CHAPTER 4 Cultural vitality
After working through this chapter you should have an understanding of:
Introduction
We are beginning to understand the pressures and strains associated with poverty, cultural exclusion and the effects of institutionalisation among Aboriginal communities. However we still know very little about the cultural values operating today, particularly those among rural/urban communities. One of the reasons for this lack of understanding is the impact of cultural difference. If a culture is very different from our own (such as traditional Aboriginal cultures), with clearly differing philosophies, economies, social organisation and so on, then that difference ‘hits us in the eye’. That culture may seem ‘exotic’, ‘quaint’, ‘noble’—whatever—but we recognise and accept it as different.
If, however, a culture appears similar—that is, its configurations are not dramatically different, people appear to behave, believe, work and play in ways that are not demonstrably, startlingly, different from those to which we are accustomed—then we assume that they are ‘just like us’. Non-Aboriginal reactions to traditional, as opposed to rural/urban Aboriginal people, clearly demonstrate our point. The Australian public have learned that traditional people are very different in their outlook and lifestyle—they certainly look different, and they speak a different language(s)—their cultures are considered by many to be exotic and artistic. Not so with rural/urban Aboriginal people. Because we assume that they are ‘like us’ in outlook and lifestyle, because we share a language (or at least assume we do) we have ‘explained’ differences as deficiencies and have presumed that ‘they’ have ‘lost their culture’. For example, the initial reaction of a nurse who had worked for some years with ‘traditional’ Aboriginal people and then started working at the Redfern Aboriginal Medical Service was—‘they’re almost like us why don’t they pull their socks up and live decently’ (pers. comm. 2009). The decently, of course meant like us.
Further, when we review Aboriginal affairs, both past and present, it becomes clear that although Australian society has grown to value some aspects of Aboriginal cultures, such as art, craft, dance and music, there is still little recognition of Aboriginal people as human beings with distinctive cultural strengths and legitimate aspirations. In this chapter we will explore some of these strengths and focus on cultural vitality. To this end, the chapter is divided into two parts. Part A considers the concept of ‘cultural vitality’ and Part B explores examples of Aboriginal cultural vitality, particularly in urban/rural settings.
PART A: ABORIGINAL COMMUNITIES AND CULTURAL VITALITY
What do we mean by ‘cultural vitality’?
DEFINITION
At one of our workshops in Alice Springs we came up with the following definition:
Cultural vitality is the maintenance and continuation of cultural beliefs, practices and life ways.
On reflection, we agree that this definition remains useful, but that it does not highlight the elements of striving, struggle and insistence, which are pivotal to vitality.
For us, then, cultural vitality is:
the emotional strength, the spirit, the essence of people who strive and struggle to maintain strong identity and adapt to new and challenging environments, while they value the past and pass on distinctive cultural beliefs, practices and life ways.
Greg Lehman, a Palawa (Tasmanian Aboriginal) man, reflects this strength and striving in his writings when he points out that:
The nuclei of each of our cells, with their sacred links to the world’s most ancient continuing indigenous culture, are caressed by the passing of the Old Ones. These are the people whose names are mentioned daily to give us strength and to remind us of the obligations of being who we are … For those of us who live in the present it is a guarantee: we share an acute awareness of today with an abiding spirit of yesterday. The world we live in vibrates with the energy of political struggle and revitalisation.
In Australia, Aboriginal cultural vitality has not really been acknowledged, partly because, for so long, we have interpreted change in Aboriginal communities in terms of a cultural continuum rather than cultural continuity.
Activity
Go back to Figure 3.1 and review the effects of rapid social change on Aboriginal communities.
In the past, many Aboriginal people in rural/urban Australia played down their distinctive traditions and beliefs, perhaps because they believed non-Aboriginal people would belittle them. Sometimes this heritage was perceived to be of little importance because it ‘didn’t measure up’ or appear as ‘sophisticated’ or ‘complex’ as that of the past. We believe that anthropology has contributed something to this feeling. Note some past comments on folk beliefs:
These part-Aborigines consciously retain no vestige of their tribal culture … Liquor is a major factor in defining their relations with European neighbours and with one another … It goes far towards giving Aboriginal life its distinctive character and the Aborigines, being realists, recognise the fact.
Part Aborigines in this area no longer have a distinctive culture …
Since Robinvale Aborigines have come to the area from several different places, there is little evidence of traditional beliefs … Despite this apparent destruction of any traditional Aboriginal culture, people have maintained several aspects of traditional life which could be seen as distinctly ‘Aboriginal’.
Activity
Go back to Figure 3.2. Identify and list aspects of the ‘culture continuum’ theory in the above comments.
As a consequence, Cowlishaw (1986) has pointed out that definitions of ‘Aboriginality’ continue to be influenced by colonialism, which has persistently emphasised ‘culture loss’ among those people who are no longer considered ‘traditionally oriented’.
Almost invariably the same themes appear: urban/rural Aboriginal social organisation is ‘still’ based on some remnants of traditional culture such as kinship bonds; sharing is common, as are squandering of money and heavy drinking; high value is placed on generosity and communal living/decision making. Some ‘tribal’ vestiges remain, but more of the communities’ ethos is derived from the poor/itinerant whites with whom they have had contact, and/or is the result of cultural exclusion and social disintegration (see Beckett 1958, 1965; Bell 1956; Calley 1959; Docker 1964; Fink 1957/58; Gale 1964; Hausfeld 1960; Reay 1964; Reay & Stilington 1948; Young & Fisk 1982).
These writings certainly reflect the ‘culture continuum’ notion—that is, the ‘closer’ Aboriginal people come to living and working like non-Aboriginal people, the less ‘Aboriginal’ they are.
Reflection
Return to Figures 3.2 and 3.3.
We argue there that people make decisions with reference to their physical, political, economic and social environments, in terms of their perceived needs and wants, in relation to their historic and current situations and experiences.
The process of adaptation involves a problem-solving, creative approach to environments and, indeed, a dynamic approach to culture. Consequently, cultural traditions are not merely re-active, they are also pro-active, because people choose from a wide range of adaptive possibilities.
The values and beliefs that arise from such a process are valid in themselves, not because they can be traced back to an idealised past.
The process of adaptation, then, requires people to manipulate and negotiate the environments that influence their life chances. Such manipulation features particularly when a number of groups share the same environment, especially when one (the more powerful) is able to define the limits of the other’s participation in the socio-cultural/economic/political environment.
On the basis of this framework, it seems to us, we may be able to understand better how Aboriginal groups in the south of Australia are sustained, remodelled and perpetuated, and how individuals in them choose, cope and manipulate in order to survive and maintain cultural integrity within the wider society.
We will illustrate the processes via a series of examples of cultural vitality. These include family organisation, patterns or reciprocity and decision making, spirituality and identity in rural/urban Aboriginal Australia.
PART B: EXAMPLES OF CULTURAL VITALITY
Aboriginal people themselves cite the family as one of the most enabling and enduring examples of their cultures, and it is generally accepted that ‘family’ forms ‘the cultural bedrock and fundamental unit of contemporary Indigenous society’ (McEwan et al 2009, p 15). Frequently Aboriginal people maintain that their ‘extended family’, and the level of sharing and support within this extended network, distinguishes them from other cultures. It is important then to explore family organisation and the way in which it contributes to cultural vitality.
Family organisation
In our experience, and based on our research (Eckermann 1977, 1980; Eckermann et al 1984), the ‘extended family’ (that is, at least three generations of kin sharing the same household) is not nearly as common as we might think among urban/rural Aboriginal groups. Nuclear families (households composed of husband, wife and children), as well as single-parent families are much more common, as are compound families.
Compound families (see Eckermann 1977) contain a diversity of ‘relatives’. One family may include husband and wife, husband’s or wife’s brother, wife’s cousins, and husband’s nephews. Another may be composed of sisters who are single parents and their children, a brother-in-law from a previous marriage, a nephew and a niece. It could include a single mother, her adolescent son and the adolescent child of the mother’s long-term friend. It may be husband and wife plus wife’s brother, his friend, husband’s brother, and wife’s nephews and grandchildren. The combinations are endless.
Our research (Eckermann et al 1984) indicated that this form of household organisation was prevalent; it comprised some 30 per cent of our New South Wales sample and 32.5 per cent of our Queensland sample.
A ‘new’ form of family structure that is emerging today is the grandparent family. The grandparent family develops when grandparents, especially grandmothers, rear their grandchildren on a permanent basis because the parents are unable to look after their children. There may be a variety of reasons for this—the need to follow seasonal work, parents who misuse drugs, family violence or parents who are too young to cope.
Reflection
Does this mean that those people who live in nuclear, single-parent, grandparent or compound families are no longer following Aboriginal cultural traditions? Of course not! People have to adapt to and cope with changing circumstances. The structure of the family to which people belong does not reflect how much they value the relationships within it.
There is no doubt that family is important throughout Aboriginal Australia and that many Aboriginal people belong to extensive family networks beyond their immediate families. These networks often extend beyond a particular space and even place and are determined by ‘blood’, that is, direct kinship or indirect kinship such as a second or third cousin, or friendship.
Case study
Claiming kin
My grandmother stood up as godmother in the church for a whole lot of kids that were removed to the mission I grew up on. She claimed them because they had no mother or father. This was after she got married, and she married in 1907. She nurtured those kids when they got released from the dormitories—like on weekends or holidays; and she taught them things they needed to know to be Aboriginal.
Even today those kids and their kids see me as their brother and uncle. I got relatives all over the place because of that.
It is not unusual for both men and women to consider the friends they grew up with as brothers or sisters, and for them to consider this relationship as strong as a direct family one.
Further, women play a primary role in many Aboriginal families. This is partly a legacy of colonisation, when Aboriginal women were favoured by non-Aboriginal society, and men had to work for many months away from their families as indentured labour. It is also partly due to economic reasons (see Gale & Binnion 1975). Aboriginal women are now able to make a conscious choice between living with permanent partners and raising their families on their own, with the help of supporting parents’ benefits. This becomes a necessity at times of high un- or under-employment among Aboriginal males. Women also play a major role in community affairs and are taking leadership roles far beyond their immediate families and family networks. That too is an example of cultural vitality—the striving and struggle to maintain strong families and adapt to new and challenging environments, while they value and pass on distinctive cultural beliefs, practices and life ways to their children and grandchildren.
However, the leadership role of women, within the family and beyond, is not without costs. In Chapter 3 we highlighted growing concerns about family violence, child abuse and suicide—as men become disempowered and disenchanted, the cultural vitality of family and kin networks is challenged. How these challenges are met will provide further proof of the level of cultural vitality in Aboriginal communities. As Dodson (2003) points out in his address to the National Press Club: ‘We have no cultural traditions based on humiliation, degradation and violation …’.
Dodson (2003) and Pearson (2000) agree that family ties and extended kin networks based on mutual respect and reciprocity are cornerstones of Aboriginal cultural vitality. We will examine the patterns of reciprocity and decision making next.
Patterns of reciprocity
DEFINITION
Principles of reciprocity are patterns of sharing based on clear rules and regulations, which define individuals’ rights, duties and obligations within the structure of their kinship network. They exist in all Aboriginal communities. How these principles are manifest, however, differs in different communities and with different forms of family organisations.
Following Gale and Binnion’s (1975) work, we (Eckermann et al 1984) explored family income by estimating how much money was ‘coming into the house’ and how much it cost the household head to run the house for such items as food, electricity, rent, payment of hire purchase costs, and running a car. Any inquiry into people’s finances is intrusive, and the information given indicated only the amount of knowledge individuals wished to share with us. Consequently our data revealed only trends. However, we believed these to be important.
By investigating a number of incomes potentially contributing to a household’s resources, comparing this with actual contributions made, adding fortnightly additional income from family allowance and/or the then Aboriginal Secondary Grants Scheme, we were able to give some indication of total income and shared income.
Of the 77 households interviewed in Queensland and New South Wales, three-quarters contained more than one income earner; the range extended up to five and averaged at two. Analysis of resource sharing and allocation clearly indicated that not all income was shared by the whole household. Instead, non-household heads who were income earners contributed board ranging from $20 to $80, with an average of $50 a fortnight. In only four households (all in New South Wales) did each income-earning adult take equitable responsibility for specific household expenses.
Our information on non-household-head adults (comprising 36 per cent of all adults interviewed) indicated that they, as well as the families to which they belonged, considered all moneys, beyond their household contribution, as their own. They might at times of crisis share their additional resources, but they certainly did not do so automatically or frequently.
Instead, people expected to pay board. The level at which such board was set, however, depended on the household head and was often influenced by other than economic considerations, such as the boarder’s ambition to buy a car as well as his or her relationship to the rest of the household. Most importantly, contributions to the household depended on the level of control the household head wished to retain/exert over boarders. The greater a boarder’s contributions to the family, the more demands he or she could and would make. Thus, contributions to the household were often kept relatively ‘low’ so that boarders would not attempt to ‘take over’ or ‘reckon that they were the boss’.
As a result, single-parent and nuclear families, where the household head had direct control over all ‘total’ as well as ‘shared’ income, were able to spend proportionally more on each member of the household than were extended or compound families.
Patterns of reciprocity, then, are much more complex than simply ‘sharing’, and this becomes very clear when we look at reciprocity beyond income, to goods and services. Among the people with whom we have worked, an individual is supposed to be generous, showing kindness towards and respect for others. These ideals are, however, not expected to be applied to all people in any one location or in all situations. The patterns of sharing are clearly defined by consanguinity and affinity, and should always include the following:
‘Sharing’ then may not include a very large network. Further, within this framework and certainly beyond it, much depends on the elements of power and affection. By ‘giving’, individuals not only show how much they care, they may also establish a power relationship where the giver may want to influence, pressure or ‘boss’ the receiver. If exchanges are perceived as fairly equitable, the power relationship remains stable. Should the exchange be perceived as inequitable, individuals might attempt to manipulate, to exert control.
The above are our perceptions of the complexities underlying reciprocity in urban/rural Aboriginal communities. Some people (e.g. Pearson 2000; Wild & Anderson 2007) would argue that these complex relationships have broken down and that today, in many communities, some young people exploit the old, some men exploit women and children, while at least some of those dependent on substances terrorise their families. We know that these patterns do exist, even in our own families; however, they are not the norm, are widey condemned and bring shame on those who abuse the system of reciprocity.
Note that any relationship can be exploited—the fact that we can identify examples of exploitation does not mean that the values associated with reciprocity and mutual respect are not strong and vital in communities.
Patterns of decision making
The actual patterns of reciprocity outlined above challenge a popular positive stereotype (supported by interpretation from research data), which alleges that, unlike Europeans, Aboriginal people are communally oriented, always share, make decisions by consensus, and are dependent on group orientations.
This challenge is, however, supported by research into rural/urban value orientations during the 1970s by Watts (1970), Hausfeld (1974) and Eckermann (1973), which used the Kluckhohn and Strodtbeck (1961) Value Orientation Schedule. Kluckhohn and Strodtbeck developed this schedule on the premise that all people have to find solutions to a number of universal issues, which include: their relation to other people, their relation to time and their relation to nature. Patterns of preferred solutions would, in Kluckhohn and Strodtbeck’s judgement, reflect cultural differences in responses to these universal issues.
Concentrating on just one dimension, that of ‘man’s’ relation to ‘man’, preferred patterns of interaction could be individualistic, lineal or communal, indicating individual decision making, and decision making influenced by leaders and groups respectively. Administration of the Schedule ensures that people interviewed indicate first, second and third preference on each of the items. It is consequently possible to determine not only first preferential value position, but also direction of value orientation by considering the second and third preferred patterns of interaction.
In the Australian studies, Aboriginal people interviewed displayed clear preference for individualism in decision making, although the strength of such orientations seemed to be less pronounced than among non-Aboriginal people. Eckermann’s (1977) research indicated that among the Aboriginal people interviewed in south-eastern and south-western Queensland in a town, city and reserve environment, this individual orientation was linked most frequently to a secondary communal orientation. Thus the direction of the ‘man/man’ or person-to-person dimension invariably was: individual decision making preferred to communal decision making preferred to lineal decision making. By contrast, among non-Aboriginal people, the individual preference in decision making was most commonly followed by a lineal preference in a secondary position and the communal position as the third and least-favoured choice. Thus Aboriginal people exhibited a significantly different direction in value orientation (individual supported by the group) to non-Aboriginal people (individual supported by the leader).
Further evidence that this pattern represents a significant cultural difference is found in child-rearing practices among some urban/rural Aboriginal people. The desirable adult, according to mothers in Rural Town (south-western Queensland), is one who demonstrates responsibility, independence, good manners and respect. A ‘good’ person is one who can stand on his or her own feet (see Eckermann 1980). However, ‘good’ people, as defined within this group, will also ‘mix’, will not make themselves feel big at the expense of others, and will not be ‘stand-offish’ or snobbish. They will be warm in interpersonal relations, have a sense of humour, will laugh at themselves, and will not condemn or find continual fault. Thus, individualism is balanced with affiliative values.
A similar pattern is evident in decision-making patterns, which may influence individuals, family groupings or indeed the whole ‘community’. In this context we need to distinguish between ‘group’ and ‘community’.
Any Aboriginal ‘community’ is composed of a number of family groupings. Some of these are aligned, whether they are related or not. Others, though related, are long-standing antagonists. Outsiders may label the family groupings in any one geographic location as ‘the Aboriginal community’, but this definition of community may have only limited reality to its Aboriginal constituents. Rather, Aboriginal people may view their collectives in terms of family alliances, which are fluid and may go far beyond any one locality. While ‘community’ has become a convenient label to facilitate negotiations with mainstream organisations, assumptions about a shared understanding of what ‘community’ means may in fact hinder rather than help negotiations.
Activity
In Chapter 2 we discussed the three cornerstones of ‘community’: space, place and base. Note the characteristics of place, space and base.
Within such ‘communities’, decisions appear to be reached on the following bases:
Thus, even though an individual may have been elected to speak on behalf of ‘the community’, those who do not fully agree with this person simply dissociate/distance themselves. ‘You’re not speaking for me’ is a common rejoinder. Further, if a family group is opposed to some ‘community’ venture, the most common reaction is to either stay away from the election process, and thus dissociate itself totally, or to take over the elections with members of its own group so that the venture then becomes ‘theirs’. Aboriginal community politics then are similar to a state of balanced anarchy (see also Maddock 1974; Hamilton 1981). Individual family interests must continually exert themselves against other individuals’/families’ interests, and are kept in check in the process.
It is undoubtedly true that Aboriginal groups today are plagued by factionalism because of their history—many groups who had been traditional enemies were placed on reserves by governments who thought all Aboriginal people were alike. Researchers have in the past attempted to explain such divisions by reference to differing life/value structures among people who could be described as more or less ‘assimilated’. However, factionalism persists today in areas where people are closely intermarried and share the same environment. It becomes most vicious when individual and immediate family interests are, or are perceived to be, threatened by those of other family interests.
If we accept the previous discussion on decision making, then factionalism is not only a legacy of the past, it is also a feature of powerlessness or value dissonance. If the value placed on individualism and family groupings/alliances is indeed strong among Aboriginal people, it is not surprising that sections will manipulate for control of scarce resources, that people will fail to reach consensus, that debates will continue for or against an issue long after a decision—made by individuals perceived as representing a ‘community’—has been accepted by the majority. As Sullivan and Oliver (2007, p 182) point out:
Although there are prominent people in any group, they rarely have the authority to speak for everyone. At best they may be the group’s choice for contact with outsiders and liaison with appropriate community members for particular issues. Frequently, also, they will represent powerful factional interests, not least themselves. Aboriginal leaders, in general, do not have the power to bind others to a course of action. There is a strong ethic of personal autonomy in Aboriginal groups.
There are, of course, real feelings of warmth and security, which people gain from their own Aboriginal social network. They need this network to survive, to maintain some measure of social and emotional wellbeing. From this network they draw some reaffirmation of self in an environment that they perceive as largely hostile.
The following case study from rural Queensland illustrates some of the principles outlined above.
Case study
‘It’s all too hard’
You are the Aboriginal Health Worker in a small town, which has a population of 1000 with an Aboriginal population of 90. You are called into one of the Aboriginal homes regularly to attend to the elderly couple who live there. He suffers from chronic arthritis and stomach ulcers. She has high blood pressure, diabetes and arthritis. They are a highly respected family and are constantly visited by other Aboriginal families. They are unable to look after themselves, but their daughter and her four children share the house.
The daughter helps the parents a lot by washing, shopping, cleaning etc. Most times when you visit the house, the daughter has been drunk.
She has been treated for epilepsy and STD. During bouts of drinking she has been bashed and raped. Her children are frequently hungry, and are often hospitalised because of chest complaints. Many people in the Aboriginal community have been suggesting that the daughter needs treatment for alcohol abuse—‘Somebody should do something’.
Various people in the community have been to talk to the old couple to see if it is possible to send the daughter away to ‘dry out’. But the old people have refused to give their permission. You have been asked to talk to the family to see if a restraining order can be taken out against the daughter so that she can be sent to a rehabilitation centre. Initially the parents agreed, but then refused.
The parents love their daughter and are very concerned about their grandchildren. They realise that the daughter has a serious problem, but they feel powerless, because they will lose her support and they also fear that they will lose their grandchildren.
The situation is at a stalemate. Visitors have stopped coming to the house and the old couple are being avoided.
Activity
From what you know about Aboriginal communities, consider the following issues:
We would suggest that the community withdrew from the family because people did not approve of the daughter’s drinking or the old couple’s decision not to let the daughter be admitted to a rehabilitation centre. However, because this was ‘family business’ and the old couple were well respected, no one wanted to interfere.
People have been frightened of losing their children since government acts and missionary zeal made it legal for Aboriginal children to be removed from their families and to be raised in institutions. Remember the legacy of these policies as recorded by the National Inquiry into the Separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from their Families (1997). The pain and fear are not part of the distant past—they are part of living history.
The couple would fear that, if their daughter went into rehabilitation, the grandchildren would be placed in care and the couple would lose the support from their daughter and grandchildren, which was the basis of their own independence.
How could the crisis be resolved? It would require support from the extended Aboriginal network to provide care for the children and the old people while the daughter was ‘drying out’. Such support would have to be negotiated to ensure that no one thought they were intruding on the old couple. Further, it would need to be coordinated so that no one person or family was left to carry the full burden of support alone.
Today some Aboriginal people argue that a new pattern of decision making is causing tensions, stress and anxiety in families—this is child decision making. Many people maintain that children have become so aware of their ‘rights’ that they will not listen to adults, will not accept any form of discipline, and will do whatever they like. Some blame the government, which provides income support for youth who leave home; others believe that they lost control over their children when it became illegal to chastise them. We believe that these dilemmas have as much to do with unemployment and rapidly changing indicators of adulthood as with the abolition of corporal punishment and raising awareness of children’s rights.
In the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s, most Aboriginal teenagers left school early in order to find work and be recognised as ‘adult’ by earning their own money and supporting themselves (see Eckermann 1979). By the time many boys were 12 years of age, they aspired to adulthood and work with their fathers, uncles or brothers even though they were still at school and the legal school leaving age was 14 or 15. This changed rapidly at the end of the twentieth and the beginning of the twenty-first centuries. It became harder and harder to find employment without some qualifications—yet many Aboriginal children did not find school any more rewarding than their parents and grandparents. Consequently, within a generation or two, young men and women looked to new role models to demonstrate their adulthood. Unemployment and under-education at times results in poor self-esteem, substance abuse and conflict with the law, not to mention with family and friends. In this cycle of disadvantage young women are probably better off than young men—they are able to affirm adulthood by becoming pregnant, which also affords them a measure of income support and consequently perceived independence. The following case study illustrates these trends.
Case study
They just won’t listen
I have more than a dozen grandchildren—two of them are causing us a lot of heartache—one is my eldest grandson, the other my eldest granddaughter. I raised my grandson John from when he was about 10—his mother had him when she was very young and when he was three she took up with a new man. She had four more sons to him and John sort of got crowded out—her new man didn’t like him and I think he bashed him when he was drunk or drugged up—and they both told him he wasn’t as good as the other kids. John used to idolise his mother but as he got older they didn’t get on. I thought he’d be OK with me, but he wouldn’t take any notice of me. He just played up, wouldn’t go to school, started throwing things around when he was at school, roamed the streets, got in trouble with the law—even started to threaten me when he wanted money for drugs—he just drugged and stole and fought. Went to juvenile detention a couple of times but it didn’t make any difference—he just won’t listen—thinks detention is great. Now he’s got a girl pregnant and they have twins—fighting and separating, getting back together—I think she took an AVO against him—I don’t know—I just had to go; I had to get away from him [and leave town]—it was just killing me seeing him that way.
Now the granddaughter Jane, her circumstances were completely opposite—she comes from a close, very well-to-do family. My son and his wife have always worked and their kids have never wanted for anything. But when the girl was 14 she left school or told lies about going to school, started running away to be with her boyfriend—who is a real druggy and a basher as well—my son and his wife tried everything to keep her away from him—but no use. She gutted her father and broke her mother’s heart. She got herself pregnant now she happy back at home!!! I can’t figure it. She really can do what she wants—my son and his wife are just so scared she’ll take the baby away.
It remains to be seen what effect these kinds of decision-making patterns will have on Aboriginal family and community life. At the moment they may be more dysfunctional than vital—however they are examples of how patterns in cultures change—for better as well as for worse.
The extensive store of spiritual beliefs in Aboriginal communities, which supports strong identity, is another example of cultural vitality.
Spirituality and identity
Discussions about the nature of Aboriginal spirituality have generally been confined to anthropological writings (Stanner 1979; Berndt & Berndt 1988; Charlesworth et al 1986). It is, however, clear that it continues to be an important element of Aboriginal identity as defined by Aboriginal people themselves. Spiritual health has always been a cornerstone of Aboriginal people’s definition of health and has been identified as central to Aboriginal social and emotional wellbeing (Commonwealth of Australia 2004).
McEwan et al (2009) maintain that, in their evaluation of the Family Wellbeing Program in Yarrabah:
Spirituality emerged as an important but contested topic during discussions. There were varied views and beliefs in the group and some lively debate. Some participants were churchgoers, some drew on their connection with the land, and some combined both of these elements into their personal view of spirituality. Other participants drew great solace, inspiration and a sense of calm and connection when they sat quietly in nature.
There is no doubt that Aboriginal spirituality, like Aboriginal cultures has, and will continue to change and adapt to new influences, experiences and demands. We too believe that Christianity has influenced many Aboriginal people’s spirituality. Ena Chong, for example, is very committed to Christianity, which she identifies as a particular system of faith and worship. However she sees the individual, linked to family and community, even the wider universe, influenced by things in the environment and tied to responsibility for country. Consequently:
for most people religious beliefs are derived from a sense of belonging to the land, to the sea, to other people, to one’s culture. Aboriginal spirituality mainly derives from the stories of the Dreaming.
Such stories take many forms. For example, all Aboriginal groups possess a rich store of spiritual beliefs, composed of remembrances from the past, the power of ‘clever’ or ‘gundil’ people, their special knowledge and awareness, and their ability to heal or harm. Further, special forces such as the spirits of the dead, important signs and occurrences, herald news.
Throughout south-eastern Australia, there is the belief in the janjardi, who in south-eastern Queensland is thought to be a ‘little knee-high, hairy man’. The janjardi is a friend to children, and will play with and comfort them when they are ill. Adults, however, have to be wary of him and take care that he does not carry children off with him to the spirit world.
Many groups have ‘special’ places that they associate with their own particular clan or skin group. Their affiliation with such places may be very different from that experienced by other Aboriginal groups particularly those who live in remote Australia, but it is real and important. For example, one extended family might take their children to Ban-Ban Springs and ‘baptise’ them in the water so that the Wakka Wakka spirits would recognise them as one of their own (Eckermann 1973).
Premonitions, visitations and apparitions occur with enough regularity to ensure that today even the young, who may scoff at ‘blackfellas’ ways’, show a healthy respect when such events are recounted.
There are many special signs—the death bird, the night owl, a mysterious knocking, the howling (not barking) of dogs at night, ‘black’ dreams—which will herald bad news. Many people also have personal signs, such as the willy wagtail or the curlew, which will bring them news.
It can be academically very satisfying to trace such beliefs to ‘traditional’ sources. However, urban/rural spiritual beliefs have much greater significance than simply being a tie to the distant past. They are integrally linked to urban–rural identity in the present, as the following examples, contributed by Sandy Lawton (pers. comm. 2005), demonstrate.
Spiritual experiences
There has been a great reawakening of Aboriginal identity since the 1960s. Today many Aboriginal people prefer to identify with the language group to which they belong (for example, Lynette Nixon has always identified as Gunggari) or the place (for example, Ena Chong identifies as a Rain Forest person from northern Queensland). Such public pride has not always been there for other Aboriginal people. The land rights movement and the spirit, the essence of people who strove and struggled for decades to gain recognition of their rights as the original owners of this country, have strengthened it.
Cultural vitality, identity and land
Land has always been central to Aboriginal people—they strove to defend it against colonisation, and grieved when they were forced to leave it. Many tried to stay on their land, or as close to it as possible, by working in the pastoral and farming industries. Indeed, it has been argued that the Australian pastoral industry would not have survived without the input of expert Aboriginal knowledge of the land and its potentials. The trauma of rapid socio-cultural change and the brutality and oppression of institutional racism must have led some Aboriginal peoples to believe that they would never regain their land or recognition of prior ownership. Nevertheless, the struggles for social justice and recognition continued against formidable odds, as demonstrated by the work of Ferguson and Patton in the 1930s (Lippmann 1981; Pascoe 2008; Langton & Loos 2008). Indeed, the Aboriginal campaign for land rights may well have grown out of early industrial action for fairer employment conditions and remuneration, rather than any hope for recognition of prior ownership.
The very first industrial action taken by Aboriginal people occurred in 1946 in the Pilbara region (Western Australia). Through contact with the outside world during World War 2, Aborigines became more aware of the conditions they lived in. Realising that rations and clothes, or 5/- a week, were hardly commensurate with the amount of work they produced, they went on strike (Middleton 1977).
Aboriginal strikers were seized by police at revolver point and put in chains. The Pilbara strike was supported by 19 unions in Western Australia, seven federal unions and four Trades and Labour Councils. In the east, Bill Onus is involved in organising support for the strikers. The Western Australian branch of the Seamen’s Union placed a ban on the transport of wool from stations affected by the strike, winning almost immediate concessions from the pastoralists. A white Communist unionist, Don McLeod, was arrested during the Pilbara strike for ‘inciting Aborigines to leave their place of lawful employment’; the Aboriginal strikers marched on the jail and McLeod was freed.
Most of the workers never went back to the pastoralists—instead, they formed an independent, subsistence mining cooperative.
As Middleton (1977, p 111) pointed out, an industrial award to cover white pastoral workers was established in 1942. When, in 1948, the North Australian Workers’ Union applied for a review of the award to include Aboriginal workers, the application was rejected! See how neatly this fitted in with the Pilbara Strike?
It wasn’t until 1965 that the North Australian Workers’ Union applied again, in what became the test case on equal wages for Aborigines. So although it took them a very long time, the unions finally began supporting Aboriginal claims.
Opposition to the union’s claims came from the Northern Territory Pastoral Lessees’ Association and the Northern Territory Cattle Producers’ Council. As Middleton (1977, p 112) pointed out:
It would have been impolitic for the pastoralists to oppose the principle of equal wages and conditions for the Aborigines openly and so their whole case was made out on the basis that the Aborigines were not ‘ready’ for equal wages … In March 1966 the decision of the Commission was finally given. It agreed to the removal of the discriminatory clauses but a ‘slow worker’ clause was added whereby the pastoral employers were free to decide that any of their Aboriginal workers were ‘slow workers’ and then pay them less than the award rate. In addition the Commissioners decided that payment of the full award wages should not come into operation until nearly three years later—on December 1st, 1968.
The Gurindji in the Northern Territory responded swiftly to this policy. They pointed out that:
That Bestey’s mob not pay money right way, no proper tucker, work ’em from daylight till nine o’clock night. No tucker till nine o’clock … Them treat Aborigine native people all time like dog, take lubra from camp, allus stand over we, put we behind woodheap … We like to have own money, build own building, buy a truck. But they no teach we …
Consequently, on 1 May 1966 they left Newcastle Waters, Wave Hill and other Vestey stations in the area. Their struggle is documented in Frank Hardy’s (1978) account, The Unlucky Australians.
Between October 1966 and March 1967, the wet season, the Gurindji campaign reached a stalemate. In the wet season, Aboriginal workers were traditionally stood down because the stations didn’t need them. By Autumn 1967, however, when the Gurindji still refused to go back to work, some of the smaller stations gave way and agreed to pay almost award wages because they simply couldn’t operate without Aboriginal labour.
However it seemed to have been a case of ‘too little, too late’, because in March 1967 the Gurindji moved to Wattie Creek, or Daguragu, as they called it. The Gurindji have traditionally owned Daguragu; it has religious/ceremonial importance and a good water supply.
Thus, out of a movement for equal wages grew a desire for self-determination and land ownership, as Pincher, a Gurindji elder, pointed out to Frank Hardy:
We Wave Hill Aborigine native people bin called Gurindji. We bin here longa time before them Bestey mob. They put up building, think ’em they own this country … This is our country, allas this country bin Gurindji country. Wave Hill bin our country …
Hardy (1978) tells us that the Gurindji approached the then Governor-General, Lord Casey, in April 1967 and asked for the return of 500 square miles (1295 square kilometres) of their traditional land in the Wave Hill area. This petition was refused a couple of months later. Yet the Gurindji stayed on.
The Gurindji pitted themselves against the might of the Vestey empire which, in Davies and Encel’s (1970) analysis, were part of the Australian aristocracy, and on 10 July 1968, Cabinet rejected the principle of land rights for Aborigines in its discussions.
After this decision, the Commonwealth Government received a certain amount of criticism, not so much because the wider public believed land rights to be feasible or proper, but because the Gurindji had, to some small extent, touched the majority’s belief in fair play. The government agreed to build a village for the Gurindji very close to the Wave Hill Welfare Settlement. The Gurindji rejected the compromise. Instead, the Elders called their men, some of whom had returned to work on cattle stations, back to Daguragu. This walk-off continued for three months and by October 1968, Aborigines in the Northern Territory who were working in government-regulated jobs were granted equal pay, with a similar promise to all those working in the pastoral industry.
So finally the equal wage issue was won—but what of the Gurindji? They have stayed on their land, which has remained vested in Vestey (if you’ll forgive the pun), who have studiously tried to ignore the squatters. Not until 1971 (under union threat) did Vestey agree to surrender land to the Gurindji. In January 1972, the Gurindji began fencing their country, but the government’s policy on Aboriginal land rights continued to reject the rights of Aboriginal people to land and recognition of prior ownership as unconstitutional. For the Gurindji:
The only concession to aboriginal demands or public conscience was an offer of ‘all purpose’ lease on land already reserved for Aborigines to individuals or tribes …
Subsequently, the Gurindji compromised by accepting a lease for a small area of land (instead of the return of all tribal lands) in order to set up a cattle mustering plant. And there they have remained.
Of course the Gurindji claims opened up a hornet’s nest, and a great deal of hysteria that Aborigines would lay claim to land over which non-Aborigines:
have sweated to carve a nation out of a desolate continent [who have] a legitimate stake in this country and security of title of land is paramount in an orderly society …
(Country Party Minister Hunt, quoted in Gilbert 1973, p 26; our brackets)
Although the Gurindji have not been wholly successful, they have become self-determining. Their example has encouraged others to claim their rights. Of these, the Yirrkala people of Gove, Northern Territory, who lived on a government-designated Aboriginal reserve, were the next to confront the government.
The Yirrkala challenge was an important one because it pitted a small Aboriginal group against the mining consortiums in the now famous Gove Land Rights case in 1971 (Gilbert 1973). The people presented their challenge to mining companies’ exploitation of their land in the form of a bark painting outlining their long-standing traditional ties with the land. After much deliberation, Justice Blackburn pronounced that the people clearly belonged to the land, but that the land, under traditional law, and according to the Australian constitution, did not belong to them.
So the Yirrkala action was defeated in 1972, but that didn’t end it. Aboriginal people regarded the judgement as a betrayal—another one, of the same magnitude as the infant mortality that was killing off their babies, the conflict with the law that was institutionalising their people, and the socio-economic degradation that was crippling their communities. The year 1972 saw the crystallisation of such groups as the National Tribal Council and the Black Panthers, which modelled themselves on the Black Power movement in the USA.
That year also saw the establishment of the Aboriginal Embassy on the lawns in front of Parliament House—a national and international symbol of Aboriginal dissatisfaction with the degree of social justice meted out to them. Land rights became the focal issue around which Aboriginal people in southern Australia rallied: land rights for the north, as well as land rights for urban and rural Aboriginal people.
As Middleton (1977, pp 134–5) pointed out, the group of tents was set up in 1972 and ‘embassy staff’ staged a sit-in after the then Prime Minister William McMahon announced that Aboriginal people would not be granted land rights. Middleton was critical of the ‘embassy episode’ because, she claimed, it was contradictory and ultimately harmful. While it gained widespread publicity, its members failed to get grassroots support from their own people. Further, their extreme views and the violence associated with police confrontation drew attention away from the basic issue of land rights and focused on sensationalism, thereby alienating much support because of issues related to law and order.
Middleton was not alone in her somewhat pessimistic report on the Embassy’s achievements. Gilbert (1973, pp 60–1) was equally critical, particularly of the Embassy’s land claims, which included setting up the Northern Territory as a separate Aboriginal State with full title and mining rights, mining rights to all other existing reserve land throughout Australia, preservation of all sacred sites, legal title and mining rights to areas in and around Australian capital cities, and compensation for lands not returned in the form of $6 million down-payment and an annual percentage of the gross national income.
Consequently, Gilbert (1973, p 61) argued:
Nobody could say that the young blacks who dreamt this up weren’t enthusiastic and at the time it probably made them feel better as well. One can only wish that this official claim had been a little less of the stuff that dreams are made of and a little more capable of attracting serious consideration by the Australian nation. I’m not arguing against the moral foundation of the Embassy land-compensation claims—just its practical logic. Australian blacks are not bargaining from a position of strength so why not keep within the realms of what can be achieved?
With hindsight, of course, we can see that the Embassy achieved a great deal. As Rowley (1978, p 1) pointed out, the Tent Embassy marked the successful entry of Aboriginal people into national and international politics. Even today it reappears periodically when Aboriginal people feel that their rights are again being suppressed.
The level of consciousness-raising that occurred because of the struggle for land rights and the Tent Embassy was symbolised by the Labor Party’s commitment to Aboriginal social justice. In his policy speech in November 1972, Gough Whitlam said:
More than any foreign aid program, more than any international obligation which we meet or forfeit, more than any part we may play in any treaty or agreement or alliance, Australia’s treatment of her Aboriginal people will be the thing upon which the rest of the world will judge Australia. Not just now, but in the greater perspective of history, and further, the Aborigines are a responsibility which we cannot escape, cannot share, cannot shuffle off; the world will not let us forget that …
It took, however, another 20 years before this commitment was translated into national land rights legislation, the Native Title Act 1993. If we take Pemulwuy’s war against the colonisers as the first persistent struggle for recognition of prior ownership and cultural vitality, then this struggle continued for some 200 years!
Remember
Cultural vitality is the emotional strength, the spirit, the essence of people who strive and struggle to maintain strong identity and adapt to new and challenging environments, while they value the past and pass on distinctive cultural beliefs, practices and life ways.
Since the 1970s, all State governments have passed legislation to facilitate some measure of land rights, but none combined such legislation with a challenge to the principle of terra nullius—the principles of peaceful settlement of the ‘unoccupied’ Australian continent—on which Australian colonisation was based. The challenge to terra nullius was brought by Eddy Mabo, a Torres Strait Islander leader, who argued that his title to his land dated back to before colonisation, and could not be extinguished by an illegal government act.
National land rights and Mabo
National land rights legislation became a commitment of the Labor Party in the early 1980s and it was largely modelled on the Northern Territory Land Rights Act 1976. The then Minister for Aboriginal Affairs, Clyde Holding, strove to incorporate five Labor Party principles:
This was not a popular commitment, and caused considerable fear and backlash among sections of Australian society, spurred on by particular interest groups.
Activity
Go back to Chapter 1 and re-read the Sydney Morning Herald (3 May 1984) extract titled ‘Land rights a step back to paganism’.
In this article Morgan links land rights to paganism, denies the history of atrocities and claims that Aboriginal people were cannibals, in order to stir up popular opinion against land rights and the rights of Aboriginal people to make decisions—particularly in relation to mining. Remember: at the time, Morgan was CEO of Western Mining Corporation.
Because of this backlash, the Commonwealth Government abandoned its commitment to national land rights legislation.
Instead, the demands for land rights were spearheaded by Mabo’s ten-year legal battle against the Commonwealth, which challenged the principle of terra nullius in the High Court. Mabo’s challenge was upheld by the High Court in 1992, and Australia has since had to come to terms with the rights of traditional landowners. Importantly this extended battle demonstrated, as Dodson (2008, p 1) pointed out, that:
A people and a culture brutalised by the imperatives of the western society was still able to establish in the court that we had retained our laws, lands and social integrity against criteria and policy initiatives determined by the parliaments and the courts of the mainstream society.
The Commonwealth Government responded to the High Court decision with the Native Title Act in 1993. However, this did not stop the debate and the lobbying against native title. Pastoral interests insisted that they would go out of business because of the uncertainty of their tenure to use and develop the land. Further, traditional owners whose country was covered by pastoral leases were unsure of their position—they challenged the legality of pastoral leases over traditional lands.
As a result, the 1996 Wik Decision stated that:
The pastoral leases under consideration in the case did not confer exclusive possession on the pastoralist; that the leases therefore did not necessarily extinguish native title rights and interests; whether there was any extinguishments or impairment of native title can only be determined by considering the nature of the native title rights and interests which the indigenous [sic] people can establish in relation to the land; where native title rights and interests can coexist with the statutory rights of the pastoralists then they survive, but, to the extent of any inconsistency, the rights of the pastoralist prevail.
Again the waters were muddy. Did pastoral leases extinguish native title or not? If not, what would be the fate of the pastoralists? The then prime minister responded with his Ten-Point Plan, which was incorporated into the Native Title Bill 1997.
The Ten-Point Plan (UAICC 1997, p 3) effectively provided security of tenure for pastoral leaseholders—indeed, the range of land-use activities was broadened from, for example, grazing and related activities to include agriculture, forestry and so on. All leases granted between 1994 and 1997, even though they were over land which had native title interests, were validated; native title holders could no longer negotiate over mineral exploration; native title claimants had to pass stringent tests before they gained the right to negotiate over any issues associated with their land; and all towns were excluded from native title claims. Further, governments retained total control over water resources; a sunset clause limited the time in which claims could be made; and native title would be extinguished over vacant Crown Land while limited access rights to leases were granted for ceremonial purposes to those people who could establish continuing physical connection to the land. In addition, the Native Title Bill encouraged mediation rather than litigation in relation to land claims.
The Native Title Bill, then, does not necessarily mean that there will be land rights or recognition of prior ownership, or compensation for dispossession for all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. Indeed, many Aboriginal people argue that after the euphoria of Mabo and the promise of recognition and restoration of ownership, current legislation primarily protects multinational interests in this country rather than those of the traditional owners, or small farmers (UAICC 1997, p 5). The same could be said for the Native Title Amendment Act 1998 (Cth).
In 2005 the Federal Government was apparently seriously discussing the ‘privatisation’ of Aboriginal land, because, it was argued, existing land rights legislation, which was based on communal rights, had not demonstrated significant improvements in Aboriginal people’s life chances.
On 6 April 2005, Prime Minister Howard, while visiting the remote community of Wadeye, is reported to have said:
I believe there is a case for reviewing the whole issue of Aboriginal land title. In the sense of looking more towards private recognition … I certainly believe that all Australians should be able to aspire to owning their own homes and having their own business.
(ANTaR website, http://www.antar.org.au/land_rights_nt.html)
The press further reported that such an orientation would be welcomed by the mining industry.
The prime minister’s suggestions found support from Warren Mundine (Mundine 2004, 2005), one of the then newly appointed members of the NIC. Mundine is reported to have outlined a proposal to the NIC by which Aboriginal families would be given private ownership of communal land by means of 99-year leases (Karvelas 2005a). There are many other examples that the fallacious notion of terra nullius runs deep in the psyche of the dominant culture, none more poignant than when the then Federal Minister (Vanstone 2005) justified the elimination of outstations by referring to them as ‘cultural museums’. There was no understanding that:
…. being on the land provides physical, emotional, spiritual and mental sustenance … Thus, connection to land is seen as a primary tool for intervention and wellbeing, and outstations are the natural expressions of such a belief system.
It is bad enough that some Australians show such a blatant inability to accept Indigenous values, it is worse when they are leaders in our nation and use this ignorance to attempt to destroy Aboriginal connection to country. It seems blatantly unjust and must lead to yet more extreme frustration and dis-ease.
Many prominent Aboriginal leaders such as Mick Dodson (2004), Noel Pearson (2005) and Aden Ridgeway (2005) have condemned this proposal. As Pearson pointed out in his statement in The Australian on 14 April 2005:
The concern from the Indigenous community that I’m hearing is that the legitimate issue of home ownership might be used as a Trojan horse for a reallocation of land rights—a taking of rights away from Aboriginal people.
Land rights then continue to be a source of conflict and dissent between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people as well as among Aboriginal people themselves.
Anne-Katrin Eckermann and Lynette Nixon have been heavily involved in land claims since 1996. We would like to share this case study with you to illustrate not only the frustrations that plague many Aboriginal communities working through land claims today, but also the enormous level of cultural vitality that is strengthening their resolve to persevere. It is important to note that this case study relates to a language group that was dispossessed by colonisation in the 1870s. Many of its members have had to move away from their traditional country in search of work, although a core have always stayed in the area.
Case study
Our past in our future
It’s 1996, and the local Aboriginal community, through its cultural heritage organisation, has successfully coordinated the anthropological survey of the proposed pipeline to be built along a 700 kilometre corridor and span the traditional country of seven different language groups. It is now time for members of those groups to ‘walk the line’ with the construction company to ensure that none of their traditional sites will be affected. The construction company is willing to pay well for this work, which will provide an opportunity for young people, supported by older, knowledgeable ones, to learn more about their country while earning a fair living.
Suddenly the local community and its cultural heritage organisation is informed that the language group it represents does not exist—that all the land they have always known to be theirs actually belongs to their western neighbour—that the name of their language group means nothing more than ‘vomit’ and they will not be permitted to ‘walk the line’. These statements are made to the organisation and reinforced in the press by a then ATSIC Councillor who is also the Chair of the Regional Land Council and a member of the neighbouring group.
The people belonging to this language group are outraged, as indeed are many of their neighbours, and they call a meeting of all the language groups concerned with the pipeline corridor. At this meeting, all the groups discuss the boundaries of their traditional lands and the rules governing such boundaries. The local community also calls its members together and holds an Authorisation Meeting at which they appoint one of their people to represent their interests in the land and to submit documentation to register their land claim. In the meantime, because the construction company, on the authority of the Regional Land Council, has been prohibited from negotiating with them, the local community establishes a protest camp in the path of the bulldozers. They block construction of the pipeline for almost a year.
The level of commitment to establishing their land claim is enormous. They have no funds because the Regional Land Council, dominated by those who are intent on usurping their heritage, will not support them. Nevertheless, between 1997 and 1999 they travel throughout the region to interview their old people who have moved away; they establish a reservoir of cultural resources from archival records, oral histories and relevant literature; they are able to access the services of a barrister who represents them free of charge; and they develop a Connection Report to establish their rights to the land which, for generations, has been known to belong to them. Further, they develop a series of illustrated children’s stories based on the stories of the past, as well as an extensive Aboriginal Studies curriculum and language/culture program for the local schools.
The State Government accepts the Connection Report in 1999 and the process of mediation begins. Over the next three years, representatives of this community attend numerous Federal Court hearings—each time they are reassured that this will be the final hearing, and each time they make new concessions. Indeed, they pare their claim down to about 14 hectares of vacant Crown Land. Their concern is to establish the principle of prior ownership rather than become large landowners.
In April 2001 they are told that the State Minister will hand over their land. The Friday before the ceremony, they receive a fax that simply states that all arrangements are cancelled. There has been a counter-claim by a faction representing one of their neighbours to the south-west, a group with whom they had previously reached agreement on common boundaries. As a result, everything is back to square one.
The Connection Report, which had been accepted in 1999, is now being questioned because it is not in the form and format expected in 2009. The Regional Council appoints a consultant to review the material and to reformat it in terms of current demands. In 2009, the matter has still not been resolved although the group has been given 14 acres of land as a freehold gift from the State Government. Of course this does not provide recognition of prior ownership or land rights—indeed, it requires native title to be extinguished over these acres. However, it is the first time in the history of the State that such a gift has been made. Further, acceptance of the 14 acres does not extinguish native title rights over other areas, which the people have claimed.
It is not surprising, then, that Roy Gray maintains:
Is there such a thing as Native Title? Mostly it’s agreements between groups and governments. It’s a government agenda for people not to acquire real land rights. You can’t discuss it in an Aboriginal context—there is no meeting point between western law and Aboriginal people’s sense of land rights.
There is no doubt that Aboriginal people living in urban/rural areas have become much more culturally assertive since the 1980s. There is also no doubt that their aspirations to be recognised as rightful custodians of culture and owners of country continue to be questioned. In order to gain recognition of prior ownership, such groups must at the very least meet the burden of proof for the following:
Once this has been done, such groups may then gain the right to negotiate access to sites, to have native title rights over certain areas of Crown Land and to gain some say in decision making over how land is to be used when leases are renewed or changed. It is a process fraught with pitfalls. The fact that people persevere despite the reality that material gains are likely to be small is a testament to their cultural vitality. As we have pointed out, such cultural vitality is generated by their emotion, their spirit, their essence to strive and struggle to maintain strong identity and adapt to new and challenging environments, while they value the past and pass on distinctive cultural beliefs, practices and life ways. Similar cultural vitality is evident in the following case study.
Case study
You gotta give the little bugga a chance
He is in his mid forties (let’s call him John)—married, two kids, one grandkid. He grew up in a close-knit family of mum, dad, seven kids and grandfather. When he was about 16 he lost his older sister in a car crash and in the following couple of years he also lost his father. Still his mother and grandfather kept the family together and his uncles, i.e. his mother’s as well as his father’s brothers, made sure his mother and the kids had what they needed. Although his own father had always worked, first on stations and later on the Council, he was ‘unskilled’ and carried out mainly labouring work. His mother, however, was committed to ensure that her children would get ‘a good education’, despite the fact that she only went to the equivalent of third grade. So he finished Year 10 at school and got an apprenticeship. In his early twenties John started working on the oil rigs—he liked the work, did very well and soon became a supervisor/gang boss. His younger brother followed him on to the rigs and also rose to a supervisory position. John kept being promoted and was even sent to Africa and Papua New Guinea to set up rigs. In his position he has now found employment for most of the men in his extended family as well as the community to which he belongs. As he put it ‘I’ll give anyone a go—like Jim (nephew) I thought it was about time someone gave the poor little bugga a go—but he’s got to go and have regular drug tests to satisfy me—if he’s prepared to do that—the sky’s the limit’.
John is in fact engaging in patterns of reciprocity, which have operated in his community since the times of his grandfather and great-grandfather (see Eckermann 1979). In times past, young men would gain employment through their fathers and uncles who would ‘speak’ to the station owner or foreman for them. They would vouch for the young men and train them. In their turn, these young men would speak for and train other young men in their extended family and community. Until the early 1970s, this meant that there was almost 100% employment in the community. Then opportunities in the cattle industry shrank and unemployment became almost endemic in the 1980s and 1990s. Over the past 10 years, however, the oil and gas industries have offered new opportunities, and the fact that one of their own has gained a significant toe-hold in this industry has enabled him to ‘speak’ for men in his family/community as did his grandfather and great-grandfather. The pattern of reciprocity, then, has remained constant even though opportunities and the type of jobs available have changed radically.
Clearly, urban/rural Aboriginal traditions are complex and intricate. They are no more simply a product of economic circumstances or a reaction to prejudice and discrimination than they are remnants of the traditional past. Individually such traditions may exhibit gross similarities with those prevalent in other groups. However, collectively, taking into account the subtlety and prescriptiveness of many patterns, they manifest a total ‘package’ that is distinctly different from any other ‘package’ whether this be labelled ‘European’, ‘Traditional’ or ‘Ethnic’.
Adaptation, then, is an active process. Through 200 years of extraordinary and often traumatic social change, current rural/urban Aboriginal traditions highlight the vitality and strength of this process.
Since the 1970s, Aboriginal people, as well as governments, have developed a number of programs to enhance Aboriginal life chances. Aboriginal legal aid programs, Aboriginal medical centres, Aboriginal scholarship schemes and Aboriginal recreation and housing cooperatives have all received varying amounts of government support. Most importantly, these schemes have flourished because they have had Aboriginal support and some Aboriginal control. In fact, we may argue that without Aboriginal pressure these schemes would have retained the assimilatory nature of similar programs instigated by voluntary organisations in the past.
Conversely, all the schemes which have been developed to ensure equal opportunity for Aboriginal people in terms of health, education, employment or politics will flounder if they are not accompanied by the majority’s appreciation of Aboriginal worth—personal worth, cultural worth, social worth, economic worth and political worth. Aboriginal people do not need to be ‘uplifted’ or ‘improved’ by the majority; they are not children or intellectually immature. They have a basic right to be accepted and respected for what they are and for who they are.1
That is the path to physical, social and emotional wellbeing and health in its totality, which we will explore in the next two chapters.