The last two weeks have been rough. Really rough. Knowing what I know; the lead up to 26th January isn’t easy. Witnessing heartless debate whether to keep or change a celebratory day. Feeling the anger, the pain and the hate. Hearing and reading disrespectful, vile and ego-driven words hurled from one person to another.
The amount of racism from both sides of the room that I witnessed, heard and read was astounding. And I wasn’t even involved in the debates.
The words that were said, from loved ones too, hit me hard this year. I got to a point of total meltdown. Exposure the constant negativity over an extended period of time made me question my existence.
Do I not have a right to feel pain on this day? Do I not have a right to pray for the return of stolen ones? Do I not have a right to honour and pay respect to my mob and the Warriors lost in my family on a day that will forever be stained with the pain, suffering and blood that followed?
Am I sub-human or somehow lesser than others here? Is my pain and trauma not justifiable? Is my need to grieve seemingly not warranted? I feel unwanted and unwelcome in my own country.
I recoiled and withdrew from life for 3 days and nights. Many tears were shed.
Between the tears, through reflection and calming stillness, there was a profound realisation…
“Love always wins”
Hate and anger might hit hard and fast but it will always succumb to the gentle strength of love.
This is not how our story ends. Not for me. Not for my children. And not for Australia.
Even though it may hurt when I speak it, I will continue to be a truthteller. To tell you my stories, my family’s stories and my peoples’ stories.
Through our stories, we will connect as human to human.
I know if I share my stories from a place of love, it will touch the ears and hearts of people it has never done before.
This is not how the story ends. It’s just the beginning.
You just wait and see…