Free Riding the Black Cockatoo by John Danalis Page B

numbers of the children whose lives were affected by the removals, which started as far back as 1814 but reached levels of ruthless efficiency from the 1920s until the 1960s. It is estimated that between 10 and 30 per cent of the entire population of Indigenous children were affected by the removal policies. In New South Wales the figure is believed to be up to 10 000 children. In Western Australia, where Rob was born, the figure was even higher. But we’ll never know for sure, as records were poor and often destroyed. Comparisons with Nazi Germany are always fraught with danger, but it’s worth pointing out that the Nazis kept records in far greater detail of the millions they ‘processed’ though their death camps during World War II. In fact, a relative or descendant of one of the four million Jews or political prisoners that Hitler exterminated in his death camps stands a better chance of learning the fate of his relatives than an Aboriginal person trying to piece together his or her family history. There is no doubt that some of the motives for the forced removal of children were honourable, but when you read the many stories of the way culture and language were crushed in the institutions, hostels and missions, it is not hard to conclude that the policy was first and foremost an orchestrated program of cultural and spiritual genocide.
    It is easy to get disorientated by the many arguments that attempt to justify the government-sanctioned policy of removal; quibbles over percentage points tend to squeeze out the human element of this national tragedy. If you really want to understand, find – and I promise you it won’t be difficult – an Indigenous person who has been forcibly removed from the arms of their mother. Sit down in front of him or her and listen to their story. And then make up your own mind.
    { 4 OCTOBER 2005 }
    ‘Hey, I’m comin’ up to Brisbane next Wednesday,’ Gary announced enthusiastically. ‘I’m bringing up a songman too. We’d like to do a proper handover ceremony at your parents’ place, nothing big, just a smoking ceremony to clear away any bad spirits and to say thanks.’
    ‘What’s a songman?’ I asked.
    ‘A cultural man,’ said Gary, ‘a keeper of our dances and songs.’
    A charge of excitement ran through me; all my boyhood Skippy fantasies were about to come true. I smiled like an idiot, picturing two painted-up Aborigines with didgeridoos dancing through smoke on my parents’ neatly mown lawn. Then reality shouldered its way back in and I thought of my father; a corroboree in the front yard, it was too weird to contemplate!
    ‘Gary, my dad is a lovely bloke, but I just think that would be too much for him.’
    Gary went quiet. I could feel his disappointment and wondered if he was offended.
    ‘Hey, why don’t we talk to people at the University,’ I suggested. ‘That's where it all started.’
    Gary liked the idea and suggested that we get some people from the local Indigenous community involved. After the call I buzzed about like a happy fool; then panic set in – I didn’t really know anyone in the local Aboriginal community! Mary was about to push me into the unknown, again.

    I searched through the University website for Craig's boss, the general manager of the Oodgeroo Unit. It was ten o’clock, but I knew I had to ride the momentum of Gary’s call. I punched in the number I’d found and it was answered on the third ring. I was relieved that I hadn’t woken Victor up, but he sounded very tired. He explained that he was on Mornington Island as part of a delegation trying to nut out ways to overcome some of the social problems that were tearing up local communities in the region. He patiently and silently listened to my story, just once exclaiming, ‘Jee-zus,’ when I told him that Mary had spent the last 40 years on my parents’ mantelpiece. I told him that two Wamba Wamba men were heading up to Brisbane the following week and were keen to hold a