Heartsick for Country

by Sally Morgan

  I split the rock;

  I felled the tree:

  The nation was –

  Because of me! [30]

  This is one of the many illusions that can keep us from knowing our country. We should not mistake ‘nation’ for country. Nations come and go, but country is forever. The land speaks true; there are no lies in country. When we lie down in country against our mother, skin to skin, she enfolds us in her arms. Our spiritual heart connects us to country; there can be no lies. The Tree of Life that exists here is Aboriginal. Yet Aboriginal children continue to be born into a disconnected, inanimate world that mistakes the idea of what a nation is, for the truth of country, the surface for what lies beneath. This interferes with children’s birthright and pushes them into someone else’s story. Aboriginal children have a right to be born into the right stories, their own stories that connect them to country, and to Aboriginal ways of knowing that are respected and valued. All Australian children deserve to know the country that they share through the stories that Aboriginal people can tell them and through the different ways of knowing country. This is what gives children the feathers to fly with the birds and grow with the trees. To deny non-Aboriginal Australian children this knowledge is also to deny them a part of their birthright (the other parts, of course, are all the trees of life and knowledge that they are also tied to by their ancestors). If all Australian children are given their proper birthright to be born into the right story, then this country will have a future in which all Australians can share and all children proudly recite:

  I saved the rock;

  I saved the tree:

  The country is –

  Because of me!

  DAWN BESSARAB

  is of Bardi/Indjarbandi descent and is a saltwater woman from Broome. A social worker, she recently completed her doctoral thesis, which explores the experiences of Aboriginal women and men and how these experiences have contributed to the development of people’s masculine and feminine identities. (Image 2.1)

  Image 2.1

  Country is Lonely

  As a child growing up in Broome, I had the privilege of parents who were great storytellers. My father was a Bardi man, whose country is on the Dampier Peninsula, at a place called Boolgin.[31] From him I grew up hearing many saltwater stories of his childhood and learnt from him that I was Bardi.

  My mother met my father when he came to Woodstock station in the Pilbara as a stockman; she moved to Broome, where they were married. Mum was also a great storyteller and many were the times when she would trade stories for doing jobs, such as washing dishes and sweeping floors; such was the calibre of her stories that we would do anything to hear one. Mum’s stories ranged from childhood antics to culture, and no matter what the topic, the results were the same: she held us captive to her magic. I learnt from Mum that her people had come from Millstream in the Pilbara and that I was also descended from the Indjarbandi people.

  Today, as a Bardi/Indjarbandi woman, I can no longer ignore other aspects of my identity and even though they do not form the dominant characteristics that define who I am, I must acknowledge them because they are also a part of me. Those aspects are my non-Indigenous identity: French and English. As a woman of colour, I identify strongly as an Aboriginal woman of Bardi/Indjarbandi descent whose socialisation as a child was heavily steeped in Aboriginal culture. Because he was a saltwater man, my father taught me to love the sea, and my mother, being a desert/river woman, taught me to love the bush. From both I learnt about country.

  Yarning one day with my elderly uncle [32], sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea, he told me a story about country that he had heard from male Elders from the Mowanjum community, in Derby, Western Australia. My uncle also had grown up on the Dampier Peninsula and as a boy had accompanied his father on a lugger, regularly sailing up and down the Kimberley coastline doing postal runs and delivering supplies. As my uncle reminisced, he talked about how the coastline had many waterfalls cascading into the sea, something that had left a strong impression on him as a young child. When he returned many years later as an adult revisiting the same coastline, he had been astonished to discover that many of the waterfalls that he remembered had dried up and no longer existed. (Image 2.2)

  Image 2.2: Natural Temple, Cape Leveque Courtesy Dawn Bessarab

  Upon returning to Derby, my uncle met and talked with the Elders and in his discussion mentioned the disappearance of many of the waterfalls and his astonishment at how the country had changed. The Elders’ response surprised my uncle:

  ‘Dat country im lonely, is people dey all gone, no one dere to look after im anymore, so dat country im lonely, im sad, dat why dat water bin dry up, ee missing ees people.’

  The significance of the Elders’ response, and their explanation about why some of the waterfalls had dried up struck me, highlighting how different their understandings were and would be to Western understanding.

  Western understanding would probably attribute the lack of waterfalls to things such as drought, summer, and changed watercourses: all scientific and all logically reasonable. Whereas the Elders’ explanation, in its simplicity, was much more complex and profound. Their understanding and reasoning lay in a completely different paradigm, one that is grounded in Aboriginal philosophy and spirituality.

  For many non-Indigenous people, the concept of spirituality is tied up with religion. For Indigenous people, spirituality was not connected to religion until the introduction of Christianity, in which many people think they are one and the same. While religion can encompass spirituality, it is not the same thing. For an Aboriginal person, to talk about spirituality is to talk about the connection of country and relationships, and the Dreaming, which provides a guide and spiritual roadmap for people to follow. This chapter will explore through narrative the deep relationship and connection that Aboriginal people have to their spirituality and the implications that this has.

  Spirituality to Aboriginal people is connected to country and is about relationships: spiritual relationships with the trees, the land, the animals, the sky, and the water. Country is not viewed as a bit of dirt with economic value but as a living entity, which is often referred to and described in masculine and feminine terms. Leroy Little Bear [33], talking about the philosophy of the Plains Indians, in the United States, says most Aboriginal languages are ‘verb rich’ and do not allow for the categorising of dichotomies. According to Little Bear, there is no ‘animate/inanimate dichotomy’. Everything is more or less animate. Consequently, Aboriginal languages allow for talking to trees and rocks, an allowance not accorded in English. If everything is animate, then everything has spirit and knowledge. If everything has spirit and knowledge, then all are like me. If all are like me, then all are my relations. [34]

  Aboriginal women and men throughout Australia have similar philosophies. Land is not considered inanimate; it is seen to have feelings. Within the land there are messages and stories that have their foundation in the Dreaming, and through spirit beings these messages were left in the landscape to be relayed to us through stories that instil a strong belief in spirituality.

  The Elders’ explanation to my uncle describes the ‘country’ as having feelings and explains the dried-up waterfalls as a result of the disruption of relationships, in particular that between the country and its people. The spirit beings that inhabit the country feel the absence of the people who had been given the responsibility to look after the land, and, in loneliness, the land suffers.

  My uncle’s story is one of many that abound in the Aboriginal community. Children growing up in families are fed a steady diet of stories about the birds, trees, rocks and the sky, learning that these are all connected and represent different manifestations of Aboriginal spirituality.

  Nyungar colleagues have told me how the entrance of a willy wagtail ( djidi djidi [35]) into a house signifies the arrival of bad news. The strength of this belief unfolded at a workshop I was attending where several local Nyungars were present.
During the workshop, a little willy wagtail flew in through the door and landed on the floor at the front of the room. The Nyungars reacted by getting up and chasing the bird out, loudly exclaiming that its presence could signify bad news. Similarly, in My Place, Sally Morgan talks about how the call of a bird heralds the message that her grandmother has died. [36]

  Through people’s experiences, stories heard in childhood confirm ‘the spiritual nature of the [Aboriginal] world [which] is incorporated into the socialization of Indigenous children’ ... ‘Indigenous spirituality encompasses the inter-substantiation of ancestral beings, humans and physiography’. [37] They are a physical fact because they are experienced as part of one’s life, and through these experiences are confirmed as real and substantial.

  A non-Indigenous anthropologist, whom I will call Karl (not his real name), gave me an example of this. When I first met Karl he was working in a remote community and though he had considerable experience working with Aboriginal people, he struck me as somewhat aloof and distant. We had had a discussion about Aboriginal spirituality, and Karl said that while he accepted that Aboriginal people had these beliefs, on a personal level, he did not really believe. At the time I could not articulate to myself what it was that I felt about him; now I would say he lacked connection with his spirit, but this was after he told me his story. This telling happened after our paths crossed again, several years later. After social pleasantries had been exchanged, I noticed there was something different about him; he seemed to have changed in some way. So I asked him what had happened to him since our last meeting. Karl found it surprising that I had noticed any change and proceeded to tell me about something that had happened to him for which he had no scientific explanation. This experience had completely changed his view of Aboriginal spirituality from a metaphysical concept to an experiential one. He told me he had been doing some work with Aboriginal people and some of the men from the community had taken him out to their ancestral lands, to visit a site. Karl described the excursion:

  The day was bright and clear, not a cloud in the sky, when we drove our Land Rovers into the area. There were two Land Rovers and we were following a road through the long brown Kimberley grass as the wet season was over and the grass was beginning to dry. We parked under a tree and proceeded to walk down towards the billabong, which was at the base of the cliff and in the direction we were headed. We were halfway between the tree and the billabong when out of nowhere this dark cloud gathered overhead, it started to rumble and then lightning flashed; one struck down near to where we were parked. Before we knew it, the grass was on fire and it was heading towards us, threatening to cut us off from our vehicles. We started running as fast as we could back to the Land Rovers, we jumped inside and took off out of there. We got out just in time. The sky cleared up and once again was bright and sunny, with no cloud in sight. On the way back, the men in our vehicle were rapidly talking among themselves in language, and then one of them turned to me and said, ‘We bin tryin’ to figure out what we done wrong for the country to get wild with us, we shoulda introduced you early on when we bin pull up and not wait till we got to the site ... that country ’e bin wild with us for bringin’ a stranger in and not telling ’im who you are and your business’.

  Karl was pretty shaken by this experience and said that in all his years of working with Aboriginal people he had never experienced anything like it. He said there was no logical explanation for the appearance of the black cloud that had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared after they had left. He said he had not only been frightened, but also experienced a feeling of ‘something else’, something which had moved his spirit and confirmed for him that Aboriginal spiritual beliefs were real and not mythical. The difference I sensed in Karl was a shift in his spiritual belief system and a connectedness that somehow made him more real, more substantial.

  I tell you this story because usually it is Aboriginal people who tell stories, and now here was a non-Aboriginal man telling me something with which he was still struggling to find meaning. Physically, his body had told him that he had experienced something beyond scientific explanation; mentally he was still struggling. Karl knew that in telling me his story he wouldn’t receive a denial, or a challenge, or a scientific explanation of what had happened. From me he received acknowledgement of his experience and a confirmation of the Aboriginal men’s explanation and belief as to why.

  Growing up in my family and learning from my Elders, I was told that whenever I visited someone else’s country I should always yell out and tell them who I was, where I came from and what my business was. By showing respect for the spirits of the country, I would not come to any harm. But if I failed to do so, then something could happen to me and the people accompanying me.

  When I lived in Derby and my children were little, I regularly used to take them out to the river on picnics. One particular day, I took my children as well as a gadiya [38] friend and her children. We visited an area that is a women’s site and a lovely place to picnic. While we were there, my sandals disappeared from the riverbank; I asked the kids if anyone had taken them, they all swore black and blue that they had not touched my sandals. As we were the only ones there, it was a mystery how they had disappeared. Later, as my friend and I were paddling in the shallow water and talking about the sandals, I was trying to figure out what had happened, when I suddenly remembered that I had not introduced myself or my friend to country. I said to her, ‘I know why those sandals disappeared, the country is telling me something!’ And to her surprise I started to call out and speak to country, saying who I was and that we were visiting for the day and meant no harm. After I had finished speaking, I had this strong feeling to put my hand down under the water and touch the riverbed in front of me, I did this and touched a broken bottle with very sharp and jagged edges sticking up in the sand. If I had taken one more step, I would have seriously cut myself. I removed the broken bottle from the water and showed my friend, saying to her, ‘See, the country has sent me a message, now it is saying it won’t hurt me and is looking after me.’ My friend looked at me as though I was slightly mad, but in my heart I knew that, in response, the country had spoken back to me, acknowledging my greeting.

  How did I know this? Because my Bardi grandmother, whom I was told to call Goli [39] (grandmother), had taught me how to listen and communicate with country when she took my children and me out to her traditional country near Djarindjin, on the Dampier Peninsula. Her country was called Miligoon [40] and it was the first time that I had visited with her. When the Toyota stopped and we got out of the car, my children started to run down to the beach. We followed, laughing and talking, and then my daughter, Kalimba, suddenly stopped in her tracks (she was about three years old) and said loudly to me as she bent down to pick something up, ‘Look, Mummy, a pretty heart.’ When I looked to see what was in her hand, she had a beautiful smooth white stone in the shape of a heart. My Goli looked at the stone and said to my daughter, ‘See, the country likes you; it has sent you a gift, a love heart’. I learnt from my Goli ’s words that day that if you know how to listen and what to look for, the country speaks in many different ways. (Image 2.3)

  Image 2.3: Gift from the Heart of Country Courtesy Dawn Bessarab

  Marika and Bunthami, women Elders from the Rirratjingu Clan of the Yolngu nation, say that ‘Nature telling stories, and we’re connected to these natural stories. We don’t write it down and give to the kids; we teach through talking, telling and showing.’ [41] Similarly, Nona, from the Torres Strait, says when she is talking about the sea, ‘When we see the shark jump or the stingray jump, doesn’t matter if the sea is calm, we know it’s going to become rough because the shark and the stingray know this by the sea inside.’ [42]

  What my Elders have taught me is an integral part of the Dreaming. The Dreaming is a complex network of knowledge, faith and practices that derive from stories of creation and dominate all spiritual and physical aspects of Aboriginal life. The Dreaming sets out th
e structures of society, the rules for social behaviour and the ceremonies performed in order to maintain the life of the land. [43]

  The Dreaming, or Dreamtime, as some people call it, is not the same for all Aboriginal people throughout Australia. What is the same is that, like the Bible, the Dreaming is rich with creation stories of how the world began and the spirit beings that came down to form and create the world.

  During the Dreaming, ancestral spirits came to earth and created the landforms, the animals and plants. The stories tell how the ancestral spirits moved through the land, creating rivers, lakes and mountains. Today we know the places where the ancestral spirits have been and where they came to rest. [44]

  In the West Kimberley, the Ngarinyin people talk about a great flood that came and the few people who were left to populate the earth. The Nyungar people, in the South-West talk about the wakarl [45] (spirit water snake) and how, as he travelled across the land, he formed the riverbeds and the mountain ranges. Wave Rock at Hayden forms part of the Nyungar Dreaming stories.

  Aboriginal people across Australia have stories about how the landscape was created and how specific features in the landscape were formed during the Dreaming. I grew up hearing from my mother about the constellation known as the Seven Sisters, and at night, when the sky was clear and lit with a multitude of stars, she would point them out to me and my siblings, telling us how the sisters got to be in the sky. What made this creation story more real for me was that on extremely cold winter nights, when the dew lay heavy on the land and dripped off the roof like rain, my mother would say, ‘Them old people in the Pilbara, they would tell us: “It’s those Seven Sisters, they weeing on us tonight.”’