Some may recall the very quiet announcement by the Westeran Australia Minister interested in Food back in August that the much-vaunted $320 million Taj Mahal-style new DPIRD headquarters at Murdoch University had been quietly shelved.  

Instead, the latest plan was to move the biosecurity section to a collection of leased sheds in Canning Vale—grandly rebranded as the State Biosecurity Response Centre. It’s a 6,000 square metre warehouse which will house WA’s incident response teams, diagnostic units, and laboratory services tasked with tackling pest and disease threats.

Not quite the gleaming edifice promised by the Minister, but let’s be honest: any of the staff who have suffered through the Department’s death throes over the last three decades knows better than to believe the Minister of the day when they wax lyrical about a new building.  

As for the new big Bio Shed? In a stroke of planning brilliance, it’s been positioned miles from the universities we were assured were needed as pivotal partners in the scientific research required to underpin our biosecurity efforts, leaving the rest of DPIRD scattered across eight different CBD sites with no mention of the plan for the Taj. 

Although, with such a cavernous shed in Canning Vale, surely there’s room to squeeze in a few hundred trestle chairs for the executive’s expanding ranks—perhaps alongside the large designated spaces essential for the compulsory diversity and equity training sessions.

Fear not, dear reader; I’m not about to spend the next 2,000 words lambasting the government for DPIRD’s ongoing building debacle. They’re doing an exceptional job of that all by themselves.

Rather than continuing down this rabbit hole of government promises, let’s delve into the way biosecurity is now managed in this state—a story that’s beginning to feel eerily like a reboot of the old Agricultural Protection Board (APB).

Now, many of my younger (and even middle-aged) readers may not have heard of the APB, so here’s a quick history lesson. The APB was established in the 1920s to address escalating pest problems threatening the burgeoning farming community—think rabbit plagues, wild dogs, and locusts. Its mission was to coordinate pest control efforts across private and public lands, a necessity as farmers and communities struggled to tackle invasive species independently. Sounds familiar.

By the 1940s and 1950s, the APB had expanded its remit to include noxious weed control and disease monitoring, taking on programs like eradicating footrot in sheep and phylloxera in vineyards. From the 1960s to the 1980s, it launched large-scale pest control campaigns, such as aerial and ground baiting for wild dogs, rabbits, and foxes, while collaborating with farmers, researchers, and government agencies to develop innovative solutions. I can still recall the annual visit by the APB man in his little two door Landrover back in the 1970s, as he baited for rabbits. It was, by all accounts, an effective and successful model.

Then came the 1990s. Funding cuts and ballooning operational costs began to erode the APB’s effectiveness, culminating in one of those government reviews—you know, the type with a predetermined outcome. By 1997, the APB was dissolved and folded into the old Agriculture Department then renamed bizarrely ‘Agriculture WA’.

This decision was pitched as part of broader reforms to streamline agricultural and natural resource management. In reality, it was Treasury’s excuse to slash budgets just as new biosecurity pests and diseases were beginning to proliferate. Gullible ministers of the day bought the line that biosecurity could be shifted out of the public domain and into private hands, solving the problem with the stroke of a pen.

Enter the Biosecurity and Agriculture Management Act 2007 (WA). This flawed piece of legislation effectively handed the responsibility for pest control back to landholders, under the assumption that communities would form local biosecurity groups, tax themselves via government levies (dubbed the Declared Pest Rate), and run coordinated hunt-and-kill programs. Spoiler alert: it hasn’t worked.

Over the last decade, 15 such groups have been formed, tackling the odd blackberry infestation here or baiting the occasional wild dog there. Meanwhile, the rest of the feral population has been having a grand time breeding and spreading unchecked. To any critical observer, this model is an unmitigated failure. It hasn’t established comprehensive biosecurity coverage across the state, hasn’t secured meaningful community buy-in, hasn’t effectively prioritised pest control targets, and hasn’t generated anywhere near the funding required to make a real difference.

If ever there was a case for a complete overhaul of the state’s approach to biosecurity, it’s now. With an ever-expanding list of invasive species arriving on our shores, the need for a robust, well-funded, and coordinated response has never been greater. Instead, we’re left with a patchwork system and a 6,000 square metre shed in Canning Vale. But hey, at least the staff will be appropriately diverse, and everyone will feel included.

Which takes me to shot-hole borer. The latest nasty we have seen migrate to our shores known by the scientists as euwallacea fornicatus, an insidious pest that poses a serious threat to urban green cover, native trees and horticulture.  

This nasty little bug isn’t just gunning for the big leafy trees of the Western suburbs; it’s a direct threat to our beloved jarrah forests, as well as avocados, vineyards, and pretty much anything with bark. And let’s not forget the irony—it’s also eyeing up the carbon-offset trees that Woodside and other corporate miners are planting on farms they’ve snapped up to buy a bit of carbon love from Canberra. I wonder if they have added that to their risk matrix?

In their infinite wisdom, the WA state government has handed the monumental task of eradicating this menace to the Minister for Agriculture—or is it Forestry? Or perhaps Food? Hard to keep track. Anyway, this is the same Minister who recently celebrated Australia’s first ban on battery hens. Apparently, somewhere along the way, she misplaced her battler roots and those cherished Labor values to roll out laws that’ll do little more than jack up egg prices, leaving struggling families to swap fresh eggs for a box of Coco Pops at breakfast. But I digress.

From the shiny new Bio Shed, a troop of backpackers will now fan out across the metro area, dutifully staring at trees with magnifying glasses as the battle against shot-hole borer begins—three years after the pest first set up camp in WA.

Pro tip to the Minister: maybe hold off on reviewing their effectiveness until after the election. Word on the ground suggests it’s already a lost cause. Just ask anyone in the Hills with a bit of biosecurity nous who’s had the dubious pleasure of hosting these well-meaning but somewhat clueless officers.

What amuses me is we now have, on the one hand, Department of Primary Industry contractors running around grappling with a disease that kills trees and, on the other, we have the Department of Biodiversity, Conservation and Attractions (DBCA) running around coordinating the long-term battle against a disease that kills trees called dieback.

Which raises the obvious question, why are there two separate departments handling parallel biosecurity crises both linked to a fungus that kills trees?

If biosecurity is a state-wide issue requiring a unified and strategic response, dividing responsibilities between DPIRD and DBCA to protect native trees is not just confusing—it is sort of mad.  

In fact, it’s exactly the kind of absurdity that should prompt a smart Minister to bring it up with her cabinet colleagues—wasn’t the whole point of the Machinery of Government (MOG) reforms to merge departments and eliminate this kind of duplication? Yet here we are.

Which brings me neatly back to the big Bio Shed. Why on earth didn’t the government place the new biosecurity response centre at DBCA’s headquarters, conveniently located next to Curtin University and the existing DPIRD South Perth site? If both departments are tackling overlapping challenges, wouldn’t it make sense to put them side by side? Let’s be honest—biosecurity and biodiversity share more than a passing resemblance. Teaming them up wouldn’t just be logical; it might even pass the pub test.

But back to the borer. Let’s take a leisurely stroll through the government’s latest headache with these voracious tree eaters.

The polyphagous shot-hole borer first made its unwelcome debut in Western Australia in August 2021. Since then, DPIRD has been charged with containing its spread through a patchwork of quarantine zones, surveillance programs, and a $41 million national eradication plan—funded mostly by the feds, of course.

Meanwhile, over at DBCA, they’re still waging their own war against Phytophthora dieback, armed with—you guessed it—quarantine zones and surveillance plans. Déjà vu, anyone?

Both crises shine an unflattering spotlight on the scientific capacity of these departments to handle long-term biosecurity challenges. Tackling these threats requires not only biological solutions but also robust public engagement. Yet here we are, with the work split between two departments that couldn’t be more different in their mandates, priorities, and resources.

On one side, we have DBCA: well-funded, supported by a strong community base, and armed with a clear mandate. On the other, DPIRD limps along under weak and confused ministerial leadership, perpetually reshuffled executives, and a chronic identity crisis. Treasury, ever the opportunist, has taken one look at the mess and slashed their budget year after year.

I know, I know—long-suffering readers have endured my five-year crusade against the revolving door of hopeless ministers at the helm of DPIRD, all of whom have failed spectacularly to wrestle adequate resources from Treasury. But indulge me once more, because the case for DPIRD being woefully underfunded bears repeating.

Let’s take a quick budgetary snapshot and compare the fortunes of DPIRD and DBCA. In the latest budget, DBCA’s employee costs are projected to rise from $304 million in 2024-25 to $325 million by 2027-28. Their Forest Management Plan is set to grow from $35 million to $43 million over the same period, while Research and Conservation Partnerships will enjoy a modest increase from $27 million to $28 million. In summary, DBCA’s budget is heading in one direction: up, up, up.

Now, let’s shift our gaze to DPIRD, where the numbers paint a bleaker picture. Employee costs will decline from $253 million in 2024-25 to a meagre $204 million by 2027-28. Biosecurity funding? Slashed from $127 million to $85 million. Natural Resource Management funding? Down from $99 million to $71 million. In short, DPIRD’s budget is on a downward spiral, and no shiny $97 million Bio Shed can disguise the fact that it’s being built with money siphoned off its already threadbare operations budget. Madness.

The glaring disparity between DBCA’s upward trajectory and DPIRD’s financial freefall raises serious questions about government priorities. DBCA is thriving, while DPIRD—tasked with safeguarding WA’s agriculture and biosecurity—is starved of resources. Even within biosecurity, DPIRD’s financial neglect is evident. Remember the WA bee industry’s desperate pleas for a measly $1 or $2 million to help keep Varroa mite out of WA? Or the department’s inability to fund another round of Operation Apollo, essential preparation for a livestock FMD outbreak?  No money for either but the Minister did manage to find $5.2m for free admission for kids to the Royal Show. I wonder if she will allow the chooks to be displayed in cages?  Note to her media secretary, suggest no photos with birds in cages leading up to the election.

Here’s the kicker: if DBCA had been handed responsibility for the shot-hole borer, their Minister would likely have secured the funds to manage it effectively. Instead, DPIRD has been saddled with yet another task it lacks the resources to tackle, thanks to a ministerial leadership vacuum that has left it unable to secure even the most basic funding for critical biosecurity programs.

Which begs the obvious question: shouldn’t we have a single, unified department handling all biosecurity risks? Consolidating efforts under one roof could streamline decision-making, eliminate redundancy, and create a coherent strategy to tackle threats like shot-hole borer and dieback.

Perhaps it’s time to resurrect a modernised version of the old, highly respected Agricultural Protection Board —before Treasury gleefully choked the life out of it. At its peak, the APB had 400 full-time staff eradicating pests and protecting WA. A far cry from today’s fragmented efforts.

But let’s be realistic. Handing this responsibility back to DPIRD without a complete overhaul of its structure and funding would make as much sense as pushing up the cost of food during a cost of living crisis.

The logical solution is a stand-alone Biosecurity Agency, equipped with its own budget and funded through a fair and equitable levy system, much like the State Emergency Services Levy. With a budget closer to $400 million—on par with fire and emergency services—WA might actually stand a chance in this fight.

The current model of biosecurity, where the government hopes community biosecurity groups will self-tax while DPIRD goes hat-in-hand to Treasury, is a spectacular failure. The arrival of the shot-hole borer should be the wake-up call the government needs to overhaul this broken system—perhaps post-election when hard truths become less inconvenient.

The state also needs to have a frank discussion about the risks posed by shot-hole borer.  Are we genuinely facing the possibility of losing every tree in the metropolitan area? This isn’t just bad news for the toffs in the leafy suburbs; it’s a full-scale disaster if it threatens our native forests. And yes, even those vineyards the Minister for Food might be personally interested in.

Yet, where’s the public awareness campaign? Where’s the large-scale effort to inform Western Australians about the shot-hole borer? So far, all we’ve seen are a few lacklustre animations appearing on YouTube and on the big screen at Yagan Square. No doubt the drunks lying under it will be the first to report infestations when they retreat to camp in Kings Park.

Of course, the Minister will claim there’s no money for a comprehensive media campaign. Oddly, other Ministers don’t seem to have this problem. Consider the $5 million, two-year domestic violence awareness campaign launched in September 2024. Or the $11 million initiative in March 2024 to provide free immunisations for infants. And my personal favorite: the $400,000 “Challenge Your Bias” campaign, designed to discourage the use of generational labels like “Boomer” and “Millennial.”

If the Minister for Communities can find $400k to protect my delicate sensibilities, surely the Minister for Food can convince her Cabinet colleagues to cough up a few million dollars to save our trees from the borer. Unless, of course, they think we are all drunks hanging around North Bridge or spending our time on YouTube.

Now, there’s one more angle to this story that deserves attention.

Perhaps the most controversial question posed by the borer crisis is how we manage infected old-growth forests. The current approach to dieback-infected trees is to simply let nature take its course—watching as they slowly die, become tinderboxes, and eventually fuel catastrophic bushfires. But here’s a thought: what if, instead of letting these trees burn, we used the wood to fuel our energy needs? A Minister for Forestry with a spark of energy might consider that.

Or better yet, she could suggest we used the timber to build houses? Surely a forward-thinking Minister interested in the future of forestry could recognise the opportunity to turn a liability into a resource. Wildly innovative thinking, I know!

Of course, such pragmatism would undoubtedly provoke howls of protest from the green left along with angry shaking of their pearls by the remnants of Liberals for Forests, now rebadged as the blue teals. These groups no doubt would seemingly prefer to see our state forests reduced to ash in the bush rather than embrace progressive harvesting to capture carbon.

Here’s the harsh truth: neither the current Minister nor DPIRD’s outdated and underfunded structure is equipped to tackle the growing biosecurity threats facing WA. DPIRD is chronically under-resourced, and the Minister seems far more interested in photo ops celebrating rural women involved in food than addressing the state’s biosecurity crisis.

Western Australia desperately needs a unified biosecurity authority, one that merges the resources and expertise of DPIRD and DBCA under a single, competent Minister. Such an authority would eliminate bureaucratic overlap, create a cohesive strategy, and launch the kind of public education campaign sorely needed to tackle threats like the shot-hole borer.

Imagine a Department of Biodiversity and Biosecurity—two intrinsically linked areas—working together to protect our state. But this would require proper funding and the abandonment of the failed community-led approach codified in the BAM Act. Biosecurity benefits all Western Australians, from farmers to urbanites, and everyone should contribute to its cost.

Developing a landowner’s fee to the Emergency Services Levy (ESL) to fund a full time modern version of the Agricultural Protection Board of 400 field staff makes perfect sense, as does paying commercial and recreational shooters plus farmers to scour the state hunting and killing the rabbits, foxes, pigs, horses, camels etc that shouldn’t be here in the first place is a no brainer.

Meanwhile, Forestry, Fisheries, and Agriculture could be handed to a Minister with a genuine interest in growing WA’s food and fibre industries. And as for the job of Minister for Food and Small Business, that job could be offered to the current Minister as she seems interested in turning big food production businesses such as intensive egg farms into small businesses.