several ways to apologise…
*stay up until midnight making appropriately apologetic couture for sisters and offspring.
*wake up at 3am, pack car, shower, dress,kiss older kids, leave house without eating (or coffee, no more coffee, waaaaa).
*discover the entrance of the M5 is closed for roadworks, double back and head along Hume.
*drive for 3 hours with 2 baby-feeding pit-stops.
*arrive in Canberra to the most stupid peak hour, worse than Sydney, at only 8am.
*Park in the CBD next to the theatre on a hunch (and good advice from Nikki) and meet some others up from Melbourne, check the time, panic, drag prams up stairs, start “jogging” (briefly, then die from poor fitness and minor cold)
*keep jogging, for eternity, across the bridge, across several busy roads and feel as though the parliament house is a loooong way off. All in all, 45 mins of desperate hurry with 2 prams and inappropriate footwear. Passed often by others running, or on bikes.
*begin hearing the voice echoing off the buildings, follow an uphill path, and see before us a sea of silent Australians. Get goosebumps, try not to cry.
And so we listened, as Kevin Rudd delivered a sensitive and dignified acknowledgment, not for the cleansing of the guilt of white suburban Aussies, but in empathy for the suffering of the Stolen Generations and their people.
The crowd was silent, people had come from work, on bikes still sleepy-eyed, from school, from the bush. Many had driven far, many looked tired, many looked sad and happy and relieved.Kids darted in and out of legs with paper flags; Australian, Aboriginal and Torres Strait. There were tshirts, hats, flags and 2 beautifully crocheted Aboriginal flag shawls. The was a dash of morning sun coming through the thoroughly Canberran grey clouds and morning dew. Xanthe and I stood under an old Stringy Bark and listened and photographed. We looked down at one point and Arlo and Darby were holding hands.
There was clapping and cheering and tears and relief, and then, as Brendan Nelson stood and spoke there was silent fury, and members of the crowd began silently turning their backs. Then the clapping began, long slow and deep, to block the sound of his voice, of the vile things that marred the warmth and humility of the first speech. However the crowd remained dignified in all of this, and the the goosebumps stayed on my arms for a long time. People began to leave. A peppery sweet smell filled the air and across the crowd you could see were people had started smoking ceremonies, perhaps to clear away the words being broadcast.
Then all the things were put and “Aye”-ed and clapped and cheered and the crowd was quietly pleased, hooraying and clapping and whistling.
The sense I got was that this wasn’t an empty occasion, a media stunt, but a part of a very difficult grieving process for our nation. The people who had come were there because to them this was a communal and patriotic and appropriate thing to do. It was fundamentally Aussie, and possibly, for the first time in my life, I have very honestly felt what it is to be Australian. Everyone was talking with each other, calmly jovial and there was a wonderful celebratory feel as the broadcast ended and the music began.
It was a really amazing experience to have, and I’m glad we did it spur-of-the-moment. I’m glad we ran for 3 kms with prams in the morning peak hour, uphill and across the bridge. I’m glad we listened, I’m glad we turned our backs and clapped deeply and angrily. I feel like I have been present in a democratic process with much more weight than an election. I’m glad the mothers and fathers and children of this land have been finally treated with some dignity and respect.
And today I am really proud to be an Australian.
February 16th, 2008 at 3:45 pm
This is a very beautiful piece of writing, for what you are saying and for your movement from panic and funny into such empathy.
I was proud to be an Australian, too.