Thank you Oscar for sharing this feature. As indigenous people of this world, we must fight to protect our culture. Once the culture leaves us, it is gone forever. Museums and books will not and cannot re-capture nor save the culture for our future generations.
Category Archives: Stories
General stories, Other posts, Reblogs
Chaos, A Climate Activist
This was Chaos at 14-weeks old and photographed by his owner, John Sheridan. I met Chaos a few days ago at my house. He is half dingo. Chaos is a Climate Activist. Chaos’ mother was a climate activist (with owner and indigenous activist Muzz) before Chaos was born in Maules Creek, close to a new coal mine project currently underway in regional NSW. The project construction costs are estimated to total $767 million. When operating at full capacity Maules Creek is expected to employ about 450 people.
Being an activist meant being present and taking part in marches which often result in police interventions and arrests.
In June this year Chaos’s new owners and friends of mine, Rae and John Sheridan were amongst protestors against the Maules Creek coal mine project who got arrested. Just before they were arrested Rae Sheridan recalls how she and John met Chaos.
“The police road block a couple of kilometres from the base camp gave us our first taste of being part of a ‘suspect’ group. We were welcomed at camp and immediately given a tour of the very considerable facilities; kitchen, information tent, campfire gathering circle, farm barn-cum meeting hall, solar recharging nook, communications unit, toilets, showers and a little further the tepee belonging to indigenous activist Muzz the owner of an impressive part dingo Mother, Dubi, and her irresistible ten puppies, all seven-week-old”.
This weekend, on this Blog – read more of the Maules Creek incident and a brief insight into the life that Rae and John Sheridan live as Climate Change activist.
Short story
Sometimes, to write a short story, I need to write three to get one. I am never fully satisfied that I have written the one I like.
The good thing about this is that, I can develop and edit the ones I don’t really like and eventually they become a short story. It is just like creating artwork.
The short stories I like best are the ones I can write in 20 to 30 minutes and it flows effortlessly in the first draft.
A new short story is coming this week – that’s a deal.
Racism
Most of us have felt the brunt of racism. I have read some of the posts by fellow bloggers and I wanted to share some of my own experiences and views about racism.
My mother is Papua New Guinean and my father Australian. When you have parents that are black and white, you feel the hate when it comes – from both sides. When I was growing up in my village in Lae City, the children tormented me in different ways. I was one of three ‘white’ children in an all-black school. These ‘white children’ shared the black and white parentage. Our skin was only a few shades lighter. Everyone’s hair was curly. We were the same people but we would be treated differently. For me personally, I spoke the same languages; ate, drank, danced and followed all the rituals and traditional obligations in the same culture. But, when there was a fight with other children – I became ‘white’. I was white devil when my hair grew long.
One day during our language practising group exercise (we were all learning English in primary school-grade five), I got into a fight with a boy who called me a “white bastard”. I more or less told him he was a “dumb-ass”. He didn’t like what I said so he swung a piece of board at me and sliced my right eye-brow off.
The cut left the opened top of my brow open. The split brow fell and closed my right eye. Blood gushed everywhere. This made me mad. The pain and blood did not stop me from jumping on top of him and choking him before two teachers ripped us apart. An ambulance was called in and seven stitches later, I returned home. My grandmother took her bush knife to the boy’s family home and after giving his parents her piece of mind – they reprimanded him. Lucky for me, the board did not get my eye and my eyebrow grew back and the stitches were done so well no-one sees the scar until I mention it.
My grandmother told me that the word ‘white bastard’ was a very bad word and every time some kid called me that, I had to tell her. She insisted that the children would be jailed. It was a long while before I learnt the true meaning of ‘white bastard’, but that will be another story on this Blog.
We moved to Australia ten years ago. One day, I went to a Charity store to buy some clothes. This time, I was the only ‘black’ woman in the store. The shop assistants, all volunteers were also from the local Christian churches. I brought the clothes I wanted to buy to the counter and got questioned by counter woman (a white Australian), who already decided I was going to steal something. I told her the clothes on the counter were mine, I needed to try on a pair of pants before I paid for everything. I told her I would like to leave the clothes on the counter and return once I finished from the fitting room. I don’t know how that could have meant anything else. This woman verbally attacked me and kept on referring to me as “people like you” come into this store and “blah blah”. I am saying “blah blah” because I do not need to repeat what she said to me. I had never seen her before – she was a complete stranger to me. I decided within five minutes of her racist abuse that my shopping had ended and hurried out before I slapped her.
Racially related unrests and crimes have taken many lives. In this day and age we expect things to be different and better. I did. I thought we are more educated and the world is connected in so many different ways with our technology that we would learn more about each other. I expect people in general to be courteous, kind and appreciative towards me and each other. I wish we all could accept each other, our colour, our faith, our cultures etc. We are all the same but different.
It is sad that today, more so, we are more suspicious of one another and we judge each other for whatever our own personal reasons are. We are not prepared to let our minds open and accept what we do not know or understand.
In the case of recent events in America, when information unfolded, it became more obvious the actions of the authority in Ferguson could have been carried out better and without taking a life.
My 18-year-old son and I constantly have a conversation about racism. Nathan showed me this video by John Oliver on You Tube about the Michael Brown Shooting in Ferguson and I wanted to share it.
Watch John Oliver on You Tube.
Living in the Wild West
Our Suburb is Bellbowrie. It is one of several in western Brisbane, Queensland (Australia). Most people here are very friendly and the atmosphere is like a village. We have lived here for three years and seven in Chapel Hill (also in the west) so I am comfortable to speak about the western suburbs. The council offers daily, free buses for the students travelling out from here
With large open spaces and beautiful landscape, just near the river, this part of the west is regarded as one of the richer parts of Brisbane. House prices range from $AUD400,000 upwards. In parts, prices are as high as $2-3 Million. Our house is a fifty-year-old termite ridden renovator with some land I grow vegetables and my sons raise their chickens for eggs. Our neighbours have horses. The area is beautiful and full of wild-life. You can understand why the early settlers came here and eventually made it a pineapple farmland.
Over a year ago a body of a beautiful woman was found at Kholo creek three minutes drive from where we live. This was a very quiet place. The spot was between Mt Crosby and Anstead. In these two suburbs, families live in acreage properties, some farming and these two edge onto Bellbowrie. The discovery of this woman was shocking to all surrounding communities.
As it turned out, the story unfolded very slowly and pieces came together as police worked through the case. From the original story that hit the media; a mother of three daughters going out jogging and not coming home (according to her husband) to the wife being murdered by the husband himself. It has been a year but slowly the pieces have come together. The family lived in Brookfield which is about five minutes from us. The husband has been charged with murder.
Last night my 15-year-old son rung me from Canberra while on a school trip. He told me yesterday police were canvassing another suburb next to us, Pullenvale. It was an interesting piece of information. I had thought it may have been some drug related search. But, as it came on the news channel tonight, police had made a discovery of large quantities of chemicals they suspect were for bomb-making.
It turned out, the house owners were away in Italy and had rented their house to someone who police now suspect was trying to make bombs.
The suspect had been arrested in another incident in Sydney, NSW and traced back to this rental house on Cedar Rd, Pullenvale.
Today police were unable to move the large quantities of chemicals due which were declared unsafe. To ensure the safety of the nearby residents, Instead, most of the explosives were blown up after police secured the area.
It just goes to show that anything can happen anywhere and people can never be what you think they are. We always have to trust our gut and our instincts but in the end, if anything is going to happen, it will happen. Isn’t that a scary thought?
Links to the news stories;
http://www.abc.net.au/news/2014-07-15/gerard-baden-clay-guilty-of-killing-wife-allison/5548628
In Mosquito Net
The mosquito net was white, light and airy. I could see everything outside my enclosed bed. I would not have been five yet, and mother and I shared this bed on the floor. It was made of a blanket and a sheet with a pillow on the wooden floor. The room was packed with our clothes and things. To cover, we would use one of mother’s laplaps.
The mosquito net flopped around me. Mother had tucked its ends by weighing the net down with some clothing. At the bed head, the net was tucked under my pillow. To keep the net from touching my head, my old T shirt was rolled length-wise into a sausage and laid behind my pillow. If the net did touch me, the mosquitos would penetrate through the holes and get me.
Mother was a nurse. She knew how seriously and often I got attacked by Malaria. She had told me last time I was too tall to be carried to the nearest clinic, several hours walk away.
In this bed, the mosquitoes will not get me, and Malaria will not touch me. I drifted off in my sleep and enjoyed the comfort of my luxurious bed in Wagang Village, outside Lae, Papua New Guinea.
I prayed: “Oh give thanks unto the Lord, for his mercy and endurance, forever and ever, Amen”.
After what seemed like a whole night had gone by, I was woken by strange voices talking. There were two new voices. I could also hear my Uncle Sam speaking in English. Uncle Sam only spoke English when he joked or when he was drunk. His English was impressive. His voice was quiet but Uncle Sam sounded confident. “Yes, you can go and see her”, Uncle Sam told someone.
I recognised my grandmother’s low disapproval as she told Uncle Sam that no-one should disturb my sleep. I heard footsteps coming towards me. They walked up the old steps of the Fibro and timber house. Mother and grandpa build this house from his teaching and her nursing money. Most of the fly-wire was ripped so I could hear everything.
At the top of the landing, the shoe soles brushed the sand on the wooden floor as they approached my room. There were more than one person. I felt nervous and I wanted to call out to my mother but I was not sure if the footsteps would come to me.
The footsteps stopped at my door. My heart pounded. My door opened and I looked up. In the light of our small kerosine lantern by the bed, I saw two white men peeking down at me through the mosquito net. One was fair and the other had dark hair.
“Mama! Mama!”, I yelled out.
The one with the dark hair sat down and reached out to me, smiling. I saw his white hand come to me and I threw my cover and crawled to the end of the bed. The man’s thick black hair was brushed back neatly. His eyes were dark with thick eye-brows. I stared at his face. I had never seen him before. I started to cry. The man tried to hush me but he seemed nervous. He said in English, “It’s ok! Everything is ok”.
The more he tried to speak, I became terrified and recoiled into the further corner of the mosquito net. I called my mother and cried louder as I backed into the corner. There was no way out and they were at the door. The man with the dark hair put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some notes and coins. There was a lot of money. He put them on my bed and beckoned me. He told me that money was ALL for me. I had never seen so much money. I was sure I was not dreaming. It was unbelievable and scary. “Come!” he said again.
I refused.
“Mama!” I yelled and my mother came running up the steps.
She walked into the room and the fair haired man stepped outside. My mother smiled and I could not understand it.
Why was mother smiling at this stranger? And why was the stranger giving me money? Was he going to take me? Was he going to buy me from my mother? I did not move. I wanted my grandmother.
(copyright-JLeahy)
Tomorrow: Short story
Dear friends,
I shall post one of my short stories tomorrow (Brisbane time). It would be a story from my Memoir series. The thing about this short story is that many of us think that we are not capable of remembering events and things that happened in our lives when we were very young. I don’t remember as many things as I would like to. On the other hand, there were things that have happened that I wish I could just forget.
In general, when something very significant happens some time during our early years of life – it sticks in our heads. Make time to sit somewhere and remember those times. I bet there are many stories to write.
Some of my memories are as fresh as those of events that only happened yesterday. Often I do not remember them straight away, but things can happen in the present to trigger me back – through layers of life to find that piece of memory. It is just like doing a search on my computer for a file.
I enjoy some of these forgotten ‘files’ but by the same token, some are not always pleasant to go over again. But together, good or bad, they make a great story.
I am grateful that I have these memories. The memories make “me”. Without the memories, I could not write my memoir.
Re-cycled Birthing Suites
This morning, I heard scratching noises and thought of snakes. We get a few snakes and since we are almost on the end of winter, it is time to come out of hibernation. My friend Heather at work lives in the western suburbs of Brisbane, Australia like me. Heather said she and husband Gary found a python on their dining table when they got home last week. My family lives about 15 minutes away from Heather so snakes have been on my mind.
The scratching noises seemed to only come from one place, unlike snakes which move and travel fairly quickly. I followed the sound outside to our flood lights and found a Butcherbird. She was re-arranging one of two nests outside my son’s bedroom. The nests are on our floodlights so they are at least 15 feet off the ground. I smiled, feeling good about this nesting effort because this would be the third time the magpies used these nests. They had cleverly positioned the nests away from everything, including snakes.
The twig nests have been sitting on those lights for almost two years since the first two magpies build them. They served almost like a magpie birthing suite.
I had thought the Butcherbirds would be territorial and build their nests new. The previous Butcherbird babies live in the yard. They sit on the verandah rail and sing their hearts out for food. While we live in an rural suburb, and there are still a lot of trees they could build their nests on, these birds preferred the existing nests. I was curious about these nests being re-used so I Googled to see if it was normal for Butcherbird to re-cycle nests. Here is a link I found that did not have much information on the re-cycled nests but provides an in-dept information on the bird’s life.
http://www.wildlifeqld.com.au/bird-conflicts/butcherbird.html
While searching, I also spotted something similar with re-cycling and crows. Similar in the sense of using what they can find to make their nests. This made me more curious about birdlife and how they adapt to the way we humans live and destroy many of their natural habitation. I also wondered about how much we really understand about the re-cycling and controlling our wastes.
In Japan, crows have taken nesting to a somewhat artistic and highly intelligent way of using wire clothes hangers to build strong nests. It could also be a case of doing the best with what is on hand.
![crow-nest-hanger-1[2]](https://tribalmystic.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/crow-nest-hanger-12.jpg)
Picture by Goetz Kluge
http://www.amusingplanet.com/2014/04/city-crows-build-nests-out-of-coat.html
The Garma Festival
I missed the Garma Festival last week from August 1-4.
Garma is one of the most colourful and vibrant festivals in the world. I cannot explain Garma better than what I found on their website.
The ancient sound of the Yidaki (didjeridu) is a call to all people to come together in unity; to gather for the sharing of knowledge and culture; to learn from and listen to one another. Each August, the Yidaki call announces the start of Garma, the largest and most vibrant annual celebration of Yolngu (Aboriginal people of north east Arnhem Land) culture.
Garma is Australia’s most significant Indigenous event, and a model for self-determination, reconciliation, Indigenous knowledge sharing, transfer and exchange. Garma is a colourful event with a greater, deeper purpose. Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians experience and are directly involved in a spectacular yet substantive display of cultural practice and cross-cultural learning.
Garma incorporates visual art, ancient storytelling, dance – including the famous nightly Bunggul – and music, as well as other important forums and education and training programs relevant to cultural tourism, craft, governance and youth leadership.
It aims:
- To provide contemporary environments and programs for the practice, preservation, maintenance and presentation of traditional knowledge systems and cultural traditions and practices, especially Bunggul (traditional dance), Manikay (song), Miny’ tji (art) and ceremony.
- To share knowledge and culture, thereby fostering greater understanding between Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians.
- To develop economic opportunities for Yolngu through education, training, employment, enterprise and remote Indigenous community development.
Garma is presented by the Yothu Yindi Foundation, a not-for-profit Aboriginal corporation with tax- deductible status, and all Garma entry fees and other revenues go to the programs and projects of the Foundation.
Internet Trolls in the Real World
Interesting story about Internet Trolls by Blogger Diary of Genial Black Man
Courtesy of mrwgifs.com
Have you ever read an internet article and dreaded the comment section that followed? Those poorly-spelled, hate-filled glimpses into the dark recesses of the human soul–complete with racist, sexist, xenophobic, and religious-based attacks on anyone and/or anything that is considered different? Those people are out in the world among the rational, and they are as frightening as their defense of Ghostbusters as a male-only endeavor. I recently had an unfortunate experience with such a piece of human waste.
I write for a local sketch comedy group, and the new season has brought fresh blood for the writer’s pool. One of those eager beavers was a tall, glasses-wearing oaf of a young man, and he quickly made his presence known with his mouth: while the head writer caught people up on new business and the meeting’s outline, the kid interrupted several times with random nonsense as well as calls to read his…
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