The Star of Taroom
During a time of anarchy, an indigenous artefact was stolen from its home in Taroom. My father and his close friend organised a 500km walk from Brisbane to Taroom to return this precious artefact and raise awareness on an issue largely ignored in Australia. I walked with my father alongside many others. A precious experience I am long to forget.
The Star of Taroom.
Three weeks, 500km walk, 160kg rock.
Men, women, a life journey, a people’s history.
The Star of Taroom. The journey of a rock yet something so much more significant, powerful. I walked with the Star of Taroom. I walked with men, women and children, our padded feet marking the red dirt of rural Queensland in unison. This rock that is so much more than a rock, bringing us together.
I’m 20 years old, white, blue eyed with blonde hair. While my mother is Italian and my father Kiwi, Australia is my home. I have lived in this country for 15 years yet what do I know of it? I know life since British colonization. I know of spilt blood, torn hands and the loss of some of the world’s richest culture. What do I know of what’s left? I hear of injustice, crime, Centrelink. For one week of the year, I glimpse celebration of Australia’s first people’s yet only through posters pinned on dirty city walls.
But I want to see.
I no longer want to be told or to imagine. So, I walk. I walk with the Star of Taroom. Here I meet Aunties and Uncles. Here I am welcomed by a mob. Here I see the power and passion of a community deepened by sadness yet filled with knowledge, strength and resilience. Elders who have so much to give. Alongside them walk others. People like me. My mum, dad and brother. A friend, two friends, new friends. Most are older than myself yet we all have something in common.
A lust for vision.
A desire to learn, to grow, be a part of something so much more than our individual existence.
As we walk, our feet tire yet our hearts swell and our minds race, trying to keep up with delightful images from storytelling and wisdom passed on through a generation who were silenced, a generation who were broken, a generation who were stolen.
Although my feet have now stopped walking with the Star of Taroom, my mind continues running with its new-found knowledge and when I close my eyes for sleep, my vision bursts with images. Stories spoken, stories sung, and stories danced by the traditional owners of the land on which I walked with the Star or Taroom.
by Simona Hamilton