THE HON ANDREW HASTIE MP
FEDERAL MEMBER FOR CANNING

SPEECH
ADDRESS TO THE SCOTS COLLEGE SPEECH DAY, SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE

 

WEDNESDAY 10 DECEMBER 2025

Check against delivery

It’s August 2010.

It’s cold.

It’s about 2 – 3 am.

It’s SAS selection, and ten of us sat there in the damp darkness, trying to sleep quietly against a wall.

Our bodies ached with fatigue and stiffness.

Self-preservation was our primary instinct, as we’d just eaten our last proper meal for the next five days.

We awaited our orders inside a dusty compound at the SAS training facility in Bindoon, about an hour north of Perth.

The Special Air Service Regiment is an army unit of the Australian Defence Force tasked with special missions of national importance.

Counter-terrorism. Reconnaissance. Intelligence gathering. Strategic strike.

Whatever tough job needs doing on behalf of the Australian government.

Every year the SAS runs a three-week course to select new personnel to serve in the unit. It has a pass rate of about 10 per cent.

I was at Bindoon Training Area – a specialised facility where the SAS selects and trains its people in all types of modern warfare.

From urban combat to hostage rescue.

From demolitions to climbing.

To my least favourite: resistance to interrogation.

Earlier in the night, we had arrived at Bindoon by bus from the Stirling Ranges— a six hour drive—after five days of personal isolation in the unforgiving mountains.

With only a map, radio and forty kilograms of equipment on our back, we had navigated between eight checkpoints spread out over 180 kilometres—almost all of them at the top of a mountain summit.

It was five days of silence: no teammates, no talking, no feedback, no words of affirmation.

The SAS instructors leave you alone, fighting your own doubts, and the rugged countryside.

Your body weight drops, and your feet get torn to shreds.

But that was the easy part.

We were about to begin the final and hardest phase of SAS selection.

What they call, with exquisite irony, ‘Lucky Dip’.

For this, they broke us into small teams—a mix of officers and soldiers—and then starved us of food and sleep for the next five days.

It was a massive dip in morale, and no one felt lucky.

This final hurdle was a character test—to see who could keep it together under this immense load of physical and mental stress.

They gave us impossible tasks like pushing a military vehicle for kilometres down a dirt road, or carrying a heavy load of military stores through thick scrub for hours on end.

We’d work through the night filling sandbags, asleep on our feet, shuffling about like zombies. You could feel your body eating itself.

For junior officers like me, Lucky Dip was a test of whether I could lead in these conditions. Where people operate on baser instincts.

It was a test to see if I could lead by example and force of character, rather than position and privilege.

Lucky Dip is the democratisation of small team leadership, and the punishing conditions disrupt the military hierarchy.

Natural leaders emerge and impose themselves on the team and situation.

We even have a vote midway through the Lucky Dip phase called ‘Rate your Mates’. You vote—in order of preference—who you’d like to lead the team.

If an officer tumbles down the list, it’s almost a fatal blow to their chances of passing selection.

As I thought about the days ahead, I was nervous. I had five days of Lucky Dip, and then it would be over.

My job was to finish the course, and see whether I’d make the cut as a leader.

But for now, on the dirt floor of that compound, I was trying to get some sleep.

Then the flash of a torch cut through the darkness. Some of us covered our eyes, wincing.

The instructors had arrived and their soapy freshness cut through the dusty air and our stink. We hadn’t showered for two weeks.

A stern voice broke our silence: ‘Who’s in command here?’

None of us were in command.

We hadn’t been assigned a leader as our team had only just come together.

When you’re tired, you hide in the crowd. It’s human nature.

To me—as an officer and a leader—it was a moment of crisis.

A direct challenge to me.

Do I hide in the darkness, and play it safe?

That was the easy option: to let someone else lead, and preserve my strength and energy for later in the week.

Or do I step up?

Now I don’t know why but I felt a sudden drive within—a surge of courage.

To put myself forward.

To take on the responsibility in that moment.

I spoke up: ‘That’s me. Candidate Number 10, sir’.

The light from the torch flashed in my eyes, the instructor finding my face in the darkness. ‘Very well, Candidate 10, your lead’, came the cutting reply.

That moment was a turning point in my life.

It came instinctively, after years of training in the ADF.

It came after demanding operational service in Afghanistan.

I was physically and emotionally exhausted, on the cusp of the toughest five days of my life.

But I volunteered to lead.

A fire had been lit within me.

I had a purpose: to look after the team, and to get the mission done.

As I thought about those around me, I forgot my own anxiety and got on with the job.

It gave me courage.

My life’s calling had come at that moment.

In a small, dusty compound in Bindoon in the early hours of a cold winter morning, I sensed the life that comes with serving and leading others, so we all finish the mission.

This kind of leadership isn’t your ability to dominate someone. That’s just bullying.

Leadership is your ability to bind people together. To take them forward.

I knew that I wanted this kind of leadership.

To lead soldiers, yes, but I also knew I wanted to lead and serve my country in other ways.

To bring people together, to do what we could never do alone.

Yes, it was in a military context at that moment—I wanted to pass SAS selection and lead in special operations. But it was more visceral than that.

I knew that whatever I did in life from that moment forward, I wanted to take responsibility; to lead.

To step into the uncertain moments of life, and to find a way forward for other people.

Little did I know that within five years, I’d be launched into the Federal Parliament in a by-election for the seat of Canning.

And leadership wouldn’t be out on the battlefield or in a Blackhawk helicopter.

I would be leading people, not with commands, but ideas in the great contest we call democracy.

So, what enabled this change in me?

Looking back, I can see the kindness of God, and three key choices that I made.

Choices that are open to everyone who is ready to lead:

To respect institutions.

To be open to events.

To embrace the people before you.

Three choices have shaped my life, and they can shape yours.

First, to respect institutions.

All of us are shaped by institutions, and healthy institutions are vital to a free society.

From our families to our schools to our community groups.

It’s where we learn to self-govern, live at peace with one another, channel our ambitions, and excel in our gifts and talents.

The world teaches us that we are free, autonomous, individuals. But that’s a lie.

From birth, we are dependent on others for our security and prosperity.

No baby would survive without the care of their parents.

We are made to live in community with one another, not in isolation.

That’s why institutions are so important to human flourishing.

Every boy here who wears the Scots tie is a member of an incredible community and institution.

It is an immense privilege and opportunity to be at this school.

I can still remember the day in January 1993 when my parents farewelled me for my first day at Scots Prep.

All I had was my travel pass, a phone card, a vegemite sandwich, and my schoolbooks.

No apple watch, smart phone or air tag so they could track me. They were trusting me and Scots.

It was my first taste of ordered liberty: I left home at 7 am, walked to Ashfield Station, caught two trains and a bus, and then started my day of school.

I was only ten years old, and I loved it.

Cricket, rugby, debating, rowing, cadets, study, athletics, cross-country, a failed attempt at the bag pipes and friends.

It was a full and busy life at Scots.

So, it was hard leaving in 2000, after eight years at the school.

Many of you who are graduating will find it hard in the days ahead.

I felt dislocated from a community that had shaped my daily habits, my character and my identity.

By contrast, my first two years of university were lonely and dislocating.

Then, the world changed.

This is my second point: being open to events.

I can still remember watching with my parents—deep into the night—as the Twin Towers were attacked on September 11, 2001.

Sometime after midnight, as the towers came tumbling down, I felt that it was a hinge moment in history.

War was coming.

And that I was destined for military service.

That event still echoed in 2013 – almost twelve years later – as I commanded an SAS Troop in Afghanistan.

Events matter in life, and they direct our course.

Scots gave me the courage to step up and serve my country.

All those institutional experiences from 1993 to 2000 – in the classroom to early morning rowing on the Parramatta River – prepared me for the rigours of service in the Australian Defence Force.

We don’t know what the years ahead will hold.

But I guarantee you this: your plans for life will be disrupted, and things will change in ways that you can’t anticipate.

Take confidence in the lessons you’ve learned at Scots and in the values that have shaped you.

Faith. Courage. Integrity. Respect. Responsibility. Excellence.

They will guide you in times of uncertainty.

To channel Dr Lambert, be brave of heart and bold of mind.

Finally, embrace the people before you.

I’ve had many people in my life who have shaped me into the person that I am today.

People who gave me the confidence to step up on that night on SAS selection back in 2010.

My parents.

My teachers and coaches.

My mentors in the Australian Defence Force.

I want to pay tribute to one of them here today—the Scots College Chaplain—Reverend Conrad Nixon.

Conrad shaped me spiritually during my time at Scots, and also shaped me on the sporting field.

He faithfully—and patiently—taught me the Christian gospel over my six years at the senior school.

He also fired me up on the rugby field.

Back in 1995, I was playing fullback for his 13Bs rugby team.

We took on Joeys out at Hunters Hill, and they were still upset about losing the GPS 1st XV Premiership in 1993.

Conrad wrote us a poem—sensing the big moment—and read his lines to us in the huddle before we ran out.

I can’t remember any of the words, but I do remember how it made us feel: Conrad believed in us, and we ran out to win the match.

And win we did: 8-7.

I kicked the winning penalty, for the record.

Conrad, thank you for your influence on my life and the way you’ve contributed to this great institution.

You’ve given many boys the courage to weather the big events of life.

By embracing us as people.

In closing, I want to urge all the boys to seek that point of clarity in your life, where you marry your natural gifts with your vocation.

Where you step forward into uncertainty.

Like I did on the dark cold night of 2010.

Where you show moral courage, and stand up for others.

For some it will be leadership in business, politics, the arts or the military.

For others, it will be sport or music or public service.

Many of you will find meaningful and important work in areas that I haven’t listed.

But in all that you do—even as events shape or disrupt you along the way—be grateful for the institution of The Scots College, and embrace the people who mentor you in that journey.

Thank you.

[ENDS]