Whispers of This Wik Woman

by Fiona Doyle

  My people must have extremely big hearts. All my grandmother’s generation and even the generation that belongs to my mother’s age group are incredibly strong. They have endured so much throughout their lives that I am curious as to what keeps them going. What helps them keep on living? What they have to endure now is a different type of pain, disappointment and misfortune.

  The people, my people, the ones who were moved from the original Weipa Mission, and including those relatives who joined them from neighbouring communities such as Aurukun, witnessed the rapid evolution of their community structure. They were continuously being challenged to accept and adapt to these changes. Surviving these changes they endured being dictated to and controlled to an extent which was damaging.

  I, a descendant of these people, can’t even begin to fathom how one would live, and continue to live, under such circumstances. There is no denying that much good was done for the people during these times. Grandmother and mother both confirm this whenever yarning about Mission times takes place.

  In my eyes, however, changes once more escalated after the discovery of the mineral bauxite. This red pebble is used to produce aluminium and our country is indeed rich in bauxite. As a result of this discovery, an influx of explorers and then later on miners began to populate the region. The arrival of the white miners in the mid 1950s brought a very different lifestyle to the area, which contributed to the ongoing social breakdown of the Aboriginal community.

  No more did the younger generation sit and learn the songs and dances of our old people. Instead, they worked as servants in the nearby newly built township. They preferred to go up to ‘Top Camp’, a place where the explorers had set up camp at an area known traditionally as Munthing to the people. There they watched movies or they just sat around yarning together. Getting to know the new white faces that were slowly beginning to populate the land was obviously much more interesting than learning the old ways.

  With this invasion, my people suffered the consequences of a breakdown of language, and a decline in the performance of cultural activities that were common then. This ‘breakdown’ was probably due to the availability of alcohol and the introduction of white man’s activities, which seemed both new and interesting and pricked the curiosity of the younger generation of that time. Consequently, there was a rejection of their own cultural lifestyle and a thirst for what seemed like a better alternative.

  My three grandfathers (that is, my mother’s father and his two brothers), Willy, Roy and Benny George, all served in World War II along with other men from the three communities of Mapoon, Aurukun and Weipa. My direct grandfather, Roy, was ranked Private. He served in the Australian Citizen Military Forces from 3 November 1943 to 4 November 1944, serving in the Second Australian Water Transport Group and the Fourteenth Australian Small Ships Company. He received the Defence Medal and the War Medal and was also awarded the Australia Service Medal as he had served for more than thirty days.

  Willy George was ranked Sapper. He served in the Citizen Military Forces from 17 September 1943 to 31 March 1946. Grandad Willy served in the Second Australian Water Transport Group, the Sixteenth Australian Water Transport Operating Company and the Torres Strait Light Infantry Battalion. He received the Defence Medal, the War Medal and the Australia Service Medal.

  The third brother, Benny, served in the Torres Strait Light Infantry Battalion. He served from September 1943 until his death on 8 September 1945. Benny George was buried on Thursday Island.

  Grandad (Roy George), proud and upstanding in his WWII Army uniform

  Your grandfather bin good working man until that bloody grog got hold of him ... proper bin bugger him up after he tasted that grog. I tried to stop your grandfather from drinking, but he would not listen. If he didn’t drink, he would still be alive with me today.

  Grandad apparently started drinking after the transition in the 1960s from the waterfront mission to where the community is now situated. That was when the Department of Aboriginal and Islander Affairs took over control of the community from the Presbyterian Church. Later the department was renamed the Department of Community Services (DCS).

  Grandfather’s slide into alcoholism would have been a slow, subtle transition. Was it an easier option to take rather than to continue to stand tall, black and proud? I don’t know why he chose drink over his dignity. Was being married to my grandmother difficult? Was she too political? Too fiery, too outspoken, too bold? Grandfather was the complete opposite ... ever so quiet and gentle. It was he who kept the meals hot, ready for my sister Lynette and me as we ran home hungry after school. During this time I also remember sitting outside the community canteen in the dark, watching men and women stumble back and forth, intoxicated and loud, wandering in and out of this pathetically filthy place as if they had nothing good to live for. I was only young, maybe seven or eight, but I remember feeling sad that these people, my people, lived like this.

  Even now, I can close my eyes and see me reaching for my grandfather’s hands to lead him out of that place, full of the stench of beer and urine. I remember guiding him down the four or five stairs of rotting wood, through the canteen grounds and past the mobs of screaming relatives, onto the narrow, dark, dirt track which took us home. I just wanted to know that my grandad would get home safely, that’s all. I suppose I figured it was up to me to make sure he did get home, regardless of the state he was in.

  Were changes in cultural lifestyle among the many factors contributing to alcoholism among Aboriginal people, particularly the men? It seems to me that the state of the community deteriorated after the transition in the 1960s and this decay continues as our community is being torn apart.

  The lack of knowledge of language, songs, dances and artefacts can also be clearly seen today. It is sad and frustrating. There is a longing in many people’s hearts to have their dialect, their language roll off their tongue fluently, to have the words spoken by their ancestors to be their first language and for that language to be a part of them ... central to their being. Yet, is it not there. That language does not roll off people’s tongues as it should. Instead, words are learnt, memorised and spoken with a certain unfamiliarity. Words and sounds feel unfamiliar, yet they are a part of our identity. Language sounds are unusual in comparison to the English language, yet the latter belongs to the white man.

  My grandmother was born into a multi-lingual world. Wik Munkan, the mother language that connects the Wik Peoples in communication, is Nana’s first language as that was the dominant language spoken at Aurukun where she grew up. Apart from Munkan, Nana also, over time, learnt several other dialects that belonged to close related family groups, mainly Wik Ngathan, the native dialect of her mother Nyrlotte. This particular dialect is sweet and mysterious in its sound and structure and remains only a hazy memory in my mind. Alongside Wik Ngathan, Nana was also taught her father’s main dialect, Alngith. In Weipa, the dialects of Alngith/Liningithi were familiar. Nana went on to learn Mbaiwum/Troch, the dialect of her husband, and was able to recognise the other dialects spoken in and around the Weipa area. Her ability and knowledge of languages are remarkable considering it was a time when speaking in language other than English was prohibited by mission authorities. In comparison to my Nana’s instinctive and fluent ability to absorb languages, I have limited ability. As a child I was spoken to in Wik Munkan. I have memories of sitting with families as they taught me language, speaking to me and testing my knowledge on country in context.

  Nana to this day will casually choose which dialect to communicate in to her grandchildren or great-grandchildren. We know which one she is speaking in and respond appropriately. Only my sister Jane and brother Willy Roy speak Wik Munkan fluently. The rest of us can interpret and understand. We all recognise and understand Alngith when it is spoken to us, and although I have learnt it in more detail than my siblings, I still do not speak it fluently. Why? My first and main language is Cape York Kriol, home language, the ‘Weipa’ version, which I consider a language of it
s own.

  Control of traditional language by some missionaries was a slow, subtle form of cultural genocide. However, at Aurukun, the MacKenzies (serving from 1925 to 1965) encouraged the use of Wik languages. Today, there is not one person alive, who I am aware of, who possesses the same amount of knowledge of the Alngith ways as my grandmother, whether it be language, dreaming, totemic ancestry or practices. All these elements complete my grandmother’s identity as an Alngith woman. So tampering with her identity, whether by those who are Indigenous or those who are non-Indigenous, is an insult too profound to explain. When someone dictates your identity, which is contradictory to how you’ve been reared and taught and shaped, it is a dangerous thing. It creates a big gap deep in your belly and the further removed you become from that place of identity, whether it be literal or symbolic connection in the form of recognition at community level, the larger and more painful that gap becomes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Grandad sang this song to my mother as he left for work along with other men from the village. This song is Mbaiwum, his language. A lot of the songs Grandad composed were also sung in dialects belonging to neighbouring tribes and a number of his songs are sung in Ndra-ngith. Grandad is saying goodbye to his daughter, Annie, simply telling her he is now leaving, leaving her behind ... and that he loves her.

  Mum was named Annie at birth but also would have automatically inherited Athailpun because that is the name of her grandmother, her father’s mother, old Ethel George. As well as being ‘Big Name’ on her father’s side, it would also have been the name that was being spoken while Nana was in labour. It is traditional cultural practice that during labor the Aboriginal midwife who is present is constantly calling out various ‘Big Names’ or language names belonging to various relatives. Whichever name is being called at the time the baby emerges into the world is the name the child inherits. In Mum’s case it was the name of her paternal grandmother, Athailpun.

  During the first few years of her life, Mum saw her father only a couple of times a year. Grandad was often away working or looking for work. In between jobs, he would return home to spend time with his family, before setting off again. Nana grew quite independent, fending for herself when her husband was away. Mum grew up in the mission dormitory, so it wasn’t until the end of her teenage years that any sort of mother/daughter relationship was formed.

  Nana, like all the other mothers in the village, had to give her only child up to the missionaries to be raised in the dormitory. It was common practice, so she did not resist. My mother, like every other Aboriginal child, whether male or female, was five years old when she had to leave her home, her mother, her father and her other family members, to go on her own to be raised in the dormitories. The only comforting thought would probably have been that everyone else in the dormitories, aged from five to eighteen, was a relation in one way or another. There was no way you would be alone, as cousins, sisters, uncles, brothers and aunties constantly surrounded you.

  The children saw their parents every day, as the parents were responsible for providing food for their children, to supplement what the mission provided. So, although very young to leave their parents, the children were not totally isolated after being taken away. The ‘dormitory life’ still provided a sense of family, as parents and relatives had a significant role to play.

  Mum recalls the dormitory being shut down when she was about fifteen or sixteen years of age. The first white people she worked for were Mr and Mrs Butler at the mission house. Mum actually grew very close to this family and their children. Throughout my childhood, Mum would constantly tell me stories about her experiences with the Butler children. The close relationship between my family and the Butlers has continued to this day. Nana and Mum both continue to receive letters from Ted and Marg Butler, especially at Christmas time.

  However, I think that the dormitory life prevented any sort of ‘close’ relationship developing between my mother and grandmother. Annie probably had a closer relationship with relatives in the village than with her birth-mother. Nana had her responsibilities and obligations to the villagers, and at the dormitory there were rules to follow concerning the children’s routine.

  As a child I was aware of a distance between Mum and Nana. They had very little in common and rarely cooperated or communicated effectively with each other.

  At twenty-one, my mother was sent away by the authorities to work as a cook and housemaid at various cattle stations. She returned home after falling pregnant with her first child, my older sister, Lynette, who was born in 1965, when Mum was twenty-two-years old.

  Bung Swamp, Annie in white bathers standing beside Kukoo Dorothy Fruit, and Rebecca Christie in front.

  I realise now that Mum did not have the opportunity to learn the language of her father’s or mother’s native tongue, as she was too busy performing the tasks introduced to her by the white man. Unlike the families at Aurukun who were allowed to and continued to speak and practise cultural tradition and dances, the villagers at Weipa were restricted by the missionaries. However, it is evident that my mother’s psyche is Mbaiwum. She responds to and incorporates the Mbaiwum, Alngith and Wik ways into her everyday approach to life. It is apparent that the knowledge in the minds and hearts of Mum’s generation is a result of observation rather than practice. Nana’s rich cultural knowledge resulted from the teachings of a strict, traditional father and a life lived ‘outside’ the dormitory system.

  Now that all of us children are grown up and living our own independent lives, and Mum is a widow, circumstances have brought Mum and Nana back together again, after so many years. Issues of where we go from here with regards to land management and future aspirations are now demanding discussion, which is making the family realise what we mean to each other. The importance of knowledge regarding traditional practices and structures is fast becoming a demand on our thoughts and discussions. Our source, Nana, is very much respected and she has become a symbol of our identity, past, present and future. Even though Nana is Alngith Wikwaya and Mum is Mbaiwum/Troch, they support each other accordingly, as the offspring are connected to both sides.

  Left to right: Me (holding my daughter Sheridan Nyrlotte), my sister Lynette, Nana, Annie (Mum) holding Kathleen. Seated: Barbara, my other sister, holding her new-born twin girls (Jonyele and Bridgette), and my little brother Willy Roy. (Photo taken on Nana’s veranda in 1993)

  Our traditional identity shapes who we will become.

  Mum had occasionally shared with me over the years what the dormitory days were like. She recalls how they were always ‘getting into mischief’, and therefore ‘getting into trouble’ quite frequently. For example, the punishment for stealing tomatoes was an instant whipping by Superintendent Winn. If anything was taken without permission, including mangoes on the trees or any type of fruit hanging ready to be eaten, the children knew they would be punished. In spite of the punishments, Mum has happy memories of those days.

  Your Uncle Walter loved tomatoes. Because he was younger he couldn’t say tomatoes properly. He would say, ‘Sissy, get me tumtoot ... I want tumtoot’.

  We used to have good time in dormitory. Schooling and go school. Never run away from dormitory. Only time we used to steal tomatoes, passionfruit and bananas.

  We used to crawl around under the fence to steal. If Superintendent Winn see us, we were caught. He would signal us to go to the mission house. He used to hit us with hard leather. We were not allowed even to knock mangoes or almond nuts. We can only eat when and if the missionaries gave them to us. We got hiding if we did steal. We used to go to the old incinerator, to rake around and see if we could find good books too.

  Annie remembers that the children went fishing on Wednesdays, as part of the dormitory schooling. They used cotton for their fishing lines and bent pins for hooks, and they caught bream, whiting, nailfish and bul bul (big-eye mate blong bream). They would also get their own powdered milk tin and collect pipis. When they had a tin full, they would make a fire and
boil the pipis in the tins.

  Annie talked about the dormitory food:

  We had corn porridge for breakfast, boiled, with treacle sprinkled on it and fresh milk. Our milkman, old Oolway Daniel Hall, and old Phillip used to get milk for us.

  Dinner was fresh beef and rice. Supper was soup and homemade bread baked by the head cook. Our head cooks were Teresa and Alice. The housekeepers were Samuel Harry and his wife Elsie; also Charcoal and Lois.

  Annie remembers when old Joe Ned came back from fighting in World War II and he used to do tap dancing for them. They were very excited whenever he tap-danced for them and were always trying to imitate him.