The Language of Lament - Part One.
/I acknowledge the Traditional Custodians of the country now called Australia and the original custodians of the land in which I write, the Borogegal tribe, and recognise their continuing connection to land, waters and culture. I pay my respects to their Elders past, present and emerging.
I am troubled this morning.
I’ve seen my social media feeds progressively fill with the images of George Floyd and with each new image my heart sinks. I’m not American. I haven’t seen the footage of the moments leading to George Floyd’s death. I cringe as I see posts of his last words. I furrow my brow in sadness as I watch the streets of Minnesota fill with angry, hurting people. And I do all of this from the comfort of my privilege, sitting on my comfy bed in a leafy suburb on the North Shore of Sydney. And I find myself wishing the colour of my skin didn’t mean what it means.
An email appears in my inbox, as it has the last 4 days, about National Reconciliation Week and the significance is not lost on me.
Last night, the news headlines were all about the riots in Minnesota, the pain of the African American people, and the death of George Floyd. A google search this morning of “National Reconciliation Week” on the first few pages returns no results from any major News outlets here in Australia.
Instead, their websites are filled with news from America and I’m left wondering…
Why are the cries of America louder than the original custodians of the land we now call Australia?
I do not, in any way, diminish the pain that is gripping the African American community of the United States, but this question got me thinking. I have become increasingly aware of the privilege I exist in. It’s taken a systematic chipping away by God for me to open my ears, eyes, and heart to see the racism that exists within my country. Within my own heart. I naively thought that “Sorry” was enough.
But it’s not.
The only thing that has opened my ears, eyes, and heart has been a process of understanding what true lament is. For many years I would attend conferences and events where Christian Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander leaders would tell of their pain and anguish. Share how this land was ripped away from them. How the 26th January presses on deeps scars that cause them to scream out in pain while our BBQ’s and celebrations drown out their cries. How my ancestors did horrendous things to these peaceful people.
I would feel terrible as I listened to their pain but often leave frustrated because I struggled to see how to make things better. I felt powerless and annoyed that no one was talking about how to move forward from here. I was becoming increasingly paranoid that I would say something offensive without meaning to. I felt condemned but unable to make it right. It wasn’t me who did it but for some reason, I was being held to account for it. For their pain. And all I wanted to do was make it better.
But I had it all wrong…
