Kara Cook (Bonner, Australian Labor Party) Share this | Hansard source

():  I start today by acknowledging the traditional custodians of the land on which we gather, and I pay my respects to elders past, present and emerging. My husband, Josh, is a proud Waanyi and Kalkadoon man, and I am the proud mother of three First Nations children. It's a great privilege to speak today on this statement.

Eighteen years ago, then prime minister Kevin Rudd delivered the National Apology to the Stolen Generations. It was a moment of truth-telling that shifted the nation. It acknowledged the profound wrong of removing Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander children from their families, communities and culture. The damage done is not confined to the past. Intergenerational trauma is real. It lives on in families, in communities, in overrepresentation in out-of-home care and the justice system, in poorer health outcomes and in the grief that is carried forward. The apology mattered, and its anniversary is a reminder to all Australians of our true shared history.

I want to use my time today to tell the truth in this place and to share the words of a member of the stolen generations—Robert Young, known as Uncle Bob, a proud Gamilaroi man who I met here at parliament during the stolen generations morning tea last month. Uncle Bob told me he had come to parliament to share his story, and he handed me this piece of paper, written in his own words, about his removal and growing up in the Kinchela Aboriginal Boys Training Home, known as KBH, which operated for almost 50 years from 1924 to 1970. This document is titled, 'I am number 24':

I am number 24 ex-KBH. I went to Kinchela Boys Home in 1954 when I was five years of age. I came out in 1965 when I was 16.

My mum found me in a TAB in Redfern in 1969. My dad was living in Moree. I'd been told that my mum and dad were dead.

My nickname at the boy's home was Bullfrog.

The first thing when we walked through the gate, we were told to take our shoes and clothes off. Our clothes and shoes were burnt in the fire. We were left standing in the nude and they threw white powder over you. You walked across the grass bare foot on bindis. If you played up they would tie you to the fig tree overnight. There were many other punishments. You would be sent down the line and if your brother or cousin didn't hit you, they would get sent down the line too.

There was a dog at the home called Prince. He was a German Shepard and belonged to the manager. If we didn't call the dog by his name we'd be sent down the line. He had a name; we were only called by our numbers.

If you ran away from the home, they would send you back to the home, strip your shirt and trousers and leave you in your singlet and underpants. They shaved your hair off, they put you in a butter shed with a sugar bag over you with cut out sleeves. It was itchy sackcloth. You were on bread and water for two weeks. At breakfast time, they would shake the sugarbag over your porridge so that little like weevils would fall in your porridge and they made sure you ate the porridge with the weevils. If you didn't eat it, you had it for breakfast, dinner and tea.

I used to love beetroot. I'd peel off the leaves and wash it under the tap. If you got caught with whatever fruit or vegetable you had, you had that for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I haven't touched beetroot since. We planted our own vegetables and kept chooks. The manager lived off our hard work, taking the produce to sell for his own profit. We worked barefoot on the farm. To treat our cracked feet, we would step in the cow manure to heal the wounds. In the winter frosts, if we complained about our cracked toes, they would turn the water hose on us. It was freezing cold in the winter time.

The way they taught you how to swim was they threw you in clothes and all. I was thrown into the pool clothes and all. I went head first, breaking my top front tooth at the bottom of the pool. One of the older boys, Alan Murray, dived in and brought me up. The manager said, don't worry about that, 24, we'll send you in to Kempsey to the dentist. The dentist said what do you want silver or gold. I said, "Put the gold in!" It'll be with me all my days.

If you came last in your class in school (my cousin and I came last), they would cane both your hands about three or four times and then take you across to the dormitory where there was a boxing ring. They would stand you in the middle of the ring. They would throw a medicine ball at you, then throw gymnastic mats over you and jump on top of you. When we left the boys' home in 1965, my cousin walked out barefoot.

We got on the train at Kempsey. We had to go to Central Station in Sydney to meet our foster parents. We were separated again. My cousin went to live in Riverwood with a Spanish family. While he was with them he learned to speak Spanish although he never had the opportunity to learn his own language, Kamilaroi.

When he grew up, my cousin walked the streets of Redfern and Central barefoot. Everyone knew him. He asked for two songs to be sung at his funeral: Seven Spanish Angels and Spanish Eyes. People say his presence is still felt at the Redfern AMS, the Aboriginal Medical Service.

My cousin was Harold Young. He was number 23.

Robert Young

29 October 2019

It is an honour to share Uncle Bob's story in this place. I told him at the morning tea that if I had the opportunity to share his words I would, and I'm proud to have delivered that promise to him today. Truth-telling is essential in our country, and in that spirit, I also want to acknowledge the work of Travis Lovett, Executive Director of the Centre for Truth Telling and Dialogue at the University of Melbourne, who next month will lead the Walk for Truth, a 500-kilometre walk from Victoria's parliament to this place, Parliament House in Canberra, arriving on Wednesday 27 May. Travis has said:

Walk For Truth is a shared journey that says, with our feet and our voices, that our country needs healing.

He has also said that truth-telling is not about blame; it is about 'finally listening to those who have too often been treated as a problem to be handled, rather than as sovereign peoples who deserve respect'. Truth-telling is 'an act of national repair' so we can walk a true path forward together. The walk is an open invitation to all Australians to walk the path of truth-telling so we can share more stories like Uncle Bob's not just in this place but right across our nation.

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