Before I begin, I would like to pay my respects to the Elders, past, present, and emerging of the Wurundjeri and extend this out to the Kulin Nations, on whose land I reside and work. I do mention names of those who have passed, and I do so with the utmost respect for their identity, culture, and history. Any errors are mine alone.
My ‘This One Time’ moment happened not long after I started working as the archivist at the Shire of Yarra Ranges. I don’t work here anymore, as I’ve changed jobs, but every employee at the Shire has the opportunity to attend Intercultural Training which is led by one of the Wurundjeri Elders. So, as I went with colleagues to The Memo in Healesville for this intercultural experience, I really didn’t know what to expect.
We sat and listened to Wurundjeri Elder, Uncle Dave Wandin and we talked of cultural respect, we ate damper, and we began to consider the stories that he told us. He spoke of the Yarra, and spoke of Coranderrk, and then he told me about Bunjil, the wedge-tailed eagle and I found myself fascinated. I felt like a small child, sitting cross legged in front of a teacher telling me a great story. You know what I mean – one of those stories where you hang on the very words being spoken, as though they were magic and the storyteller a magician.
Later that day, we went to Coranderrk Cemetery out the back of Healesville, the earthly burial place of Wurundjeri legends, including Simon Wonga and William Barak, individuals whose spirits live on today. I honestly believe that their strength comes down to us through the ages, urging us never to forget the injustice of Coranderrk. I remember a few years back watching the SBS First Australians episode on Coranderrk and its poignancy had always stayed with me, the fragility of their way of life, the dislocation from Country that so many suffered. As a relative newcomer to this land, it is both humbling and fascinating and I will never tire of learning more.
So, we walked through the gates to Coranderrk Cemetery, humbled to be walking with a Wurundjeri Elder and soon after, he asked me what role I did for the Shire. When I told him that I was the Shire Archivist and looked after the 20,000 or so boxes of physical archives, he told me to take off my socks and shoes and connect with my feet to Country. As they did so, he opened his arm in a wide circle and swept it all around the majestic mountain arc in front of us and spoke to me, words I will never forget.
You are the archivist at the Shire.
You have a duty to look after their history.
But never forget that the other half of that history is right here, with my people.
And up there [and he pointed up to the sky], up there, Bunjil is watching over us all.
Post-script
This experience was a very interesting juxtaposition to the work I do every day with government recordkeeping. I gave a paper later that year at a colonial archives conference in Melbourne, looking at how colonial curatorial practice has rendered some voices in history invisible, and how the act of archiving itself can raise some voices to the fore and silence others. It is something that I’m forever mindful of as a practising archivist, but also, it is possible to inherit archives from those who have gone before and in so doing, you inherit their curatorial practices, their descriptions, etc. It makes you forever mindful of perceptions and receptions of history.
I am fortunate enough to live in an area where I often see the wedge tail eagles, flying over the southern slopes of the Dandenong Ranges, and consequently, Bunjil is never far from my thoughts.