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Seven legal packages of nearly ninety pages each were delivered to various departments within Parliament House in Canberra. Jarra worked long hours every day for three weeks to ensure the wording of the enclosures was unambiguous. In these documents his people challenged the sovereign rights of the Australian government and TransGlobal Mining over their lands.
Jarra was seeking relief in the International Court in The Hague to formally settle this dispute.
Jarra read from his writ: 'The Australian High Court had previously headed off any embarrassing International legal victory for indigenous Australians when it handed down the so-called Mabo decision - named after Mr Eddie Mabo who won the landmark case for his clan against the government. After Mabo, Aboriginal people who could prove continuous cultural occupation of a piece of land were given Native Title to that land. Those who had been dispossessed, whose culture and language had been bashed from them as children were not eligible.'
He looked up and around his office.
'Moreover, to mount a Mabo-style claim and bring it to fruition would cost approximately a quarter of a million dollars; there has not been a single case mounted to date.'
Again he paused.
'The High Court's admission of prior ownership meant little to the reality of everyday Aboriginal life.'
He paced the room and continued to read his submission. Jarra wanted to harvest real meaning from the term 'land rights' for his people. He wanted undisputed sovereignty, true ownership which would embrace the rights over any and all development - building, housing, pastoral, mining - every form without exception. He knew the International Court would be sympathetic - he could win.
'Fuck you!' Robin McKeon exploded when he read the text of the action. 'If it's war you want mate....' He let the words trail off as he angrily paced the room, his face reddened.
He called the government's chief legal advisers from the Attorney General's department and they met in his office until midnight. There were thumped desks, hastily scribbled notes and much telephoning. Food was brought in, jackets discarded, ties loosened and sleeves rolled up. Finally, after hours of intense debate the exhausted team scurried into the cold night air of the nation's capital, everyone was unsure of what the outcome of such an International trial might be. Jarra's action was unprecedented.
Most of those who attended the meeting agreed that, at the very least, it would mean an embarrassing year-long, media-intensive, court action. Even if they won, they would lose.
The next morning at nine, McKeon was on the telephone to Jarra.
'Good morning Mr Mariba, I hear you're taking us all to court,' the Prime Minister laughed to make light of the law suit.
'We have brought an action against the British and Australian governments if that's what you're referring to Prime Minister,' Jarra moved straight to the point.
'Yeah well... I thought we had that deal sewn up with the mining blokes and your lot up there.'
'The people of this region and other parts of this country are marginalised...'
'No they are not... we're taking good care of them.'
'There it is again, good old colonial paternalism.'
'Paternalism?'
'Yes, paternalism. Aboriginal people don't want you to take care of them. They want to determine things for themselves.'
'That's bullshit!'
'You may think that but...'
'Look I know lots of Aboriginal people, I meet hundreds of them travelling around this country and they don't agree with you.'
'Yes they do. I watch you as you go in and out of our communities... you talk to no one, you smile and ask them how they are and walk on without hearing the answer. Then you pat the little kids on the head and kick a football with them. You don't talk... and you certainly don't listen.'
'Okay, okay... what do you want?'
'What do you mean?'
You know what I mean... what do you want?'
'The affidavits are clear I believe, Prime Minister. They set out our list of claims and remedies.'
'Fuck that mate... just tell me what you want.'
'I don't want anything personally...'
'The hell you don't. What is it with you Jarra...'
'I don't want anything p...'
'Don't fuck with me, mate!'
'I'm not...'
'You little black bastard. You're an ant... do you hear?'
The Prime Minister's voice raged from the telephone earpiece, he'd clearly lost control.
'I hear...'
'A fucking ant... and you're gonna get fucking squashed mate!'
'I'm going to terminate this conversation now Prime Minster. Are you listening?'
There was no answer but Jarra could hear McKeon's silent fury. The intelligent, philosophical Prime Minister, the man who had accomplished so much, the widely acclaimed visionary and supreme orator had been reduced to racist name-calling.
'Please don't phone me again,' Jarra said and slammed the phone down.
To slow down the momentum of the Prime Minister, Jarra sent him an audio cassette tape of this telephone conversation to his Canberra office.
––––––––
Dew clung to the grass of Hyde Park in Sydney, thoroughly soaking the shoes of those assembling for the much publicised AUA march to the Sydney office of the Prime Minister. The previous night Alan Cliff was told that three thousand union members had confirmed they would attend as well as about six hundred Aboriginal men and women. The Aboriginal contingent would lead the march, some of whom had come down from the Northern Territory and would be bare chested and ceremonially painted up for the day.
Jarra arrived in Sydney a few days before and had been working with Alan Cliff. Two hundred media releases were sent out and organisers were expecting good national coverage by the day's end.
Government sympathisers working in the media alerted those close to Robin McKeon with details of the march. McKeon's speech writers were busy overnight preparing his spontaneous response.
The march was to commence at eleven. At ten minutes to eleven Alan Cliff was standing alongside Jarra, both wore frowns but when organisers approached with questions they brightened manfully. Alan Cliff was told the state police service would send fifteen men and women to stay with the group, another fifteen would be waiting in front of the Prime Minister's office. It was estimated there were four thousand union members assembled, more than expected, but no Aboriginal people.
'What do you reckon, Jarra?' Alan Cliff asked.
'They will be here,' Jarra said. 'I spoke to a big mob of them last night, quite a lot have come down from Darwin.'
'Tell me, do I wait or do we go off on schedule?'
'We wait,' Jarra said firmly.
He began to feel his hands sweat and he wanted to be in another place, anywhere but where he was. He did not want to give off signs of the anxiousness he felt inside; he smiled at those who made eye contact with him, he knew they were searching his face for clues.
Jarra didn't want anyone seeing him looking at his watch: there were three clocks visible from where he stood and he agonised as every minute ticked by. He picturing himself clutching the machinery behind the facades of the three large timepieces that were installed in clock towers, to slow time down, as in a nightmare.
To Jarra's left a female union worker came up behind Alan Cliff and tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. He looked to where she was pointing and saw wave after wave of black faces, hundreds of them, many already stripped and painted, spilling from the underground railway station exit. At the same time at the end of the park, buses pulled onto the footpath and more Aboriginal people spilled from these.
'Now we have a fucking march!' Alan Cliff said out loud.
Jarra's eyes moistened at the sight and his nostrils flared from emotion.
Everyone was positioned into groups: bare-chested men and women painted with traditional designs in white, red and yellow ochres led the parade; loud hailers, flags, banners and signs were carefully organised throughout the long line. Moments before they moved off Alan Cliff addressed the group.
'You all know why we're here... the rich bastards are at it again. Steam rolling their way to more riches. This time they want to rip open miles of Aboriginal land, give the people peanuts, tell them to move out of the way. Well we've got a message for them.....,' he said pointing skyward. 'We're gonna stop you from ripping off our indigenous brothers and sisters!'
This drew an extremely loud reaction from the excited crowd.
'There's five thousand of us here today to show McKeon and his mates they're in for a bloody big fight. From now on, he and his mates have to pay their way. What they didn't count on is that we are in solidarity with our black brothers and sisters - battlers like us stick together. If they want us to take ore from the ground, truck it to a smelter that they also want someone to build and operate, they had better hurry up and start talking turkey.'
He paused and swung around to face the other direction.
'If they want our co-operation in turning the ore into steel and shipping it through our union ports, they had better get ready to talk today. Right now they are so far offside they're almost playing in the next field. Someone has to say stop and blow the whistle on these blokes, to bring them into line and I think that someone has to be us... you and me. We have to let them know they can't make up the rules on the spot, not if they want other people to play in the same game.
'So, come on... let's go and give these blokes a bloody good earful!'
Loud cheering quickly became a roar from the vast body of people as they moved off. Police stopped the traffic on the wide city thoroughfare near the park as section leaders guided the groups onto the streets.
The march commenced fifteen minutes late.
A chorus sprang up near the front: 'So, what do we want?...'
'Money to mine!'
'When do we want it?...'
'Now!'
'What do we want?...'
'Money to mine!'
'When do we want it?...'
'Now!'
And on they marched, painted banners were hoisted high which reinforced the chanted slogan: MONEY TO MINE. There were others: WHO WAS HERE FIRST; IT'S THEIR LAND; SOLIDARITY; MINES ARE BLACK. And the only flag waved during this parade was the striking red, black and yellow Aboriginal tricolour.
The walk to McKeon's city office took only twenty minutes. The leading group arrived and waited for the others to fill in behind. What Alan Cliff and Jarra were not prepared for were the hundred and twenty riot police in full body armour, helmets, shields and batons, waiting on the steps of the federal government office block. Cliff was furious. He charged up to the senior policeman on duty.
'What the hell is this?' he screamed and pointed.
'My men are here only as a precaution.'
'A precaution! Looks more like they want some action to me.'
'No you're wrong... this is a tactical deterrent force.'
'You blokes know exactly what gets up men's noses, don't you? Any blood spilled here today will be on your hands, not mine.'
The policeman tilted his head to one side and smirked. 'That's a risk I'm always prepared to take, Mr Cliff.'
The long stream of workers were now bunched up and pushing closer to the building. The tough-nosed men up front jeered the police.
'What's this they've arranged for us?' asked one of the leaders '... a bloody Nazi reception committee. Where's McKeon?' We want McKeon, we want McKeon.'
The chant went up. 'We want McKeon, we want McKeon, we want McKeon!'
The media were there in numbers too. Flashing lights, clattering shutters and the shunting of equipment of the numerous radio, television and newspaper crews added to the confusion as they scurried for the best vantage points to capture their version of the event.
'We have a document we need to deliver personally to the Prime Minister. We want him to come down now to receive it!' Alan Cliff shouted over the loud hailer towards the locked glass doors. 'Come on McKeon come down and talk face to face.'
'We want McKeon, we want McKeon.' The chant began again.
Jarra pushed his way to be beside Alan Cliff.
'I don't like this Alan, let's get out of here.'
'No way Jarra, we stand our ground,' he spoke between his teeth. 'I haven't seen the media roll out like this for years.... we stay.'
An AUA-Aboriginal front was formed, they linked arms and swayed and pushed at the police with their chests. The police refused to give any ground and met the surges with firmly held shields. Suddenly, a great glass window behind the police line was smashed and people charged forward, batons were wielded and fists flew. Some police fell to the ground and were kicked at the same time as white and black protesters were being flailed by police batons. Hundreds of people broke into the office block and were chased as they ran into elevators and throughout the building looking for McKeon's office.
That night the television evening news showed all, and on one commercial channel the journalist's voice over the action created more of an edge to the drama:
'Thousands of militant Aborigines and workers from the Amalgamated Unions of Australia staged a massive demonstration in Sydney today. The largest organised rally of its type for decades turned into one of the ugliest riots this city has ever seen. Streets were awash with blood from black and white, police and civilians.
'Unionists were joined by Aboriginal people from as far away as Darwin. Their anti-mining message was outlined in a document which was to be delivered to the Prime Minister. But what the demonstrators didn't know was that Robin McKeon was not at his Sydney office today... in a last minute change of plans the Prime Minister flew to Perth last night to meet with senior West Australian bankers.
Newspaper pictures the next day showed angry, bare-chested black women and men joined by white, male blue-collar workers in one huge bloody street battle with police.
As breakfasting Australians read their morning papers, Jarra and Alan Cliff sat in separate prison cells in silence, while in Perth Robin McKeon raved rabidly to those around him.
'I knew sooner or later the blacks would resort to threats and violence,' he said, '... lunatic lefties, all of them.'
Equipment was still and offices empty as the sun beat down on the deserted Lightning Mine the day following the riots. The solidarity of the Amalgamated Unions of Australia had been confirmed.