In1992…

…my mate and I had been granted Shore Leave from HMAS Watson in Sydney and we had just called for a taxi to take us into ‘town’. I was standing outside the public phone next to a Milk Bar, where my mate had ducked in to grab some much-needed supplies.

On the other side of the phonebox, there was this shiny looking, convertible BMW with its top down. I was busy admiring how flash it was – I would never be able to own one of these I was thinking – when suddenly a police car dropped into the space in front of me, its car doors slammed and I was picked up and shoved against a wall by the two burly coppers that had just stormed out of it.

When my mate came out; he saw two cops take their hands off me and me fumbling to get my ID out, as I was caught in that tight little triangle formed by two big men and an equally solid, red brick wall.  In hindsight, I realise now that I must have seemed quite out of place. My Aboriginality had caught me a short – but not quite sharp – blow once again: Blackfella – rich place. No Abos on the North Shore of Sydney mate!

Subsequently, there I was, just asking for it. The police saw me standing out like a sore thumb and once again, my Navy Identity Card got me out of trouble. As it had done so previously on numerous occasions and would continue to do so many times again, over the next 4 years.

I had made a very bad mistake. I had gone out without my camouflage on. I had failed to blend in. The price I paid at that particular time was just a ‘gentle’ reminder from the police. Not a bad price to pay considering. People like me had gotten far worse. I counted myself lucky and moved on.  I had been granted a small reprieve. It was still important that I realised my place in our society. There were plenty of ‘friendly’ reminders available out there if ever I was to forget.

Once – after I’d left this life in uniform – I caught up with a couple of old military mates at a BBQ, where we were having a good laugh at the old times and how things had changed. One of them said something to me that day that’s stuck with me ever since:

“What’s the matter mate? Suddenly you’re all ‘black’ since you took the uniform off!”

At the time, he was having a go at me because I was sticking to my guns on a discussion we were having about some blackfella business happening in Perth at that time. What he meant was nothing rude or racist – there was none of that – but that I was different now than I had been – when we were all in the Forces together. I was I guess – but it wasn’t that as much as it was the circumstances that I now lived in – and how these had changed to the life I once lived inside of the Navy.

Whilst I was in the Navy, I was simply a ‘pusser’ like everyone else. I worked hard, played hard, looked out for my mates, pulled my weight and kept others safe – just like the rest of those serving alongside of me. It was never required of me to be a blackfella on a warship at sea. I never had to identify in that way.

What he (and others there that night) didn’t know, was that when I went home on leave and took the uniform off, my world – the place I came from – didn’t see me as a serving member of our Defence Force. They just saw me as cocky ‘Abo’ who wouldn’t look down!  The only thing that stopped me getting arrested at times was my Military ID card.  Coppers would take a good hard look at it (heck – it might have been fake), give it back and get into their car. No worries and nothing said.

However; whack me in that uniform and suddenly, I was the same colour as everyone else. People would be caught up on what was on the outside and completely miss the skinny blackfella kid – hidden within. That uniform saved me from having to constantly morph and change as situations dictated. In the 10 years (plus) that I’d worn one uniform or the other – I’d learned that it hid me much more effectively than I could ever hope to hide myself. But when I went home for leave, I had to always be ‘chameleon-ready’. In a moment I could shift to whatever the situation needed of me and I had to be able to do so instantly – getting all the incoming signals and outgoing responses – exactly right.

Leaving the Defence Forces in 1991 didn’t change me as much as it returned me to the world I’d hidden from for 10 years – living a life in uniform. So when my mate challenged me back then – I couldn’t explain this well enough at the time, simply because his question caught me completely by surprise.  You see, I had ‘assumed’ he’d always understood that part about me, but no – he actually never knew.

And until that day – nor had I. I had no real understanding that the life I lived out of uniform was so profoundly different to the one I lived within it. It was a reflex action for me – I simply rolled with it when it happened and welcomed the break that the uniform gave me. Today – I wear another type of uniform. I do so again – out of habit. I have no doubt at all that I will need to maintain my sense of camouflage for the sake of others…

…but also, I think: for the sake of myself!

Belongum – Out!

Weddings Parties Anything…

… is an Australian band that many people would have tripped over in their uni days in the early to late 80′s. They were a pub band through and through and played many a gig all over Australia – reaching out to the masses in ways that so many bands struggle to do so today.

They developed quite a cult following and it was no surprise. Even today Mick Thomas commands a dedicated bunch of followers (come stalkers) but then this probably comes as no surprise to most who know of the band he fronted then; he (Weddos and The Sure Thing) earned it doing the hard yards, trotting themselves out to real Australian audiences all across this big bit of dried up dirt – and all over the globe. Weddings in my book represented what I can only describe as the only real Australian rock-balladeering band to come out of this country.

Oh sure – I might own up to a little bit of bias on this front. Only a little mind. They won me over the very first time I heard them as they not only shared with you the yarns of old – but they introduced to some great new ones as well. They could shift you through whole range of emotions in one gig and introduce you to people and places from all over the world.

Weddings did for me through song, what Gerald Durrell did for me through writing: they told a ripper yarn and in doing so – they taught me a hell of a lot about a world I didn’t know about. I hear some of you saying: “Big call there Belongum!” but it’s true. I don’t know how it happened but they became my ‘Beatles’ or my ‘Rolling Stones’. The difference for me is that they told stories of real people through their songs – the kind of people we could possibly meet or potentially be and by doing this – they made a wider world about us – seem much more real.

What about Paul Kelly? Well, if the Weddings were my ‘Beatles’ – then Paul Kelly was (and still is) my ‘Bob Dylan’! He fronted a band called the Coloured Girls back then. Paul Kelly is a master all unto himself – in another category entirely – and I might touch on that elsewhere one day, but it was Weddings that I saw first and they held a stage in ways I couldn’t begin to appreciate with other rock bands at that time. If I’d have seen ‘Paul Kelly and the Coloured Girls’ first it might have been an entirely different story altogether.

Yeah – I know… there was ‘Cold Chisel’ – but for all that Jimmy Barnes, Ian Moss and the others could pump out there (and they were entertaining as all get out), I just never felt their yarns in their songs- just their raw energy! Whilst it felt great to be blown away by their rawness as it hammered away at you, when Weddos filled a stage they always seemed ready to take you with them on their journeys – I always got a sense of them in what they would choose to sing and maybe it’s because they didn’t TELL you everything you needed to know – they just did their damndest to make you FEEL it!

Weddings taught me about places that I didn’t know about – outside of my home town. I got to peek at Melbourne and Sydney through the eyes of pub-goers and  the homeless – both characters of whom form the backbones of particular songs in Weddos earlier line-up through the 80′s. I learned about old swaggies, Tex Morton, abandoned mining towns and all manner of things that reflected the changing world that was around me at that time.

When I put a uniform on and left my home shores – Weddos anchored me in place. It reminded me of the places and scenes I’d return too – of the people I’d been missing, those I might be meeting and the mate who was responsible for my being a Weddings fan in the first place. I don’t know if it’s possible to have room inside yourself for more than one ‘sensory overload initiator’ but Wedding could sometimes tip me over the edge when I felt homesick or just plain scared.

They told me stories that left me chilled to my bone and had me bent around yarns that I felt to my core. When I heard the story behind The Rain in My Heart it fair broke my heart. No family should have to lose one person to suicide – let alone two. For a Short Time - also covered by ‘Tiddas’ (who did a bloody deadly job I might add) – told the yarn of a young woman who had held a special place in the ‘band’s’ heart. A few years later they’d found out she’d been killed in a tragic accident back home. It smacks of the melancholic tones of regret, lost opportunity and the sheer bloody awkwardness of not knowing just how much you should miss someone – that you only just realised you cared about – when their gone.

Or they reminded you about a side of the history you often take for granted – just because it’s gone and others tell you how great it was! Scorn of the Women tells us a flipside story of our ANZAC Day legends! Not all of our men could go off and become bronzed ANZAC’s – fighting for God, Queen, Country and their mates! No – many had to stay behind (thankfully – but quite a few of them didn’t see it that way at the time) and do other important tasks. Or they simply weren’t fit enough to die on other peoples battlefields – thus their disabilities became their savior and their torturer all in one.

It’s a gift to be able to tell a tale and not seem like your telling one at all. It’s even more memorable if the yarn you tell develops a following and all you did was tell it well. Mick Thomas and the Weddos crew could do this and they did so bloody well – each and every time I saw them occupy a stage! I’ve never been one to get all noisy about a band – but Weddings had this magic ability to make me want to part of their yarn. I felt like I belonged to them as odd as that might sound.

Whenever I meet a fellow Weddings Parties Anything follower it doesn’t matter the lives we lead in our own private worlds. We both have an instant connection that reminds me of those I once served a life in uniform with. It cuts through all the bulldust and difference,we speak the same language, remember all the important parts and we connect almost perfectly – for a moment…

… for a short time!

Belongum – Out!

I’m guessing you mob…

… would probably agree with me on this one: if you serve your Country, you should be recognised by your Country. I wouldn’t have thought this was too much to ask for from the powers that be – a person’s service should be acknowledged right? It doesn’t have to be bragged about either. In fact, most veterans I know would prefer it wasn’t – but we’re all agreed on one point: it should count for something at least!

Image Courtesy of Jens @ Creative Spirits

Medal’s and Awards became one way to acknowledge such service. If you’re in the know, you can tell simply by glancing at a veterans medal rack, where they’ve served and sometimes – in what capacity.

Here in Australia – up until the Vietnam War at least – these service medals were not awarded directly to Aboriginal and Islander veterans. They were collected and held, on behalf of Aboriginal and Islander veterans, by their relative State and Territory body responsible then for “Native Affairs and Welfare”.

The Protector (head of this dept here in Western Australia) was responsible for ALL Aboriginal people in our state – from 1905 through to his predecessors – up to and past the 1967 referendum that gave Indigenous people the right to be included in our country’s national census. Up until 1967 (and actualy later in most parts of Australia) Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples were not actual citizens of either the Commonwealth or the state or territory they lived in.

As a result – and herein lies the irony – Indigenous Australians actually weren’t allowed to fight for ‘King and Country’. It was strictly illegal for them to do so because there were very clear laws pertaining to non-citizens and ‘coloureds’ becoming members of this country’s military forces. Yet they did so in EVERY War and conflict from the Boer Wars to the present day.

Aboriginal people – like Capt Reg Saunders – volunteered to serve alongside their non-Aboriginal counterparts(as was the norm during the Boer Wars and both WW1 and 2). They volunteered for Borneo, Malaysia and the Indonesian Confrontation. They volunteered and fought alongside their mates in Korea and Vietnam and they’ve been involved in the Middle East, Namibia, Rwanda, Somalia, Cambodia, East Timor, Iraq and Afghanistan – in more recent times too.

They’ve also served in a plethora of other areas – far too numerous to name and several ‘hotspots’ that officially can’t be mentioned. They’ve performed all manners of roles, been in direct danger and well outside of it, been freezing bloody cold one minute and stinking bloody hot the next – and they’ve done this Country proud – each and everytime!

They did this alongside their mates. Whitefella mates for the most part – mates who once the bonds were forged – forgot all about the differences between each other, based on the colour of a fellas skin. The cold hard truth of any war is it doesn’t give a damn about what colour you are. Service people who had no ideas of each others lives and cultures back on their own homeland – cried and screamed, bled and died – in each others arms in places so foreign to us now, most Australians today would struggle to name them.

Before Vietnam (let alone Korea – THAT is another story altogether), when service people returned from active service, they – for the most part – were entitled to various things. One of those things after the WW’s was that they were entitled to land (and THAT too is another story in itself!). Whitefella veterans were given blocks of land to develop for agriculture. Blackfella veterans returned to their communities and were entitled to nothing!

Returned servicemen could seek medical aid if they were experiencing certain problems. Indigenous servicemen weren’t even allowed near these services – nor were they allowed inside any of this country’s hospitals. A veteran – or a fella in uniform – could walk into a bar in these times and someone might shout him a drink. Unless your were a blackfella in uniform – as this would often get you thrown out or arrested. It didn’t matter if your whitefella mates stuck up for you either – it was the LAW and they’d be binned as well.

Widowers could seek a pension based upon their dead husbands service during war time. Indigenous widowers weren’t entitled to a single penny/cent. Indigenous widowers who were able to – could write to their relevant Native Affairs authority and petition them for their dead husband’s awards and medals. Hardly any of these were released to Indigenous widowers or the next of kin and as a result a widower couldn’t stake a claim on her dead husband’s service – it just wasn’t recognised due to the laws separating black and white at the time.

Now I learned of all of this well after my own military service. To say I was angry to learn such things would be a gross understatement.  I was confused and torn. The people I served with are some of my staunchest allies in life, but I was completely gob-smacked! Every blackfella (veteran or serving) I’d ever met never had a bad word to say about their time in a uniform. They didn’t tell me of these ‘discrepancies’ – they never complained (like so many of our veterans  just getting on with it regardless).

I can say however, that more and more Australians are identifying with this country on levels that demand more connections to an Indigenous Australia. I think more people want the intimacy that this new knowledge can bring. This land is your land too after all. YOUR ancestors died defending it too an they more than likely did so – alongside a Indigenous mate they never saw or heard from again.

You’ll be happy to know that there are some folks out there trying to right these wrongs. In WA this stemmed from John Schnaars – a Vietnam Veteran – and a few of his mates getting together to form a small organisation called “Honouring Indigenous War Graves Inc”.  John and his supporters seek the help from serving military personnel to identify the grave sites of Indigenous veterans who have passed away unnoticed. They place a tri-service military head stone on their grave and lend assistance – where possible – to the families of these veterans, in getting the recognition for their family member – that they so rightly deserve.

It’s the ‘small’ things like this – that we can all take part in – to recognise the wrongs of a time past and step out on a path clear of the obstacles these times (and their policies) brought us. We don’t need to baggage left over – to clutter our future – anymore than it does already…

Belongum – Out!