Calling Aboriginal massacres what they were – war!

Sometimes they gunned them down or poisoned their bread or water. In other accounts groups were driven off cliffs into deep gorges.

There were many gruesome ways to die if you were an Aboriginal in the ‘Frontier Wars’, which researchers say covered a time from 1788 to well past Federation.

In schools this has been taught as a bunch of disparate massacres – a byproduct of nation-building. Not a war, but a collection of executions of small groups by soldiers, farmers, sealers and various other ad hoc militia.

As poorly as American indians have been treated, US historians have at least painted a fair if unapologetic picture of a protracted, one-sided frontier war on a native population unwilling to cede their land to a superiorly armed invader.

The New Zealand Wars, too, were recognised as a conflict over a legitimate prize – ownership of land and the right to use it.

In Australia we’ve well-rehearsed the presentation of our history from a colonist’s perspective.

From the label terra nullius (nobody’s land) considered applicable to Australia since settlement, to the myth Aboriginals were entirely nomadic when there was plenty of evidence to the contrary (read Bruce Pascoe’s Dark Emu). All of these heavily-weighted descriptions favoured the colonists’ land grab.

The idea of ownership is at the heart of everything our society is built on. To have an asset is to have leverage. Leverage to eat well, to sleep safely, to raise a family and be proud of your place.

Ownership weaves our lives inextricably into the society around us.

Not owning anything is not encouraged in Australia.

And the idea of the indigenous population having no ownership of where they had lived, or of not being organised to defend what they had, is a very convenient perspective.

Professor Jakelin Troy, the director of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Research at Sydney University, laments that the history of Aboriginals in Australia has been taught in isolation.

“Aboriginal massacres have been an open wound since 1788, no one talks about them,” she tells me.

“At least we have a recognition in this country of Aboriginal rights, but we need to teach all the things that have happened.”

To look fairly at the confrontations that occurred when Britain colonised this country, those convenient myths must be stripped back.

That includes acknowledging the indigenous population fought a real war to protect its rights – rights to land, rights to hunt and feed their families. Maybe not an organised war the way the British military would conduct them, but a war nonetheless.

Historian Lyndall Ryan’s ‘massacre map’ which has plotted over 250 such incidents is ample proof that the armed defence by Aboriginals of this land was taking place across the country at hundreds of sites.

You’ve probably heard of the Dharug warrior Pemulwuy, but what about these names: Windradyne, Jandamarra, Yagan or Bussamarai?

They all led a resistance by their tribes to settlers pushing into their territory, and there’s no good reason they shouldn’t be remembered in the same way Americans remember Geronimo, Cochise or Sitting Bull. Heroically.

Aboriginal culture has given plenty to be proud of, but more remains hidden behind this skewed history.

(Originally published in The Daily Telegraph. Illustration of The Battle of Parramatta.)

We’re all in this together

Time catches up with you. Fast.

I recall fragments of conversations with Heather. Happy, optimistic, edgily anarchic interactions. Her, splattered in paint.

At high school there were two teachers who made a big difference for me and the way I saw the world.

One, Mike Willis, taught English and swaggered around like a cowboy.

‘Just get on with it,’ was his barked catchphrase. For a man with a big heart it surprised everyone when it stopped abruptly in his mid-50s.

Wise, even as a relatively young bloke, at school he was an ally as much as an educator.

When I visited his wife Denise a year after his death, Mike’s car keys and wallet had been left in the same spot on the kitchen counter where he had last put them down.

His car, parked on the front lawn, had not been moved. Grass grew high under the wheel arches.

The heart is slow to heal.

This week I learned of the death of the other influence in my school life.

Heather Pulsford taught me art, but more than that was a like-mind, a sounding board and a friend.

She was that way not just to me, but to many people in her life and among the arts community that was her stomping ground.

I last saw her two years ago. By then, quite old, Heather had been sick for a while and was using a ventilator at night to breathe while she slept.

Still fiery in her manner, she was nonetheless frustrated at being so constrained.

For a woman with a big brain and a need to be busy all the time, and to socialise with others, it was a devastating come down.

Weakened by pneumonia she succumbed in a hospital on the South Coast with her family around her.

A public Facebook post on her death has been inundated with tributes from friends, family, the community and her former students.

I know she will have sensed that sweeping wave of support even as she was bed-bound and cursing being let down by her body and her health.

In the news we usually only hear stories about the wrong type of relationships that go on between teachers and students.

But most of us benefit in our childhood from those few genuine mentors that take an interest in you at a time in which you struggle with a growing sense of both your independence and isolation.

Those internal monologues we all have, echo too infrequently in the spoken ruminations of others.

Some like to say ‘the universe will provide’ – but it does more than that. The universe wants us to succeed.

And, I don’t feel by coincidence, it puts people in our way that help us grow and that sustain us through the hard times to come.

We have these people dotted around us: at school, at work, in our family, among our friends and loves.

The abiding theme that religion and science seems to agree upon is that there is a destiny to life, no matter how we interpret that.

We are made to go forward, to create and build, to better ourselves and along the way help others do the same.

It’s not teamwork, it’s community, whether large or small.

When I was a kid, Heather was part of my little community and I thank her for sending me spinning off in the right direction.

(Originally published in The Daily Telegraph)