; drivers of violent extremism, systemic failures in mental health, gaps in intelligence sharing, the adequacy of threat assessment frameworks, are comprehensive in ambition. But ambition is not the same as reach. Her commission can summon documents, hold hearings, hear from families and experts. What it cannot do, while the accused awaits trial, is probe the specific circumstances, decisions and chains of causation that led to fifteen people being murdered at Bondi, Sunday, 14 December 2025.

The commission may hear about systemic failures in surveillance services. It may document coordination breakdowns between state and federal agencies. It may map the ideological landscape of online and in community radicalisation. But it cannot ask: why did this person, with this history, acquire that weapon? Why was this red flag ignored? What did this officer know, and when?

Those are questions for the criminal trial. And until that trial concludes, a process that may take years, those questions remain legally out of bounds.

This is not pedantry. It is constitutional bedrock. The separation between investigation and prosecution, between inquiry and trial, exists to safeguard the administration of justice. A Royal Commission that wandered into the specifics of a pending criminal case would risk tainting the jury pool, compromising witness testimony, and handing the defence grounds for appeal or even a mistrial.

The public interest in accountability does not override the public interest in a fair trial. Both matter. And right now, one must yield to the other.

The theatre of inquiry: catharsis without closure

So what, then, is the Royal Commission for? If it cannot answer the questions the public most urgently wants answered, what function does it serve? The answer, increasingly, is symbolic. Royal Commissions have become our civic grief ritual. They signal that something momentous has occurred, that the state is Doing Something, that the dead will not be forgotten.

They offer a stage for testimony, a forum for families, a mechanism for catharsis. These are not trivial functions. Grief demands witness. Trauma demands acknowledgment. But they are not the same as accountability. And they are certainly not the same as answers.

Michael Bradley is blunt about this in his Crikey analysis. A Royal Commission into Bondi, launched now, will be “an elaborate and expensive exercise in delay”. It will take a year. It will produce an interim report that skirts the live criminal matter, and a final report that arrives long after the initial trauma and public attention has moved on. Its recommendations will be debated, some accepted, others shelved. Governments will thank the commissioner, express solemn commitment to reform, and then do what governments always do: implement the easy bits, defer the hard ones, and declare victory.

This is the pattern. We have seen it before. One of the most shocking is the Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody (1987-1991): 339 recommendations on care, justice reform, and reconciliation. Implementation: partial at best; data collection improved, coronial processes tightened, but Indigenous incarceration rates soared 300% since: with the number of Aboriginal people dying in custody is reaching appalling, record figures (26 in 2024-25 alone).

The aged care royal commission delivered a damning report; the government’s response was a fraction of what was recommended. The banking royal commission uncovered systemic corruption; prosecutions were few, structural reform limited. The disability royal commission has been hearing harrowing testimony for years; whether it produces genuine change remains to be seen.

Royal Commissions are better at diagnosis than cure. They are superb at mapping failure. They are far less effective at compelling repair.

Dennis Richardson and the consolation prize

Enter Dennis Richardson. The Prime Minister’s pick. The interim investigator. The placeholder while the Royal Commission gears up and the criminal trial grinds on. Richardson is reviewing national security coordination, intelligence sharing, and threat assessment protocols. His task is narrower, more technical, less theatrical. He will not hold public hearings. He will not take testimony from grieving families. He will not generate headlines. But he might, if given the resources and the mandate, deliver something useful: a clear-eyed account of what went wrong in the machinery of state surveillance and response.

The question put to the Prime Minister; whether Richardson will have the same powers as the royal commissioner, misses the point. Richardson does not need the same powers. He needs different ones. He needs access to classified intelligence briefings, internal agency communications, and operational protocols that a public Royal Commission cannot examine without compromising national security or prejudicing the trial.

His work is not meant to satisfy the public’s hunger for spectacle. It is meant to identify, quietly and methodically, the points of failure that allowed a known threat to become a mass casualty event.

Whether Richardson will be allowed to do that work; whether his findings will be acted upon, or filed away as politically inconvenient, is another question entirely. History suggests caution. Reviews commissioned in the shadow of tragedy tend to be weapons of delay, not engines of reform. They allow governments to say “we’re looking into it” while doing very little. But Richardson, at least, has the advantage of operating outside the glare of a public hearing. He can ask uncomfortable questions without a media gallery taking notes. He can follow the evidence without worrying about headlines. If there is a chance of learning something concrete from Bondi, it may lie more with Richardson’s quiet review than with Bell’s necessarily constrained commission.

What the public is owed – and what it can have

The families of the victims deserve answers. The community deserves to know what failed. The nation deserves accountability. None of that is in dispute. But a Royal Commission launched now, while criminal proceedings are live, cannot deliver those things. It can offer process, yes. It can offer visibility, acknowledgment, a national platform for grief. It can produce a report, eventually, that maps systemic failures and makes recommendations. But it cannot; legally, constitutionally, practically, go to the heart of what happened in Bondi Junction and why. That work belongs to the criminal justice system.

And it could take years.

This is not an argument against accountability. It is an argument for realism. The appetite for a Royal Commission after Bondi is understandable. The political pressure is immense. But the law does not bend to political pressure, and for good reason. The accused has the right to a fair trial. Witnesses have the right not to be compelled to give evidence that could prejudice that trial. The criminal process has priority. This is not a technicality. It is a cornerstone of the rule of law.

What the public is being offered, then, is not what it thinks it is getting. It is being sold a Royal Commission as the gold standard of inquiry, the big gun, the serious response. What it is actually getting is a carefully circumscribed process that will spend months skating around the core questions, deferring the hard answers until after the trial, and producing a report that will be debated, diluted and half-implemented. That is not cynicism. That is the historical record.

The alternative no one is offering

There is another way. It is less theatrical, less politically satisfying, and almost certainly more effective. It involves letting the criminal justice system do its work; properly resourced, properly scrutinised, properly held to account. It involves giving Dennis Richardson the mandate and the access to conduct a serious, classified review of intelligence and coordination failures, and then acting on his findings. It involves empowering existing oversight bodies; the Inspector-General of Intelligence and Security, the Commonwealth Ombudsman, parliamentary committees, to do their jobs without interference. It involves, in short, using the accountability mechanisms we already have, rather than reaching for the shiny new one that makes for better television.

This approach has no champions. It generates no headlines. It does not satisfy the public hunger for a Big Moment. It is not what families are calling for, because families – rightly – want something that feels commensurate with their loss. But it is the approach most likely to produce actual change. Royal Commissions delay, defer and dilute. They turn urgent questions into multi-year research projects. They produce doorstop reports that governments cherry-pick. They are a mechanism for managing political heat, not for delivering accountability.

If the goal is to learn from Bondi, to fix what broke, to prevent the next tragedy, then the focus should be on the hard, long, unglamorous work of institutional repair. Strengthening intelligence sharing protocols. Closing gaps in mental health and law enforcement coordination. Ensuring that red flags are acted upon, not just filed. Resourcing frontline services properly. None of that requires a Royal Commission. It requires political will, funding, and a commitment to follow through. Those are the very things Royal Commissions tend to defer.

Conclusion: grief, law and the limits of theatre

Virginia Bell will conduct her inquiry with rigour and integrity. Her final report will be thorough, considered and damning in its account of systemic failure. It will make headlines. It will be tabled in Parliament. The families will read it. The media will dissect it. And then it will join the long shelf of Royal Commission reports that documented failure, recommended reform, and achieved far less than they promised.

This is not Bell’s fault. It is the nature of the instrument. A Royal Commission is not a magic wand. It is a legal process, bounded by the same constraints as any other. It cannot override sub judice protections. It cannot compel witnesses to incriminate themselves. It cannot force governments to act. It can investigate, document and recommend. That is all. And while the accused awaits trial, it cannot even do that much.

The nation is being sold catharsis. What is on offer is a legally hobbled, year-long process that will arrive at conclusions long after the moment of grief has passed. The families deserve better. The victims deserve better. And if the goal is genuine accountability, not the theatre of it, but the substance, then we need to stop pretending that a Royal Commission is the answer. The courtroom is where the answers will be found. The trial is where accountability begins. Everything else is noise.

A Royal Commission is not a memorial. It is not closure. It is not justice. It is a process. And right now, it is the wrong one. The lobbyists have got their way. The PM has conceded to their pressure. But it’s very hard to see the healing; impossible to spot that social cohesion, he is so overly fond of invoking. That at least, from the outset, is as clear as a bell.

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