Debra A. Hocking - Speaking My Truth

Debra Hocking is from Tasmania, an island state of Australia lying approximatelytwo hundred kilometres south of the mainland. She is a Stolen Generations survivorand descendant of the Mouhenneer people. She is Indigenous co-chair of Australia’sNational Sorry Day Committee and Indigenous chair of Achieving ReconciliationTasmania. Debra has worked for many years on Aboriginal community health issues.She is a recipient of the United Nations award for the International Year of the Cultureof Peace and the Human Rights Award for Humanitarian Activities in Tasmania.Debra’s contribution to this collection, Reconciliation: An Indigenous AustralianPerspective, is a moving personal narrative of struggle and reconciliation. Raised inan abusive foster home, the search to find her birth family led to the discovery thatshe is member of the Stolen Generations, the term used to describe the thousandsof Indigenous children in Australia who were removed from their families and placedin mission schools and foster homes. We follow Debra as she battles governmentbureaucracy in a determined effort to reunite with her family, and we watch her initialbitterness and anger transform into compassion and political activism. Her workwith groups such as Australia’s Sorry Day Committee and Achieving ReconciliationTasmania support her growing optimism that reconciliation can become a way of lifefor all people, Indigenous and non-Indigenous alike.278 278 | |

Reconciliation: An Indigenous Australian PerspectiveI am a Stolen Generations Survivor. I was born in Tasmania in 1959. Mymother was a great-granddaughter of Fanny Cochrane Smith, a notableAboriginal woman of the late nineteenth century.I hardly knew my mother, but I have learnt from my siblings that herAboriginal heritage was extremely important to her, and she continuedpractising her culture right up until her death in 1980. She raised herchildren in traditional Aboriginal ways learnt from her mother.However, the welfare authorities viewed her child rearing as unacceptable,and she was accused of neglect. This was a commonplace accusationin Tasmania in the 1950s and 1960s. Aboriginal families were watchedcarefully. A critical report by a welfare officer, however flimsy, was enoughto remove children to foster homes or institutions. Often, all the childrenwere removed and siblings were usually split up. Although there was noracial stipulation in the legislation that enabled the authorities to removeAboriginal children, we now know that it was the Tasmanian form of thenation-wide drive to assimilate Aboriginal children into the mainstreamAustralian culture.Not long after I was born, my father deserted my mother and family. Mymother found it increasingly hard to provide enough food for her growingfamily. In desperation, she approached the welfare department andrequested financial help. Sadly, that was a costly mistake. The authoritiescame to our house with an order to remove all four children: my oldestsister aged six, my next sister aged five, my brother aged three, and myselfthe youngest. I was still being breastfed. My mother refused to hand us over,so we were taken by force. I cannot imagine what that must have been likefor her. I now have four beautiful children, and if anyone had attempted toremove them, I would not be responsible for my actions.We children were split up and placed in foster care. I have no memory ofthis but my other siblings do. Only recently did one of my older sisters breaksilence and tell me what she had experienced in her foster home and heranguish at not knowing where her siblings were. It took a heavy toll on her.My other sister and my brother have never talked about their experience,but it has left them with hurt, trauma, and grief. Even today we have littleFrom Truth to Reconciliation | 279

elationship as brothers and sisters. One day I hope we will all find thefreedom that will enable us to build that relationship.I was placed in a series of foster homes. According to my government file, Iwas fretful, and foster caregivers found it hard to nurse an ever-crying baby.Finally, after more than twelve months, I was placed with a family who wereconsidered a model for the community—law-abiding, church-going, andactive in projects to help the needy.By then I had been removed for over twelve months. My mother was not toldwhere we were, and this must have been devastating for her. She was told thatwhen she could prove that she could provide for her children in a satisfactorymanner, her children would be returned. She located my father and whenhe learnt of what had happened, he returned to my mother and they workedhard to satisfy the welfare authorities. Their home was inspected at random,and if the officers were not satisfied, they recommended that the childrennot be returned. The reports in my file state that on one inspection there waswashing hanging in the lounge room and they found this unacceptable. Thatwas enough for authorities to deny parents their children. In many casesthe welfare officers were untrained and had little experience, so they madejudgments that they could never make today. Even the language used in theirreports was archaic.As I grew a little older and became aware of my surroundings, I began towonder at my situation. This family I was living with, who were they? I knewthey were not mine because I was told to call the mother and father “Aunty”and “Uncle,” whereas their children called them “Mum” and “Dad.” So whatwas I doing there? Where were my Mum and Dad? Now and then I had to goto a strange office where a lady would ask all sorts of questions. Before thisvisit, I was told to say that I was happy and wanted to stay with this family.The truth was that I was not happy and I did not want to stay with them, Iwanted my Mum and Dad and whatever family I had.When I began to ask these questions, I was told that my Mum and Dad were “nogood” and this new family would give me a better life. Both my foster parentsand their children constantly said that I was from “the gutter” and they hadsaved me. They told me little about my family. If I mentioned them, they saidthat I would be sent to a children’s home where they bash kids. I then becamereally unhappy. I guess I was still fretting for my Mum. The other childrenresented me. Now, as I look back, I can understand their feelings.At the age of four and a half I began kindergarten at the local school attendedby my foster siblings, who by then were aged ten, eight, six, and five. Beginningschool brought new problems. My name was different than the others in the280 | Debra A. Hocking

family, and children being children had no problem in letting me know it. Ihated them for it, but there was nothing I could do. I very quickly inherited thenickname “gutterchild.” Again, there was nothing I could do.On my fifth birthday, I think there was a party for me, but then began an eraof abuse that took my innocence. My foster father began sexually abusingme, 1 and I was so scared. What was this man doing? Is this what fathers do?Maybe I have to do this, but if so, why did it make me feel so frightened? Thisabuse happened regularly. I did not tell anyone, I was so ashamed. I knew itmust have been wrong because of the sneaky way he set it up. I then lookedforward to going to school. Although I had to endure the cruel taunts, at leastno one touched me, and I was safe in that sense.The visits to the welfare office continued. I had to select my answers carefullyas my foster mother was always present and threatened me with punishmentif I said the wrong thing. How I wanted to tell them what her husband wasdoing to me. But I feared for my life. The welfare officers were scary, and Iknew they had the power to take children without saying why. At each timethey promised me that I would return to my family soon when they weresatisfied there would be no issues of neglect. I kept hoping month aftermonth, year after year that I would go home to where I belonged, no matterwhat the situation. Every Christmas I had only one request, to see my family.Year after year this request was denied. So I grew to hate Christmas and madedamn sure that those around me would not enjoy it either. Now, as an adult Ilive with feelings of guilt that I would do that to other people. Maybe one dayI will explain the cause of my selfish actions, and they might find forgivenessin their hearts.I was now about eight years old. My eldest foster brother started to showinterest in me, and not in a healthy way. My foster father was still abusingme, and now I had the two of them to deal with. I felt a sense of worthlessnessand disgust at what I was enduring. The many incidents of rape left mehelpless and hopeless, knowing there was nothing I could do. At times I wasthreatened with my life if I even thought of telling anyone.At this time my foster mother became erratic in her behaviour. She would getso angry, and if I was nearby, she would beat me for no reason, punching withclosed fists as if she were out of control. No one could stop her. Sometimes Iwould have to stay home from school until the bruising had subsided. At times,as I learnt from my files, meetings with welfare officers were cancelled, andthis aroused their suspicion. They kept a closer eye on this family. Althoughthese suspicions are detailed in my file, they were never acted upon. This abusewas to continue until I reached the age of thirteen.From Truth to Reconciliation | 281

About this time, my real family moved into the neighborhood where I wasliving, and my mother enrolled my brothers and sisters at the school I wasattending. This alarmed the welfare officers and my foster parents, whoinformed me that I was not to look or speak to them if I came across them.I did not even know their names or what they looked like. One day, I waswalking to school and two kids yelled out to me to wait for them. Oh no, itcould not be, could it? I started running away, fearful that I might be seenwith them. How I wanted to look at them and talk to them, find out just whaton earth had happened to our family. That evening at home I told my fostermother. A big mistake. She rang the authorities and told them my familywas “moving in on me.” Next thing I know I am riding to school in a policecar, not a good look. Trying to explain that to an already hurtful mob in theplayground was impossible. I was laughed at and teased, but I held my headhigh. Eventually I was moved from this school in the hope that my familywould not try to contact me again, but my Mum kept following.I realized that my brothers and sisters must have been returned to her, so whywas I still in that hellhole foster home? It seemed so unfair, and I began torebel. I got into fights with other students, I wanted to hurt them. How darethey have normal families, how dare they! This did not last long and was notall that bad, but I found myself increasingly bitter about my foster family andwhat they had done. Why could I not go home? Only when I saw my welfarefile as an adult did I read the letters sent from my parents begging for myreturn. How could they keep one child from a family as a ward of the stateuntil aged fifteen when the other children had been returned? What gaveauthorities this right?Being told nothing about my family, I knew nothing of my Aboriginal heritage.My identity was stripped away as if it was something to be ashamed of. Thisfamily knew all along of my heritage, but saw it as a disadvantage rather thansomething to be proud of. Since then, through reading my welfare file, I haverealized that the reason I was not returned to my family was that my skinwas the palest of all the children in my family, and the authorities thoughtthat I would stand a better chance than my siblings of being assimilated intothe wider community. They wanted to do all they could to ensure that I knewnothing of my Aboriginal heritage.I was now fourteen years of age and dealing with many teenage problems. Idecided to run away. I had no plans, but a girlfriend decided to join me. Shewanted to get away from the violence in her home—her father was a chronicalcoholic. We set off one day, vowing never to return. We were unpreparedand did not even take any food. We did not last long, but promised ourselvesthat one day we would go far away and escape.282 | Debra A. Hocking

This happened fairly quickly. We both got jobs after school and saved hardto buy a bus ticket each that entitled us to travel anywhere in Australia.We boarded the ferry for the mainland, where we took a bus to Sydney,then Queensland. We were both small enough in stature to sleep inthe bus luggage racks, which was fortunate since we had no money foraccommodation. We made it as far as Mount Isa in northern Queensland.We then travelled down through the Centre to Ayers Rock (now also knownas Uluru). We climbed Uluru, then made our way to Alice Springs, downthrough South Australia, and back to Tasmania. We had to go home. We wereout of money and too young to earn more through employment. This was agreat journey, which recharged our self-esteem. I felt so free and happy. Wedid not have to ask permission to do anything, though being just fourteen,many of our adult fellow travellers worried about what we were doing. Wegrew up a lot during that trip and learnt a lot about ourselves.Then a new problem arose. The authorities told me that once I was sixteenI could no longer be a ward of the state, and then I would belong to no oneunless the foster family adopted me. As a late adoption, they left the choiceup to me. But what was the alternative? Try to find my family and live withthem? What if they did not want that? Then what would I do? We had grownup apart. What chance did we have of bonding? I felt I could not go back.Meanwhile, my foster family was determined not to let me go. I was toldthat if I did not sign the adoption papers I would “live to regret it,” whateverthat meant. I think they did not want to risk the family secrets becomingpublic. They scared me to the point where I could see no alternative. Isigned the papers, but I now regret doing so. For years after I lived withshame, agonizing that I had rejected my family who had done nothingwrong to me.However, when I was sixteen I moved out of my foster home and found a placeof my own. The following years were spent establishing myself in employment.I drank alcohol from an early age. It helped me escape for a little while, but Iquickly learnt that when I sobered up the problems were still there and hadto be faced. I had many relationships, some bordering on promiscuity, butlooking back, I am not ashamed of that part of my life. I found employment in abank and was soon appointed to a senior position. I was young and outspoken,but I found I was able to hold my own with lions of the business world.When I was twenty I decided it was time to find my Mum. I was scared that shewould not want to see me after agreeing to adoption, but I knew I had to satisfyan incredible urge inside me. I did not even know my parents’ names. Aftermuch thought, I decided to go back to the welfare authorities that removed meFrom Truth to Reconciliation | 283

and my siblings. I remembered the names of the officers who had looked aftermy case. How could I forget them? Now it was time for payback.I went to the building that housed the welfare offices. It was just as Iremembered. The smell was the same, the carpet, the paint on the walls. Iwent forward to the enquiries desk and said I was seeking information on myfamily. I gave details and dates of my history. The enquiries clerk consultedhis superiors, then returned to say there was nothing they could do, what wascontained in my file was “privileged government information” and I had noright to access it.I was angry. How dare they bust up families and show no remorse, I thought,and no attempt to help reunite them. I was determined not to give in. Twocan play at that game, I decided. I went back to that office every working dayfor weeks and sat in the foyer, eyeballing the enquiries clerk and anyoneelse behind that counter. They became increasingly uncomfortable andeventually could not even bring themselves to look at me.After many weeks I was tired of doing this and was just about to give up whena man appeared and stood over me as if he was about to give me a lecture.He was a big man with scary big, thick, black glasses. He stood and looked atme with arms folded, tapping his foot, but when he spoke, his voice was sogentle. He asked me to follow him and we went into a big room that lookedlike a library. He asked me to sit down and placed a manila folder in front ofme. It was an inch and a half thick and written across the front was “DebraAnn Cooper – Welfare File.” Could this be true? What was this man up to? Heplaced a pad of paper and a pencil beside me. In his kind voice he said, “Youhave half an hour,” and walked out.I flipped through the pages like a madwoman. God only knows what I shouldlook for. Eventually my brain began to operate, and I tracked down my parents’names. There was a lot of welfare jargon, a language I found difficult tounderstand. I wrote down dates and names, which at the time meant nothing,but proved useful to me later. Thirty minutes went by so quickly and then theman was walking back through the door. He picked up my file and smiled atme. I asked him who he was, and he explained he was Mr. Bond, the Directorof the Welfare Department. I asked him why he had done this for me. He justsmiled and motioned me to the door. I thanked him and scurried away. Thatoffice did not see me again for another twenty-five years. What Mr. Bond haddone was entirely illegal, and he would have been instantly dismissed had hebeen caught. Somehow I knew this at the time and decided not to say a word.After sifting through the scanty information I had written, I began an extremelyfrustrating search. I looked through electoral rolls, telephone directories, and284 | Debra A. Hocking

much else. Finally I tracked down the address where my mother was then living.To my astonishment, she was just five minutes away from me.I then had to decide whether to take the next step. I knew I had to followit through. One day in October 1980, I arrived at the address feeling shakybut excited. All sorts of thoughts went through my mind. What if they hadforgotten about my existence? What if they had no desire to see me? I wouldsoon find out. I wandered up the pathway to the front door, my heart beatingso loud I felt everyone would hear it. I took a deep breath and knocked on thedoor, trembling. The door opened and there stood my Mum, no doubt aboutit. She was very short and thin and had a great head of strawberry blond hair.I stood there looking, I could not speak. She broke into a smile, and tearsstreamed down her face.We embraced for what seemed like a really long time, and she held me sotight I could hardly breathe. She motioned me inside. My two sisters andbrother were there too, also another brother and sister born after I had beenremoved. So many emotions ran through me. We all stood there looking atone another, no words were spoken for quite some time. My Mum looked sick.She was pale and very thin. Her movements were not that of a healthy woman.I did not know how old she was or anything else about her, but that did notmatter. We sat down and started talking about the silliest things. Nothingseemed to make sense. I suppose we were in shock. But one thing was forsure, they were damned happy to see me.Now that I had made contact, I thought, we would be able to get to know oneanother. I did not realize that my Mum was dying, and there was little timeleft. Two weeks later I was planning my next visit when one of my sistersphoned, asking me to come to the hospital. Our Mum might not have long tolive, she said.I was in agony. How could she die when I have only just met her? I rushedto the hospital and ran into my brothers and sisters making their way to thehospital chapel. But I wanted to see my Mum. When I reached the ward Isaw her, hooked up to several machines. It was evident the end was near. Igrabbed her hand and whispered, “It’s me Mum, please don’t go.” That wasthe first and only time I would call anyone “Mum.” That was very special tome. Within minutes she was gone, but she had such a peaceful expression onher face. A few minutes passed and the family stood in the doorway, realizingshe had gone.We did not grieve much together, we just did not know how. But from them Ilearnt of my Aboriginal heritage. Although I was suffering the loss of a motherI did not know, I had found a large part of my identity. All of a sudden thingsFrom Truth to Reconciliation | 285

made sense to me. The racist comments hurled at me as a child now hadmeaning. I began another journey.During the next twenty years I reclaimed my identity, learnt about my culture,and learnt of the injustices my people had endured. It became apparent thatthe actions carried out by the authorities were deliberately aimed at splittingAboriginal families in Tasmania and, as I learnt, it happened Australia-wide.The policies differed in each state and territory, but they all led to the samething—a nation-wide attempt to assimilate Aboriginal people into the widercommunity and destroy our culture. It was a blatant attempt at genocide.Like many others of the Stolen Generations, as the media now calls us, I wasdetermined that no matter how hard they tried and how much I was beaten,I would not forget about my family or my identity. I realized that I was one ofmany thousands of children who were taken, many of whom never returned.How could any country do that to their children?For some time bitterness and anger consumed me, but I learnt to rise aboveit. I have seen so often in Aboriginal communities that the transfer of angerfrom older to younger can be devastating. Past injustices, inflicted mostlyby governments, have led us into destructive and addictive patterns ofbehaviour. Many stay that way for the rest of their lives. But do we haveto keep living this way? What of our children? Can we make sure that ourchildren do not suffer from the effects of these atrocities as we have done?As I came to know our Elders, I saw how some of them are working to answerthis situation. One Elder taught me much about compassion. This lady hadall six of her children taken from her, and some she never saw for the rest ofher life. Although she had endured the most terrible of racist experiences, shemaintained that we needed to live in the present and look to the future. Shetreated everyone as equals, regardless of race, religion, or creed. She won therespect of many white Tasmanians and profoundly altered attitudes towardAboriginal people.I realized that there are good people in this world and in our ownneighborhoods. If we are going to bring change, they need to be enlisted.So, when I was asked in 2000 to join a national committee, which broughttogether Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people working for healing andjustice for the Stolen Generations, I accepted gladly.The National Sorry Day Committee had been launched in 1998. It aimed to offerthe Australian community the chance to apologize for the tragedies causedby the removal policies at a time when the federal government refused to doso. National Sorry Day is commemorated on May 26 th every year, and around286 | Debra A. Hocking

the nation events are held to bring recognition and understanding of a part ofAustralia’s history that many Australians still do not comprehend.My job was to set up a committee in Tasmania and plan an event for theupcoming May 26 th . This was achieved relatively quickly, and before weknew it, we had interest from all over the state. Enquiries came from schools,health centres, and government agencies, and many community groupswere keen to be involved. We planned an event on our community land andinvited people from all walks of life. We had speakers and performers fromboth the Aboriginal community and the wider community. Nothing likeit had been done before, and it was very successful. It sent a clear messageto our state premier that many people were aware of the cruelties of ourhistory and wished to atone for them. It was an awakening moment for manyTasmanians who heard the stories of Stolen Generations Survivors for thefirst time.After the first Sorry Day, the Journey of Healing was launched to offer all whohad apologized the chance to take part in healing the wounds. We continuedplanning events year after year, speaking in schools at all academic levels. Werealized that what we had started could enable Tasmanians to look truthfullyat our shared history, and this was vital if we were to build a new relationship.Two years ago our state premier died of lung cancer while in office. His dyingwish to his successor was that he should do justice to the Stolen Generationsof Tasmania by offering compensation. His successor has fulfilled this wish,and the legislation for a compensation scheme has now been approved byboth Houses of our State Parliament. Tasmania is the first state to do so, andits action is thereby challenging other states and the federal government todo likewise for their Stolen Generations Survivors. I have no doubt that thework we have done, year in and year out, has helped our premiers and ourParliament to take this step.Through my involvement in these matters, I have developed a keen interestin human rights, particularly social justice for Aboriginal and Torres StraitIslanders. As a child I was powerless, but as an adult I am not. To repair selfesteemand self-worth can be incredibly hard, but I decided I was not preparedto remain a victim all my life. I wanted to work for both healing and justice.This meant that I was ready for leadership. In 2006, I was elected IndigenousChair of the National Sorry Day Committee. Sadly, over the previous year wehad seen much divisiveness within the committee. This centred on the issueof an apology to the Stolen Generations from the federal government. Somefelt that our main task was pressuring the government to offer this apology.Others felt that to keep asking for an apology from a cold-hearted governmentFrom Truth to Reconciliation | 287

was demeaning, and we needed to get on with healing regardless of thegovernment.The growing division threatened to destroy the movement, and I wasdetermined that would not happen. The only solution I could see was togo our separate ways. I spoke to many people around the country and wasurged to create a new movement, not in opposition to the National SorryDay Committee, but to work alongside it. Those who wished to focus on anapology were welcome to do so. Those who wished to focus on healing wouldform a new organization.We met in Sydney in early 2007 and formed a new committee, which we calledthe “Stolen Generations Alliance—Australians for Healing, Truth and Justice.”Many people have joined us in this, including former Prime Minister MalcolmFraser and Lowitja O’Donoghue, one of Indigenous Australia’s most powerfulleaders, who are now our co-patrons. All states and territories are representedin this alliance, and there is much positive energy among those involved.I believe this energy comes from our determination to offer everyone,Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal, a part in shaping a new society, free of theracism that has scarred our nation. We invite everyone to work with us: theStolen Generations, the whole Aboriginal community, federal and stategovernments, and the wider Australian community.There is much work to be done. Many educative structures are needed toenable Australians to understand the hurts and traumas that Aboriginalpeople in this country have endured so that the wounds may heal. Thereis also much forgiveness and understanding needed within the Aboriginalcommunity, as so often the frustrations and injustices from the past areinternalized, leading to division among Aboriginal people. This needs to beunderstood by the wider community. And we, Aboriginal people, need totake responsibility for our emotional and social well-being.Reconciliation is far from dead in this country. Sometimes it seems we arestruggling up a series of mountain ranges, reaching one only to find there isanother right behind it. But our mountainous terrains can flatten out, andwe can walk on common ground as one people. There is a conscious effort bymany of all races to seek healing in this country. Reconciliation can becomea way of life in this country, rather than a political tool used by governmentfor its own purposes. Until then will we create for our children a country ofhealing, truth, and justice.288 | Debra A. Hocking

Notes1 My personal story has been recorded in a number of public forums including thefollowing online newsletter: Caritas Australia (Catholic Agency for InternationalAid and Development) (2006). News from the field: 04 December 2006. Retrieved 9October 2007 from: http://www.caritas.org.au/AM/Template.cfm?Section=Caritas_at_glance&Template=/CM/HTMLDisplay.cfm&ContentID=1738From Truth to Reconciliation | 289

Section 4Journey of the Spirit

Jim Abikoki and family in front of the fence surrounding the Anglican Mission on theBlackfoot Reserve, Alberta, ca. 1900Glenbow Archives, NC-5-8(Photo: Courtesy of the Legacy of Hope Foundation)