Removing Indigenous children from their communities in 2016 echoes previous wrongs. Jack Latimore reflects on the impact of such policies on his own family.
Twenty-one years after the launch of the inquiry into the Stolen Generations that led to the 700-page Bringing Them Home report, the forced removal of Aboriginal children from their families continues.
In the wake of another dismal report card on the federal government’s Closing the Gap initiative, Indigenous academic Larissa Behrendt recently pointed to this fact, arguing that the harmful practice was continuing to be ignored and neglected despite the government’s own statistics showing a marked increase in Indigenous children in out-of-home care.
In addition to a 70.4 per cent increase in the number of Indigenous children being removed from their homes between 2007 and 2015, Berhendt also noted that fewer and fewer of those children were being placed with extended family or even within their own Indigenous communities, contrary to the placement principles legislated by the government and to Article 20 of the United Nations Convention of the Rights of the Child (1989).
Padraic Gibson, a researcher at University of Technology Sydney, has also been vocal about this issue (and also here), as has the Rev Djiniyini Gondarra in the top end, who in 2013 wrote to the Chief Minister of the Northern Territory informing him that up to 60 Indigenous children were being taken away every month by child protection services.
The National Inquiry into the Separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from Their Families was established by the Keating Government in 1995 and reported two years later. Now commonly known as the Bringing Them Home report, it found that a generation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders “endured gross violations of their human rights. These violations continue to affect Indigenous people’s daily lives. They were an act of genocide, aimed at wiping out Indigenous families, communities, and cultures.”
It described the traumatic effects of the forced removal of Indigenous children between 1910 and 1970. The Inquiry heard that Indigenous children stolen by the state frequently experienced unnecessarily hard conditions and limited education opportunities, that physical abuse was common, and that many of the girls and boys were sexually abused by their custodians. All of this brutality underscored the undue loss of their heritage.
The report also found that the consequences of these experiences was varied and lasting. Substance abuse, entrenched unemployment, poor health, mental illness, higher rates of incarceration and lateral violence were the symptoms of the grief and despair endured in later life by survivors of the Stolen Generations.
My grandmother and her sisters were taken from Burnt Bridge, NSW, and interned 800 kilometres south at the Aboriginal Girls’ Training Home at Cootamundra. The persistent effects that had on my nan manifested in peculiar ways.
She woke and cleaned obsessively wherever she was in the hours before daybreak. She did this until the day she died.
My grandmother was obsessive about her own family’s personal appearance. Aunty Marion recalled the conditions for the ABC following the National Apology in 2008: “It was shocking in there . . . We were made to get out at six o’clock in the morning and scrub the cement in summer or winter. They told us it was to take the savage out of us.”
The Aboriginal Welfare Board also tried to take two of nan’s brothers to the notorious Kinchela Boy’s Home. They were saved by their father, William Henry Holten, who like many other Indigenous parents hid his boys in the bush whenever he heard a rumour of the Board’s impending arrival.
That my great grandfather had served the Commonwealth in battle against the Japanese at Milne Bay, New Guinea in 1943 did not matter to the Board. Indeed, it wasn’t until 1956 – 13 years after his honourable discharge from the army – that William Henry Holten was afforded an approximation of the rights taken for granted by White Australians in the form of a Certificate of Exemption.
The certificate, commonly referred to as a ‘Dog Tag’, even by those granted exemption themselves, released the identified person from the constraints of the provisions of the Aborigines Protection Act (1943). New privileges bestowed upon them included the right to drink alcohol, the right to leave the state, the right to receive a pension and, importantly (though not stated explicitly), the agency to retrieve stolen children and potentially shelter their family against future intervention by the Board.
Exempted status was not without its drawbacks, however. Board recognition carried with it a ban on re-entering, even for brief visits, the Aboriginal reserves or missions, such as the one at Burnt Bridge on which William Henry Holten had lived.
This produced a ‘knock-on’ effect of estranging exempted peoples from their extended family support structures. The certificate also had to be carried like a passport on the person at all times, to be produced upon request by any authority of the state.
The trauma suffered by survivors of Australia’s inhumane assimilation policies over the breadth of the last century continues to resonate through generations of Indigenous families. It is astounding and unforgivable that forced removal of Indigenous children from their families is ongoing. It also makes a complete farce of all government efforts to address systemic Indigenous disadvantage.
Without a genuine intervention, now, the same devastating symptoms that have afflicted First Nations peoples right to the present day will continue undiminished deep into the new century.