SRC Winners: Primary School

I amble across the river’s edge, the wavelets are my first classrooms, ‘Hold on a tick,’ Pop tells me, ‘Listen to the water before you cast your line.’ So, I listen. The ripples flow, it winds , it bends, each movement curves a lesson that never ends.

I glance up, the gum trees stand tall, their roots hold timeless stories. They demonstrate how strength, is not only valued in height, but in how deep you are rooted.

The yams slumber under the soil, patiently waiting until their time, reminding me, that some knowledge develops slowly, and the valuable lessons, mustn’t be rushed.

Kangaroo tracks etch the dusty, red land, it only directs forward, highlighting that every step, leaves a mark, a story behind.

At night, the stars dance, they resemble the previous mentors, composing calendars in the sky, directing when to fish, when to gather, when to rest.

By the fire, folks gather, close folks, or unfamiliar folks, but food is passed palm to palm. story to mouth to ear, memories flooding our minds, teaching us that only the best memories, are the ones that bind.

Country feeds us more than hunger. It feeds collaboration and connection. It teaches us to observe and listen, to share, to care, and to remember.

A blazing fire. A story of valour. A story of culture. A story that had been passed on from her wiyanga to her children. It was a story that would be passed on to generations and generations; if her children chose to do so…

Flashbacks of memories crossed the young woman’s mind, as she thought of a story to tell her young ones as they slept and dreamt of their long-lasting culture; one her wiyanga had once told her when she was young too. It was a story of courage, and it passed on wisdom of the ancient ones. She smiled as she thought of a lesson she had learnt long ago, when she was little. She remembered her wiyanga saying that rivers flow on and on, but some choose to stop flowing at a certain point after time. In the same way, sometimes our stories are not passed on, and there will always be a time like this. The young woman knew that her children were ready to be told the story, but it was their choice to either continue it; or let it fall to ashes forever. Knowing this, the woman smiled and began the story:

“As generations passed, and old customs grew old, the ancient past of the First Nations stayed strong, leading the way; through a journey of time, through a journey of courage. Fauna withered, and breezes faded, but the centre of our heritage didn’t. Bonfires and dances, shared with wisdom, burning the midnight oil on the way; feeding connection and learning from Country. If the stars didn’t glow, our culture did. If the sun didn’t rise with a candescent spirit, our culture did. If the tide didn’t rush in with the strong currents, our culture did.” She repeated the phrase with a small smile.

“A living entity, a continuing generation; a forever guide to freedom. This is what Country means. Passed down through times of the past, present and emerging, one thing is for sure: our land of the brave never dies. May the brittle trees break, may the old wind sigh, but our knowledge is a burning light, which still has a long way to go. Country wasn’t just red earth to us, but our identity, family and tapestry of life and existence. Country fed connection to our lands of the brave, and its flowing rivers and berries gave us strength and freedom on the way. This story doesn’t just teach us of our culture, but our true heritages and lands.” She continued to explain with a hint of pride in her voice.

The young woman smiled to herself. Her children had slept, and she too had passed her insight of her past. She knew that the same story would be passed down to others as well, and knowing this, a rush of warmth rushed over her, as it had done on the day her wiyanga had told the same, customary story near the raging bonfire. The bonfire that still held light inside it, waiting to be released once again to emerging descendants. This is what connection to culture truly was: a heritage full of hope. A heritage full of wisdom. A heritage to be shared with others on the way ahead. But then again, it was up to her children if they chose to feed connection once again to their descendants and burn their flame even brighter; unless they chose to let it fall to ashes. But she alone couldn’t tell them to let the fire rage on, she needed to let them make their choice alone; and with time. She had tended to the fire for far too long already, and it was now their turn to learn more about Country, its ways; and its knowledge of passing on stories of their culture. One day it would be time. And one day, they would be ready; once and for all.

The children laughed and pranced. The dirt and soil rumbled while they danced. The children were joyful while they played.

The Country their stage.

The birds entertained them with their song. The plants and grass swayed along.

The Country rumbled while it roared. Sheltering the young from the storm. The Country warmed us when we had no place Like a mother’s warm embrace.

They are the reason we have grown. Oh how we should’ve known.

Now old and fragile.

Protecting the Country is worth the while. The Country’s hands have cleaned and nurtured us for our labour. It is time we return the favour. We must fix our past mistakes. While the Country is at grave stake.

The seeds that have fed us are slowly dying out. The seas and rivers that met our shores, slowly drying out. The horizon corrupts into a dirty brown The clouds slowly turn into smog as they frown.

Plants unrecognisable as the sun and water that fed them are long gone. Unique animals reduced to one. As buildings take over the diverse green. Millions of plants are nowhere to be seen.

Our Country’s diverse flora and fauna is being led to devastation. The animals and plants as we know it is being hunted and stomped on. If this keeps up, the world will surely end in a cold and empty isolation.

The Country is our home, our mother, our father. If we took care of it as it has taken care of us. Is it so much harder?

We must take the hand that held us and hold it. To be able to be alive is a blessing. But is it if the world our eyes sees is lessening?

The plants and animals are our siblings. So, we must learn how to stop doing such harmful things.

WOOSH! Flames burst up around me with other Elders lighting fires around the younger ones of the mob, telling stories under the star-light sky. I walked through the parched grass which tickled my feet with every step I took. I stood next to Uncle and watched as his shriveled but warm hands started to light the fire on the barren land. The heat slapped me in the face and I immediately stood back and hid behind a cabbage tree palm with fear spreading through my body as the fire roared. Chaos reigned in my body. My heartbeat pulsated rapidly, like it was a machine and someone had taken out a clog from it. My mind was telling me not to go any further and I started

to sweat a waterfall. Uncle, however, gazed at the fire with comfort, like an old friend. I was in a state of calamity, until the fire invited me forward with open arms, like a loving grandmother inviting me forward and my mind gave in to its mesmerising feel. I slowly shuffled forward from my secluded, lonely, cabbage tree palm and sat cross-legged next to my Uncle, who was still observing every flicker of the spreading fire.

Every flicker and flame told the ancient stories of my ancestors. How they hunted, how they gathered berries, how they connected using Dreaming Stories… Every segment of every story was more precious than diamonds worth millions of dollars. I closed my eyes and listened. The crackle of the fire, bygone leaves slowly burning, the slow breathing of Mother Earth echoed through my ears like a soft melody. It called my name like a mother caressing her baby in her arms. “Kalina…Kalina…” the voice whispered with a melodious tune. Each orange and yellow hue and tone held the important power of rehabilitation and reproduction. Destructive yet kind, powerful yet gentle. I was immersed with this blessing and realised the fire was not just healing the land, but also healing me from the shards of glass piercing my heart. It slowly melted the shards and made it into a beautiful artwork of kindness and love. Like an angel in disguise. The land seemed to respond by murmuring a little “Thank you,” with its endless winds and branches swaying softly and soundly in peace.

Uncle slowly got up and I realised he must’ve been thinking about the same things as me. His nostalgic memories of his childhood of playing in the bush with his friends and being cradled in his mother’s arms whispering about the old Dreaming Stories of his ancestors and family. “Kalina, time to head back,” he whispered softly. I got up reluctantly, not wanting to leave the warm grasp of the flames. As I walked back on the freshly burnt land, that was already replenishing, I thought about what I learned about my ancestors. Their voices echoed in my head, telling ancient tales about Dreaming, how important and deep the connection is to the land. I soon then remembered this was also going to be a tale to tell to the future generations. Then to the next… and the next…