Image: Canva.
I watch my daughter, as she watches her aunt. With a sarong tied around her little waist, she tries to keep in rhythm. My sister-in-law bunches her hands into fists. So my daughter bunches hers. In slow, controlled movements, they pump the air down by their side, first to their left and then to their right.
My daughter (Tokelauan and Nunga) was learning a fatele, a traditional Tokelauan dance that’s transcended generations. The only difference between her and her ancestors is that she was practising in our loungeroom, using the TV—and YouTube—for assistance. This beautiful moment got me thinking about my own First Nations identity (Nunga: Adnyamathanha and Kaurna) and my journey, aided by technology, to reclaim it.
Using the white man’s inventions to take back what was lost is often seen as an inauthentic way to learn culture. Often those within settler society will attempt to exclude First Nations peoples from the benefits of technology—i.e., If colonisation was so bad then go live in the bush without our technology! As if an iPhone could make up for the harm that’s been caused, and is still being caused, to our people and to the environment?
Using the white man’s inventions to take back what was lost is often seen as an inauthentic way to learn culture.
I remember asking my grandmother about the significance of the birthing tree. Here I was thinking that the reason my ancestors gave birth under trees was for purely spiritual purposes. Yet, my grandmother replied that she recalled they would dig a hole underneath a tree because they needed the shade. Of course, they’d needed the shade! Why hadn’t I thought of that?
I’d given birth to my three children in an air-conditioned hospital. The hot sun was the least of my worries. Especially when faced with the reality of a spinal tap during the emergency C-section delivery of my second child. With my grandmother’s reminder that our ancestors were very practical, as well as very spiritual, I think there’s no question that the use of technology has a rightful place in the reclamation and continuation of our culture.
After all, culture isn’t static. It is an ongoing, dynamic and adaptive process, and First Nations cultures all over the world have done well to continue to survive and thrive. In fact, communication and the passing down of knowledges outside of face-to-face interactions isn’t new. Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples have exchanged information through petroglyphs, pictographs and message sticks for thousands, if not tens of thousands, of years, and we haven’t stopped there.
I was raised in North Queensland, away from my grandmother’s family and the traditional lands of our ancestors in South Australia. As children, the only language myself and my siblings knew was rude and/or funny words like ‘gudlus’ (nits). It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I took a trip to Adelaide to meet the rest of my extended family—since then, I’ve still only been three times.
There’s no question that the use of technology has a rightful place in the reclamation and continuation of our culture.
In 2020, I wrote Wurrtoo, a middle-grade fantasy novel about a Wombat falling in love with the sky. I wrote it for my son (Djiru and Nunga). The plan was to increase my children’s access to positive Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander representations. As a social worker and as a mother with First Nations heritage, I could see the way the classic stories I read to my children were passing racism and eurocentrism on to the next generation.
I wrote Wurrtoo from a decolonising perspective by including First Nations themes that could be a counter-narrative to these existing stories. I wanted my children to have a resource that could allow them to strengthen their cultural identity. Little did I know it would also strengthen mine. As I’d written for my children’s eyes only, I hadn’t consulted Elders about cultural knowledge/stories I’d included in the novel—I didn’t even know where to begin. I had found all the information about my mob’s language and stories through Google and database searches.
It wasn’t until Wurrtoo won a black&write! Fellowship in 2021 that I decided to backtrack and seek the relevant approvals. After all, if the book got published, I wanted to follow respectful cultural protocols and represent my ancestors and their stories with the utmost accuracy and care. As we were in the middle of Covid, travelling interstate was completely out of the question, and I had to contact the relevant people through email. I was extremely nervous, but I was surprised by how much love and acceptance I was received with.
I’ve since spoken with Elders and distant relatives through phone calls, Facebook, Instagram and Zoom. Each time we work out how we are related, and each time I’ve received much more information than I’d ever dream of asking. One encounter that’s stuck with me the most was with an Adnyamathanha Elder, whom I hold very close to my heart despite having never met in person. My Ngarlami (big mother) as she had me call her, used our family tree to give me my moiety (Mathari meaning South Wind) and birth order name (Unakanha).
I’ve since spoken with Elders and distant relatives through phone calls, Facebook, Instagram and Zoom.
Despite the difference in the colour of our skin and our understanding of culture, my Ngarlami told me that I was a Yura Atu (Aboriginal woman). Another Elder also firmly told me to stand up to people who questioned my identity by informing them of colonial history (including the Stolen Generation). These interactions left me feeling more whole and accepted than I’d ever felt. Yet, when telling people about these experiences, especially when relaying the part that they occurred through Facebook and Zoom, it was as if the significance of these exchanges evaporated.
Wholeheartedly, I believe that this entire attitude is not only wrong but is based in othering. This concept of ‘othering’ is one where a dominant culture holds all other cultures to a different standard than their own. If someone’s aunt shared a family recipe with them through email, does that recipe not still hold significant sentimental and practical value? Why is it different for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people? Actually, I don’t think I would like to know the answer—although I do have an inkling.
Now don’t get me wrong—while it is a goal of mine to plant my feet on Country, to sit with my Elders and listen and learn from them, nothing in life is guaranteed. In the meantime, I will continue to use the internet, and even books, to learn as much as I can while I can. I will also respectfully check-in with my Elders and significant knowledge authorities, while being mindful of their time, to ensure that what I am learning is correct. I will also do this through whatever form of communication is most appropriate and I encourage whoever is reading this to do the same. That way, when we finally do reconnect with family and Country, we will be able to gain as much from the experience as possible.
One day, I will most likely be a grandmother myself, and I hope to pass on as much information as possible, not just for the generations after me, but for my ancestors who’ve fought so hard for me to be here. Though, the only thing that I’m not certain about is the dancing—I’m much too shame and may just leave that to my daughter, and her aunt, back in our living room.
This piece was commissioned and edited by KYD First Nations Editor-in-Residence Nadia Johansen, in partnership with State Library of Queensland’s black&write! Indigenous Writing and Editing project.
