In between commitments yesterday, I sat in a West End cafe, ordered a latte, wrote my journal. Australia Day. It was raining outside, but the cafe was warmly lit, the wood of the tables shone golden, the music played invitingly, the atmosphere was cozy. The big wooden sliding doors and floor to ceiling windows were open to the grey day but the temperature was pleasant; the air smelled freshly of rain.
Across the street four men started fighting. One was wearing a red, black and yellow knit hat, the others looked indigenous. An older man, in his fifties perhaps, was pushed backwards so that he fell on his back into the gutter. He got up and threatened the assaulter. Loud words were exchanged. Swearing. People walking down the street crossed to the other side. One of the four, a skinny man in blue shorts and an orange top, ran over to the cafe, stood in the doorway, asked the waitress to call the police, said he'd been assaulted, he would be hit. Eyed the remaining men fearfully, excitedly.
Australia Day, I heard one of them shout, as I sat in the warmth and sipped my latte. Australia Day. A warm cafe for me; the street - today, the gutter - for the original custodians of the land.
This is the legacy we have inherited. How is it that we have come to this? What have we done? It was not me; the history of dispossession, disease, death was not my responsibility. And this is not the whole story; this is only five people on one day, at one moment in time. Yet if my ancestors had not come with their guns and their disease and their alcohol, the lives of these four men would be very different.
I cannot ignore this.
