About Face

The gravel crunched under the wheels as we approached the small encampment. I was not prepared for what awaited me. Our car pulled up beside a group of dark skinned people congregated beneath a tree seeking refuge from the noonday sun. At first glance my conceived ideas of normality were stripped away. Their outward appearance was confronting. With disturbing speed my mind placed them in a distinct social category as a result of their bleeding wounds, rags, and smells. They were sitting in a semi circle of weathered and broken chairs in front of their dwelling which was no more than an over crowded tin shed. Just as I was trying to comprehend what was before me an old lady pleaded "Reverend, them skinheads came again last night and bullied us." Compassionately he replied "That’s no good sister." In my ignorance I asked "did you call the police?" only to here the surprised reply: "Police?… Them don't come here except when they wanna take us away"

I didn’t go to the far off slums of Asia or Africa. Nor was this a flash back to the age of blatant racism in America. Indeed, I was on the fringe of a well known Australian city.

I was totally taken aback. In Australia? how could this be? how could I have been so ignorant for so long. How have my eyes been so masked to this existence, this struggle.

It's astonishingly disturbing. This image of helplessness, of hopelessness. Yet day by day I went on living my life in a manner which negated their existence. An existence that is the reality for so many of our Indigenous brothers and sisters. An existence that breaths anything but freedom.

As time passed and we chatted my attempts to connect and understand were accompanied by the knowledge that when I left I would never have to return. And therein lies the conundrum. My reality sits in stark contrast to their own, and probably always will. In the face of their overwhelming insecurity I could subconsciously reaffirmed myself of my multi faceted security. At this point I realized all I could do was listen and allow myself to be confronted and changed.

At face value most people I meet here fulfilled the stereotype our society as placed on them. They were a bit drunk, disordered and dirty. but like so many things in our society outward appearance is given far too much credence.

To my side there was a elderly woman with a battered face, bloodshot eye and very few teeth. She continued to smile at me but not say much. I attempted to converse but she didn’t appear to hear me. In response I smiled and assumed she was probably too drunk to discern what I was saying. Just as I was about to turn she placed here hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eyes and said " I didn’t used to drink you know, only started now" she continued "you remind me of me son, I loved him so much…ever since he hung himself I been drinking." She began weeping, as the tears flowed they washed over my soul. The pain in this community is immense. Everyone has their story. I realized any form of face value stereotype in this context was grossly Inappropriate.

Many don’t realise that we occupy a nation whereby the original inhabitants have a life expectancy around 20 years below that of the occupants. Some 200 years of history have Influenced the Indigenous way of life In profound and Inconceivable ways. Regardless of people's interpretations of the reasons for this decline we cannot deny that many exist in a way which is not synonymous with freedom.

The most disturbing aspect of this experience was the enlightenment of my ignorance. Indeed, I would not call it ignorance of knowledge but ignorance of heart. I knew such places existed yet I did not have a real understanding and probably still don’t.

The indigenous word narana means understanding that goes beyond the mind and penetrates the heart. This understanding is what I lacked and I fear most of our society lacks.

Philip Ireland