Liturgies

Monday, July 6th 2015

DUNDALLI; A FORGOTTEN HERO

By Terry Fitzpatrick
  This week we call NAIDOC WEEK where we celebrate the  Aboriginal  people and culture of this land. Today I would like to speak about the importance of dying to the individual separate self in all cultures, but in particular the first peoples of this land which we walk today - we call Brisbane and they call Meeannjin. The Gospel writer John has Jesus speak so clearly about it in today’s gospel. Anyone who loves their life loses it like the grain of wheat which refuses to die when placed in the ground. Only when it dies can it yield a rich harvest. Joseph Campbell, the great mythologist, writing in 1988, in his book THE POWER OF MYTH, states “I remember reading as a boy of the war cry of the Indian braves riding into battle against the rain of bullets of Custer’s men ‘what a wonderful way to die!’ they cried.” He comments, “there was no hanging on there to life. That is one of the great messages of mythology. I, as I know myself, am not the final form of my being. We must constantly die one way or another to the selfhood already achieved.” To live is to live for something bigger than yourself, to move beyond the ego and separate self. I remember being confronted many years ago when reading ‘Everyday Zen’ by Joko Beck. She writes “that your life is none of your business” when you’re young, filled with dreams and plans for your future, decisions to make, places to go, people to meet; this statement doesn’t make a lot of sense. But as you live your life the wisdom of this statement becomes clearer. This wisdom in every generation and in every culture sees attempts of it being imparted to the younger generation moving into adulthood through their various Initiation Rituals so essential to the survival of the tribe and its way of life. This is particularly so in the Indigenous culture and Aboriginal people of this land. I would like to share with you something of this wisdom imparted to a Dalla man, Dundalli, from the Blackall Ranges, just north of Brisbane. He became one of the chief law men in the whole of the Brisbane region during the 1840’s. This information comes from a recently published book by Libby Connors called Warrior and I would recommend this to anyone who is interested in knowing something of the laws and customs of the First Peoples of this land. Here is his story. Dundalli was born sometime around 1820 in the Blackall Ranges just north of Woodford. He was probably breast fed until the age of four when the arrival of his brother supplanted him. His mother’s father and her brothers were his ‘NATJA’- his mentors and sponsors who would prepare him for entry into the full adult life of the community. Children inherited their mother’s ‘MOIETY’ or ‘skin group’ and all with this Moiety were regarded as kin and called brother and sister. Under Aboriginal law, this Moiety was the opposite class to their fathers. Dundalli’s mother named him within a week of his birth. This name related to his totem inherited from his mother along with her moiety. His moiety determined whom he could marry and his totem gave him responsibilities toward the care and sustenance of that animal, including a ban on hunting or eating that species. The first name given by Dundalli’s mother was a pet name that would last only for his childhood. He was given a new name once he was made a ‘kipper’ – an adolescent undergoing initiation – and a final name when he had passed all tests and was recognized as a grown man and fully initiated member of his community. We do not know Dundalli’s earlier names only his fully initiated name of Dundalli which means ‘the Wonga Pigeon’ a ground bird that inhabits rainforests and wet eucalypt forests in much of Eastern Australia. At the age of twelve or thereabouts, Dundalli’s tribal uncle first prepared him for the cuts (the body scars on the shoulders, chest and back to establish group identity) by removing all his body hair with warm beeswax. Then, using a sharp mussel-shell knife, he made fine nicks on his chest, shoulders and all the way along his spine. These were rubbed with charcoal so that when they healed they were raised; when shiny with animal fat, they were quite beautiful in their symmetry. When Dundalli was almost sixteen, his komaron (the head man) sent messengers to neighbouring peoples known to have a cohort of boys about the same age so that they could be prepared for initiation. The date was set by the stars: when the sky rings-two dark circles visible in the southern skies-were in the north – south position and the Bora sites, the sacred places for male initiation, mirrored the eternal celestial rings ‘where the spirits of the dead performed their ceremonies’, then the Bora council called the ceremony. One of Dundalli’s mother’s brothers was responsible for instructing him and preparing him for the Bora. In these tests Dundalli had to prove his understanding and command of all the laws and customs, including those governing totems, country and moieties. Tom Petrie had the rare honour of being allowed to accompany his young Undambi and Toorbul friends through the Bora ceremonies. There were trials of silence, of restricted vision, of isolation and of fasting. They were instructed in secret songs and sacred knowledge that were never to be divulged to the uninitiated. No women were allowed near them during this time, until the Bora ended with a ceremonial battle by the young kippers, as they were now called, in full dress; they wore a special head band made of snake skin, and belts of possum hair criss-crossed their chests and backs. Lastly they were presented with their first ever dilly, a woven bag made especially for the occasion by their sister or mother. Great mystery surrounded these secret ceremonies, and breaches could be punished by death. The women greeted their young sons and brothers with relief that they had passed these ordeals (not all did). But the anxiety was not over yet. The next phase took the kipper away from home for up to a year. Four young tribal uncles and a member of the Bora council led Dundalli on a journey to give him further instruction about his duties in daily camp life and to harden him for adult life ahead. Among his obligations were the protection of his totem and its breeding sites: places referred to as ‘mimburi’. His older companions were each selected for their skills so that Dundalli was taught how to fish, to hunt and to climb. The last skill he acquired was how to craft weapons, for he was not allowed to own them until he had completed his initiation. Additionally, one of Dundalli’s tribal brothers accompanied the group as messenger under the instructions of the Bora men and would return to the camp at each new moon to give a progress report to his parents and friends. At the age of seventeen Dundalli returned to his parents and worked for them for another two years or so. The opening test of adult life would be his first group combat among the Dalla. For the first time in his life he was obliged to fight in battle on the opposite side to his father, for any dispute among his own people he must line up with those of his moiety; his mother’s moiety by definition was an opposite class to his father’s. His primary duty must be to his brothers and to his mother’s brothers and the other men of his skin group. Such were the complex and demanding loyalties and duties of adulthood as a warrior. It was a strong inducement to minimize conflict within the group. His special skills having been identified by the men of the Bora, he was assigned his role in the community. Everyone had a vital role to play: hunter; fisherman; songmaker; toolmaker; even a ‘gundir’, the esteemed medicine men and women who could channel both good and evil spirits. Once his training was completed his final name was granted (Dundalli) and he was deemed ready to marry. Dundalli grew not just to be a great warrior renowned for his size and strength- Judge Therry, who had presided at his trial, described him in his memoirs as the biggest man he had ever laid eyes upon- 6 feet 9 inches tall, he became a key figure in south-east Queensland Aboriginal politics. He was a lawman for people who lived to the north of the town and whose control of Bunya gatherings gave him power and influence across the region. Dundalli had been initiated into a law which he trusted and loved. The Law of the Land which he loved and cherished, a tried and tested law which had preceded him by thousands of years. He knew that if he honoured it, it would honour him. It was bigger than him. So he followed it closely presiding over its administration during the initial invasion of this country which would mean he would have to understand another law, white man’s law, which to him was confusing and contradictory. It was the following of his law which led to his capture and imprisonment and eventual execution. I do not have the time to retell how his trust in the laws he had been initiated into, led to his death but I can say he trusted in them unmovingly up until his death. They were bigger than him. And like Jesus on the cross on the point of death was still teaching the things that led to his death so Dundalli was speaking to his people and reminding them of their obligations to their Ancestral Law and the Law of the Land. Libby Connors writes of this scene. “Caught up in a brutal and alien penal system, Dundalli had the presence of mind to rally his people and remind them of the struggle. His spontaneous use of the gallows to address his countrymen/women gives a glimpse of the charisma that had drawn people to him.” The memory and message of Dundalli lives on despite many attempts to erase him from the history books. And as we as a Nation come to understand the heart of the Ancestral Laws of caring for country that were at the heart and Soul of Dundalli’s life, which were bigger than him, and bigger than any of us, may they find a place in the heart and soul of each person who calls this place, Meeannjin, Brisbane home. And may our love for country and its timeless laws be as Dundalli’s and that this love will transform the way we treat the fragile, beautiful earth  on which we walk.   Homily 27th and 28th June

By Terry Fitzpatrick