Picnic for refugees

More than 100 people attended a picnic outside Darwin Airport Lodge in solidarity with the refugees inside as part of Darwin’s Families for Families day on September 25.

The Darwin Airport Lodge is where most refugees who are in families, women or unattended minors are kept for processing. Some 150 were inside a year ago.

The picnic included entertainment from bands and a poet. Refugees could watch the entertainment and cheered every time more people arrived.

Greens Senator Sarah Hansen-Young spoke at the event, saying it was a “terrible shame” that so many people were languishing in detention.

Hansen-Young was in Darwin for the Senate inquiry into immigration detention that started the next day.

Detention centre security staff had advised picnic attendees to make no direct contact with the refugees, but solidarity infected to shout “welcome” and “we want freedom”.

A cake was brought to celebrate the first birthday of a girl born in detention at Villawood detention centre - her birthday was that day.   

More pics at https://picasaweb.google.com/101988074510922297223/RefugeePicnicSeptember252011?authuser=0&feat=directlink

Bilingual education and Yolngu identity: "The land itself can speak"

Recently I have been thinking/writing lots about bilingual education, what it is, what it means, why it matters. I have been hanging out in Yirrkala and Galiwin’ku (Elcho Island) learning from many Yolngu, who don’t need to think academically about why bilingual learning is important- they feel it in their hearts, they feel their language intrinsically tied up with the environment to which they belong and the spirit of who they are.

I have many many hours of amazing recordings I would eventually, somehow, like to share. I am about to go away again but have this small piece to share now.

I caught up with Yiŋiya Guyula a Liya-Daḻinymirr man from the Djambarrpuyngu clan of North-East Arnhem Land. He is a Senior Lecturer of Yolngu Studies at Charles Darwin University. He’s also my uncle, through the clans system into which I’ve been adopted.

We had a bilingual conversation about bilingual education! My Yolngu Matha isn’t yet good enough to commit to transcribing the whole thing, but here is a section of the English story…

* * *

I think it’s very important that Yolŋu students must speak their first language. That’s when they start growing up from a little child. They must know how to speak fluently ga properly. And then when they grow up, growing older, they must learn their own language – not a mixture of different languages that mixes in the community. They must learn their own tribal language as well.

I think what the government should do is consult- do it properly, consult. They shouldn’t just make up their mind, “this is what we want to do”, because they have the power or the money or whatever. They should come and consult and ask, and we should do it together.

My strong feeling is that bilingual language, bilingual education, should be equally done, as English language. Whether in class – because, in class, if English is just being taught – I think it should be bilingual, Yolŋu Matha should be taught in classes as well. It should be done at home, too, so afterwards, they can go back home and learn their own language, speak their own language. But is should be maintained, balanced, and the government and the Yolŋu out there should be confronted and consult with one another, how we should go about it. Whether to do bilingual education in classes as well or not. We should be asked about that.

[…A few minutes of Yolŋu Matha….] so it can be written, Yolŋu Matha can be written in classes, using Balanda (English - non-Yolngu) letters. At home, and out bush, children can learn, writing the same story through paintings, through artefacts, through songs and dances. And that is writing, writing a story, that is illustration on what a life of a Yolŋu should be. So, it should be written in Balanda way, in the classroom, along with English, and outside, at home, it can be painted. The story can be painted, and that is writing in Yolŋu culture, I believe.

And through working at artefacts, miyalk can learn how to weave baskets, men can learn how to get the right wood for spears, and woomera, ga clapsticks. And sing, sing that song, ga dance that song. So, that’s what I believe.

In Yolŋu Matha language, we have our own context of using languages. There are language that we can use day to day, saying nhämirr nhe and write that down on a board, on a paper, computer, whatever. This is just day to day language that we used. As the child grows older, they go deeper into who they are, getting the knowledge about what the land offers.

And there are bunggul (ceremony- legal, funeral, initiation etc): the language in songs and dances. The language in what the bark paintings hold, the language in the way to hunt, which way to go, what the wind is doing. The calculations of Yolngu Matha- there is mathematics in Yolngu Matha, and there is mathematics in English. So people should learn – they should start writing, in class, about this.

As the child grows older- towards 15, 16, that is when initiation ceremonies take place for them to become young men and women. And they should be able to write [about] those – either write them on the paper, through English way of writing, and go back home and write it in the form of paintings, bark paintings, and through the artefacts, and through songs and dances, the language that we use.

I think the best place to do a Yolngu education, bilingual language ga even Balanda education, is on the homelands. Homelands is the place where the story is, that is where the songs and dances are, that is where your identity is. It’s not in someone else’s community, it’s not in big towns where children are being disciplined through not much – distractions, television, earphones… You see your kids walking around with mobile phones with music sticking in their ears. I call that no discipline, undisciplined.

I am very against the earphones that our children listen to today. It is just disgusting, I hate it. I tell my children, “Don’t ever go the Balanda way. Take that thing out of your ears and listen to what the old people are saying. Listen to what the words in the songs and ceremonies are saying. Listen to what grandparents are telling you.”

And education on the homelands needs to be equally balanced. You take your children away from homelands and put them in boarding schools in town, they only learn about Balanda ways of living, Balanda language. And they’re missing out on something, on their culture.

I know, this happened to me. When I started working with the Mission Aviation Fellowship, I went down south. And during the age that I was, when ceremonies and everything was happening back home, and I was missing out on all that. And I nearly lost my culture, I nearly lost my language.

So I dropped everything, and had to come back home. To catch up. I came back just in time to participate in ceremonies, culture, songs and dances. And I am glad now. I was able to maintain both educations. Balanda ga Yolngu education.

The best place to teach our children is on the homelands, so they can see what plant we are talking about, they can see what image we are talking about – this is the image of the miyapunu (turtle), and you can hold it. You can stand on the ground and the spirits of your fathers are speaking – your own fathers are speaking from the ground where you belong. When I’m out here, in the big cities surrounded by brick walls, when I talk about the images to my children, they can’t really see what I’m talking about, unless they actually go out there. The land itself can explain. The land itself can talk.

And through Balanda way of studying on homelands – that’s where government needs to come in and give us access to fast internet services – skype, learning through teaching our students on country, from country.

I’ve done a lot of teaching on skype, from communities. Actually standing on the ground. And I’ve taken students on field trips, and I’ve spoken to them. And as soon as I speak , and start teaching, straight away the students understand what we’re talking about, because the whole country is talking. The whole environment is speaking, at it is alive.

And that’s what should happen to our children. They should pick up their education on the lands, on the country. The homelands must be supported by government. The government is wrong when they say there is no funding for homeland education, and [they] think [they] know the best is for Yolngu children to come into mainstream education centres. But I say they are wrong. Mainstream education for Yolngu must start on the homeland. That’s what I believe.

I think bilingual education did work – it did work and I am one of the students that learned both Yolngu Matha and Balanda Matha in class in school. And now I am here, working in the university teaching language and culture. I sometimes help John with grammar, suffixes, Yolngu Matha. In a way, that never spoiled the idea of education.

Yolngu Matha, bilingual language, bilingual education,  was never in the way of mainstream education, balanda education. It fitted very, very well. It fitted perfectly. A lot of us are now teaching and I am able to write and I do lots of transcriptions, translations, for the stories that our old people have recorded. And they are there and I do lots of translations, transcriptions.

If I had never learned Yolngu Matha through bilingual education, like I did back in the ’70s, the late ’60s ’70s, I would never have got this far. I am here and at community as well. I teach language and culture to my children, the Yolngu children back home.  And I teach language and culture to the mainstream — the balanda who want to learn, to do a part for their degree, for what they are studying. And when it comes to Indigenous studies, that’s where we come in. And that’s where I feel I come in strongly and I know I am fluent in both English and in Yolngu Matha writings.

So it did work and it does work and it is working for me right here, right now. 

Let’s build a bridge to close that gap. That’s what I believe. Let’s build a bridge together. You don’t build it for me, we’ll build it together. 

Remembering the Yirrkala Bark Petition

I have come to North-East Arnhem Land, on my first field trip into saltwater country. It really does feel like a totally different nation to the desert country I’ve spent so much time in.

I am staying at Nhulunbuy, but my work each day is based in nearby Yirrkala and surrounding homelands and communities.

This is the home of the famous 1963 “Bark Petition”, and act of protest by the Yolŋu people of this area that led to the first native title litigation in Australia’s history.

The protest action was an attempt by the Yolŋu people to force legal recognition of their land ownership rights – of course, their legal system had recognised their rights since time immemorial, but it became apparent to the land owners that Balanda didn’t respect the law of the land. In March 1963 the government had sold part of Arnhem Land to Nabalco, a bauxite mining company.

The “Bark Petition” was presented to federal parliament in August of the same year. It was, for the Yolŋu, a diplomatic move, an attempt to communicate, in legal terms, sovereign to sovereign.

It didn’t work of course. Even we on the left talk about the “Bark Petition” as some kind of artistic, symbolic “stunt”- and certainly the federal parliament didn’t see that what the Yolŋu were sharing was a sacred piece of high law that was never meant to be shared – outlining the property ownership laws for this area. The Yolŋu leaders even made it easy, Balanda-friendly: they wrote out aspects of their law in English, under the Gumatj, and stuck it on the bark. To no avail.

The Yolŋu went on in 1968 to take Nabalco to the Supreme Court of the Northern Territory, once again trying to prove their legal claim to the land. Perhaps it had dawned on them that they would have to play by the now-dominant Balanda law, having failed in their attempt to use their own legal instruments to protect their rights.

The court challenge failed, although in a confidential memo to the government and opposition, Justice Blackburn noted that some sort of systematic recognition of Aboriginal land rights would be “morally right and socially expedient”.

The court case led to the establishment of the Woodward Royal Commission, which in turn eventually led to the 1976 Aboriginal Land Rights Act, diluted though it was by the Fraser Liberal government.

Today, Rio Tinto Alcan is all over North East Arnhem Land. It’s hard to put into words just how insidious it is, how bizarre staying in a mining town is. It’s like Rio Tinto is part of the cultural landscape now: the annual Garma Festival of traditional culture has Rio as a major sponsor, all the seats in the forum tent have mining company logos on them and the food is provided by a mob that usually do mining camps.

In May this year, the was much media, government and corporate bru-ha-ha over an agreement signed by Rio Tinto Alcan and Traditional Owners, ensuring the continuation of local bauxite mines and alumina refineries. It took this long for TOs to be even involved in any sort of discussion about whether or not mining can take place on their lands.

It’s a bit hard to know how easy it would have been for them to say “no”, when mining is so entrenched in the local economy and service provision: would saying “no” have really made Rio go away, close down the Nhulun township, the nearby mines, and just leave? Or would it simply have meant the TOs and families wouldn’t have had access to the “ range of financial, contractual, asset and employment benefits for Aboriginal traditional owners” Aboriginal affairs minister Jenny Macklin crowed so loudly about?

(As an aside, certainly not everybody celebrated the agreement. Previously recognised Traditional Owners from the area were not properly consulted and are considering legal action: http://blog.whywarriors.com.au/2011/dhurili-nation-challenges-lease-agreement-in-court/)

We have done some work sessions on various beaches, in absolutely stunning locations, but if we walk along the sand and over the dunes, we'd see refineries a few hundred metres away.

For many of the older Yolŋu of Yirrkala, the scars still remain from how burnt they were, when they took the calculated risk of sharing such important legal documents, sacred information, with the Balanda world, only to have it misunderstood and dismissed.

This happens again and again. From the point of view of whichever landowning clan participates, they perform a legal action representing an important aspect of their law – which has remained strong and served its purpose harmoniously for thousands of years. Because they get that Balanda society is not a very oral one, and Balanda have short memories, they back up their important ceremony with tangible evidence, represented in a painting or maybe a bathi depicting the given aspect of the law.

From the Balanda perspective, in the interests of “reconciliation” and maybe a bit of cultural colour, ceremonies are organised and hosted at parliament houses, some nice Aboriginal songs and dances are performed, a painting is handed over and the government can tick some boxes viz a viz acknowledging cultural heritage.

The Balanda go home satisfied, if not a bit bored at having to sit through something they didn’t understand, and the Yolŋu go home feeling a bit empty and ashamed, as they realise the Balanda who witnessed something they never really should have seen just thought they were watching a nice performance. For the Yolŋu it is further evidence that Balanda society has no respect for the law. It leaves them feeling powerless.

I think about this every time I go to an art gallery and go to the “Aboriginal culture” section. The paintings are invariably described as representing “Dreamtime Stories”, and I can’t help but wonder what information they really hold: historical documents relating to population movement, legal documents outlining terms of trade, family histories.

It is only a small thing, but sometimes I wonder if a tiny to step to breaking down racism in this country could be that when Balanda look at artefacts from Aboriginal clan estates, they are told what they are looking at, rather than everything being reduced to “art” – whether being told that such and such a ceremony or message stick or painting is the equivalent of a few volumes legal statues, if they might begin to appreciate – if not understand – the completeness and complexity of the legal, social and economic systems that existed here before colonisation, that we risk losing all record of if we don’t make some drastic changes fast.

Of course, Balanda Australia government's have no interest in recognising the legal customs of the pre-invasion populations- the implications would be huge: treaties would need to be made, rent and retribution paid... and that would just be the start.

But capitalism has allowed- you might even say "encouraged"- a few select aspects of the original culture to find expression: those with a profit aspect. Aboriginal "art" is a huge commercial enterprise in Australia - and many of the millions made do not reach the artists.

Art, of course, is an important form of expression and can itself be a source of political struggle. And Aboriginal art can be beautiful! But next time you attend a conference or event that begins with a traditional "ceremony" of some description, or enjoy "art" at the gallery, consider that what you're looking at, while you can't hope to understand it, may be more than something on which to feast your eyes: it may be an assertion , legally binding, that the land under your feet is owned by, and the responsibility of, Aboriginal people, whether they are there to assert their rights and care for their country or not.

Further evidence that I am, in fact, an adult

Me, changing a tire.

Beans for Troy

A story by Emma Murphy.

Out of habit I reach for the beans. She is not here to tell me why I shouldn’t eat this can of sweetened, processed crap. She is not here to tell me it’s too late to be working, come to bed. So it’s 1:45am and I will eat baked beans.

In fact, I haven’t been working. I haven’t worked since she left. My hands, usually rough and stained, will soon be silky smooth. Like an academic’s hands. Like hers.

True, I have been out in the workshop these past few hours, listening to the late-night jazz show and shining the spotlight on my most recent piece. I have been pacing the floor, checking out angles and perspectives. But I’m not doing a very good job of convincing myself of any normality.

The pliers lie on the floor where I left them six days ago, the twitching wire curls lifelessly between the suspended sculpture and the concrete slab, waiting for some direction from me. Waiting for me to give its existence some new meaning. But for the last six days I’ve had enough trouble understanding the direction my life - our lives - have suddenly taken, and the thought of fiddling with bits of wire and tin has not appealed to me.

The beans have gone cold. I look at them through eyes that suddenly doubt all they see. How is it that our reality can change so quickly? No - not change, actually deny itself, as though it never existed.

It was beans that got me into this mess in the first place.

Oh, Willow. Lecturer in European history, chef extraordinaire. The first night she spent here, she threw out all the cans of baked beans, the macaroni cheese. In an unexpectedly defensive tone, I explained that I didn’t always want to take time out to cook; if I was particularly inspired it was good to be able to bung something in the microwave while still completely focused on what I was doing.

To this she leaned across the bench and said into my neck “you’ll have me to cook for you”. It was then I knew she’d be moving in. And she did.

Back out in the industrial, echoing workshop, be-bop is having a revival on the radio. For four years this was my space: cold, sharp, functional. Within four nights of sharing my bed, she’d brought out a futon sofa and set it up in the corner under the windows, complete with bright orange cushions and a topaz rug. I laughed at her, explaining that I didn’t come out here to recline and rest.

She laughed right back at me, saying that it wasn’t my comfort she was thinking about.n From then on her Saturday mornings were spent out here, catching the sun and preparing lecture notes, sometimes reading to me while I worked, seeking out the silence of the house only when I switched on the circular saw or bashed the bends out of tin with a rubber mallet.

It is on the sofa, in her little corner of comfort and colour, that I now lie. I know that my work overalls will dirty the rug, but it’s always been like that; my sharp, jagged edges working to find a way in to her smooth curves; her aromatic risotto clinging with dignity to my chipped, op shop bowls.

Was that an omen? Should I have ended it back then, when I asked for the hole punch and she passed me the thing she used for papers, wondering why I had a hammer in the other hand?

The truth is she intrigued me. This sofa still smells like her. True to my word, I never sat on it. Ah no- I lie. One morning, sensing my growing frustration with a barbed wire depiction of the national coat of arms, she enticed me over into the sunlight, into her arms, where she made love to me, gently, softening me, until I decided to try something more abstract, less obstreperous.

Obstreperous is one of the many words I learnt from her, taking pleasure in her obvious delight at coming up with a new word for me. She would speak to me in big words, from that sun-drenched corner of the workshop, and some of what she said would come out in my work.

And now here I lie, grubby denim on soft wool, looking at the sculpture I haven’t touched for six days. The last time we were in this workshop together, she told me the story of Troy, and something in the story spoke to me. And I got to work.

And I was halfway through creating my own Troy - a vehicle for my ideas and passions to be smuggled into the world of commercial art - when I decided I needed beans. Hot, on toast with cheese, Heinz baked beans. And - kissing away her offers to whip up some spicy Mexican beans with guacamole, I kick started the bike and left for the 7-11.

And every bit of that 25 minute trip remains with me. The beep beep beep of the indicator as I hung a left into Rathdowne. The handsome looking grill on the Holden EK outside the pub, which I momentarily considered grabbing for some future artwork. The feel of the wind in my face and the temptation to keep riding, contradicting the determination to see this new work through to the end. The $1.15 for the beans, and a whimsical decision to take some plastic flowers back to the woman waiting for me on the topaz rug.

These details, of course, are easier to contemplate. A lot more digestible than what came after, when my heart suddenly became that EK grill, ripped out and taken away for somebody else to use.

I have nothing against men. It was my own uncle who taught me the joys of mechanics, taught me to use the tools that are now prized possessions.

But when I came home that night, tacky red flowers in one hand and 250 gram can of beans in the other, there was a man’s voice in my kitchen, and something in me froze. Something else in me said “run!”, but I remembered Willow was in there, and I didn’t run. I walked, stiff and forced, into the kitchen.

How is it that our body can perceive a situation before our mind has interpreted it? She probably has a word for what I’m trying to say, and if she were here I’d ask her.

What I felt wasn’t fear. It was bitterly, heart stoppingly real, but it wasn’t fear. It was like being at an exhibition of art that was wasn’t my own. This suddenly had nothing to do with me. I could observe and interpret, but - apart from that shared moment in time- there was nothing between us.

Two people in my kitchen were playing out their roles, and my presence had no effect on them. Like a very brightly exhibit, I saw things clearly and with detachment. She knew this man. She knew him well. And an unravelling was beginning.

I don’t know how long I’ve been lying on this futon, replaying that night, but I suddenly realise that the sun is rising. Seeing the sunrise is not an unusual occurrence in my nocturnal, sporadic routine. The last sunrise I saw was one of those grey, overcast mornings when- rather than the sun actually appearing- the clouds slowly become lighter and lighter until there is no denying that the day has dawned.

That was a week ago. The morning after the night before. The night I came home to find Will in the kitchen with her husband. Only, I didn’t know that at the time. That she occasionally saw men, yes. That she had seen one particular man for a substantial amount of time, yes.

That in front of church and state she had promised to love and care for this particular man, till death do them part? That she was still his lawful wedded wife? No. Hell, no.

All I knew was her quick, meek smile in my direction, as I placed the beans and the flower on the counter and raised my eyebrows, questioningly.

“April, this is Tony, my…ah…”

Embarrassed? Scared? Suddenly I couldn’t read her, this woman- whose face I’d studied over and over, whose hands I’d held in mine until I had her very palm imprinted on my soul- was a closed book. And she had no words for me. No big ones, no little ones. No love filled playful ones. Just a meek smile and a glance at Tony, her….

“Husband,” said Tony, smiling awkwardly. “Ah, Heinz baked beans,” he smiled patronisingly at me, at Will, and I wondered. Was I meant to stand in my kitchen and discuss the pros and cons of beans with my lover’s husband? I looked at Will, but her face was in shadow and she was not looking at me, deliberately.

Everything was wrong, and- trying to get some grasp upon reality- I took a step in Willow’s direction. But oh so subtly she turned away from me, and for the first time I noticed a suitcase on the floor. Hers.

“Took me a while to find the place,” Tony went on jovially, falsely. “I guess Willow told you I’d be meeting her at the station tomorrow, but I phoned the faculty and found out where she’d been staying. And it seemed easier this way.”

I frowned at Willow as she gathered papers from the table. Hers. Tony wasn’t making sense. At least not to me, and I needed to hear it- anything- from her. She was always so good with words, and I resented her most for leaving me to have this surreal discussion with Tony.

“Yes, easier” I said, because something had to be said. It seemed then that her hands trembled slightly, the rustling of the paper becoming more insistent, and - not really understanding the situation, sensing only the importance of going along with what was said, of not giving too much away- I said “Well, it really has been very nice having you Willow. You know you’re welcome to stay as long as you want. I’ve loved the company.”

In my mind, of course, I was saying- screaming- other things. In my mind the words and emotions were swirling around like dust in a dust storm, but there I stood, calmly placing the beans into a bowl, into the microwave, and the flower into a jar.

Today’s sunrise is a lot more dramatic than a week ago. The sky seems to me to be a blood red, clotted with clouds and spotted with the last of the stars.

My sculpture- a mechanical horselike figure which as yet cannot bear its own weight- hangs from the ceiling and catches the first of the morning light. This is the last piece for my upcoming Adelaide exhibition, and I have the presence of mind to realise that today is my last chance to finish it, that it must be on the truck tomorrow. And also- if I want to be at the opening- my last chance to get cheap flights.

I stretch my body, long and hard, and stand up, wondering what this sudden return to the daily grind of things means.

I don’t know much about asthma, but I know that paints, polishes and dyeing chemicals didn’t affect Will in the least. After all, apart from days at the uni, most of her time over the last month was spent out here, where I spray, scrub and hose my sculptures with all sorts of questionable substances.

But that’s what Tony said, politely but quickly declining my offer on Willow’s behalf.

She still hadn’t said anything, and was now standing beside Tony, looking away from me and clutching her book bag.

“Thanks, April… it’s been great of you to have her. Old school friends, I hear?” My arse, I screamed, silently. And I still didn’t know why, couldn’t put my finger on it. “But, see, the renovators have all finished. The paint’s been dry a good week now, there aren’t any fumes lingering around, so I don’t think her asthma will flare up again.”

He placed his hand on Willow’s shoulder. Tightly, I thought. Authoritatively.

“It’ll be good to have the old girl back,” he smiled. “I’ve missed you, pet.” Sick. Sick in my guts, in my throat and mouth. This was all about to end, badly, and something was very wrong.

As if we were business acquaintances, Will stepped towards me, smiling and reaching out to take my hands.

“It’s been great being able to stay here, April.” I looked into the face of the woman I loved, and that’s when I saw it.

My bottom lip began to quiver, and the sick feeling that had been spreading through me threatened to explode. It would have looked pretty impressive the next day. It was already starting to swell around her eye, across her cheek, and I wondered where else he may have hit her; bruises on parts of her body that I once caressed, that were now covered with her overcoat.

Something of the old Will, and something of the old me, were still present, even then. The beginnings of tears in her eyes, the look that suddenly I could read again, didn’t say what I wanted to hear.

Through the façade she was fighting so desperately to maintain, I saw fear, sorrow. And I saw acceptance, resignation, and a begging for me not to rock the boat.

“Anytime, Willow,” I murmured, rage exploding in my head and my heart. I held my arms wide, wanting to take her in an embrace that would last forever, but she turned, reached into her pocket, and handed me an envelope.

“Please- take something for the phone calls I made, the food I ate,” she said casually. It all hurt too much, and part of me was relieved when Tony took her suitcase, her arm, and led her out the door, and the scream that was in me could finally escape.

In the kitchen, now, I reach for the phone, and see the envelope beside it. I resist the urge to read it one more time, to search for a hidden message, a clue, an explanation, some direction as to what she wants me to do. But it is clear enough in the scrawled note, written God knows when “in case you come home one-day and I’m gone.”

She was right about one thing; I don’t understand. There are reasons why she doesn’t want me to try to find out where she lives, or call the police. And they are hardly bad reasons; distrust in the legal system based on previous experiences; fearing for her life.

It is that last one which gets my blood churning, but when I pick up the phone it is not the police I call, it’s the gallery in Adelaide, telling them the seventh piece will not be making it over, can they change the catalogue?

After lunch, having purchased tickets and arranged accommodation at a friend’s place, I am back out in the workshop. I will not be back here for a while. A friend lives south of Adelaide, and some time in the country, where the horizons are wider and the sunrises bigger, appeals to me.

I have packed up my basic toolkit and thrown some clothes into a pack. Troy is now standing on his own four feet, and I’m sitting on the floor beside him. Tears of anger and frustration roll down my face.

And fear. Because after six days, six nights of not sleeping, of thinking about Willow and wondering whether doing what someone asks is always the best way to help them, I still have nothing. Only me, and the fact that I never knew. She never told me. And I don’t know what that means.

In arrogance, I have gone over what we could have done if only I knew- moved interstate, changed our names… I have thought about women I’ve known, sexual assault counsellors, domestic violence advocates. I’ve wondered what they would do, what they would have me do.

But at the end of this week, the longest week of my life, all I am left with is my confused, broken heart, and Willow’s note: “for safety’s sake, please don’t try to help. I have loved you, and still do, but I need you to let me go.” And now, on the cold concrete floor of my workshop, it is no longer for Willow that I cry, but for myself, for us, and for the whole bitter, cruel and unfair world.

I polish the inside of my Troy. I go to more trouble than I usually would, sanding back the greasy bits. I get it to a standard of cleanliness I think she would be happy with. After all, this one’s for her.

I don’t know where she lives, but I know where she works- if any of what she’s told me is true; if he’s letting her out of his sight. The removalists are coming tomorrow. There is a patch of concrete below her third floor window, and I have given the exact position to the moving company.

Carefully, lovingly, I spread the topaz wool rug across the floor of the little space I have left inside Troy. I arrange the cushions. To one of them, I pin an envelope containing the one-way ticket to Adelaide. And- to remind her of what she’ll be coming home to, should she choose- I leave a can of baked beans.

Refugees on hunger strike make public appeal

The following statement was released on July 22 by refugees, mainly Hazaras from Afghanistan, locked up in the Scherger detention centre in north Queensland. 67 refugees were on hunger strike at that stage. I am reprinting this from www.greenleft.org.au. I'm not sure if the hunger strike continues, but the message is important.

On a more Darwin-related note, last week Hazara refugees locked up in the detention centre on the Stuart Highway also staged a hunger strike, and rooftop protest, in an attempt to draw attention to their lengthy imprisonment and related suffering.

The detention centre is on my way to work. Each morning I would see if they were still up there, and sometimes (not often enough!) a few of us would drop by on our way home, have a shouted conversation through the fence, over the noise of the traffic. It was so hot that week, and there was no shade on the roof. They stayed up there for four days.

Here is a photo I took one day while visiting:


And here is the statement from Scherger:

In the Name of Merciful God,

This hunger strike is a response to the continued pressure exercised by the Australian Immigration Department on us.

The participants in this hunger strike have been denied protection and robbed of their liberty for periods of time extending to over a year, even up to 20 months.

This punitive action and arbitrary jailing, has destroyed our physical and mental health.

Our families — including our children — living outside detention and overseas have suffered additionally from the terror of the Taliban, and the tyrannies of other dictators and regimes.

Daily sadness and additional trauma that we are exposed to remains unknown to certain officers and Immigration Merit Review members.

These members are neglecting our claims, the reasons for our claims, the arguments that we have supplied, and the documents available to them. They have consequently failed to reach a comprehensive humane and just decision.

We are locked in a “no man’s land”, inside a military base where average people and the media have no access to us.

Our friends and relatives cannot reach us and we have to accept the blame of officials, and the suggestion that “you are not looking after your case”.

Our treatment in this way is very hideous and painful. They are melting us in a bureaucratic oven, and pushing us through cracks in the law. All the while, money-makers are making their money and we have to suffer indefinitely and infinite trauma.

We have to suffer for such a long time, because you want to send messages to the opportunistic smugglers. You have punished us more than enough and the smugglers will have received your messages. Be happy.

"Let us fix you..."

On July 28, the federal Labor government held a public meeting in Darwin as part of the current "consultations" discussing what laws Aboriginal people might have heaped on them when the NT Emergency Response legislation (the NT intervention) expires in mid 2012.

I don't want to say too much about this. Plenty has been said, and Pete has written a fabulous article that will be in the next issue of www.greenleft.org.au, so check it out.

But I want to say something. As someone who works with Yolngu people of North East Arnhem Land, who sits with them for hour upon hour hearing amazing ideas and stories of strength and innovation from communities, ideas for a "stronger future" (if I dare use the term the government has adopted for its discussion paper). As someone who tries, often in vain, to help Yolngu discover for themselves the madness, offensiveness and incoherency that is contemporary Australian capitalism. As someone who spends my day de-constructing the entirety of western "civilisation" and trying to put it back together in Yolngu Matha, in a way that makes sense to Yolngu. There is something about this consultation business I want to say.

The meeting was helped along by a Powerpoint presentation, meant to focus discussion on the topics the government has decided are important (you can already see the fallacy of this process, right?).

Here is the text of the first Powerpoint. The welcome message, if you will:

"Why the special effort in the Northern Territory?

Many Aboriginal people are making changes to their lives and in their communities.

But Aboriginal people in the Northern Territory are still disadvantaged when compared to other Australians.

*Alcohol - a lot of Territory people still have a problem with grog: alcohol still causes violence.

* Schooling - a lot of people can't read or write; lots of children don't go to school or don't finish school.

* Jobs - a lot of people still don't have jobs

* Health - a lot of Aboriginal people in the Territory have poor health, and don't live as long as other Australians."

There are lots of things I could say about this. About the overwhelming majority of Aboriginal people who are tee-totallers (so different from white Australia!), about the jobs that have been lost as a result of the NT Intervention defunding community-based services.

But, on a more emotional level, thinking about my Yolngu colleagues who couldn't make the meeting but wanted to hear all about it... I just thought what a load of heavy shit that is to lie on Aboriginal people. What a way to start a "consultation". "Here is everything We think is a problem about You. Here are all the areas in which You fail. Now we're here to listen to you suggest how We can Fix You."

I don't know how the Aboriginal people in the room felt when they saw that first slide. I guess it was an indication of how genuinely (or otherwise) the government bureaucrats were willing to listen for the next 2.5 hours. I salute all those who spoke their heart at that meeting.

But seriously, where else in this country - in what other demographic - would the government have the gall to spend thousands on propaganda inviting people to "Tell us what works, what doesn't, and what needs to be done", call a public meeting, then start be listing everything that is wrong with all the people you've invited along - as though they'd all been called into the principal's office to settle a playground scuffle.

Maybe this is a common occurrence and I am simply biased because of the circles I work and play in.

But, more so than anywhere else, I think, the government has A LOT of trust to re-build, a lot of damage to repair, among the First People of this land. It sickens and saddens me that every time the government does anything regarding Aboriginal affairs- any time it so much as mentions the word "Aboriginal" - it is done in the most appallingly patronising and offensive context. Every time the government does anything to "fix" the "Aboriginal problem", people get hurt, and the situation gets a lot worse.

Maybe genuine consultation could begin with a heartfelt congratulations to Aboriginal people for surviving the whitefella problem for 230 years, followed by an invitation to list all that is wrong with government and ways the government could fix its behaviour.

UPDATE: article done by Pete here.