"Decolonising Our Minds: Learning to Hear the Language of the Land"
Introduction: Growing Up on the Southern Darling Downs
As a boy growing up on the southern Darling Downs, my family settled on grazing land to till the soil and begin cropping. But for a kid, time is a durative thing with no real sense of beginnings and ends, a kind of forever thing. Instinctively, I was aware of Aboriginal voices, or rather, their absence, they should have been there. How could they disappear without trace? It was an open secret that we were not the first people to live on that country. In that colonial maelstrom of our little village, my desires to discover either a stone axe head or a nugget of gold were equally matched.
Gold Rush and Historical Significance
Gold had been found 12 miles down the road at Leyburn. A rusted quartz crusher still rests absently there abandoned in the bush where 22 canvass pubs stood in its brief heyday in the 1860s. In the other direction, accounts of the original Domville station said it was built with rifle windows, narrow slits in the walls that enable defence while under siege. What does that say?
Those who see the Voice as a transactional thing, where indigenous people make demands on settlers, are against it. ‘No need to enshrine that,’ they say, ‘legislation will do that and may even be better. There’s plenty of ways of finding out what First Nations people want from settler folk.’ But those voices hush when reading the Uluru Statement from the Heart, and you quickly realise that that is not the proposal at all.
The Misconception of the Voice
Recently, I attended a ‘kitchen table’ conversation in Unley Town Hall, where parts of Australia’s dark history were brought out of the shadows before retiring to tea and biscuits and polite conversation. Moments of guilt and outrage were briefly aired before equanimity was restored.
Again the ‘No’ campaign is instructive, in drawing attention to the question of who should be compelled to listen. ‘No one,’ they say, arguing that there are already many ways, the chief being electoral, for messages to be conveyed to government, or just like any other lobby group. And they would be right if the Voice, in the absence of Uluru, were to be a transactional device. But it isn't.
Connecting with the Land: Yandilla and Cultural Insights
Sitting on the black soil banks of Yandilla (Gaibal = running water), or walking through the Red Gum flood plains, watching the wallaroos and goannas amongst the bloodwoods and Moreton Bay Ashes on the red soil sandy ridge or kangaroos and a very occasional emu in the open country, country talks to your secret inside voice. Not the voices of hunter/gatherers eeking out a squalid existence in a harsh landscape, but an ancient culture finely tuned to the entire ecosystem.
They were voices of a people who observe and monitor relationships of plants and trees, of critters and humans. Knowledge of the seasons, when to move to high ground, when to put restorative flame to the grasslands, when to anticipate flood waters making the country impassable with black soils that become both sticky and slippery, when frosty mornings turn to scorching summers.
Mapping Songlines and Cultural Connections
Earlier this week, a friend, a senior lawman, from the Centre sent me an email with a map of homelands, communities, townships, and regions which I know to be interlinked by a particular set of songlines. It brought ‘Yorro, Yorro: Everything Standing Up Alive’ to mind, a book co-authored by Mowaljarlai in which he illustrates the story matrix embedded in country. I had been reminded of it in a PowerPoint at the ‘kitchen table’ conversation.
You see, I could look at the map with circles and rectangles denoting places that carry songlines, and ‘intuit’ the invisible linkages. Or I could look at Mowaljarlai’s songline matrix and ‘intuit’ the unmarked towns, cities, and regions. The first is a map of the places, the second a diagram of the connections.
Philomena Cunk and the Doomsday Book Analogy
Lately, I found myself captivated by a BBC mockumentary series featuring the comedic character Philomena Cunk and her unique worldview. One particular conversation stood out to me, centred around the Doomsday Book - the earliest surviving written record of land ownership and resources in late 11th century England. In a conversation featuring the famous Book, she asks an historical expert a question that is both absurdly idiotic and profound at the same time. “How did they get the sounds into the ink so that when you read them, the words play back in your head?” she asks.
It brought to mind the koan of the sound of one hand clapping - a paradoxical enigma that, like Philomena's query, both defies and invites understanding. For me, the point is that a voice without an audience is like ink on a forgotten page, a language lost to time. It echoes the silence of the countryside, where the whispers of the land and its people still hold sway if we listen closely enough.
Listening to Overtones and Harmonies
Learning this language takes time and patience, much like unraveling the mysteries of the universe itself. Yet the irony is that our bodies and psyches already possess a deep understanding of it, woven into the very fabric of our being. We need only allow ourselves to break free from the constraints of our modern world, dare I say decolonise our thinking, and embrace the wisdom of our ancestors.
It's a challenge, certainly - one that requires us to resist the urge to turn away from uncomfortable truths or to privilege our own voices over those of others. But by tuning into the overtones and harmonies of a living oral tradition, we can unlock a universe far richer and more vibrant than anything captured on a static page.
I was reminded of a childhood game I used to play, where I would drown out unpleasant sounds by chanting "blah blah blah" and covering my ears. It's a childish impulse, to be sure - but one that we often carry into adulthood, whether through wilful ignorance or outright prejudice. By learning to listen with an open mind and an open heart, we can break free from this narrow worldview and discover a heroic new world beyond ourselves.
It's not always easy, of course. The voices of doubt and fear can be overwhelming, drowning out the subtler melodies of the land and its people. But if we are willing to listen - truly listen - we can hear the resounding "YES!" that echoes through the universe, beckoning us ever closer to a world of being, becoming, and belonging together.
