Survival Day

Patricia Mullion

You could say that it was a day like any other; the hours slipped by on the wings of crows that cawed their greetings to the rising sun; but this day wasn’t. It was a day that had long since divided a country. This division was closeted, hidden by many, until the collective memory of oppression rose and a voice that had long been unheard, spoke. It spoke of a brokenness that few could comprehend. Of land lost and a culture relegated to the pages of history books. But history lies, fuelled and written by those that have been the victors. It tells of wars fought, and lives lost, but what is never spoken about is the language and culture that had been deemed unworthy of being carried forward.

The smoke rose from the fire, permeating the air with the scent of sweet grass, the embers burning low, a soft muted orange through the haze of the swirling smoke. It swept through the gathered people, rising on a breeze that buffered the square softly. It whirled around those who stood and those who sat with their legs crossed, eyes turned up to watch the sky in the early dawn. The smoke cleansed those present, but it did so much more. It warded off the bad spirits that seemed to cling to a long-dying culture, or those that wrote the history books would have you believe. A deep-seated grip so entrenched, that it went from one generation to the next; taking with it each problem that had been created.

The people’s lungs filled with the smoke that settled over the area. One deep collective inhale of breath. One that held in that cleansing smoke, that momentary connection, to the land and elders that had walked the terrain many dreamtimes before, when only landmarks marked the way… The weeping started long before eyes opened for the memories that had been suppressed, for the languages that were no longer spoken, for the loss that had been passed from the elders to the young, for the connection severed, for those who had no choice but to leave behind their culture, for the families that had been broken, torn apart by laws, not of their making.

It was a moment of united grieving, a loss felt so deeply that it had yet to be healed. A scar that reached from one coast of Australia to the other, crisscrossing and spanning the width and breadth of the land. As the weeping subsided, a hum took over the crowd. Low and steady, it moved through like a wave, ebbing and flowing. Inhale, exhale; tear-stained faces glancing from left to right. Solidarity, kinship, togetherness... community.

In this moment, there was no debate. No calling for a change of date. A pure point in time, coming together to remember, to acknowledge, to cleanse to and feel whole. Sunlight spilt over the square, and for a moment, people, land and sun were in perfect sync, renewed.