Whispers of This Wik Woman

by Fiona Doyle

  The pain that lay covering us, her descendants, like a thick heavy blanket is indescribable. My throat and heart ached. I felt a lot of shame in that last leg of the process.

  I didn’t understand where the shame was coming from at that point. Was I ashamed of my grandmother or was I ashamed of her questioners? Where was this awful shame coming from?

  I found in the last couple of weeks during the contentious consultations with the lawyers, anthropologists and the land council that I slowly began to avoid eye contact with Nana. I could not look at her. I did not want to look at her. Whenever I did, the emptiness she was obviously suppressing and the pain she was consumed by swallowed me in. If I did look at her I fell so deep, I found it such a struggle to climb back out of that dark pit of pain. How could they do this to her? I kept thinking.

  I began to doubt my grandmother. ‘Nana’, I said one day. I cleared my throat and braced myself for what I knew was going to be downright cheeky of me. Her fingers cupped the sides of her favourite pannikin full of hot tea that I had just set before her.

  She looked at me. Her eyes were sad. ‘Arni?’ she responded. ‘What?’

  ‘Nana, how come nobody believes you? Why are you going through this? How come nobody is helping you? Maybe this mob is right?’

  I was crumbling by this stage but I was in too deep. There was no backtracking now. I continued, ‘Maybe you got no right for this!’

  Silence.

  There, I said it! Nine years of holding her hand without a single shred of doubt and now I’d said it. I slowly came to question whether Nana had any rights after all. I actually embraced this notion for the first time. I felt sick! I was tired of this business. And if I was tired ... little old me being tired, then what the hell was Nana feeling? This black woman who was so clearly traditional, knowledgable, spiritual, intuitive, strong and instinctive, what was she feeling?

  Nana just sat there, pannikin in her hand. She did not move, did not flinch. Not once. No anger. No reaction. She just kept staring straight ahead. I think she must have been digesting what I had just said, mentally and emotionally studying those words her own grand-daughter had just let loose, the one she had prepared and taught all her life, turning around and questioning her own blood grandmother’s legitimacy to traditional title and recognition.

  She turned and looked straight at me and said what she had always proclaimed, ‘This is my home. This is country for all of us. Old people bin tell me. Them fellas don’t know. I know.’

  And she continued to sip her tea.

  A couple of days later I sat down with Mum and Lynette. ‘Mama, Lyn,’ I said. They looked at me. ‘Youse think Nana got it wrong?’ I had nothing to lose now.

  Mum looked at me. ‘Your grandmother knows who she is, Fay. Your grandmother knows what she’s talking about. She sat with old people—Kepas, Aaron and Annie York. They would’ve told her otherwise. Look around at this mob. Look at them! They don’t know nothing. They’re only blowing big wind for nothing, that’s all.’

  Lyn looked at me. My big sister, who was not always politically vocal, was now being forced to join the process. ‘Faye, she’s our nana. She’s been teaching us all our lives. Why are we gonna stop believing her now?’ She said this so confidently.

  That day I felt a closeness to Lynette that I’d rarely known. Lynette and I are very different in character and personality. Here was the one thing that bound us together—a strong, strong love and respect we both shared, for this woman, our grandmother, and the blood the three of us—Mum, Lyn and myself—had pumping through our veins.

  A couple of days before the actual signing some representatives from the land council came to my house. They informed us that they had basically ‘discovered’ Yepenyi’s name in the records listed as an Alngith man.

  ‘Clowns!’ I thought to myself. ‘The hide of this mob! That’s what we’ve been saying all along. That’s what Nana has been saying all these years. But no, it’s gotta be written down by a white man before they’ll take it into account.’

  They left. Just like that! They never said sorry to Nana. No formal letter of apology was ever sent to my grandmother for all the humiliation and pain she had been subjected to as a traditional Elder. It was like—Well, she can sign now.

  We are still waiting for that letter of apology, even if it gets put on her coffin. We are still waiting for that apology to come.

  Nana’s identity, who she was, and who we knew she was, was portrayed and jigsawed differently by others. Anthropologists, lawyers and other Aboriginal people were part of the group whose opinions my grandmother withstood. She withstood them in a dignified manner.

  On that day, after much strife, she signed with dignity, strength of character and wholeness: Jean George, Awumpun, Alngith Elder, and Jean George, Awumpun, Alngith/Wikwaya Elder. She signed twice. Just as she has always proclaimed, she had a belonging, a connection, to both sides of the Embley River, as she had been taught by her Elders, her father and her people.

  Nana signing the historic Western Cape Communities Co-existence Agreement (between Cape York communities, Rio Tinto and the federal government) on 14 March 2001

  Even to this day, as I form these words into print, Nana still doesn’t get recognition as an Alngith woman in this town. Oh, there have been several times, maybe twice, when she’s been referred to as one of the oldest surviving Alngith descendants of the Old People. Our grandmother is not present to sit as a traditional Elder to open festivals or various events. Her name is not mentioned at speeches in recognition of her Alngith title. Nevertheless, the fact that our grandmother’s signature is down on that piece of paper in the Agreement is enough for now. We had to see that through. As for public image, it doesn’t really matter. Our grandmother’s voice and teachings are forever etched in our minds, our hearts and our spirits. We are Alngith descendants in our being and in our spirits, not just on paper. That’s the difference between gammon and truth.

  I could not sleep the night before the big ‘Agreement’ signing. It was an exhaustive lead-up to that historic day. In one sense, I felt an intense feeling of belonging to the Cape, which filled me with great pride. On the other hand, I was apprehensive about the signing, for fear of witnessing my grandmother being dispossessed or ridiculed even further in public. I was afraid she might be humiliated and insulted in front of others, and have to endure even more than she had already. However, I held my head high, pushed down the pain and directed my spirit to prevail, for Nana’s sake.

  To see Nana finally sign in the way she did was overwhelming, yet it was still not complete. I mentally photographed moments that I had bottled secretly in my mind, never to be forgotten or overlooked in regards to my ancestry. Yet there was still a void.

  I witnessed people, other people, telling her who she was and where she belonged according to what was written on paper by white historians and white anthropologists. They also said that some of her own people, black people who were relatives, supported what was written down on paper. The only person who was arguing against what everyone else was saying was Nana. When I asked her why there was opposition regarding her claims of traditional country and boundaries, Nana would insist that people did not understand; they did not know or did not know enough. There always appeared to be a fine line between what Nana was saying and what the opposition was saying. Even the recorded history was to some degree supporting Nana’s claims and at the same time contradicting them. Clearly, none of Nana’s Wikwaya countrymen were there to explain to the Cape York Land Council her links to her father’s land.

  In that room that day, I realised that no matter how much my spirit was screaming, the people in front of us simply were unable to hear. They were incapable of understanding where this 76-year-old black woman was coming from. She was speaking from her heart, from her spirit, and the law was not going to recognise that.

  It is written in the white man’s records that Awumpun is indeed of the Alngith. The ‘specialists’ have interpreted anthropologica
l documentation regarding the lands of the Alngith and Liningithi by a certain process, resulting in confinement of certain families to particular areas of country. In Nana’s case, Arniyum or Roberts Creek is anthropologically documented as Nana’s main country. Nana agrees that Arniyum is tribal place, but her argument is that it is not the only place. She identifies with all Alngith country as her country, not just Arniyum. Arniyum is one of several significant sacred sites.

  When I questioned this with anthropologists their response was that it was not their interpretation of our traditional social structure that restricts and confines Nana to only Arniyum but our very own make-up of what was referred to as ‘Clan Estates’. It is that concept that has confined Nana to being traditionally recognised only in country south of the Embley River as an Alngith leader rather than being recognised as an overall Alngith Elder of all Alngith country.

  That day at the Cape York Land Council office, Awumpun was ‘told’ that her claim to the north of the river was ‘secondary’ and that her primary land was to the south. Awumpun argues that for Arniyum (Roberts) Creek to be her only place is simply ridiculous, as it is story place with O’olay Paanj Story there: ‘No one can live in story place, that story place belong to all of us!’

  In a nutshell, it is Nana’s interpretation versus the specialists’ interpretation of our own traditional structure. What they have done is they have applied the rules of boundaries in bright red and therefore ‘cut up’ the Alngith Peoples as a Nation. This has resulted in a recreated Alngith Group. This group has a new face, a face which we the descendants of Awumpun argue is not reflective of the true face of the original Alngith Peoples.

  I am neither an anthropologist nor a lawyer, nor a historian, as mainstream society defines it. I am not qualified in any of those areas, but I do have a position that far surpasses all those qualifications. I am her grand-daughter. I am of her blood and I have a responsibility to tell her story the only way I know how—straight from the heart.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Nana outside her house at 1 Peppan Street, Napranum.

  Nana lived at 1 Peppan Street, Napranum, until recently, in a large green house right on the corner. She had a good view of most of the activities and happenings of Napranum.

  Fortunately, she was close to most of the necessary facilities—the snack bar and Council Chambers across the road, the hospital a little further on and the store just down the road in the opposite direction. The two schools are only several minutes walk away, if she needed to visit and teach. The Jessica Point beach is within view and only a bit further on than the schools. The community hall is just across the road for meetings or entertainment, and the community oval is right in front of her house.

  Nana moved into the house in the early 1980s when I was about thirteen-years-old. She remained there, living alone, while I was away in Sydney studying dance. After I married and returned home, my husband Dan and I shared the house with her for several years. Nana then had a granny flat built under the house, as constantly walking up and down the stairs became too tiring for her. We had the veranda turned into another room when Danny and I had our first child, Sheridan Nyrlotte.

  Just outside Nana’s fence is a vacant area which the grandchildren have fondly named ‘Awumpun’s Corner’, as Nana used to take her favourite chair out there and sit under the big shady tree. People would stop and spend time with her if they happened to see her while passing by. Almost every day there’d be a gathering there—Jean with her own mob ... talking, arguing, sharing both the good and the bad that families seem to consist of.

  People have commented that the area seems to have something special about it; like it is reserved for something very significant. My best memories of Awumpun’s Corner are of the nights we had chorus singing there. It is a special place and will always remind me of my dear Nana.

  My sister Lynette now lives on the site that Nana and Grandad moved to after they were forced to leave the waterfront mission. The house that Grandad built at the waterfront was pulled down; something they owned was taken away from them. Moved further inland and put into small, ‘match-box’ sized houses, they were then required to pay rent. Now a four-bedroom brick house stands on the site and Nana, who lives with Lyn, says she will stay there ‘forever’.

  The Jessica Point State School occupies most of the area where the villagers once lived. Mango trees remind us of where certain families used to live, and the old almond tree still stands where Nana and Grandad’s house was. As a child, I always felt that that tree was ‘mine’ because I knew my grandmother had planted it. It was right in the school playground and I would ‘boss’ all the other children around, playing ‘owner’ of some sort, because only I understood its significance.

  On 1 January 2000 Nana suffered a stroke and since that time her health has not been the best. But her life is peaceful. She finds peace in her Saviour and her great-grandchildren and the precious moments she spends with loved ones. She enjoys our fishing trips, especially to Gonbung, and going to Wallaby or Pelican Islands to gather oysters or collect shells for necklaces.

  Nana has adopted into our family group her ‘white’ daughter Aunty Fran and has therefore gained a very patient son-in-law, Wayne Foran, as a result also. Frances Casey has worked as a nurse with the people of Napranum, Mapoon and Weipa since the 1980s. Nana has connected with her on an emotional level and has adopted her into our family group. We are taught by Nana to give respect to Frances as a result of this acknowledgment.

  Aunty Fran makes a big difference to Nana’s health and well-being in general. I think they saw elements of themselves in each other (say no more) which led them to form the bond they now share. Mum has also gained a sister as a result. Nana has often in the past done ‘the rounds’, living between Lynette’s place (Kwokkanum Street, Napranum), my place (Doyles at Tarquin Court, Rocky Point) and Aunty Fran’s place (Ina Court, Rocky Point). We would share Nana between us and make the most of the precious and often challenging times with her.

  Nana gets a lot of satisfaction from going on school excursions with the Napranum Preschool or any other school students with whom she can share her knowledge and experiences. Sharing the knowledge her people have passed on to her comes quite naturally to Nana, as she is a born storyteller and it is almost as if she needs to pass it on. I feel a sense of frustration that the Alngith language is not spoken among the people as it should be, but it must be especially strange for Nana, being the only one who does speak fluently in this tongue.

  Because I have had this language spoken to me for most of my life, I possess some knowledge of it. I often think in Alngith and speak it to my children. I assist Nana in her language workshops but only feel comfortable if she is present. I realise that there will come a day when she will not be here and I wonder what will happen then.

  The generation of our Elders at Napranum and Aurukun is fast disappearing.

  I enjoy sitting in their company and just listening to them speak about the world as they see it. They often make me laugh yet sometimes I feel a sense of sadness. Most importantly, I realise how fortunate I am to be a member of a culture which sees the world and all it contains in a very different way to mainstream Australia. It is fulfilling to be a part of a people who look at the earth in all its beauty and never wonder at its worldly worth.

  A new generation is growing up and the future of our people’s priorities and values is yet to be determined. Because of the difference in societal standards, outlook, the way one perceives things and the way one chooses to perceive things, the direction our people take may not always be positive, but society is not going to wait for us, so we must keep up with it. We do not need to allow it to dominate us. However, one thing is important. We must never forget who we are and where we come from. That sense of identity is so important for future healthy relationships with our land and its people. I believe that a strong sense of identity completes our being. A sense of belonging produces and instils in us the boldness and courage that we
need in order to achieve what we aspire to in today’s society.

  Our future: Sheridan Nyrlotte, Justice Athailpun and Ebony Anna Awumpun Doyle in their backyard, Weipa, 2000. Awumpun’s little sisters (great-granddaughters) all possess the language names of their maternal lineage. (Photographs by Stef Furlong)

  Nana still recalls the voice of Old Dick Kelinda. She ponders the existence of Yepenyi Mammus Rruchuk Kelinda (her grandfather) and the voices of all the others that are still there in the wind, floating in and out of her spirit. They would not fade or be corrected just because the white man (or the black man without traditional knowledge) fails to understand the system Nana believes in with her whole heart.