Friends,
For quite a few years I lived and worked with Aboriginal Peoples at
outstations in the Northern Territory. Primarily, this was in Arnhem Land
although not always so. As happened to some people at that time,
particularly
remotely posted nursing sisters, I felt myself becoming seduced by the
culture and sliding into what is known in the Territory as 'going black'.
'Going black' referred to those who moved toward Aboriginal culture and away
from their own. A major symptom was not feeling comfortable among one's own
people. In actual fact what did happen was that they finished up with a foot
in each
culture and belonged to neither. When I sensed this situation emerging in me
I pulled back.
My job was to provide or organise infrastructure at outstations. As, in the
early days in particular, the People tended to move periodically this
infrastructure tended to be temporary. I found myself (as a Government
architect) 'teaching' the Peoples how to build and 'Whirlies' you could
stand up in. They had white ant nest floors, bark and sapling walls,
sometimes corrugated steel roofs, but often bark ones. The word 'teaching'
took on a special meaning because it acted both ways. They taught me what
materials were available and how to get it or use it. I taught them how to
form the shelters to best fit their new needs. The only criticism I got was
from my own department who complained that I was not spending enough money.
Also, as a result of what I was taught about survival in the bush by the
Aboriginal Peoples, I walked and lived off the land in Arnhem Land for
extended periods on several occasions. Such an exercise does give one a
different slant on knowing the country as my very survival depended on that
knowledge. Even so, compared with the People I knew just enough to get by.
They knew enough to live a life that has always left me in awe. So, why am I
telling all of this?
Well, despite this knowledge and close association I was still a 'white
man'. I think like a white man and I act like a white man. At the same
time I respect the Aboriginal Peoples enormously and I found they respected
me. I well remember the steep learning curve when first taking part in
Aboriginal discussions: not back and forth like I was used to, not
adversarial, but circular and cooperative. Going around and around
(something mining companies should learn to handle), on my first visit
seeming to go nowhere. But when I began to be aware of what was happening
my whole vision of the world began to change. I saw that it was only this
way that the holistic nature of the world could be encompassed. Discussions
moved out and in, like watching a big jelly fish pulsing. It encompassed
what we would call the general and particular at the same time.
Initially, I found it was not a matter of understanding at all, rather
allowing myself to hear. To listen to my feelings not my preconceived ideas.
What I have heard in the recent discussion on this subject (Missed Articles)
is what I have often heard in the feminist debate: anger. In both cases I
believe the anger from the injured is both justified and understandable. It
can also be counter productive. I could not even begin to unravel that
tangle but one thing I do know is that the most dreadful thing, among a lot
of dreadful things we - as whites - did, was to remove Aboriginal Peoples
from their land. It is worse than cutting their bodies in half and
separating the two halves. Neither half can function fully.
I could tell stories of events that occurred over the years. They have
involved my wife, my children and my grand daughter. Over laying all these
experiences was a sense of mutual trust and camaraderie. Living in Perth as
I do I often long for the companionship of old Bill up in Kakadu. I last saw
and talked with him in 1995. He and my grand daughter on may occasions when
she was about ten years of age used to disappear into the bush for a week or
ten days. This is a measure of the trust my daughter had in Bill.
Finally, I can only assume I am of Anglo-Celtic derivation. I look it! My
Great grandad appeared in Ballarat from South Australia in the early
eighteen fifties. My great grandmother's derivation is equally obscure (two
members of my family have tried in vain to get beyond that point). My
Grandad was born in Ballarat - just below the old battery in 1860. I know no
other country. I also know that my heart yearns for Australianness when I am
overseas. Ignorant as I may be, Australia is all I know and that is all I
can say.
___________________________________________
Ian J. Henderson Tel: (08)94183972
24 Harfleur Place Fax (08)94183972
Hamilton Hill E-mail [EMAIL PROTECTED]
Western Australia, 6163
Freedom is having nothing left to fear (Henderson, 1998)
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