Conflict

(Sensitive subject explained: Rottnest Island, known as Wadjemup, was a penal colony and prison for Aboriginal men and boys from 1838 to 1931)

A figure crouched in the dank corner of the limestone prison, motionless and tense, his black skin glistened with sweat. Only the brilliance of his terror-filled eyes betrayed his presence as he hid from the guards.

For a long time, he was still. Unmoving with the instinctive patience of primitive creatures who live close to nature's laws of survival. In time, his body softened, but he remained inert. He turned his focus from straining to hear his captors to his own inner turmoil, which had brought him here.

He was not aware of the beauty of the morning. The refreshing cool sea breeze that folded around him through the open hole high up in the wall, or the rhythmic lapping of the waves on the rocks outside. He did not hear the mating call of the seagulls floating on the wind, nor their squawking as they strutted and pranced on the beach, nor the flight of the swift diving tern. His thoughts were on his incarceration.

His whole body ached to be free, to breathe deep the dry, dusty desert air of his home on the mainland. To lift his eyes to the flight of the eagle, to match his wits against creatures of his wilderness: both his sport and food. To be with his people, to be their chief once more. The pride he felt in teaching young warriors the rites and rituals of his beloved land.

He felt his insides wanting to burst out with agonising longing. He had never been shut up behind walls before. The sky was his home, and the earth was his bed. His pain mingled with confusion. Why was he here? What treachery led him to this place?

His noble head still erect, he went back in his mind to the events which had brought him to this place; to the time when, coming home from a hunting trip, a young man from his tribe returned after working on a white man’s cattle station. He was full of arrogance and false pride. He had forgotten his own laws. Laws that ensured the continued existence of his people. Laws that were unchanged across countless generations. He had broken a strict taboo. His punishment fulfilled the age-old religious rites of his tribe. It was the chief’s responsibility to protect his people. It was swift and sure, and in so doing, nullified the fear of intrusion from the white man’s ways.

When the news of the young native’s death was reported in the white settlement, they came looking for him. He did not run. He was the chief. He had followed the law, yet they wrenched him from his home, carried him across the desert, across the Indian Ocean, to be condemned to confinement in the Rottnest Island Penal settlement.

He followed his tribal law, yet here he was, being judged by white man’s law. They had no interest in the desert way of survival. What gave them the right to sentence him? He who administered the laws of his tribe was himself a prisoner. He writhed again at the thought. Did the white man then punish their judges because they administered the law?

He lifted his head. Through the hole in the rock, he saw the sky turning dark as black clouds rolled by. The lapping of the waves became deep crescendos of angry water. A light spray landed on his face as he felt the might of the rising seas. It was a call to nature to feel his shame and outrage at such injustice.

His madness rose to a frenzy inside him like hot lava surging through his blood. As the seas responded, he could no longer remain calm. He had to be free like the wind and the waves outside.

He kicked his feet against the limestone blocks. Feet that had carried him across scorching sands while hunting. Feet that felt the cool caressing touch of soft grass inland. Feet that carried him silently through bush and scrub as he stalked his prey. Feet trained to run miles without faltering. He kept kicking the rocks over and over again. He felt it start to crumble. He violently scratched at the wall, his pent-up fury and frustration masking the pain. He dashed rock against rock, dancing and yelling with glee as they shattered. He pitted his strength against age-old formations, laughing as they crumbled at his feet. He still had power, even if only to destroy

Finally, he pushed the rubble aside. His heart jumped for joy as he crawled out, scraping his bare skin against the jagged edges. He stepped out onto the beach rocks, his anger-fueled strength now spent; he sat, breathing in the cold air, filling his lungs with freedom. This is what the native understood. The mood of the sky and sea; He was part of it.

The ocean drenched him, stinging his bloodied cuts. The deafening boom of surging water crashed along the reefs. The sky rumbled above him, spitting cold needles of rain, pricking his bare skin.

Desire grew inside him to be part of the eternal conflict. He lifted his arms as he drank in the salt and the rain. He filled his lungs until they felt like bursting. This was his strength. His spirit soared, primitive to primitive.

With a whole heart, he flung himself off the rocks into the sea. Free at last. Free from his prison. He surrendered to the life surging around him. He was a part of it now. This was his law. This was his church, his religion, his ancestors were out there in the roaring waters. He was powerful once more.

They thought a primitive Aboriginal could not escape from an island prison. They thought they could lock him away. They will never understand.

At that moment, over in the hot, dry, lonely desert, his lubra gave birth to a son. Life renews against all conflict.