Stories in the waterpipes

One of the most striking things I remember being told about the University of Melbourne was that, if I was lucky, I might catch a glimpse of an eel through the drains on the Parkville campus. The university stands on the lands of the Kulin nation and before the uni was built, the Bouverie Creek was an important migration channel for eels. But, even though the creek had been drained and covered over, the eels still pass through, underground, and (mostly) out of sight, a reminder that Country survives, and continues to tell its story. As Barkandji woman Zena Cumpston writes

The eels

This place is churned up

In constant motion

Heading somewhere off screen

And it catches you

Because it gleams

As it hits the light

But then it’s down into murky depths

And off somewhere

I came for the light

Caught by glimpses of silky bodies rising out of the water

And tried to ground myself

But soon found my feet sodden in black waters

A thousand slippery bodies

Corralling me on somewhere

No firm feet here

In this seismic rippling place

Only drowning beneath churning waters

Sometimes coming up for air

And flashing to others a sign that it’s ok

Everything that moves will catch the light sometimes

For me, the eels seemed to capture my own feelings as an Aboriginal person navigating white institutions, whether they be universities, governments or even certain social spaces. You know the path you should be on, but the crushing weight of colonisation hems you in, makes the journey near impossible through pipes and hidden waterways. You end up being corralled somewhere you may not want to go. And in the darkness, you’ll catch a glimpse of another eel, another blackfella, and they’ll be shimmering. You’ll think they are navigating these white systems with ease, and you fool yourself that if you follow them you’ll get where you need to go. But once you reach them in the darkness you realise they too are flailing, they too are trying to find a way out of the ever-tightening pipework of western knowledge systems.

Last year, my cousin Amber presented to Indigenous postgraduate students at the University of Melbourne, imparting tips for writing. Her first tip was to remember that English is a foreign language to all Aboriginal people, even if it is your first language. Language derives from culture, and English is not our culture, the words are not capable of expressing our ideas.

That’s why the term ‘Indigenous ecological knowledge sticks in my throat. I use it sometimes out of laziness, but it reduces our system of knowledge into something discrete, rational, linear and easy to slot into existing western frames. The research that gains the most interest in this field—noting that even this research is often dismissed or devalued by white academics—tends to be ecological knowledge with clear cause and effect: cultural burning prevents wildfires; native plants treat illnesses. But Indigenous knowledge is more than this, and also not this at all. It is non-linear, cyclical, holistic. Cultural burning doesn’t just prevent wildfires, it heals Country.