The 2020/2021 Christos Poetry Prize – an annual search for a coastal reflection that speaks to the memory of Lorne’s beloved poet, Christos Raskatos – was recently worthily awarded to Yangamatta [John Clarke, an Eastern Maar man] for his simple yet beautiful poem, ‘Gundjit Lorne’.
At the presentation ceremony, Yangamatta spoke quietly of Lorne – his Lorne – and his sense of ‘belonging’ to Lorne, to its Country. Indeed, the anglicised translation of Gundjit Lorne is ‘Belonging to Lorne’. The text of his work can be found at the Christos Poetry Prize site: see … https://www.facebook.com/thechristosprize/
Before reading his poem, John gave – in the space of a few short words – the simplest explanation of ‘Country’ I have ever heard. Indeed – and I hope he won’t mind me saying this – it plucked a deeper chord within me than did the later reading of his work. It was as if a gentle light suddenly illuminated a dark well of ignorance and misunderstanding!
Gesturing to a young man at the back of the assembled crowd, John sought to explain the Aboriginal evocation of Country that, to us, seems so hard to grasp. With obvious pride and love, he said:
“There is Dylan, my son, at the back. Dylan is mine, but I don’t own him. It is the same with ‘Country’ — Country is mine, but I don’t own it … it’s a family relationship.”
I have since found myself turning that short explanation over and over, round and round – tasting it, savouring it, and trying to grasp at it with my western-trained brain. I have found myself countering my ingrained notions of ownership, possession, and sovereignty – ingrained through countless centuries of westernised white-fella thinking – with the simple thought that John had expressed.Lorne is mine, too – but I don’t own it.
Lorne is of us, in us, around us, but we don’t own her. Holding that thought, I retrieved ‘the deed of possession’ for ‘my Lorne country’ – the legal deed that ‘proves my ownership’ – by Western mores and laws – for my block, my house, and my garden that surrounds it … ‘belongings’ that I dearly cherished as ‘mine’.
But … do I truly own them? Or is my relationship with ‘my land’ better signified by a looser evocation, a symbiotic custodial relationship, rather than by ‘a deed I own.’
The deed describes me as ‘the registered proprietor of the estate’:
‘proprietor’ is one with legal right or exclusive title to ‘an estate’
‘estate’ [as it relates to land] is the land owned by ‘the proprietor’
So … while western civilisations ‘own’, indigenous peoples ‘belong’. Maybe now I am beginning to get it, though John Clark’s simple yet powerful statement has certainly messed with my whole westernised sense of ownership – the legality of my ‘inalienable legal possession’ in contra-distinction to a light brush from my passing footprint.
This reverie has turned my mind back to consider one particular rendering of the now ubiquitous ‘Acknowledgement of Country’ that seems to precede so many gatherings, meetings, and conferences …. even those held by Zoom during ‘Covid-separation’. The one that stands out in my memory preceded a Zoom meeting between several participants from different regions of five Australian states, with a couple of New Zealand ‘delegates’ thrown in for good measure. As the meeting began, the chairperson read the now-usual statement of ‘Acknowledgement of Country’ … but it was not delivered as an Acknowledgement statement but as a ‘Welcome to Country’ … and ‘acknowledgement’ and ‘welcome’ are two very different things!
Further, the chairperson welcomed us to the land of the Traditional Owners, the Wurundjeri, despite that I was sitting on Eastern Maar land, others were on Aboriginal lands of other traditional owners in a number of regions of several other states, and the New Zealanders – united through partnership, participation and protection under the 1840 Treaty of Waitangi – didn’t really fit into the Australian model at all.
Finally, it was delivered in a “let’s get through this and on to business” manner. It was not, like the magnificent yet ignored ‘Uluru statement from the heart’, said with feeling.
The Victorian government sets out a suggested ‘protocol’ for both ‘Welcome to’ and ‘Acknowledgement of’ country’ … see https://www.aboriginalvictoria.vic.gov.au/welcome-country-and-acknowledgement-traditional-owners … but should either [or both] be ‘protocolised’? Surely the sentiments should hold meaning, be felt, offered – and accepted – with warmth and intent, and not read because ‘it’s protocol’.
In addition, the government document makes two key distinctions: “Welcomes should be performed by formally recognised Traditional Owners on their land” while“Acknowledgement of [or to] the Traditional Owners of the land can be performed by anyone. The two should not be confused, although I sense they often seem to be.
Finally, there it is – in black and white – in the official statements recommended by our government … ‘ownership’: the ‘Traditional Owners of the land’ … and capitalised! But if John’s interpretation of Country – which I happen to accept and sense I now better understand – is all about belonging, not ownership. Ownership is our word. It has [or had] no meaning for the Aboriginal population. They don’t own. Like John and Dylan, they belong.
Furthermore, in the Zoom case I cited – as in so many others I can think of – the recital of Acknowledgement [or sometimes incorrectly, Welcome] seems perfunctory [at best] and is delivered in a manner that suggests: Right … now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s move on to what really matters …
Is ‘Acknowledgement’ – even ‘Welcome’ – losing [or has already lost] its meaning to us – if ever it had one for many. To my mind, a statement read by rote may well be worse than making no statement at all.
As I sat on my usual rock of reflection, the sounds of the surf, the gulls, the ridgeline of gums falling to the sea, the power of land, ocean and sky – of Country – all around me, I thought deeply of John and his relationship to his son, Dylan … “he is mine, he is of me, but I don’t own him” … and Iwondered how we, in our westernised civilisations, had come to get it so wrong.
John Agar
