Willowra Blues

I've had the privilege of visiting Willowra in the Northern Territory twice this year. It's a beautiful Warlpiri community about 340 km northwest of Alice Springs. I love travelling down the Anningie Station Road, taking in the beautiful surrounds of the Tanami Desert and knowing that when you suddenly stumble across the bizarre sight of donkeys, you know you've hit this little community north of Ti Tree.
With the ancient smiles, cultural wisdom and surreal scenery that exist there, it seems somewhat contradictory to be talking about the feelings of grief I've had in my past two visits. However, sadly, my last two visits to the community have coincided with the tragic deaths of two young people.

With lives that are constantly changing, and little stability, the one thing that seems to linger around communities, is sorry business - the ceremony that takes place after someone has died. If it's not in their own community, it's a neighbouring community, or in town in Alice. The toll this emotional turmoil takes is immense. I still remember the sudden weight that fell on my shoulders as I entered Willowra in February where only a few days earlier a 16 year old girl had unexpectedly died. I was feeling gloom, upset, frustrated...yet I didn't even know the girl! I can't imagine how members of community were feeling. As I walked through sorry camp putting out my hand to members of the community to acknowledge their loss, the pain on their faces was unbearable to witness.

Then, a fortnight ago, I was making my way back to Willowra. The feeling was great. I was enjoying catching up with people I hadn't seen in a while, and starting to feel like I was really developing some strong relationships with the community. Then suddenly on the Wednesday morning as I was gathering up some of the young Mum's for playgroup a maroon car sped past and pulled out the front of one of the houses. What was all the commotion? What was going on? We had to check it out...and as we drove up some Warlpiri was spoken, and it became apparent. There had been a tragic accident just 20 km out from Willowra. A young man had died.

I'm still confounded by the emotions I experienced at being present at a moment, when people found out about the death of a loved one. Having experienced deaths of loved ones in my immediate family in my own life, I empathised with their feelings. But their grief is often and regular. Within the space of less than six months, they lost another family member. I am really challenged as to how these people can move on. Yet, time and time again they do. Every time they get knocked down, they get up again.
Sorry Business is such a large part of their lives, and I understand why. It is an outpouring and sometimes very public display of their grief and sadness that is felt after losing someone. By acknowledging this grief and mourning their loss, I suppose it's the only way they can try and move on. That's not to say that all their pain will go away or becomes bearable, but at least it will keep them going until it inevitably occurs again.

I'm back in the comfort of Sydney now, but still very much have the people of Willowra and indeed all Indigenous communities in my thoughts. It's easy to be reflective when your thousands of kilometres away from what's occurring and don't have to experience the harsh realities of what's going on. Just like it's easy for beaurocrats, who at the same distance away can make decisions impacting on peoples' lives without really understanding what's going on. All I know is that these events are happening right now in our backyard, and we need real politicians with vision to stand up for what is right by our Indigenous brothers and sisters.


I'd like to leave you with a few shots from my visit earlier this year in February, fresh after some rain, with the grass green, and the creek flowing. Despite all the gloom and doom I've expressed, I'd love for it to give you a sense of the hope and resilience that Indigenous Australians have, in the stunning surrounds that encapsulate this community.

Dreaming of Ethiopia

As a child in the 1980s, I saw children starving in Ethiopia on TV, and I imagined myself as a missionary in deepest, darkest Africa…

I sleep in a different bed in a different village most weeks, but I am fortunate to have a bed. I travel hours by car, or sometimes plane, each week to get to work, but it's a beautiful country that most people never see – not even in photos. Summer days are very hot, winter nights are very cold; it's a country of extremes.

I work in health so I spend a lot of time with women and children and I hear many stories. In one village of 300 people, one that has never been at war or experienced a natural disaster, I meet three children in the one day under ten years of age whose mothers have died. On average, these people attend at least 40 funerals in their lifetimes.

I sit with a woman whose child isn't growing well and I am concerned for his health. I ask her where she is living. Her husband is in jail, and she lives with his family in her mother-in-law's home. There are 14 people in one three-bedroom house, with one fridge (that doesn't work) and one toilet (that also doesn't work).

Similar stories are repeated throughout the places I visit. The tales of despair, hopelessness and lack of control over their own lives can become overwhelming. Why do people even get up in the morning?

The sad part is this is not "imaginary". It's reality – and not in Ethiopia but in remote Aboriginal communities here in Australia. I am working in parts of my own country I didn't know existed when I dreamed of Africa as a child.

When the Prime Minister apologised earlier this year, I sat eating my breakfast with a tear in my eye. As I walked to work, I wondered how the people around me felt. I talked to the women in the clinic. Some had watched it, others had heard there was a party in Tennant Creek. I mentioned I'd seen people I knew from other communities on TV. This sparked much conversation in Indigenous Language and then one older lady spoke up: "Someone from here should have gone there, or those people should have come here and said it."

To a group of young mums, the confusion was around who the Prime Minister was: somehow news of the election and change of Government had missed this part of Australia. For these women, more important was what would happen next in their community. Would the community phone be fixed, so I could call to let them know the next time I was coming to the outstation where they lived?

I am learning so much. What would it be like to speak two or three languages, plus English, yet not be able to read and write? How would I get my voice heard? Would I have a voice?

I've never been to Africa, and I no longer dream about it. Trying to work out what it means to be white in this part of Australia is challenging enough.

Dreaming of Ethiopia: Elise Rolfs; 2008



I know when I set out for Central Australia; I set out in the hope of answers. Answers to questions like ‘why are Indigenous Australians 12 times more likely to develop diabetes compared to Non-Indigenous Australians?’; ‘why are Indigenous Australians 40% more likely to commit suicide compared to Non-Indigenous Australians?’ and ‘why on average will Indigenous Australians die 17 years earlier than Non-Indigenous Australians?’

However the reality is, the more I see, the less I seem to know.

There is only one thing that I know is for certain - the resilience, determination and wisdom that exists with the first Australians; and the only way that we're going to find answers to 'Indigenous problems', is by listening to 'Indigenous solutions'.

While my time here is slowly coming to an end, I hope I can share some of my thoughts on what it's been like to live in the red centre and try to make sense of the bureaucratic nonsense that takes place here.

As one of the traditional owners from New Haven said to me when he held my arm next to his 'our colours on the outside might be different, but on the inside all humans bleed the same colour; we're one blood'.

I hope I can enlighten some of these statistics to human faces and what it's been like to witness the oldest living culture in the world.

While I do still dream of Africa...for the moment trying to work out what it means to be white in this part of Australia is challenging enough.