Quotes of the Day

Countries cannot choose the living son or daughter who personifies them in the minds of distant foreigners. Perceptions can be impulsive and unfair. A good deal of today's anti-Americanism, for instance, is simply an expression of antipathy towards George W. Bush, the incumbent Uncle Sam. Saudis, Swedes and Kiwis can hate Dubya, and thus protest against his folly in Iraq, while consuming the riches of U.S. commerce and culture. Some lands have the splendid fortune of a dignified presence to represent them: South Africa's Mandela, Brazil's Pélé and the U.K.'s Queen Elizabeth II. Others are stuck with rogues like Saddam, Gaddafi, Castro and Venezuela's Chavez.

As the man best known in the world for being Australian, Steve Irwin carried a burden. The action man's death on Sept. 4, after he was speared in the chest by a stingray's barb, has exposed his country's cringe—its tendency to seek foreign validation. The self-styled crocodile hunter made his mark elsewhere before anyone took notice of him in Australia; his khaki-costumed animal-adventure act and "Crikey!" cry were at first deemed over the top for local audiences. As well as selling himself, Irwin was promoting ideas—narrow ones, to be sure—about Australia: a land of dangers populated by simple, earthy people. To U.S. viewers, Irwin was a reprise of the Paul Hogan of the late '80s. The incessant references to Crocodile Dundee, shrimp on the barbie, Foster's and koalas that Australians in America endured in those years were double-edged. Yes, they were tiresome clichés. But at least Americans knew something about the land Down Under and expressed curiosity and warmth toward it.

Irwin's untimely death drew exceptional attention at home and abroad. Those who thought Australia's cultural sophistication, great food, inventiveness and prosperity were put at risk by a preternaturally eager bloke who wrestled crocodiles will not let him rest. Nor will the defenders of traditional Aussie values. The cultural warriors are fighting over the correct way to classify the feral Irwin. But during these days of brand marketing, what is the harm if people think Australians are excitable, love the outdoors and are high on life? Or that Australia is all frontier, with alien wildlife, dusty roads and a torrid climate? Why not let people hold those exotic thoughts, even if the reality is more mundane? If foreigners visit, or come to know their own Australian one day, they'll soon learn enough to think of us in the round. It may be an anti-climax, but not a bad experience.

The only connection I felt to Irwin was that we were both fathers and husbands. So, like many people, I first thought about his wife Terri, daughter Bindi and son Bob. Irwin was foremost a family man. His working life—or that part of it open to public view—was enmeshed with kin, three generations of the clan riding in the Team Irwin prime mover, sharing the same passions and one another's company. But the genuine shock and sadness of parents and kids as the news spread in my children's playground after school last Monday told me that Irwin had found a rare place in the hearts of Australians. One commentator suggested that people felt guilty about their role in encouraging Irwin's risky business. What I saw looked more like grief. Naturally, many people wanted to talk about their feelings of loss; to be with friends or connect with them by today's electronic tribal message drums. In those first few days after Irwin died, some parents sensed their kids were clingier than usual.

Irwin was a showman, but his genius was to always play himself. Children can readily spot fakes. The imagination and stories of our young are biased toward creatures you don't encounter in the backyard or at the shops. Irwin didn't surround himself with common marsupials. Rather, he was a danger man who celebrated the bad boys of the animal kingdom—ugly spiders and crocs, snakes and sharks. Kids imbibed the childlike exuberance of the loud man in shorts and his taste for adventure; he was more like them than their parents—buttoned-down folk who worked in offices or crafted rules to keep them in their box. Of course, Irwin offered an escape. And the messages he passed on, regardless of the means he used, were positive ones about preserving wildlife habitat and living with delight.

Listening to people talk about him this past week, it's clear that Australians looked past Irwin's high jinks to form a personal connection with him; he may have been an entertainer on the celebrity circuit, but Irwin was also one of us. A kindred spirit of the wild, a true fellow without guile. Every highbrow interviewer expected a buffoon and found authenticity instead. People power has declared that Irwin was a good bloke—and there's nothing the sneering smarties and wowsers can do about it. It was not surprising that Irwin's family turned down the offer of a state funeral; that sort of pomp did not match his democratic temper. Anyway, the spontaneous mourning is a fitting tribute to the way Irwin lived and a gut reaction to the shock of his early departure. No longer will he carry the top weight. The next Australian symbol, whenever one emerges, will find Irwin a singular act to follow.

• Tom Dusevic
• Tom Dusevic explores the connection between the action man and ordinary Australians