Over more than thirty years of living through successive revisions of the ESOS Act, I have taken comfort in the grief management framework offered by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross in her 1969 book The Five Stages of Grief.
Those five stages—denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance—have helped me better understand and manage the emotional rollercoaster that inevitably follows each major change to ESOS legislation.
Naturally, with every revision, I have moved through each of these stages, almost exactly as predicted. After thirty-three years, I can now look back and recognise that I was not alone. My fellow travellers across the education export sector were caught in the same collective mindset.
While ESOS may have been conceived in 1986, when the government introduced full fees for overseas students, it was finally born in 1996. Since then, it has enjoyed an active childhood and adolescence, maturing into a substantial and influential piece of legislation that, interestingly, is now closer to its original intent.
My introduction to ESOS came as a registrar, a role sitting between the principal and the students, at a private institute delivering computer programming courses to local students, with a small cohort of overseas students.
I later joined the Australian Council of Private Education and Training (ACPET), which eventually became ITECA. As an ACPET representative, I participated in the development of the original ESOS Act and appeared before the Senate in November 1993. I have followed every amendment since, first as CEO and PEO of a private college until 2023, and now as CEO of an education technology solutions company.
In the early years, there was little federal government oversight. Institutions recognised by state governments were able to recruit overseas students. Reviews of the overseas student sector emerged following excesses in recruitment practices, particularly among non-government colleges. Media reporting of these excesses escalated until the issue was officially declared a scandal.
The original intent of the proposed federal legislation was, among other things, to restrict overseas student recruitment to government-owned institutions such as TAFEs and universities. That narrow view changed following successful lobbying by the ELICOS sector. The outcome was the creation of CRICOS, the Commonwealth Register of Institutions and Courses for Overseas Students, which allowed all state-registered institutions to transition to a federal register and continue recruiting full fee-paying overseas students. This included universities, TAFEs, ELICOS providers, schools, vocational education colleges and non-government higher education institutions, possibly an unintended consequence for some in government circles.
The organisation I worked for at the time was one of those original vocational education institutions.
I have now lived through more than three decades of industry reactions to changes in the ESOS framework, and the social patterns and emotional responses have been remarkably consistent.
Background
The education export industry has always operated under a strained social licence with the Australian public. Any rapidly growing industry, particularly one worth close to $40 billion pre-COVID, will inevitably attract colourful characters.
History shows that such characters have existed across all parts of the sector. It also shows that with the right publicity and poor industry responses, an issue involving a small number of providers can quickly escalate into a public scandal, prompting parliamentary intervention.
Any indiscretion or incompetence by a provider, combined with the right personalities and timing, can become a public relations disaster labelled a “scandal”. Media stories often conclude with an invitation for whistleblowers to contact the journalist. If the planets align, a follow-up story appears, often aided by competitors across the sector keen to damage rivals.
Big numbers are then introduced: hundreds of thousands of overseas students and billions of dollars in export income. For the general public, big numbers equate to a big scandal, and outrage follows.
This reinforces the long-standing social licence challenge faced by the education export industry.
And so emerges what I have come to call: The Five Stages of Grief, in ESOS.
Stage One: Denial
The scandal breaks. Journalists recycle familiar tropes: “dodgy colleges”, “non-genuine students”, and “student places sold to foreigners”.
The industry responds with denial. Press releases cite a few bad apples, express a willingness to work with the government and argue that no further legislation is required. Statistics are quoted to show the issue is minor in the overall picture. Export earnings and employment figures are emphasised. The industry, it is argued, is simply too big to fail.
A better-funded regulator, it is suggested, would solve the problem. This conveniently shifts blame while simultaneously appealing to regulators through calls for increased funding.
Stage Two: Anger
Anger soon follows. Industry voices rage that a handful of bad actors are being allowed to tarnish a sector worth billions. The world is watching, they warn, and this level of scrutiny is portrayed as unpatriotic.
If there are issues, the regulator should have acted already, preferably before the next news bulletin.
Frustration escalates. Industry representatives claim they have warned regulators for years about dodgy operators and questionable enrolment practices, including within universities. Institutions begin dobbing in one another. Universities are more discreet, though there is a view that Australia has “one university with forty-plus franchises”.
The regulator becomes the common enemy.
In 2025, a new accusation is added: that overseas students are responsible for the housing shortage. The industry erupts in anger. While the claim is later shown to be false, the damage is done. The narrative gains momentum. This time, universities are named and shamed. Their success in the overseas market begins to haunt them. Tall poppy syndrome, perhaps.
Stage Three: Bargaining
The battle lines are drawn. Agreed facts are assembled. There is a problem, and a deal must be done.
No sector is entirely innocent, but blame is again narrowed. Industry groups fracture. Spokespeople fight for survival, each declaring “not us”. The government holds the upper hand.
Consultations are announced and celebrated. The industry realises that you are either at the table or on the menu. Peace lasts about a month. Complaints soon follow about who was excluded, why timelines were too short and why some voices were not heard.
I, too, have bargained. During Senate hearings ahead of the 1996 Act, while representing an industry body, we sought greater government intervention through trust accounts for private providers. My motivation was personal. I did not trust my business partners and hoped student fees held in trust would help me sleep at night. Trust accounts were introduced. Fees still went missing. The thieves faced little consequence.
I later learned that owning a college outright was far less stressful.
Stage Four: Depression
The carnival moves on. Endless sub-groups emerge, many previously unknown, all meeting with long-standing enemies over government-funded coffee.
I loved this stage. Enemies become allies. Your enemy’s enemy becomes your friend. It becomes a race to work out who needs whom.
Legislation is scrutinised line by line. The train is leaving the station, and you cling on. The best deal today is better than no deal tomorrow.
Industry representatives boast of meetings with politicians and officials. Some understand the theatre better than others. A photo with a minister does not equal agreement. Depression sets in as reality dawns: governments can do anything.
Stage Five: Acceptance
As legislation reaches parliament, frantic last-minute negotiations take place. Some succeed. Many do not.
Regulators issue calming statements. Changes will be introduced in a measured and coordinated way. Do not blame us, they say. Blame government.
For consultants, compliance experts and software providers, opportunity abounds.
Surviving providers, many of whom had nothing to do with the original scandal, face increased regulation and red tape. Smart operators invest in robust student management systems to cope with regulatory scrutiny, audits and evidence-based compliance.
Conclusion
The industry will, as it always does, reconstruct itself around the latest ESOS settings. Some providers will exit, others will consolidate, and a smaller group will adapt early and well. Each revision is framed as the final fix, yet history suggests otherwise. ESOS has never been static, nor was it ever intended to be. It evolves in response to behaviour, politics and public perception, not just policy intent.
Acceptance is where progress begins. The providers that survive and thrive are rarely the loudest voices in denial or anger. They recognise regulation as a permanent feature of an export industry operating under a fragile social licence. They invest in systems, evidence and governance not because they enjoy compliance, but because credibility has become currency.
After three decades, the pattern is familiar and almost comforting. The cycle repeats, but each time the sector emerges more structured, more professional and closer to the original purpose of ESOS: protecting students and the reputation of Australian education. Acceptance does not mean agreement. It simply means understanding the game well enough to play it wisely, before the next revision inevitably arrives.
Alan Manly OAM is a distinguished entrepreneur, innovator, director, and author with decades of experience in technology and education. He has held directorships in private, public, and non-profit sectors. He was the CEO and PEO of RTOs and Higher Education Institutions for over twenty years.
