One of the most fundamental differences between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people is the understanding of the relationship between people and land. Earth is the mother. Aboriginal people are born of the earth and individuals within the clan had responsibilities for particular streams, grasslands, trees, crops, animals and even seasons. The life of the clan was devoted to continuance. (1)
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Having just read Bruce Pascoe’s Dark Emu: Black Seeds: Agriculture or Accident?, which argues that an extensive system of agriculture (and aquaculture) existed in Australia prior to colonisation, I find I am having to completely reevaluate my understanding of indigenous Australia, which of course is a good thing. Though it is not because I thought that Aboriginal culture was ‘primitive’ or ‘unsophisticated’, but for quite the opposite reason: I think that the development of agriculture is problematic. It very often leads to overpopulation (and the conditions for famine), systematic violence (as food surpluses need to be protected, and more land acquired to provide for more people), as well as soil degradation and erosion – and the soil is the very thing all terrestrial life depends upon.
Further, my (admittedly fairly limited) understanding of the Aboriginal way of life, and the nature of the land here, had led me to believe that agriculture simply wasn’t possible, and thus the hunter-forager way of life was both necessary and wise. And yet the evidence put forward in the book suggests that not only was extensive farming taking place, but that it was sustainable. It had been happening for at least 4000–5000 years (though potentially much longer), and involved careful attention to building and maintaining the soil, strict rules about how plants were to be harvested, and respect for other people’s crops and food stores. Importantly, there seems to have been no violence, no need for conquest of other people’s land, but instead a continent-wide web of mutuality and respect, based on cultural laws derived from the law of the land itself. Pascoe writes:
Aboriginal Australian law insisted that the land was held in common and that people were the mere temporal custodians. Individuals were responsible for particular trees, rivers, lakes and stretches of land but only so these could be delivered forward to the next generation in accordance with law. Individuals and families might be said to own a particular fish trap or crop but they worked in co-operation with the surrounding clans.
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The system in operation could be considered a jigsawed mutualism. People had rights and responsibilities for particular pieces of the jigsaw but they were constrained to operate that piece so that it added to rather than detracted from the pieces of their neighbours and the epic integrity of the land.
The piece of the tree or stream or the land that a group retained responsibility for bled into country so distant that they may never visit that country. They had to imagine how the whole picture looked …
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The religious, social and governmental rules were forged and entwined in mandala that had to be imagined in the soul. (2)
If this system of farming existed then, clearly, Aboriginal Australia has always been much more complex than we have been led to believe. Much evidence has been suppressed or ignored (or literally obliterated by the hooves and mouths of sheep and cattle), in favour of the ‘nomadic hunter-gatherer’ narrative, because that is what suited, and often still suits, the white/Western perspective.
Yet now what I am imagining is a land where many people lived more or less settled lives in comfortable houses of various designs, with crop farming, food storage (including dried and smoked fish and meat), and even some evidence of pottery use. It puts me in mind of what I know of life in Neolithic Old Europe, though of course I know it’s not a good idea to start developing new assumptions based on unrelated cultures. Aboriginal Australia, because of its isolation, is incredibly unique, and must be evaluated on its own terms.
That a truly sustainable agriculture could develop, without population overgrowth or violence, based on respect for the soil and other people’s crops, and a sharing of the land’s bounty, proves that agriculture can be done very differently. There are many lessons that could be learned from this, though how they would be successfully implemented in the modern world I have no idea. Though without a change in the way we view and relate to the land, which means (re)developing a spiritual and moral understanding of it, I don’t think much can be achieved. Still, there is hope to be found in this newly uncovered narrative.
I, for one, want to know what the food of this indigenous agriculture tasted like: the seeds ground into flour and baked into cakes; the yam daisies; the fresh or smoked fish; the Bunya nuts. I want to know how the women sewed their possum skin cloaks with fine bone needles and kangaroo tail sinews as thread, and what their houses were like. I also want to know what the land looked like before European settlement, because the Australia that now exists clearly bears little resemblance to what it once was. This makes me incredibly sad. Even more has been lost than I realised.
The world’s most ancient and sophisticated culture just got way more complex and intriguing, and my eyes have been opened. Dark Emu has not only reminded me to be aware of my preconceptions and prejudices, but has also given me much to ponder.
References
1. Bruce Pascoe, Dark Emu – Black Seeds: Agriculture or Accident?, Magabala Books: Broome, Western Australia, 2014, p. 145
2. pp. 138–139
