The Displaced Persons from Europe, or DPs our guardians called them, and the misplaced children of Aborigines had little or no contact with each other. We were aware that these “New Australians” lived on the other side of the camp. All the girls were cautioned and instructed on what action to take if confronted by one: “Don’t talk to them. Run straight to the huts immediately.” Basically our fears and those of the staff had no foundation whatsoever. They were based purely on assumptions that these foreigners were all bad people, the worst kind of human beings on earth.
I can remember the first time I encountered one of them. It was one morning towards the end of our vacation. I was standing on the edge of the road watching intently for the girls to return from the canteen down the road. They were bringing some P.K. and spearmint chewing gum and lollies. The girls from Moore River took to the chewing gum instantly, it was much more pleasant and enjoyable than the “bush chewies” we got from the gum or resin found on young banksias. We chewed these long after the flavour had gone.
I heard or at least I thought I heard a man’s voice; it sounded very close. I turned quickly to face the speaker and there he was. A DP. An Eye talian (Italian) standing there grinning widely, displaying his discoloured tobacco-stained teeth. I forgot the chewing gum and ran like a frightened rabbit, and didn’t stop until I was safely inside the hut.
Apart from such surprises those weeks in Perth were filled pleasantly sight-seeing, picnicking on the Swan River, Kings Park, visiting the South Perth zoo and going to the local picture theatres.
But swimming in the ocean was what we enjoyed the most—especially when we were being dumped by the big waves. We laughed at and with each other when we coughed, spluttered and blew our noses and went back for more. This was the first time we had seen the sea and found it most fascinating and enjoyable.
On the last day of our holidays we said our tearful goodbyes to our Roman Catholic friends who departed on a big bus to their final destination, the Wandering Mission near Narrogin. We wondered if we would ever meet again.
A further delay—the mission needed two more weeks, so we passed the time at the Carrolup Settlement waiting patiently for them to decide how many girls they were prepared to take in their charge. They said they would accept all of us Church of England girls.
The first thing I noticed when we arrived at the entrance to the mission was the very large sign that said “The Roelands Native Mission Farm”, and written underneath that was a text from the bible saying “Suffer the little children to come unto me and forbid them not for theirs is the Kingdom of God.”
However, before we could be welcomed and accepted into the Kingdom of God we had to go through a cleansing process. First there was the bodily cleansing. Our long hair was shorn from above the ears, almost shorter than the boys at the mission. Nine years old, I bawled my eyes out as I watched my beautiful long tresses fall on to the floor in an untidy heap amongst the others. Then came the delousing process where our heads were saturated with kerosene. I hated that, the smell was enough to knock you out. The head lice had no chance of survival in those fumes.
This was followed by a hot bath with disinfectant in it—Dettol I think.
With the bodily cleansing completed, we were taken to our dormitories and introduced to our fellow inmates.
There were twenty girls whose ages ranged from five to fourteen, some from Carrolup Settlement (later known as the Marribank Mission) near Katanning, south of Perth, and the rest of us from Moore River Native Settlement.
We were labelled the “new girls”, which only served to alienate us and cause rivalry between us and the “old girls”, and we felt discriminated against because we were not “born again” Christians.
The environment at Roelands Native Mission Farm was totally different from Settlement conditions. The buildings were always clean and sparkling—almost sterile in fact—with the highly polished floors, the snow-white sheets, table cloths, and curtains in the dining room, with the fruits of the spirit sewn in green cotton on the frills. There was Faith, Hope, Love, Peace and Joy. Everywhere and everything about the place gave it an air of godliness, and righteousness prevailed.
The missionaries’ aim was to save souls—and the business of saving our souls began in earnest. Our guidance through the paths of righteousness began with religious instruction that immediately took precedence over normal education. Our education in a fundamentalist religious indoctrination introduced us to the Christian virtues, principles and behaviour.
These missionaries believed in the literal translation of the bible, baptism and the power of prayer and the Holy Spirit. Their religion had no room for Aboriginal religion, Aboriginal customs and Aboriginal culture. Stronger criticisms reinforced the superstition and fear of our traditional culture. The colonial terms such as “uncivilised” and “primitive” were replaced with Christian terminologies. “Evil”, “devil worshippers” and the “powers of darkness” were used when referring to Aboriginal culture.
This kind of indoctrination served only to widen the already established gulf between the traditionally-oriented and the ruralised Aborigines.
Within two or three years the missionaries had achieved their aim, many of us were converted and became born again Christians. We could memorise portions of the bible and learnt to identify quotes, texts and characters of the bible.
I believe it was through the continuous indoctrination of the Christian morality and tenets—and the constant warnings of the “wages of sin” and “wrath of God”—that all of us tried diligently and faithfully to stay on the path of righteousness and never stray off it.
With this new belief came even more heroes—though this time they were biblical. These heroes were different from the previous ones, they were real, and seemed to be either punished severely for wrong-doings or highly praised and rewarded for their achievements—always about the good and the evil.
As our Christian education progressed, our formal education fell behind the rest of the state school system. With no formal education there were no formal examinations. Whilst we made satisfactory progress and advancement in the Christian faith, we gained no further knowledge of the world in the class at the little schoolhouse on the hill.
The teacher who taught the upper primary level was unqualified. A former Yorkshire grocer, Mr Bennett should have been called “Mr Long”, because all he seemed to know about maths was long division, long multiplication and long addition. His talent as an organist and musician far exceeeded his skills as a teacher of the three Rs.
His wife instructed the girls in needlework and embroidery. We learnt and sang a lot of hymns, English ballads or some folk songs from the British Isles.
In the mid 1950s the education of the children was taken over by the government—the department of education. Thus once again those of us who had a fondness for different or special subjects and the desire to excel in something—even though it may have been only to please the teacher—sat eagerly and ready to absorb whatever knowledge was being imparted.
Our newness became tarnished somewhat as we settled and became accepted and recognised as “the mission kids”.
Seasonal Changes
My first impression of Roelands Mission was a favourable one—except for the slightly claustrophobic feeling the closeness of the hills induced. There were seven hills surrounding the mission, someone informed us. In fact “Seven Hills Mission”, was its original name.
The landscape and the environment were peaceful and tranquil—even though it was a hot dry mid-summer’s day and the paddocks were covered with dry grass and patches of bare brown dusty earth. I just knew that I was going to like living here.
It was paradise compared with the Settlement conditions. The food was wholesome and nutritious. An established vegetable garden, the mixed orchard that produced an abundance of stone fruits, apples, pears and citrus fruits, and eggs and dairy products, enabled the mission to be a self-supporting, productive and enterprising institution.<
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When winter came shrouded in its dismal grey mantle, the trees that were covered in the warm autumn coloured leaves now stood stark bare and leafless—almost lifeless. The playing fields were a slushy quagmire with springs of fresh water seeping through the ground. A cold and sombre atmosphere permeated the mission. The inmates stayed indoors—only venturing outside to perform rostered duties, attend school and to have our meals. The river had swelled and was spilling over its banks and the creeks were full and running down to join the river. The meeting of the waters took place at the fertile triagular plot where the vegetable garden was established.
The bullfrogs croaked very loudly in various tones all night. During the day we searched for these creatures, these croaking nuisances, to rid ourselves of their nightly plunk-plunking forever. We never found too many—a couple I think. So for the rest of the winter we either grew accustomed to their croaking or if you were one of the lucky ones you slept through it.
Rising early each morning when the mists were stationary over the river at sunrise was something you got used to. We braved the chilly frosty mornings to do our duties. It seemed that every movement every action was done mechanically, with no pleasure and definitely no enthusiasm.
It is needless to say that when spring came it was welcomed with opened arms. The landscape was transformed once again, and it stimulated the senses with the abundance of fragrance, colour and appeal.
With the sensation of spring one could easily become intoxicated by the blossoms, the flower gardens and the sight of the blaze of colour the golden wattle trees produce. There are seven varieties located around the mission. This is the time when the orchards are also filled with the abundance of blossoms which will later bear fruit.
In the fields of lush green pastures, the sheep and horses and cattle are grazing heavily. The unfurrowed fields are now covered with golden dandelions and white patches of subterranean clover. Spring is life, movement and productivity.
But if you were to ask any ex-mission boy or girl what they remember most specifically about the mission, they would probably say the hard work, discipline and the bible. And spring. The arrival of the grapefruit season meant the hard work of picking, washing and packing, ready to meet the demands of not only the local markets but overseas to Singapore. This was a busy time for us. Walnuts must be picked, washed and laid to dry. There was fruit to pick, to be preserved and to be made into jam.
Many may view this as a form of child labour but we didn’t, we saw this as a labour of love. I suppose we felt obligated—after all we were family and we all benefited in the end.
It was easy to sing songs of praise about creation and life. And when I recall nostalgically my childhood experiences I will always remember these seasonal changes and also the other changes they bring with them, such as the change of pace, mood and concepts.
We looked forward to the long walks in the bush during the warm spring weather, when we feasted our eyes on the masses of wild flowers that grew in profusion west of the mission. There were splashes of colour and brilliance everywhere. It seemed as if every available space had become part of nature’s beautiful garden; this parkland unspoiled and undisturbed by man. There were patches of light blue leschenaultia, and for contrast there were small bushes of violet blue hovea flowers and as always a carpet of white, pink and yellow everlasting. Scattered amongst the black boy rushes and under the huge gum trees a variety of bush orchids grew, displaying their exquisite beauty in varying colours for bushwalkers and nature lovers to admire and enjoy. We were discouraged from picking the flowers, though occasionally we were given permission to pick small posies to take back home to our dormitory to put in our commonroom.
In Autumn we sometimes emerged from the river banks with coronets of white bush clematis, which we named bridal creepers, and carried bouquets of white lillies. With garlands of these pretty white creepers trailing everywhere we dusky barefooted maidens paraded and danced amid the laughter and cheers. We were celebrating the innocence of youth and the emergence of romantic fantasies. Many of us declared that we would wear the same bridal creepers in our hair and carry lillies on our wedding day. We were going to be Easter brides.
So despite the rigid formality of the place, the prayers, the restrictions, and the narrow-minded Christian fundamentalist teachings—the place, the location, will always be for me the embodiment of security, stability, peace and tranquility.
The Separation
Special friendships were formed there. In our case there was me, Kate Muldune 17 years, Melanie Jones 16 years, Kathy Williams 16 years, and Aileen Miles 14 years. We were a champion tennis squad, and were always on the same side in team sports such as netball and hockey. We worked, played, and moved as a team. Then one day without any explanation we were all separated. I was sent to Dorrington in the central wheat belt to work as a domestic help to Bill and Betty Hammond. Melanie and Kathy went south to Donnybrook and Busselton and the youngest member of the foursome, Aileen, remained to attend the Bunbury Senior High School.
At the time I couldn’t understand the reason for our separation. It became obvious in later years but I could only guess at this stage. In those days our special friendship was viewed in a different light. Our relationship (their interpretation) was perhaps leaning towards lesbianism. But how could we have known about homosexuality when we were ignorant of the facts of life anyway. That assumption was absolutely ridiculous. The only reference to actual sexual relationship was made in the bible—describing the action as “he/she lay with her/him”. Laying or lying meant to us the act of reclining. How, where or why didn’t interest or concern us at all.
Even girls who planned a career in nursing were ignorant and naive as well. The reproductive system wasn’t included in the Health, Hygiene and Physiology course studied by them. So it wasn’t surprising that Beth Keeley, a first year student nurse at the Royal Perth Hospital, became alarmed when a male patient indicated that he was sexually aroused. The sister-in-charge of that particular ward was astonished as she looked at this attractive nineteen year old nurse with disbelief. After revealing her sheltered background, the sister understood and arranged for her to attend a lecture and film on reproduction. At least she was enlightened without having to learn from practical experience—by trial and error from boyfriends or husbands.
The Crossroads
It wasn’t until several years later that the negative effects of my Christian fundamentalist education, values and attitudes became apparent. Both incidents were most traumatic and devastating.
The first incident occurred when I met my father Danny Atkinson, my stepmother Winnie, sisters Janey and Lizzy and baby brother Robert for the first time. The meeting took place on Mt Ross Station, two hundred miles northeast of Kingsley. My surrogate mother Josie Mayler (nee Leach) accompanied me and my four children to the station to explain the customs and instruct me on traditional and social behaviour.
“All the people who have settled at the Jigalong Mission have either been given anglo names or have had their Aboriginal names anglicised for identification purposes. Your Dad’s surname is Atkinson now,” Josie explained.
“They seemed to have used all the letters in the alphabet except X, Y and Z,” she added.
Throughout my life all reference to Aboriginal tribal, traditional culture had been negative and adverse. So it was with fear, trepidation and curiosity that I allowed myself to be led to my father’s camp. That thick impregnable wall erected by the colonists and Christianity had crumbled and I was actually coming face to face with people who were once described to me as “devil worshippers”.
Before the meeting I was like the hundreds of other European-oriented Aborigines, those without a tradition or a past, those who had undergone (successfully I might add) conditioning to lose our memories of our families and heritage. Those negative beliefs have been firmly ingrained and imbedded forever. That invisible barrier—the gulf between the fullblooded Aborigine and the half-caste created by the coloni
als and widened by the Christians was a permanent fixture.
The confusion and conflict arose not from the actual contact with my family, but from confronting the negative and adverse aspects of Aboriginal culture. “Devil worshippers” and “primitive savages”. These descriptions of the traditionally-oriented Aborigines kept bouncing around in my head. I couldn’t could get rid of them, even when our visits to the station became annual or later bi-annual events and the children learnt to recognise all the local “bush tucker” and became more interested and involved in their traditional heritage. My children were not only learning to recognise bush foods but used the traditional names in Mardu Wangka, such as minyara (wild onions), kulyu (wild sweet potato), quomalla (wild tomato) and murrundu (goanna).
I refused to even attempt to repeat any Mardu words, that would surely indicate that I was allowing myself to be influenced and controlled by a people and a system of beliefs that was destructive and dangerous. I and or rather my mind rejected anything traditionally Aboriginal—except the food—and that included the language, the culture and especially its ceremonies, rites and rituals.
What a pathetic, misguided, misinformed woman I was then. Here I was unjustly condemning a culture that had survived and practised for over 40,000 years. It took almost ten years to undo the damage caused by foreign indoctrination and shake off the shroud of fear and superstition.
How could I despise my own flesh and blood, and how could I not love this warm, caring man who calls me “my gel” and who proudly introduces me to his friends and acquaintances as “my daughter”. All my life I have always had substitute or surrogate mothers—but I have never called any other man “dad”. There were many uncles but only one dad. I realise now that I have a past, a history that I have become extremely proud of. I even have a genuine skin name. I am a Milangga, the same skin section as my grandmother Lucy Muldune. This is my birthright and no one can take this away from me.
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