A Conversation to Dispel Misconception: The Reality for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander People in Eastern Kuku Yalanji Country
Most extensively, the inequities faced by First Nation’s people in post-assimilation Australia have been covered by author Bruce Pascoe in his 2014 work Dark Emu. The key critique of this work by commentators and historians is its lack of primary sourcing. The reasons for this are twofold: firstly, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander history extends far beyond recorded history, and secondly, all primary accounts that are available are from the perspective of European explorers and colonisers[1]. Thus, the only way to accurately gain insight into First Nation’s affairs, history and culture is to go into communities and speak with elders and community members. This presents an entirely different array of complications, including but not limited to the logistics of travelling to often extremely remote communities and entering communities in a culturally appropriate manner.
Between the 26th of June and the 4th of July this year, I was privileged to have the opportunity to travel to remote First Nation’s communities in Eastern Kuku Yalanji country. Their land stretches from Port Douglas to north of Rossville through the Daintree Rainforest in the east as well as extending west over the Great Dividing Range. During this time, I spoke to elders and community members concerning issues faced by Kuku Yalanji people and was able to actively immerse myself in their culture. I would like to take this opportunity to share my experiences and the lessons that I learned as these are the best available sources to become informed of such matters.
During my first night on country, I was introduced to the concept of a ‘yarn’. I’m sure that most in western society would be familiar with the term, but Bama[2] people find an interesting and quite beautiful distinction between their definition of a yarn and the western definition. In western society, information is acquired in a transactional manner, meaning a question is asked and an answer is provided. In Bama culture, knowledge is passed down via the sharing of lessons and stories where both parties recognise the mutual benefit of the interaction. I wish for this written work to act like a yarn, where both the reader and writer alike benefit. The reader deepens their understanding of First Nation’s culture whilst potentially eliminating any ingrained personal biases and prejudices. Simultaneously, I, the writer, am the indirect beneficiary of positive societal change due to a greater collective understanding of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander affairs.
In sharing this yarn, I will outline what I would categorise as three different types of connection that were evident in Kuku Yalanji culture. The first is interpersonal connection; this includes lore[3] surrounding the hierarchical family structure in the Kuku Yalanji nation and how this differs between other nations[4]. Lore that governs interactions between individuals in intra-familial, intra-tribal, extra-familial and extra-tribal circumstances, whilst vastly different, are all determined by two key concepts: respect and responsibility. Whilst on country, these two words were completely redefined for me. They make up the foundations upon which Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island culture was built.
The second classification of connection is connection to country, or more specifically to the Bubu[5] from which you belong. In this context, the resulting relocation of innumerable Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander tribes, due to assimilation policies and missions intended to eliminate any connection to land or culture, has had a profound impact. Make no mistake, the language used in these policies was directed to “breed out or kill” First Nation’s people and their culture. Women were raped in missions and their half-caste children were told to never express their Aboriginality. Whilst the suppression of culture caused by assimilation policies led to an immense loss of knowledge, it is a testament to the strength of connection to country that the culture lives on. It also makes it vitally important that the culture is taught so what remains is not lost.
Finally, the third connection is that of a spiritual nature; a lingering connection to one’s ancestors and spirits referenced in Dreamtime stories. This relates heavily to lore and the ideals of respect and responsibility. However, I also wish to focus on another aspect of spiritual connection, that being Bama people’s faith in the Christian God. This was a somewhat confusing concept to wrap my head around at first, though it became clear that religion and connection to country can and does coexist. Despite this, it seems that not everyone in the community is of the same opinion regarding the Catholic Church.
So firstly, in reference to interpersonal connection; I’ll begin by describing the Kuku Yalanji familial structure and how it relates to their interpretation of respect and responsibility. Essentially, the system works in a loop from grandchildren to grandparents, repeating for any generation following that. As such, this means that you would refer to your great grandmother as ‘daughter’ and your great grandfather as ‘son’. This connection aims to foster a respect for your elders from a very young age as they hold the greatest amount of knowledge in the family. The responsibility of caring for one’s daughter or son also falls on that particular individual. In relation to marriage, there is very strict lore that governs how one must show respect to their in-laws. For example, if your mother-in-law were to enter the room, you must immediately turn your back on her. If you wanted to communicate with her, you could not address her directly. Instead, you must ask someone else in the room to pass on a message to her on your behalf. Lloyd, a police officer and community member, told a story of a pair of brothers-in-law who were out on patrol together to display how seriously this lore is taken. To talk to one another, they radioed in to their sergeant back at base to relay messages, despite the fact they were in the same car.
Alongside cultural practices to do with family, I was taught about ceremonies performed following a death and appropriate procedures to enable entrance onto a foreign tribe’s land. These are equally as complex, but all ultimately aim to express the utmost respect for relatives passed and neighbouring nations. I feel as though now it is necessary to mention; the practices described are specific to the Kuku Yalanji nation. Each individual nation has their own set of cultural practices, some similar and some vastly different.
Whilst this information may not assist you in understanding how respect and responsibility were redefined for me due to the foreign nature of the practices described, the staunchness with which this lore is followed speaks volumes to Yalanji and, more broadly, Aboriginal attitudes and morals. The steadfast connection to culture that has been passed down from generation to generation for upwards of 100,000 years has resulted in a complex society built around respect, responsibility and empathy.
Secondly, in reference to connection to country, the importance of respect and responsibility and how they shape actions became far clearer for me when described in the context of caring for land. I hope it will do the same for you. Before I enter into any yarn about the specifics or references to stories that were shared with me, it is vital I provide a brief contextualisation.
As aforementioned, this connection was built over at least 100,000 years. So, if we were to put ourselves in the shoes of the stolen generation, what sort of trauma would it have caused to not only strip families of their children, but of their land? The very place they had been entrusted to care for by their ancestors, and their ancestors before them, and theirs before them. Many First Nation’s mobs refer to country as ‘Mother’[6], a living and breathing entity that provides for all those who reside within her. Mother must be cared for just as the tribe would care for itself. Whilst I think western society can acknowledge the inherent moral evil caused by assimilation policies, actually speaking to people who were directly influenced by assimilation policies has led me to determine that we lack even the most basic understanding of how this has influenced life for Bama people and Indigenous communities around Australia. Look at places like Aurukun and Palm Island; naming these places undoubtedly evokes images of riots and associations with unruly, savage mobs. That’s what the mainstream media would have us believe. It’s incredible to me that it doesn’t occur to some that there was some sort of provocation behind these protests.
Firstly, it is both unethical culturally offensive for multiple communities from different nations to be herded like animals into a site off-country and forcibly confined there. That is a denial of the most basic human rights. However, the cultural issues that arise are almost more traumatic. This is because grouping numerous nations together as one destroys complex tribal hierarchies, causing friction. Having been forced into missions, individuals could not enter the land in a culturally appropriate manner. This blatant disregard for lore without any way to punish it is so fundamentally wrong in Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander culture. The scars that linger from this assault on lore may never be healed.
To make matters unfathomably worse, State and Federal Governments have consistently denied First Nation’s groups access to and use of land that is rightfully theirs*. In larger cities and urbanised areas, the idea that ‘Indigenous communities got their land back’ is one of the most commonly held misconceptions about Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people. This couldn’t be further from the truth. The Native Tribunal Map depicted is very similar to one
that was hanging up on the wall at the first site we visited in Julaymba[7]. It displays areas of Aboriginal freehold land, known as ‘pink zones.’ These are the only areas that have been unconditionally granted back into Aboriginal ownership[8]. Clearly, very little land has actually been handed back. Richard, an inspirational community member who runs the camps at Julaymba, described the Government’s priorities as follows: the vast majority of land that wasn’t already forcefully acquired for driving cattle or growing crops during colonisation will be allocated for use as national park. After that, mining companies such as Rio Tinto will identify areas with rich mineral deposits, namely bauxite, which will be leased to them for use. This lease is conditional upon the regeneration of native flora, though little is done to ensure the protection of sacred sites. Power and profit results in negligence on both the Government and mining company’s part. Finally, whatever scraps are left are palmed off to local First Nation’s communities in a tokenistic attempt to silence their anguish. This land is often mountainous, rugged and incredibly remote and is hardly useable.
In Julaymba, an elder named Mick expressed his concern for what he called ‘sick land.’ Said sickness is caused by rapid and unsustainable weybula[9] industrialisation, resulting in dramatic changes in climate. Recently, this has been most visible in uncontrollable and extreme weather events such as wildfires. Because of this distinct lack of respect for and responsibility to the land, we are suffering the consequences. In Mick’s view, many of these consequences are already irreversible.
With all this in mind, I was instilled with a profound appreciation for Mother, that provides for me in all her generosity. We were taught of rocks that made gorgeous palettes of ochre and trees with antiseptic qualities in their bark. Further to that, we were taught to feel our own connection to Mother. Every morning I woke up at Battle Camp, the Daintree loomed over me. I could hear the whispers of thousands of generations of Bama people. I was welcomed onto country wholeheartedly, but I still felt like an intruder. It wasn’t long before any such feeling was dispelled. Mother has a way with her gentle embrace. On our 15 kilometre trek to Wujal Wujal I was touched by the beauty of the Banner Yearie river and valley, so much so that I felt compelled to stain a page of my journal with the earth of the banks. When greeted by Wujal Wujal elders, Cathleen and Frances Walker, we were welcomed to country in language whilst looking up towards a local sacred site; the valley between the two mountains seemed to narrow as they consumed our presence, grateful for our engagement. In Buru, I vividly remember peering through the dense foliage and into the circular opening of a sacred swimming hole. There I lay for a number of minutes, blissful, completely at the mercy of Mother and yet I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. The emotion evoked by the land is difficult to articulate. The scale of Kuku Yalanji culture is inconcievable. Whilst humans may come and go, Bubu remains.
Spritual connection is possibly the most perplexing connection I will reference in this piece, though I do not mean in regard to Dreamtime stories. Whilst missions have left numerous wounds and voids in First Nation’s communities, it seems they achieved their objective; many community members have a staunch faith in God. The fact such a deep and intense connection to country and culture can coexist with the belief in a religion whose leaders attempted genocide against Bama people puzzled me. Under the governance of God-fearing weybula, Bama people were almost wiped out. Cultural and religious practices differ vastly. It seemed incredibly contradictory. Furthermore, this did not seem to be an issue I could serenely sidestep or ignore. Naturally, I turned to the elders and community members for answers, most of whom were devout Catholics and one who was not.
Whilst at Julaymba, I had an extended yarn with Richard and Lloyd surrounding culture and faith. When I first asked the question, Richard gave a wry smile. He had been wondering when this would be asked. As is true to the nature of the yarn, he began by telling a series of powerful stories from his own experience with God and the supernatural; stories about representations of animals and colours in the form of omen-like visions, with white representing purity and black representing evil. Some of these things coincided uncannily with significant events in Richard’s life. He then astutely pointed out the hypocrisy of what he called ‘white man’s Christianity.’ This is obviously evident in representations of colour. The key example Richard provided was the black line in Tasmania. For those unfamiliar with the events, European settlers formed a human chain and moved across the island, murdering all its previous inhabitants. This was all done under the guise of ‘God’s will’, though Richard believes that this was the Devil in action. After all, one cannot exist without the other. Or, white man’s God outlines a different set of values. Specifically in reference to the faith of Bama people, Richard said that the country provides life and the ability to live, whereas God provides gifts such as intuition and athleticism. Whilst practices engaged in by those who ran missions have caused undeniable intergenerational trauma, their teachings seem to have been embraced. To this effect, Richard confided in the group of his struggles with mental health and how finding God not only alleviated some of his depression, but enabled him to forgive those who discriminated against him and his family.
However, in Wujal Wujal, elder Frances Walker told a stark story of oppression. Having been taken out of her community and placed into a Christian mission school in Brisbane, Frances was denied the ability to partake in any cultural practices, including being denied the ability to speak her own language. Widespread instances of this Australia-wide has resulted in mass losses of culture and knowledge. In Frances’ eyes, the Church has taken no meaningful or actionable steps towards reconciling the scars they left. The policies were clear; indoctrination towards a white Australia. Similar forcible conversion occurred in Polynesian countries. In my opinion, a significant part of the tragedy of the situatuon is that cultural losses have been substituted for foreign beliefs that could have annihilated Bama people altogether.
Whilst I hope being informed by the lessons I learnt on country fosters an appreciation of Yalanji and, more broadly, Aboriginal culture in you, I have not outlined some actionable and everyday methods people like you and I can engage in to move towards reconciliation. When Richard first began running culture camps at Julaymba, he conceptualised his vision for reconciliation. Although he first conceived it in 2009, it has remained unchanged since as he has observed little or no progress since then. His vision is as follows.
Centred around the values of respect and responsibility, Richard hopes that learning from elders and making connections with the land will assist in providing First Nation’s communities with the ability to practice culture whilst simultaneously having access to necessary societal systems to support them.
Key areas of concern include:
1. Safe houses and the penal system where Indigenous Australians are critically over-represented;
2. Suicide prevention with a focus on dealing with the grief of intergenerational trauma caused by assimilation policies, missions and the stolen generation;
3. Reducing rates of homelessness through sustainable and culturally appropriate housing projects;
4. Being able to access culturally appropriate aged care[10] and rehabilitation support services including having systems in place on country;
5. Investing in the development of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Museums and cultural centres;
6. Fostering cross-cultural exchanges between Indigenous populations globally, including but not limited to Māori groups in New Zealand and Native American groups in the US.
There are challenges in walking the fine line between enabling Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people to remain connected to their land whilst also providing them with the tools necessary to be on a level playing field in a modern, predominantly white society. However, these are challenges that can and must be met. What is required is a respect for Bama culture, a responsibility to serve the best interests of Bama people and their country, and the empathy to recognise and reconcile the injustices of recent history. The fact of the matter is that communities cannot continue to thrive in isolation given the cultural 180 that has occurred in the last two centuries. Basic necessities such as health and aged care, education, employment and assistance surrounding banking and financial systems all need to be actively provided for remote communities. However, this being done in a culturally appropriate fashion needs to be made a priority. For too long have Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people been categorised as the same and treated with ‘one size fits all’ policies. This creates more problems than it solves.
In the nine days I spent on country, I only began to scratch the surface of the wealth of knowledge that is held by traditional owners. I encourage you to remain impassioned about reconciliation. Use more inclusive language and pull your friends up on it when they don’t. Most importantly, listen to and elevate Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander voices so that they can be heard and meaningful change can be made. Failure to do so will not just impact Bama people. If our society isn’t as inclusive as it could be, everyone is impacted.
I would like to sincerely thank you for engaging in this yarn. I realise there is some disconnect in the author-reader relationship, and some of your questions may have been left unanswered. There is still so much that I wish to learn, too. I hope that in some way, shape or form, these words have moved you to make positive changes in your life and in the lives of others.
Yalada[11].
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[1] Excluding traditional rock artworks from the time.
[2] Bama is the Yalanji term for Aboriginal person.
[3] Lore is a set of cultural customs passed down through generations that govern how a tribe operates. Lore varies greatly from nation to nation. It is followed so strictly that broken lore is punishable by spearing.
[4] One of the most common misconceptions is that all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island communities are the same and, therefore, have the same needs. This could not be further from the truth.
[5] Bubu is the Yalanji term for land.
[6] This was not discussed extensively on Kuku Yalanji country but has been taught from elders of the Ugurapul nation (the land on which BGS’s outdoor education centre is located). The language used to reference caring for the land in Kuku Yalanji country would suggest similar beliefs are held.
*As of the 29th of September, 2021, the land encapsulating the Daintree Rainforest and 3 surrounding national parks was handed back to the Eastern Kukuyalanji people.
[7] The site was colloquially known as ‘Battle Camp’, as the creek crossing area on which it sits was a common meeting place for neighbouring tribes to settle disputes. It is just north of Mossman in the lower Daintree rainforest.
[8] Under the conservation agreement tenure, First Nation’s owners care for the land to create nature refuges.
[9] Weybula is the Yalanji term for white person.
[10] Richard notes that there have been some improvements in regard to aged care.
[11] Yalanji term for thank you. Also used as a well-wish and positive salutation.
