Growing up Indigenous: Developing Effective Pedagogy for Education and Development

Growing up Indigenous

Growing up Indigenous Developing Effective Pedagogy for Education and Development

Raymond Nichol La Trobe University, Australia

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgements ................................................................................................. ix Foreword ................................................................................................................. xi Introduction............................................................................................................ xv 1. A Compelling Need ............................................................................................. 1 2. Knowledge Traditions and Change.................................................................... 23 3. Traditional Socialisation and Education in Australia ........................................ 49 4. Traditional Socialisation and Education in Melanesia....................................... 59 5. Colonialism and Western Education in Melanesia and Australia ...................... 83 6. Integrating Traditional Knowledge with Education and Development ............. 91 7. Indigenous Pedagogy and Development: Present and Future Success? .......... 103 Bibliography......................................................................................................... 127

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GROWING UP INDIGENOUS

ARTIST, JIMMY MATJIRRI, GAPAWIYAK, THE LAKE EVELLA STORY: BURALA, THE DARTER BIRD, BARK PAINTING, 1982 AUTHOR’S COLLECTION.

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DEVELOPING EFFECTIVE PEDAGOGY FOR EDUCATION AND DEVELOPMENT

This is a fascinating account of traditional socialisation and Indigenous forms of learning, mostly from Australia and Melanesia. It draws from rich ethnographic, historical and educational material. There has never been a greater need for a socially and historically informed, yet critical account, of the mismatch between traditional ways, realities of life in Indigenous communities, villages and enclaves, and the forms of education provided in schools. Raymond Nichol, a specialist in Indigenous education and pedagogy, surveys the links, too often disparities, between ethnographic detail of life ‘on the ground’ and the schooling provided by nation states in this vast region. Most importantly, he explores and suggests ways community developers and educators, Indigenous and non-Indigenous, may work to bridge the gaps in social rights, educational and economic development. This is relevant for all Indigenous communities, their survival and development. Many vexed issues are discussed, such as race, ethnicity, identity, discrimination, self-determination and development. Recommendations are made for relevant and effective pedagogical, learning and schooling strategies.

Dr Raymond Nichol is Co-ordinator International in the Faculty of Education, La Trobe University, Bendigo, Victoria, Australia. He is an anthropologist and teacher educator, specializing in Indigenous education, social and citizenship education. His many publications in the fields of education and social science include Socialization, Land, and Citizenship among Aboriginal Australians: Reconciling Indigenous and Western Forms of Education, Lewiston, NY: Edward Mellen Press, 2005. This is a follow-up, comparative extension and update to that book.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to acknowledge and thank the people of Murrin Bridge, Euabalong, Lake Cargelligo, Bendigo, Shepparton, Echuca, Alice Springs, Port Moresby, Goldie River, Munari, Wewak and Vanimo, and the many other Indigenous people and communities I have worked with over the years, for their support and generosity. Special appreciation is extended to the various contributors, in Australia and Melanesia, to the ethnographic and educational research. Many shared their life, student, teacher and other work histories, offering the anecdotes, critiques and advice that enrich and enliven the book. Academic colleagues in the Faculty of Education, La Trobe University, Bendigo, Victoria, provided guidance and encouragement at various times. The late Len Hall was inspirational. Professors Noel Gough, Vaughan Prain and Tony Potts, and Drs. Craig Deed and Penelope Collet, were very helpful. I am particularly grateful to Professor Paul Sillitoe, Anthropology Department, Durham University, UK, a specialist in Indigenous knowledge systems and development, for his valuable suggestions regarding Melanesian, comparative, community and developmental dimensions, and for the following Foreword to the book. Many of Paul Sillitoe’s Durham University colleagues, in Anthropology, Education, and at Grey College, were supportive of my research and stimulating in ideas and advice. I also thank Grey College for awarding me the Sydney Holgate Research Fellowship, and La Trobe University, which gave me the time and resources to research, develop and refine much of what follows. Thanks to the gifted photographer, my former Social Science Education student, John Morton, for the evocative early Murrin Bridge photographs, taken whilst on fieldwork and school practicum. Finally, I record grateful appreciation to my family, Marcia, Matthew, Motoko, Rena, Mia, Alice and Bernard, for their support and encouragement. Raymond Nichol November 2010

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FOREWORD

When does education amount to brainwashing? Arguably always, in the sense that we are all taught how to understand the world, what values to hold and how to behave appropriately. We do not invent these for ourselves, but inherit them from our forebears, acquiring such knowledge from those who socialise us, such as parents, relatives, friends and teachers. Albeit we may modify what we know and how we behave in the light of life’s experiences, perhaps contributing to a change in the body of knowledge passed on to the next generation. But the philosopher’s idea of the individual in a ‘state of nature’, entirely free to learn and behave however s/he wishes, is a totally imaginary construct; for such generationally transmitted culture has always been an aspect of being human. The palaeo-anthropological evidence shows that when modern humans emerged some 100,000 years ago they had the rudiments of a cultural inheritance as we know it, and probably language too, evolved by their pre-hominid ancestors over the previous million years or so. Consequently, it is human to be brainwashed: a deliberately provocative characterisation of education broadly, to underscore the importance of Raymond Nichol’s welcome book - for which it is a privilege to supply a foreword. It is perhaps more appropriate to think of such cultural inculcation as ‘brain filling’. The rub is that when our ancestors emerged from Africa to occupy all the continents on Earth, they developed a myriad of different ways of doing this, of knowing and being in the world. We biologically all have the same hardware but we are programmed with a wide range of cultural software, as evident today in the world’s large variety of languages and cultures. Notwithstanding that this variety is currently diminishing at an accelerating rate under the forces of globalisation, which themselves starkly reveal education’s brainwashing aspects. We see this when one socio-cultural tradition moves on another and seeks to dominate it, as has occurred many times in human history when those from one region conquered those in another, such as when the Romans invaded England and set about Romanising the defeated Celtic natives. A more recent, and ongoing example, is European exploration and colonisation of much of the world, during which colonisers set out to transform, or as they expressed it ‘civilise’, the natives they encountered to their ways, such as the Australian Aborigines and peoples of New Guinea, the subjects of this commendable book. The efforts of missionaries to convert ‘pagans’ to Christianity is a graphic example, their establishment of formal schooling in many regions being considered one of their great successes, along with saving souls. The process continues today largely under the banner of development, particularly evident where agencies fund education programmes of various kinds. The expressed aim of these activities is to change peoples’ traditional brain filling. The consequences have proved dire for some peoples. A cruel example is the ‘stolen generation’ of Australian Aborigines, where children were taken from their parents and put into boarding schools with the expressed aim of breaking the link with their natal cultures and promoting their assimilation into White Australian society. The intellectual and emotional damage inflicted on those so treated amounts xi

FOREWORD

to a crime against humanity. Not that all brainwashing has been forced on people, many have sought education voluntarily; to know more, for instance, about experimental science and the formidable technology it underpins, or the capitalist system and how better to access its alluring consumer goods. But sometimes such well intentioned education has spawned similar problems to colonial activities; for instance the army of disaffected school leavers in Papua New Guinea who swell the ranks of so-called rascal [violent criminal] gangs that menace the country’s fragile social order and contribute to the impression of a failed nation state. Some of these problems, ironically for a critique of education, are the result of ignorance. To continue the computing-cum-artificial intelligence analogy, we know that tampering with software without full knowledge of programmes can lead to incompatibility problems, even cause operating systems to fail, and so it appears with humans too. If those who seek to teach people from different socio-cultural backgrounds, knew more about their cultures and histories, they might ask more searching questions about the relevance of Western style education and avoid some of its more crass and detrimental assumptions. This valuable book takes the part of the indigenous movement that argues forcefully that we need to know more about those in whose education we presume to intervene. Not with a view to brainwashing and changing them in ways that we think best (after those missionaries who learnt local languages and ways, to use the knowledge better to civilise the natives) but with a view to facilitating and informing the brain filling changes they think best meets their needs and aspirations in a globalising world. In this way we should seek to empower people to take responsibility for their education, helping them to make any arrangements meet their cultural expectations and wants more aptly. It is to advance on the long debate about the appropriateness of vernacular education, further challenging the idea that ‘proper’ education can only take place in a European language. Furthermore, in arguing that we should learn about others’ brain filling ways of education, Raymond Nichol’s estimable book also contributes to the critique of Western formal schooling, teaching us that this is only one approach, and in the history of humankind a strange, even bizarre one. It invites us to learn from these other ways of being in the world and passing on associated lore, and to reflect on the possibility that Western systems of education may not necessarily be the best and certainly do not have all the answers, particularly when viewed from the perspective of the stress experienced by learners. It is critiques such as presented in this fantastic book that point the way to modifying our overly examined and bureaucratic system of education with its learning outcomes, teaching strategy documents, lists of key skills and so on, that make teaching and learning such an unpleasant experience, intent on marking out successes and failures rather than passing on wisdom to all. They can perhaps help us to put some humanity back into education, as it is after all, in all its manifold forms, a defining characteristic of what it is to be human. Finally, encouraging people to draw upon their own pedagogic traditions and values may help promote the continuance of minority ways of seeing and being in the world. Language loss epitomises threats to these ways; in New Guinea, for instance, an island renowned for the variety of its languages, there is growing concern xii

FOREWORD

at their disappearance, together with associated encoded cultural knowledge, with the spread of lingua franca. The globalising erosion of the many different knowledge traditions and accumulated wisdom that have evolved is impoverishing humanity’s cultural heritage. It is analogous to loss of species. It is not just a matter of aesthetics, as evident for example in the emergent idea of bio-cultural diversity, which builds on the realisation that environmental conservation has to involve those living in any region because their culturally informed activities have invariably contributed to the natural environment seen today. Again, we have much to learn from these other cultural traditions where they represent sustainable environmental adaptations, lessons that the capitalist order urgently needs to heed with the planet under serious threat from its industrial activities. It is possible that not only how but also what is taught in Western style education may literally prove to be a dead-end for humanity. If these issues are of concern to you reader, read on. Paul Sillitoe Professor of Anthropology Durham University, UK

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The education provided for Indigenous students is often seen by them, their parents and communities, as being differentiating and alienating. It is feared or resented. Following are a few anecdotes and insights, some from my own experiences in schools and communities. They shed a little introductory light on why this should be so and why change in Indigenous education is sorely needed. The first is a cartoon scene drawn from the work of Professor Betty Watts and Dr H. C. ‘Nugget’ Coombs. Picture a primary school Parent Teacher Night, an Indigenous mother, a schoolteacher, and, between them, the student. The child, towered above by the adults, says, “So, each of you says she is helping to bring me up. How about you get together?” Dr Coombs and Professor Colin Tatz observe, in regard to the parlous state of most Indigenous communities and the wide gaps in social, health and educational indices, that, “It’s not a black problem, it’s a white problem.” The next, a white teacher in a class of students from town and fringe communities, admonishing a ‘town’ child, saying, “You can do better than that, you’re not from the mission!” Talk about self-fulfilling prophecies! Nearly all of us have ‘habits’ of some form or another, whether drinking, smoking, gambling, over-eating and over-consuming. We all know what ours are… In Australia, a $150 per week habit on a low income is a disaster. The family isn’t fed, housed or educated adequately. However, such a habit on a good, steady income means all, but especially children, can still be well cared for. Poverty and social disadvantage are crucial to an understanding of how the ‘gaps’ in education and health are created. A ‘well taught’ Central Australian Aboriginal man commented, ironically, “Blackfellas only know the desert, whitefellas know about cities.” In a twist on this, and a good example of black, defensive, self-deprecating humour, Johnno from Murrin Bridge, Central-Western NSW, told me how when he went on his first trip in a plane he made sure to get a seat near the back. “I didn’t want the left hand passenger side; you know, where you have to jump out to open the gates” [as you do when driving around outback properties]. A leading Indigenous Australian educator, Professor Paul Hughes, addressing a large group of Aboriginal teachers and community representatives at an Indigenous Education Conference in Fremantle, Western Australia, asserted strongly that, “Nearly all of the teachers working with our children are non-Aboriginal and that will be so in the foreseeable future. Most teachers have good hearts and want the best for all the children in their class. If you mob keep ‘bashin’ the teachers round the head then you won’t be helping the Indigenous kids in their classes.” Ten years earlier, I heard the African American social educator, Professor James Banks, say something very similar to a group of African Americans at a conference of the National Council of the Social Studies, Washington DC. He told them that by around 2010 more than half of Americans would be ‘of colour’; however, their teachers would still be xv

INTRODUCTION

mostly white. Alienating and abusing white teachers, as some in the audience had done in earlier NCSS conference presentations, especially in regard to the teaching of American history and race relations, would not help the ‘child of colour’. Inherent anger, perfectly understandable after ‘years of being worked-over by whitefellas’, but counter-productive, was also evident when an Aboriginal activist, protesting in Bendigo’s Hargreaves Mall, screamed, “You raped my mother” [meaning the earth] to bewildered shoppers passing by. In another Mall, in Alice Springs, Central Australia, I sat with Indigenous teachers from the Yipirinya School. We were lunching on grilled focaccia and drinking cappuccinos and café lattes. Todd Mall and the cafes were full of tourists. A ‘bush mob’ of Aboriginal people wandered through the centre of the Mall, men, women and children speaking in the Arrernte language and accompanied by their dogs. They totally ignored the watching shoppers, diners and tourists. It was as if we did not exist. In many senses it could have been three hundred years ago, or that we were from different worlds. What can we draw from these insights and anecdotes? Clearly this is a complex, difficult, paradoxical field and we need to think through many issues if we are to close the gap in educational and other crucial indices of minority groups’ cultural and existential survival. Inclusive and empowering discussions and negotiations are much needed between communities, State and other stakeholders, such as teachers, principals, school councils and administration, local, regional, state and national. History tells us that ‘top down’ interventions, while effective in the short term, are not a long-term answer. For example, I have seen many former reserves or ‘missions’ where the people say, or documents reveal, that during the high period of colonialism, paternalism and intervention, that is, up until the late 1960s, when managers, matrons, welfare officers, truancy inspectors, police sergeants, school masters and mistresses ruled supreme, there were well tended orchards, gardens, crops, houses and community facilities. Children’s nutrition, school attendance and academic performance were often much better than now. Today, in many cases, there is no evidence remaining of these, for the people were allowed to develop little sense of control and ownership, or the necessary skills of maintenance. Ownership, decision-making, self-respect and empowerment, are the keys to self-determination and to the end of Indigenous anomie, oppression and poor outcomes in pedagogy and education. This book, grounded in community and school case studies, argues for Indigenous self-determination, for social justice, and the powerful role education and pedagogy can play in healing, transformation and decolonization. It provides historical, anthropological, educational and comparative backgrounds, to identify possible productive pedagogies and practices for Indigenous education in Australia, Melanesia and elsewhere. It further investigates how such practices might be applied in disparate cultures and communities, acknowledging that relevant and effective practice is inherently situational. There is considerable comparative data, particularly from Melanesia, chosen for its insights into colonialism and Indigenous pedagogy. It is important to note that pedagogy is more than ‘performing’ or teaching. It is also discourse, involving the values, philosophies, policies and contested stratagems that inform and shape teaching and learning. There is abundant evidence that educational provision often fails to meet the needs of Indigenous students. xvi

INTRODUCTION

The book is somewhat different from past research and writing in that while scholars have written extensively about Indigenous knowledge systems, most recently on their loss or transformation amidst changing social, economic and environmental conditions, few focus on the underlying educational practices, and even fewer address how historically-based power structures transform Indigenous educational systems. By examining issues of education and pedagogy concerning Indigenous Australians and Melanesians, I offer alternatives to much current educational provision. For example, creative and practical ways are suggested to develop relevant pedagogies and to integrate key traditional educational practices into current Western ‘best practice’. Complex processes are identified, of Indigenous cultural, social, and economic exclusion that have helped to shape the educational systems and sense of identity and citizenship in Australia, Melanesia and other Indigenous contexts. While examining traditional Indigenous socialisation, education, knowledge, pedagogy and citizenship in Australia and Melanesia I view the understanding of these as essential for those who plan and work with and for Indigenous communities in this vast region. Crucial issues of relevance, identity, efficacy, employment, decentralization, self-management and control are discussed, and recommendations made. Obstacles to social learning and public participation are examined, as is social change. The field is so complex, and often fraught, that there is a need to take account of shifting interdependencies of factors influencing Indigenous learning and the need to recognize the tensions in any decisions made about sequence and relative importance of how these component factors are represented. One must take these interdependencies and tensions into account when untangling complex pedagogical approaches and systems. All seeking productive outcomes in Indigenous education must strive to reduce antagonism, fear and sense of otherness. Agency, communicative action and responding to change inform the writing, analysis and findings in the final chapter. In regard to social change it is more fruitful to explore the process, the agency and multi-causal situations of change, rather than envisaging traditional structuralfunctional, social order, polar opposite paradigms, and inevitable deterministic stages. Culturally appropriate education for people of Indigenous descent is not a privilege; it is a fundamental right (see Nichol, 2005). A leitmotiv of the study is that such an education is also a powerful resource for all educators, community developers, and all cultures. It explores Indigenous Australian and Melanesian education and selected forms of Indigenous education elsewhere in the world, particularly over the last thirty years. The major objective is to examine closely educational and pedagogical provision for Indigenous peoples, shaped by themes of relevance, culture, language, pedagogy, curriculum, citizenship and school type, and to suggest forms of reconciliation between the dominant western and Indigenous forms of education. It is proposed that non-Indigenous people have much to learn from the Indigenous world. We can learn a great deal from Indigenous cultures; however, their knowledge and methodologies are often ignored or discounted by metropolitan, xvii

INTRODUCTION

industrial societies. The book should assist educators, community developers and those in related fields who read it, and, crucially, put the recommendations into practice, to work towards greater reconciliation, understanding, inclusive citizenship, peace and productivity. The Melanesian component, even more than the Australian, is shaped by the uncertainty, threatened marginalization and, often poor, reward for investment in western schooling posed by patchy modernization. The concluding recommendations, concerning possible strategies to reconcile Western and Indigenous education and pedagogy, are informed and refined by wide consultation with Indigenous people and organisations. The period from the 1970s to the early 2000s is chosen because it encompasses significant periods of transition in education and community dynamics in Australia and Melanesia. In Australia, policies change from those of assimilation in the 1940s and 1950s, towards integration in the 1960s and 1970s, and then to dimensions of self-management. Education was always supposed to be a key agent of change in implementing these policies. Papua New Guinea attained Independence from Australian control in 1975 and education was seen as a key factor in establishing a national identity and purpose. There is analysis of education and change, examination of the factors that underpin these relationships, the forms they take, and the social, political and economic consequences for the respective communities. The policies and practices of educating Indigenous Australians for cultural and economic assimilation into the dominant Anglo-Celtic Australian society are critically examined and contrasted with more recent policies and practices. Comparisons are drawn between education for colonialism and self-government in Australia and Melanesia. The comparative is included and analysed for its wealth of insights into the Australian and Melanesian colonial and post-colonial experience. The comparisons, before and after, nation to nation, are fascinating and instructive. If we are to achieve social and political reconciliation between Indigenous and other citizens there is a need for a broad, inclusive and participatory form of citizenship, one that acknowledges Indigenous forms of learning. The provision of the most appropriate education for Indigenous students is extraordinarily complex and presents an enormous challenge to educators, in Australia, Melanesia and elsewhere. The implications are profound: continued ignorance and arrogance from the dominant cultures will lead to even greater resentment, social alienation, poverty and divisiveness. These issues and concerns are explored in broad historical and, more particular, localised senses, each informing the other. Education and citizenship are central themes: education understood in its broad social and cultural, as well as its narrow institutional sense, and citizenship in terms of inclusion and exclusion, involvement and alienation. Overwhelming evidence of dysfunction and inadequate educational provision and outcomes leads me to ask the following questions, many of which are interrelated. Have non-Indigenous Australians, through the imposition of their political, economic and educational systems, dominated and undermined the beliefs and values of the Indigenous people of Australia and Melanesia? How can we best understand and respond to the challenges xviii

INTRODUCTION

of Indigenous pedagogy and education in the twenty-first century? What is a relevant and effective contemporary Indigenous education and pedagogy that bridges cultural and historical gulfs? The first chapter introduces the compelling needs of Indigenous people and their communities, and the issues facing them. Chapter 2 focuses on educational, pedagogic, community, citizenship, social, racial and hegemonic themes. Chapters 3 and 4 explore ethnographically the traditional forms of education and socialisation in Australia and Melanesia respectively. Chapter 5 discusses colonialism and western education in these two regions. Chapter 6 reveals the possible integration of traditional knowledge and pedagogy with education and development. The final chapter, Chapter 7, provides many recommendations concerning the potential roles of Indigenous knowledge and pedagogy in education and development in Melanesia and Australia. As noted earlier, key themes shaping the book are relevance, culture, socialisation, pedagogy, language, curriculum, citizenship and school type (the form and function of the school), and the nature of the teaching force. Far-reaching recommendations are made, particularly concerning pedagogy, citizenship education and learning outcomes. Indigenous people today, in Australia, Melanesia and many other regions, accommodate much of what the plantation, pastoral, managerial and teaching agents of the dominant culture bring them. However many fear that the education imposed will take the children away, physically and psychologically. They reject their powerlessness and dependence on the system of authority and education imposed upon their communities and struggle to pursue their best interests in the face of differentiating state controlled, school-based knowledge versus community traditional knowledge and skills. There is growing assertion of Indigenous identity and community control, of cultural, economic, legal and citizenship rights, and desire for full recognition as citizens of their respective regions and countries.

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INTRODUCTION

Murrin Bridge children at play, 1980s. The photographer is John Morton.

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CHAPTER 1

A COMPELLING NEED

It is a … truism that human beings are moulded and formed by their cultures. Control of what is taught and preached is vital in any society and has been the root cause of crucial conflicts in many countries (Perry, in Hughes: 1993). Overview: Ethnographic and Historical This chapter provides a brief introduction1 to the history of the Murrin Bridge people since traditional times and an overview of contemporary life and conditions in the community. It ends with a brief description of the fieldwork and research conducted in the community and elsewhere in Australia, mainly in Victoria, New South Wales (NSW), the Northern Territory (NT), and Melanesia. Such historical and cultural background knowledge is necessary for educators and community developers seeking to understand the need for, and place of, Indigenous knowledge and pedagogy in their programs. The members, all with Aboriginal and European ancestry, of this small Indigenous community, live on the eastern fringe of extensive dry inland plains that stretch between the Lachlan and Darling Rivers in western NSW. Since the mid-nineteenth century the region has undergone enormous pastoral and agricultural development. This has had profound ramifications for the descendants of the people who formerly possessed this land. From the 1820s white settlers in New South Wales realised that fortunes could be made from extensive wool production in Australia. With their convict-workers they ventured out from the coastal regions to ‘squat’ on the lands of the inland tribes. They commandeered hundreds of square miles of land for their sheep, cleared the land by massacring or driving off the original owners and protected the frontier with a united militia against Aboriginal resistance. They ‘dispersed’ the clans and tribes to ‘clear the run’ (often euphemisms for shooting, poisoning and intimidation) and, once suppressed, the survivors were permitted to camp near the owners’ headquarters, to earn their living by working with stock or becoming farm labourers. As Charles Darwin observed, “Wherever the European has trod, death seems to pursue the aboriginal.” The old people at Murrin Bridge, the burba generation (those who had been traditionally initiated) told me about ‘the killing times’, recounting that there were massacres in the far west of NSW as recently as the 1920s. However, they were vague regarding places, times, numbers and other details. For the Wangaaypuwan and their neighbours this change in circumstance was catastrophic. They ceased living as politically independent gatherer-hunters, their economy was smashed and the fabric of their social life torn apart. During this period 1

CHAPTER 1

(the 1820s to 1880s) the original inhabitants of the inland plains were a people being placed in bondage to a new rural Australian social order. The social and historical complexities of this pastoral adaptation are important. Closer pastoral settlement in the early years of the 20th century, because of the growth of soldier settlement schemes and the building of the Condobolin to Broken Hill railway, meant these groups or ‘mobs’ of Indigenous pastoral workers, created by adaptation to pastoralism, could not be maintained by the smaller properties. Similar histories are found across Australia. The Indigenous Australians were displaced. Being poor, landless and subject to the vagaries of the laissez faire capitalist economy, their plight became an embarrassment to governments, who established reserves and managed stations for their protection and sustenance. From the beginning, and perhaps as justification for the establishment of segregated institutions for Aboriginal inmates, the authorities depicted these stations as training institutions that would transform the ‘natives’, stripping them of their culture, seen as being heathen, primitive, ‘stone-age’ and backward. They were to become more acceptable, as well as useful, to the dominant Australian society. The imposition of western schooling played a significant role in this stratagem. The following provides a brief introduction to the long period of institutionalization and transformation wrought by church and government. Murrin Bridge, central-western NSW, was founded as an Aboriginal station in 1949 when the residents were transferred from the reserve at Menindee, over 300 kilometres to the west. The people previously had lived in the government settlement at Carowra Tank, being transported to Menindee in 1934 when the tank ran dry. The reserve at Menindee was also known as ‘the mission’ because of the involvement there of Roman Catholic Sacred Heart missionaries. Murrin Bridge, although established and managed as a government Aboriginal Station, has always been known by Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people in the region as ‘the mission’. The leaders of the community today prefer it to be termed ‘an Aboriginal community’, perhaps in response to the occasional sneering, heavily accented, comments from outside Koories, such as, “Eh, you from mission, bud?” They imply that the ‘mission mob’ is backward, uses Aboriginal English, is afraid of the outside world and lacks sophistication. Over the years many comments from townspeople, from children to professional and leaders, have reinforced the negative, critical stereotype. The Menindee settlement was a disaster for the residents, particularly during the economic depression years of the 1930s. It became an acute political embarrassment for the New South Wales government; consequently, an alternative settlement was sought. On 15 June 1945, the Chief Secretary announced that a model Aboriginal settlement was to be built at Murrin Bridge, with accommodation for 300 Aborigines, including a church, school, recreation area, and 500 hectares for agricultural development. It was to be ‘a model agricultural village’. The chosen location was advantageous for those who had maximum influence on the decisions of government, namely local white townsmen and landholders, as well as the administrators and interested whites on the Aborigines Welfare Board. Being placed beside the Lachlan River, a permanent source of water, the settlement avoided the water shortages that had bedevilled the former stations to the west; it was 2

A COMPELLING NEED

well off the Euabalong to Lake Cargelligo road and so was out of sight, but remained a convenient location for a pool of workers, especially for the large pastoral stations to the west. The community’s location adhered to the Welfare Board’s official policy by the 1940s of assimilation of Aborigines. The policy focused on fitting those Aboriginal people with ‘an admixture of European blood’ into Australian society. Murrin Bridge was seen as a necessary staging post on the path to assimilation. In regard to ‘admixture’ some residents state, ‘Our grandmothers were taken advantage of.’ There are red-haired, freckled Murrin Bridge people, with few Indigenous physical features, who are socialised and identify completely as ‘black’ and ‘Koorie’. This leads to assertions by local whites such as, “Why should they get grants when they’re as white as me?” There is frequent questioning by outsiders of what constitutes Aboriginality. In Australia, for official government recognition, there must be some Indigenous heritage, but is not quantified, unlike some states in the USA. From 1949 the population ranged from 200–300. In the early 2000s it reduced rapidly to around 150, as many people made the decision to move ‘to town’, that is to Lake Cargelligo. The 2006 Australian Census reveals a Lake Cargelligo Indigenous population of 267, with a non-Indigenous population of 852. In brief, government policy towards Indigenous Australians has been for segregation and protection 1880s–1930s, assimilation 1940s–1950s, integration 1960s, and, increasing self-management, local autonomy and recognition of citizenship, 1970s–2000s. The provision of education for Aboriginal Australians during the periods of these various policies is compared and contrasted. Does practice in situ reflect policy concerning self-determination and self-management? CONTEMPORARY LIFE: AN INDIGENOUS IDENTITY

By the twenty first century, more than 50 years after the establishment of the Murrin Bridge community, the people have not been assimilated into the dominant white society. Most, however, are integrated to varying degrees. After 150 years of struggle, defeat and control at the hands of white settlers they, like so many of their fellow Indigenous Australians, are detribalised and rendered virtually landless; the ‘permanent source of water’, the Lachlan River, is often polluted. The main problem is excessive run-off into the river of fertilizer. This, in summer, leads to eutrophication, production of poisonous algal bloom. Local white townsfolk, particularly professional people, perceive the Aboriginal people as being a ‘culturally and economically deprived’ group, sharing a culture of poverty with other lower-class groups. A Marxist might say they constitute a kind of black rural lumpen-proletariat. The conventional perception is that their culture is in disarray; the family a loose form of matrifocality and that they are virtually leaderless. This is during a time when many small, remote, Indigenous communities across Australia are seen to be dysfunctional, with enormous social, violence, health and educational problems. The research at Murrin Bridge and elsewhere reveals, however, that this is too narrow a perspective. The people, living on the fringe of the general Australian 3

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society, are under considerable pressure to commit themselves to the town and to ‘acceptable’ white, rural economic and social standards, to integrate, assimilate, pass into the broader society, or to suffer a perpetual fringe existence. And yet they retain their Aboriginality, their sense of identity as Aboriginal people, through a multitude of social, economic, and political relationships within the community and the local region. They perceive themselves as ‘the mob from the mission’, a group of people who have ‘grown up in the ashes’, the term used by older community members to symbolise the development and expression of Aboriginality. Their identification, behaviour and values derive from a strong extended family system that has developed as a result of their history of dispossession and oppression. One finds positive responses within these families to the historical threats of physical extermination, racism and cultural domination. They have many children. There is maintenance of familial obligations and order and there are strong egalitarian norms and sanctions against those of their people who ‘act flash’ or ‘think they are white’. These are integral factors in their individual and community survival and sense of identity. This is not to deny that the attractions and resources of town and city are strong integrative forces2. Despite the power and unquestioned control that government-appointed managers, welfare officers and teachers exercised for many years on this government station, the Aboriginal people maintain an ethos and cultural life at odds with the dominant culture. Their response to the various policies towards Aboriginal Australians adopted over the years by state and federal governments is a fascinating measure of resistance and adaptation by people who endeavour constantly to create a modus vivendi between the European and Aboriginal way of life. Thus, I argue that they are not a culturally deprived people; they are neither leaderless nor in disarray. This is not to deny the enormous challenges facing this and many similar communities, in health, employment and education. From the early 1960s, in response to the policy of integration of Aborigines into the wider society, the Aborigines Welfare Board permitted rudimentary forms of Indigenous involvement in the management of the Murrin Bridge community. The Board’s successor, the Department of Aboriginal Affairs (DAA), continued the process. From the mid 1970s the community company, initially termed the Coonchie Corporation, and its Indigenous staff, conducted much of the organisation of dayto-day community affairs, especially in regard to housing and amenities. The company was established in 1976 under the auspices of the New South Wales Aboriginal Lands Trust to administer funds for community improvements, was controlled by a Board of elected residents, and was vested with ownership of the 400 hectare Murrin Bridge property. In 1989, Coonchie became the Murrin Bridge Advancement Aboriginal Corporation. An image of Aboriginal people as being lazy and irreclaimable helps to justify the dominant culture’s unwillingness to provide any material compensation for the dispossessed and their seemingly obstinate refusal to adopt a ‘respectable’ white lifestyle. Such people ignored the fact that one requires a very considerable and stable income in order to adopt this favoured lifestyle. They also pointed to the ‘rubbish’ growing where wheat could be sown on some of the community’s land and questioned the Indigenous people’s right to expect more land for community development if 4

A COMPELLING NEED

what was already available was not being fully utilised. There was oppressive ethnocentricity inherent in their resentment. By the 2000s the initiative of establishing a commercial vineyard on the ‘mission’ land had lessened this sentiment. For many years, as for other communities, there was a disincentive to produce on the community’s land. If they made a profit the grant from DAA was reduced accordingly! Contrary to the prevailing government policies and practices designed to promote integration, self-reliance and self-management, there was, indeed still is, an increasing dependence on government agencies such as the Welfare Board, later the Department of Aboriginal Affairs, the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission (ATSIC), the Community Development Employment Program (CDEP) ‘work for the dole’,3 and social service benefits. The employment situation for Indigenous people, whilst always inadequate and precarious, has become far worse with changing rural technology and land use in the western region. A SENSE OF PLACE AND IDENTITY

Many of the Aboriginal people still hold the status of a rural underclass and their culture and colour results in, for many, lack of acceptance and participation in the life of the white town. Local whites stress that it is the behaviour of the blacks that they object to, such as destruction of houses and other amenities, public drunkenness, begging, fighting, poor personal hygiene, and so on. The researcher is regaled by such stories all over Australia, which, however, often lead to more overt, physical denigration of their appearance, physiognomy and intelligence. This hostility led to more use by the Murrin Bridge community for sporting and recreational ties of the smaller, more integrated and accepting, less threatening western town of Euabalong. Even those who, due to provision of housing and increased facilities and opportunities, have tried to conform to white values and behaviour and live in Lake Cargelligo, find that often they are not accepted by many of the town whites. Also, as noted earlier, other Aboriginal people are often aggressive and abusive of ‘Koories who think they’re white’. Placed in this invidious situation they have to choose, and an increasing number, while continuing to reside in town, identify with the black community, visit their families in Murrin Bridge more frequently than before, and travel to Euabalong with them for sporting and other social occasions. They cite numerous instances of unfriendliness, rudeness and being ignored and socially disparaged in Lake Cargelligo to justify their decision. Thus, there are important social and psychological reasons to remain part of the Aboriginal community and to identify as Koorie. Within the populace there is a hidden resolve to fight on, despite their beleaguered situation. In recent years, particularly the early 2000s, relatively large numbers of people from the ‘mission’ moved into Lake Cargelligo. In 2007, people I interviewed ‘in town’ indicated that access to resources, especially new homes, but also, jobs, health, education and shops (including take-away food, pubs, gambling) and sporting facilities, were the major reasons for the move. Although, as a community, the Indigenous people in the region have little political and economic power and exhibit the behaviour of a depressed and persecuted 5

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people, they are far from rootless; for example, most of the people at Murrin Bridge identify strongly with the ‘mob’ or community. Most see the mission as their home and frequently stress the fact that, “you could pull these houses down and those people, they would just camp on the river, they wouldn’t go to town to live.” Individuals referring to ‘them’ and ‘those’ people not moving are often most content to remain on the mission; they rarely venture outside. While they cling to the support of the extended families and are particularly supportive of maternal kin, forming close relationships of reciprocity, they also, from the last decades of the 20th century to 2010, developed a measure of community leadership and established common goals for land acquisition, economic development, housing and leisure activities. This process accelerated after the last resident welfare officer left in 1975. The managerial, assimilative power waned, symbolised by the manager’s superior residence being occupied by local families, the first that of the chairman of the community organisation. Today, the new brick houses are superior to that of the former manager’s. Automation, mechanisation, changing land use from extensive pastoral activity to cropping, especially wheat, closer settlement, improved transport, drought, and the need for less labour and new skills for the Information Age, have altered the employment pattern in all of these marginal grazing and wheat-lands. Employment levels were catastrophic from the 1970s to 2000s. Where in the 1970s the people had hopes of gaining extra community land for economic development and employment they found that their applications to the Department of Aboriginal Affairs and the Western Lands Trust were unsuccessful or rejected. Much of the surrounding cropping and pastoral country worked by whites became, by the 1980s, a sea of cleared wheat fields. Where once community members could at least hunt on the adjoining Eribendery pastoral station they found paddocks of crops. Few local property owners would permit any hunting on their land. Prospects of outside work were extremely limited. This led often to anomie, despair, depression, alcohol abuse, violence and self-harm. More positive responses were some individual initiatives to obtain land, increased use of the community’s land, particularly the vineyard, working bees to clean up, and lots of humour, much of it sardonic and self-deprecating. SOCIAL ORGANISATION

It is interesting to compare the behaviour of young Aboriginal men in the midtwentieth century, as described by the anthropologist, Jeremy Beckett (1958), and life in the community more recently. The young men, or ‘poddies’ as they were called after the term for calf, found single life very pleasurable and were not usually inclined to rush into marriage. Some liked to ramble about the countryside, working and moving on, visiting the Aboriginal settlements to the west, staying with whomever would take them in, finding sexual partners now and again, drinking and fighting. Others preferred a lazier, less adventurous life, lounging about Murrin Bridge, riding horses, running errands, cadging meals, working as little as possible, and spending what they did earn on drink. Whether these ‘poddies’ had their affairs with young girls or older, married women, the tendency was to avoid responsibility. 6

A COMPELLING NEED

For girls there was little work to be found and no readily available employment. Thus, although they could travel about, they were virtually tied to the community where life presented few excitements beyond the gambling school. Gossiping and housework occupied most of their time. Most, too, had the burden of a child by the time they were twenty. Beckett found that the young single girls felt inferior to the married women. They showed ‘an unconcealed eagerness to get a boy and settle down.’ Their aspirations and identity focused mainly on marriage and family. In 1957 these young people made frequent visits to other Aboriginal settlements, often finding lovers and spouses. They could marry whomever they wished except for ‘relations’, that is, siblings and consanguineal kin who were either cousins or second cousins, as in the traditional system. Most people married and established a household for their family. About half of these unions were regularised by religious or legal ceremonies, mostly as a result of pressure from white religious and state authorities. From the late 1970s to 2010 the young people of Murrin Bridge have a way of life that reveals considerable continuity with that described by Beckett. There have been considerable changes, nevertheless, since the time of Beckett’s study. For example, from the 1980s the lack of employment opportunities restricted the possibility of young people going on leisurely journeys about the countryside, but the improved road system, the community bus, and the greater availability of cars, enabled frequent weekend and other brief trips, especially to Menindee and Wilcannia. These were usually undertaken to visit relations, attend funerals or to participate in cultural and sporting events. The usual brevity of these excursions was conditioned by the requirements of schooling, Technical and Further Education, employers, or the need to guarantee the security of unemployment benefits at Murrin Bridge. Beckett found that the Aboriginal people in the settlements to the west of New South Wales often found marital partners in other settlements and suggested that in the future, with even greater mobility, this practice would increase. But at Murrin Bridge during the 1970s and 1980s few outsiders married into the community. Almost all of the marriages in this period were between people from the Lake Cargelligo, Euabalong and Murrin Bridge Aboriginal communities. However, it should be noted that Beckett’s predictions concerning the results of increased inter-marriage and mobility do seem to have occurred elsewhere, for the relatives of the Murrin Bridge people, although still centred in Menindee and Wilcannia, have spread as far afield in New South Wales as Wentworth, Dareton, Deniliquin, Griffith, Condobolin, Sydney and Albury, and in Victoria, to Robinvale, Bendigo and Shepparton. Perhaps the relative stability at Murrin Bridge can be explained by similar factors to those which appear to have changed the old visiting patterns, namely that changes in the pastoral industry, land use and employment, education, and certainly the availability of improved and new housing and environmental conditions at Murrin Bridge and nearby Lake Cargelligo, have both forced and encouraged the members of the community to adopt a more settled way of life. In the 1980s only six of all the marital unions in Murrin Bridge had been recognised by a legal or religious ceremony and these were between older people. This compares with Beckett’s assessment twenty-five years before of approximately 7

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half of the marital unions being regularised. An older woman explained the contemporary practice to me in the following way, “No young people are ‘married’. Once the manager left there was no need to get ‘married’. If you like it with one partner you stay with him. At sixteen or seventeen the girl lives with a boy and they are seen as a couple.” Discussions and observations in recent years, particularly 2007, indicate that this is still the practice. During the initial fieldwork period, four marriages ended. Generally marriages were quite stable, although the pressures deriving from drinking did create a deal of tension. There was a high level of jealousy and mistrust among the younger couples. Loud arguments, violence, self-harm and damage to houses resulted from these conflicts. There is, quite obviously, a strong tendency to live in the same locality as one’s parents, and, if possible, women prefer to be close to their grandmothers’, mother’s and sisters’ houses. However, in such a small community, even if the relative is a block or two away, or living in Euabalong or Lake Cargelligo, it is possible to maintain the continuous round of visiting and exchange which is typical of most families. At Murrin Bridge most of the residents maintain a close circle of kin and affines. Even those not recognised as relatives are well known and probably distantly related. Their relationship with these people, especially the close maternal kin, ensures a level of basic social and economic security for all. The people use English kinship terms. These determinations of relationship are based on similar categories and as they expressed them to me. They have a strong sense of obligation to ‘our own people’, that is, those in close kin relationship to them. This is primarily expressed in terms of basic assistance in times of need so that food is obtained, children cared for, and transportation offered. The old people often say, “Our own people shouldn’t be tight with each other.” This assistance also extends to the distribution of the wild meats: emu, echidna, kangaroo and fish, of which the people are so fond. These, when they can be obtained, are exchanged within the circle of close kin, often to a form of rough equivalence. For example, on one occasion, the favour of a gift of a hindquarter of ‘porcupine’, that is, echidna, was reciprocated by the gift of a forequarter of lamb. In general, accumulated favours can be repaid on pension day. In the 1980s, a time before ATMs, and a community with an economy based largely on the receipt of social service cheques, a late delivery put many people in dire straits and made them dependent on the generosity of kin. As one young man explained, If the cheques are late, sometimes up to a week, we’re starving. We fill up on ‘Johnny cakes’ [made of flour, baking powder and water, rolled flat like a pizza base and, for cooking, placed on iron mesh or griddle iron over an open fire] and tea. If we run out we go to relations and ask for tea, baking powder, flour, milk, sugar, Wheat-bix…usually to my aunty, my mother’s sister. Life continues to be, well into the 2000s, for most, an economic struggle. Many say, “We just get by.”

8

A COMPELLING NEED

It is clear that although Murrin Bridge is an economically depressed community it is nevertheless a community in the true sense of the term. There is a clear kinship structure and, despite the conflicts within and between families, stable unions are formed, children born and reared, and there are strong bonds of mutuality, obligation and trust between the members of the community. As well, a ramifying field of ties links the people to other Aboriginal communities, particularly the local ones and those at Menindee and Wilcannia to the west. They also identify with other Indigenous Australians and issues affecting their people. This is evidenced in conversations regarding issues brought up in newspapers, on television and radio. On occasion there was identification with black people elsewhere, for example, cheering black athletes from other countries who did well during the Olympic Games. Australian Indigenous athletes, such as Cathy Freeman and many star footballers, are a source of pride. All of this is of great social worth and reinforces the communal quality of social life as well as developing a fundamental Aboriginal identity. It also breeds for many Indigenous Australians, at Murrin Bridge and elsewhere, a fear, suspicion and mistrust of outsiders. This is often justified, given the racial disparagement to which they are so often subjected. For example, I saw a skit in a football club magazine ‘joking’ that a group of Aboriginal youth is to take over from the McLaren Grand Prix pit stop team. The Koorie team, “…with no specialized equipment, can take a set of tyres off a car in six seconds; the crack McLaren team, with the best equipment in the world, takes eight seconds!” The author added that, “…there’s more…given less than half an hour they will have the car re-sprayed and engine number and registration plates changed!” Notwithstanding the grudging recognition of productive capacities, behind the humour is the old stereotype of thievery and anti-social behaviour. Again, it reminds me of ‘Nugget’ Coombs and Colin Tatz arguing that, “It’s not a black problem; it’s a white problem.” While the people suffer from an historically created sense of powerlessness, resulting from the long-run effects of conquest, racism and subjugation, they live by definite rules and values, and work to sustain the solidarity that exists between them. It is these bonds and shared heritage that the old people refer to when they say that young Koories ‘grow up in the ashes’. It is these qualities and experiences that the identification with the term ‘Koorie’ encapsulates. They evince the existential, ideological and societal elements of community. RECREATION

With little local employment and few opportunities for extended experience outside, recreational activities within the community have adapted to these conditions. For example, the older people spend a lot of time visiting each other, laughing and reminiscing about the past, or gambling. There are many good card players and like most serious, time-consuming, recreational events involving money, card playing is highly specialised and formalised. The amount of money involved is quite high in relation to the generally low-income levels in the community, with sums of fifty or more dollars being regularly won or lost, but with the functioning of kin obligations, few people go without basic necessities. The favoured games are euchre, poker, 9

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bingo and lotto. In general, the old people play cards, go fishing, and do not drink very much, while the young people drink a lot, gamble and fish a little. For the older people gambling provides, as it has in many other Indigenous communities, a sedentary occupation which consumes hours of time, and provides a medium of sociability, suspense and excitement. It is an involving, enjoyable event that reaffirms the ties between friends, family, and kin. Of course, gambling, especially on the ubiquitous ‘pokies’, can be highly addictive and damaging, financially, psychologically and socially. In 2007 I went to meet friends and acquaintances to help me to identify the people in some old photographs. I was taken into the kitchen of a house where middle-aged and elderly women were engrossed in a card game. Soon they shifted their attention to the photographs, exclaiming excitedly the various names and laughing at how all of us have changed. On a more sober note many in the photographs, then children, are now dead or in jail. Gambling in the community is mostly about boredom and sociability. ‘Town’ gambling on poker machines is, accordingly to the health workers at the Murrin Bridge Clinic, often destructive to individuals and families, particularly those on already low incomes. From the 1980s all homes had both radio and television receivers, with both usually tuned to the commercial stations in Griffith. All of Australia has access to the programs of the Australian Broadcasting Commission. Increasingly its radio and television productions and, from 2007, National Indigenous Television, became more relevant and of interest to the community. It is now often heard and seen. The radio is usually on until about midday, after which there is television. The afternoon is often spent having a few drinks, watching television, and perhaps playing cards. If a good film is on television at night, the streets of Murrin Bridge are almost deserted. Radio, television and computers provide the residents with a steady stream of popular music, often country and western, supermarket advertising, but also with a much wider world perspective than that observed by Beckett in 1957. The community and vineyard have websites (http://www.murrinbridgeweb.com/). From the 1980s world events, such as the attempted assassinations of President Reagan and the Pope, were matters of common discussion. Current events, such as the ‘War on Terror’ and Kevin Rudd’s Apology to the Stolen Generations, are followed with a high degree of interest. For the unemployed youth, in the case of the young men, apart from the very limited opportunities for boomerang making, some participation in a month-long, summer holiday program, and practising and playing rugby-league football, they were largely left to their own devices. Over the years this comprised most of the time on most of the days. A typical day for a youth was recounted to me by a group of young men as follows: The boys wake up, having stayed out and up for most of the previous night. We often sleeps (sic) until almost lunch time, play pool with mates, or watch a show on T.V. In the afternoon we walks (sic) around the mission, go to the shop, watch TV, sometimes drink, mostly at night. Sometimes we play touch football, practise football near the oval. Just before dark we get a lot of wood. [Often the wood came from the old fences around the mission. Also the 10

A COMPELLING NEED

rubber tyres in the adventure playground were used.] We sit around a fire and listen to music. This music came from ‘ghetto blasters’ and it comprised popular hits and country and western songs. School-aged children too would sit around the fire singing along with the pop and country songs. The older children took great delight in the ribald nature of many pop songs. For example, a favourite one, sung and danced to with great fervour and sexual suggestion, went, “Hit me, hit me, hit me with your rhythm stick.” The younger children, especially in warmer weather, enjoyed considerable freedom, being able to participate in the fireside activities or visit the homes of relatives and friends at will. The drinking boys go up to the horse-yard. [About 500 metres from the nearest houses.] They often use blankets, for if you make a fire you’re seen by the drunks. This is to stop the drunks standing over you and pinching your grog. This has happened countless times. We pass around whole bottles of beer or De Bortoli or McWilliams flagons of port or muscat. ‘All-right’ is when you’re happy after a few beers, ‘charged’ is half-dizzy, perhaps sick, couldn’t drive. We mostly get the grog by taxi. Younger and older Murrin Bridge residents, drinkers or not, often decried those few ‘fools’ whom they saw as being really ‘hopeless drunks.’ They said that they would drink methylated spirits and water, Pine O’Clean and tinned milk, and related, often mirthfully, their ‘stupid’ behaviour. For example, one ‘hopeless drunk’ was described as being, So stupid that a bloke will say, “Here’s the money for a flagon, go into town and buy me one.” He’ll walk to the road to Lake Cargelligo and walk and hitch a ride in, buy a flagon, and then book up a taxi-ride at fifteen dollars to return and then, when the flagon does the rounds of his drinking mates, be lucky to get a swig or two. Another time he cashed his cheque in town, bought a dozen bottles, took them back, shared them out among his mates and relatives [who had fed him for the previous fortnight] till none was left, caught a taxi into town to buy more, within hours most of his money had gone. It is this binge behaviour, a form of release mechanism, which accounts for the notoriety of pension night and for the common saying about mission life that for many, “It’s a feast or a famine.” The more ‘progressive’ residents said of those people who had binge habits, “That’s why they’ve got nothing.” They saw themselves as meeting their obligations to kin and yet being tough and determined enough to keep something for themselves and their own children. However, the crucial fact in their ability to uphold their position appeared to be that they were usually operating from a position of relative financial strength. Often they were people who had access to employment or land, and who could afford to both meet their obligations to kin and mates, and still retain enough income, possessions, and prestige ‘to have something’. Like many nonIndigenous Australians, those Murrin Bridge people with adequate incomes who were drinkers, could afford to both pay for the habit and maintain a reasonable 11

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standard of living. This is something that poor people everywhere, Indigenous or not, cannot do. So, despite the egalitarianism that marked community life, there were important socio-economic differences between individuals and families. DISCRIMINATION AND EXPLOITATION

Most whites in the region have money and cars. These give them considerable power over those Indigenous people who are desperate for alcohol. This leads to allegations of sexual exploitation of some Aboriginal women and girls. Certainly, Murrin Bridge men, over the years, suspected any male white visitor of being ‘after a black gin’. In Lake Cargelligo even a journey to Euabalong, past the Murrin Bridge turn-off, would often occasion a suggestive comment. On occasion visiting men were offered sex for payment. A number of non-Indigenous informants in Lake Cargelligo claimed that some men from the town (often married) had girlfriends at Murrin Bridge and that some respected townsmen chose to forget the liaisons they had at Murrin Bridge in their youth. Quite often there were people at Murrin Bridge who were desperate for a lift to town and the means to obtain alcohol. Some Aboriginal people also complained of more general discrimination and exploitation in Lake Cargelligo. They claimed, for example, that electrical goods taken into the town for service had been ‘buggered up’ rather than repaired, ‘blacks are taken advantage of ’, and that ‘we put things in and don’t get them back, or have to wait for ages.’ A record player never came back, while two cassette players took twelve months and three years, respectively, to be returned. They suspected that the shopkeeper thought ‘they’re easy meat’, and that he was selling some goods left there for service. They also cited the fact that there was not one Aboriginal person working in a shop in Lake Cargelligo. Another complaint related to their treatment in hotels. This was that, “If one black fights one white, all blacks are banned. It’s never the whites.” Aboriginal footballers from Murrin Bridge and Lake Cargelligo who played in Lake Cargelligo teams, accused the selectors of favouring any white players, even newcomers, and most left to play for Euabalong. The Murrin Bridge players said that after a match they were ‘just dumped’ on a corner in Lake Cargelligo and had to find their own way back to the mission. The Lake Cargelligo players related how, after transferring to Euabalong, they, in a town hotel, were taunted by their former teammates and called ‘piss-weak’ and derogatory terms related to their ancestry. After the resulting fight it was they who were banned from the hotel. A more subtle form of discrimination, one that provides an insight into the perceptions of some white townsfolk, occurred in the Country Women’s Association. An Aboriginal woman was interested in joining and, because she had a big family, her joining fee was waived. To some members’ surprise she was not shy but forthright, spoke up and joined committees. “She did not act in a humble manner, or grateful, and like a charity case at all. Therefore, some of the women felt that she should be asked to pay the annual fee.” It appeared to my informant, a member of the CWA, that if she had been submissive this would not have occurred to them. The issue was a vexed one but the new member left Lake Cargelligo before it could be resolved. 12

A COMPELLING NEED

The legacy of this prejudice and discrimination is a profound distrust of all outsiders. The motives and actions of all whites are treated with extreme suspicion and this includes those of academics who worked previously in this area. People complained that they were not paid for information provided, that they did not receive the books they felt entitled to, or were not taken on trips away with previous researchers. One even suspected that deliveries of artefacts had not arrived at the correct destination. This was part of the general mistrust of whites and I found no evidence of unethical behaviour by researchers. Therefore, it was factors of changing land-use, lack of Aboriginal land, few opportunities for employment, meagre pension and unemployment benefits, poor health standards, discrimination, and a legacy of educational deprivation and political oppression, which hampered Indigenous concepts of self and community worth and led to suspicion of the outside world. This is hardly a background for inclusive education and citizenship. CONTEMPORARY EMPLOYMENT AND COMMUNITY

During the 1980s and 1990s little changed in regard to employment opportunities outside the community. By 2001 there were approximately 140 residents at Murrin Bridge4, almost all living in new housing (see above), far removed in quality from the old cottages on the ‘mission’. In 1999 and 2000 eight families relocated to Lake Cargelligo, as part of the National Aboriginal Housing Strategy. The Land Council’s Aboriginal Housing Corporation in Lake Cargelligo, ‘...own the mission land and are in charge’ (CDEP Manager). The community organisation, as noted above, managed the Community Development Employment Program (CDEP). It was a variation of the ‘mutual obligation’, ‘work for the dole’ programs instituted by the Federal Government for all unemployed people in 1999/2000). It employed 68 local Aboriginal workers and coordinated 30 more in nearby Condobolin. They worked in parks and gardens, the cemetery and other community maintenance, women’s craft, the community office, the town hospital, in establishing and maintaining the vineyard enterprise, and on the contracts for garbage pick-up and rubbish tip maintenance in Lake Cargelligo.5 Essentially, the community had received no land rights, although one member worked on Barooga Kaari, a property “...past Euabalong West, far from the mission, … run by the Aboriginal Lands Council, Dubbo” (CDEP Manager). In an almost unchanging circumstance from the early 1980s, there was one Aboriginal Health Worker at the Murrin Bridge Clinic, three Preschool aides, an aide at the Central School, three at the Convent School, and one Lachlan Shire employee. Some casual and itinerant work was available; of private enterprise, opportunities for permanent work there was virtually none. The vineyard initiative is of note. The community land has about 100 acres suitable for grape production. By 2003 about a fifth of this had been planted with Shiraz grapes for wine production and Menindee Seedless for table grapes. Twenty tonnes were harvested in 2001 and approximately thirty tonnes in 2002. The community produces its own red wine for commercial production. The TAFE College in Griffith provides winemaking 13

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facilities and skills. This is a source of considerable anticipation and pride, however by 2007–2010 it had considerable financial difficulties. As for most of Indigenous Australia and Melanesia the lack of business experience, knowledge and skills, is a major concern. A number of talented artists and designers contribute to community pride, expression of culture, tradition, and identity. In regard to education, the isolation of Murrin Bridge, the paternalism of the Welfare Board and the later offshoot welfare agencies, combined with the predominantly integrationist attitudes and practices of the school systems and the seeming irrelevance of much of their pedagogy and content, have resulted in most of these Indigenous Australians not developing the skills needed to cope with the changing rural, indeed increasingly global economy. The history of this educational malady is explored and explained in my 2005 book, Chapters 7–10. Many of the features of education at Murrin Bridge and Lake Cargelligo have far wider resonance for all Indigenous people, in Australia, Melanesia and elsewhere. In brief, with important exceptions, especially the case of ‘the chief ’, a Murrin Bridge man who became a significant local entrepreneur, the community became increasingly dependent from the mid 1970s to 2010 on welfare and bureaucratic administration. But the picture was neither so simple nor dismal as this. While the employment rate worsened, there were local initiatives to get more land and develop community industries, particularly craft and wine production, and to increase employment. The standard of housing is comparatively good and has shown considerable improvement since the influx of funds for community improvements, which came initially from the Whitlam Australian Labor Party national government, 1972–1975. Improvement of infrastructure continued with the subsequent Fraser, Hawke, Keating, Howard and Rudd national administrations. The old single-men’s barracks and other sub-standard housing were demolished, new homes with all amenities were built, and the remaining cottages were painted, renovated with new stoves, baths, basins, floor coverings, and provided with solar hot water heating. Community recreational and health amenities and services were greatly improved, with corresponding rises in health standards. In 1977 the sewerage system was completed. By 1980 clean town water replaced the water piped directly from the Lachlan River. This had been frequently unfit for human consumption. Miraculously a summer went by without an epidemic of gastroenteritis. An infant did not require hospitalisation during the first year of her life, the only child in living memory, a source of great pride for her mother and the community nurse. Commonwealthfunded Health Sisters and Aboriginal Health Workers provide medical aid and advice at the community clinic. As noted above, the feature of later improvements was new housing, at Murrin Bridge, Euabalong and in Lake Cargelligo. While changes in the pastoral economy, the dependence upon welfare and administrative agencies, and the irrelevance of much of their schooling over the years, prevent many of the people of Murrin Bridge from learning and developing new skills, there is a growing Aboriginal perception and demand for a more useful and relevant education for the community, and for greater control over the future of their children and their own lives. This book responds to these changes and needs. 14

A COMPELLING NEED

ISSUES OF IDENTITY, CITIZENSHIP, EDUCATION AND POPULATION

These relationships and changes are of particular interest to educators, as well as those interested more generally in issues affecting Indigenous Australians, because they provide evidence of a desire for movement towards community involvement in economic development, management, and, of course, in education, especially in language, culture and relevant, developmental, skill-based programs. The history of Murrin Bridge indicates the obstacles created by Australian society in this struggle for survival of identity and community. The descendants of the Wangaaypuwan and Wiradjuri living at Murrin Bridge are a people in poor health, living on low incomes, with inadequate land, able to exercise little control over the administration and future of their community, and with low standards of educational attainment and few employment opportunities other than government programs. Most Indigenous Australians, including urban, rural and remote families, have to deal with discrimination, grief, violence, drug and alcohol dependence, feelings of being second rate and discrimination in education and employment (CDEST, August, 2002). While they constitute a rural working class (albeit, often underemployed or unemployed), their Aboriginal features and culture, combined with the unique community characteristics mentioned above, make the people of Murrin Bridge stand apart from the wider community, even from other wage labourers or long-term unemployed. This is nation-wide. The sociologist Don Edgar referred in 1980 to Aboriginal Australians as ‘the recurring forgotten’ of the minority ethnic groups. While this is no longer so much an omission6, issues of Indigenous recognition, citizenship and equity, are still to be addressed satisfactorily by sociologists, anthropologists, educators and governments, state and federal. Some anthropologists and sociologists see assertions of distinctiveness and claims to autonomy as evidence of ethnicity, but many Aboriginal people in the region reject this label. They say, “We’re the real Australians, not like migrants.” They do not want to be lumped together with hundreds of minority cultures in a multicultural Australia, although many do appreciate the ancillary benefit of “mine no longer being the only black face in the crowd.” Theirs is the Indigenous culture. As Colin Tatz asserts, theirs is the local civilisation. A few Koories in the region have been or are union organisers, and most vote for the Australian Labor Party because “it’s the working man’s party”, but there seems to be no partisan zeal in their strategies for their own and their community’s betterment. They often say that, “you have to take people as you find them”, and that they “will support anyone who will give the blackfella a go.” ACCESS TO LAND

In the early to mid 1980s there was still some prospect of obtaining additional land in the form of a large leasehold in the Euabalong district, but the protracted battle for access to land and the various obstacles to viable and settled community leadership and self-determination had caused the optimism observed in the early 15

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years of the fieldwork period to wane. By 2010 they still have, essentially, just the community land. The Aboriginal community or ‘mission’ is about a kilometre from the Lake Cargelligo– to -Euabalong road, which until ten years ago was rough, unsealed and unsafe. Now all roads in the vicinity are sealed. While the 400 hectares of community land are on the moderately fertile Lachlan River flats, in a region where paddocks are often measured in thousands of hectares, it could not support hundreds of people. In 1972 Charles Rowley suggested that it might comfortably support one family. There have been over thirty families at Murrin Bridge, and so a ‘model agricultural village’ as expressed in the Sydney Sun in the 1940s has never been possible and could never be the answer to the need for the Murrin Bridge community to have a sound economic base. This is a common dilemma in South-Eastern Australia where small land grants have been made to Aboriginal communities without consideration of the fact that they will not support the hundreds of people in the community. However, much the same can be said of many remote Northern Territory, South and Western Australian communities with enormous land bases, especially if they are desert country. Also, some Aboriginal leaders, for example Colin Bourke, Pat Dodson and Noel Pearson, argue that if everything is community-owned then individual initiative and effort may be stifled. Certainly, it is counter to both the prevailing system of ownership and raising capital in Australia and to the local power relationships. There have been unsuccessful attempts by the Murrin Bridge community to acquire property and access to a more useful economic land base in the form of substantial ownership within the extensive farming properties located on their traditional ‘bull-oak’ homeland or ngurrampaa. ‘Traditional’ is, of course, the link with the past. In this case it refers to continuity with, and rights derived from, an Aboriginal past, identification with Aboriginal elements as against others. It is also, in essence, a term connoting pre-colonial times, for the colonizers ignored the notion of any Aboriginal ownership of this land under the doctrine of terra nullius, or empty land. As the reader well knows, the question of land-rights, post the High Court’s decisions, Mabo, 1992, and Wik, 1996, is a fundamental issue facing the Australian legal and political system. The proximity of Murrin Bridge to the traditional ngurrampaa of the Wangaaypuwan and Wiradjuri could form the basis for additional land acquisition in the region through the 1993 Native Title legislation of the Federal Government. As a community they were, and still are, a group living within its traditional lands (Murrin Bridge is in Wiradjuri country), but the Native Title Act’s emphasis upon granting land to “traditional Aboriginal owners” would make this difficult. Specific links with the land surrounding Murrin Bridge, for example, evidence of sacred sites, were difficult to prove when the community attempted to acquire more land. By 2010 this means of acquiring additional land for the community has not been used to any meaningful extent, although the Department of Aboriginal Affairs, and later ATSIC, which exercised considerable control over the management and planning for Murrin Bridge, had purchased additional land for Aboriginal communities elsewhere in New South Wales. There is an existing potential process of acquisition of 16

A COMPELLING NEED

farming properties through the purchase of private deed property or the granting of leasehold, under the auspices of the New South Wales Government’s Western Lands Trust. Employment In 1998–99 the unemployment rate was 41.4% for Indigenous people compared to 8.5% for all Australians. This excludes Indigenous employment associated with the CDEP ‘work for the dole’ Scheme. By 2002 the unemployment rate had dropped to 23 percent. Analysis of the 2006 census data (see below) reveals that between 2001 and 2006 the Indigenous unemployment rate fell from 20% to 16%. So, there has been an increase in labour force participation and the qualifications required for employment. Despite these gains, in 2010, a time of recovery from recession, unemployment for Indigenous Australians is over three times the non-Indigenous unemployment rate of 5.5%. In 2006, there were an estimated 160,300 Indigenous people aged 15 years and over in employment. This represented half of the Indigenous population aged 15 years and over. After declining to a low in 2004 (45%), the employment to population ratio for Indigenous Australians has increased to 50% in 2006. The employment to population ratio for Indigenous males (57%) continued to rise in 2006 after falling to 52% in 2004. The employment to population ratio for Indigenous females has increased to 44% in 2006 after remaining relatively stable between 2002 and 2005 (Canberra, ABS, July 2007). Remote, rural, isolated Murrin Bridge, and other remote Indigenous communities, fare worse than the average. For the Murrin Bridge community further land acquisition would provide a buffer to the vagaries of the seasonal and cyclical demand for rural labour. In the case of acquisition of a large community property, it would provide outlets for training and educational opportunities for those school leavers who have, at present, few employment opportunities. From the early 1980s fewer of the Aboriginal students who attended the Lake Cargelligo schools were in attendance beyond Year Nine, and after leaving school their educational levels mattered little, for the employment prospects for Aboriginal school leavers in the region were virtually nil. Indeed, over 80 percent of the adult Aboriginal people at Murrin Bridge eligible for employment were unemployed. While there was, on occasion, some casual work available within the community or in the surrounding district, few were in permanent, full-time employment. Clearly, prospects for work were severely limited by their low educational status and unwillingness to move to places where there was work. Women had slightly better opportunities, in that they predominated in health, education, secretarial and cleaning jobs, as they still do in 2010. Community Development Employment Projects (work for the dole) and community jobs, including establishing and maintaining the vineyard, still constitute the majority of employment opportunities. But, are they ‘real work’? Some Indigenous leaders, including Marcia Langton, consider such schemes to be ‘the principal poverty trap’ for Aboriginal people and their 17

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communities. In 2004–2007 the Murrin Bridge workers were part of a central NSW CDEP program employing 750 Aboriginal people. This is evidence of a desire to work, the paucity of non-community employment opportunities in this region and the prevalence of low incomes. Education Since the 1970s there has been significant commitment by successive Australian and State governments to more effectively provide education for Indigenous students. There has been some improvement in key indicators over the last three decades. However, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people, in general, are still not served well by the Australian education system. There is great concern about the continuing disparity between outcomes achieved by Indigenous Australians compared to other Australians. The educational status of Aboriginal people is lower than any other minority group in Australia. At all levels, from preschool to tertiary, the structures and processes of education generally are inappropriate and give little recognition to the needs and aspirations of Indigenous people and their communities. Facilities of general education systems are often not available in Aboriginal communities, while resources for special programs are often inadequate and participation rates are significantly lower than average (Commonwealth Department of Education, 2007). School participation rates, historically, have declined significantly with age. For example, the 1981 census figures revealed that only 4.1 percent of Aborigines aged 15 years and over had attained a post-school qualification of any sort. This compares most unfavourably with that of the total Australian population where 24.2% of those aged 15 and over had a post-school qualification. There was a marked decrease in the number who had not attended school at all, from 35 percent in 1966 to less than 20 percent in 1979. A study in the early 1970s by Broome and Jones revealed that at every age, Aboriginal Australians were behind their white age peers. They entered school later, progressed slower, quit sooner. Australia is a highly literate country, but in 1970 at age 45 and above, one-half to three quarters of the Aboriginal population was presumptively illiterate, with no formal education. Gradual improvement in school attendance is clear; however, much is still to be achieved. In 2010 attendance remains at least 10 percent less than for other students and is far worse in remote locations. Participation in remote NT schools is 62 percent (National Indigenous Literacy and Numeracy Survey, Canberra: 2008). As for attendance, qualifications in the 2000s also show improvement from a very low base. The Australian Bureau of Statistics Social Trends document reveals that in 2006, Indigenous people aged 19 years had lower rates of Year 12 completion than others of the same age (37% compared with 74%) and across all remote areas. In regard to non-school qualifications, between 1996 and 2006, increases in educational attainment among Indigenous people corresponded with increased levels of participation in education. The proportion of Indigenous people aged 25–64 years with a non-school qualification (29%) had nearly doubled from 1996 (15%). There was a marked increase in Indigenous people whose highest qualification was a Certificate 18

A COMPELLING NEED

or Advanced Diploma, from 12% in 1996 to 23% in 2006. The proportion whose highest qualification was a Bachelor degree or above was relatively small compared with the non-Indigenous population, but doubled in the ten years to 2006 (from 3% in 1996 to 6% in 2006). Many teachers see attendance and retention as the most significant factors in poor educational outcomes. The national average attendance rate of Australian Indigenous school students is two to three times lower than for non-Indigenous students. This means that, on average, Indigenous students are missing out on two years of schooling. In 1998 32% of Indigenous students continued to Year 12 compared to 73% of non-Indigenous students, a difference of 41%. In 2006 Social Trends revealed that there was an increase in participation in education for Indigenous people aged 20–24 years (from 11% in 1996 to 13%). Just over half (51%) of all Indigenous 15–19 year olds were participating in education, up from 43% in 1996. This increase occurred in major cities as well as regional and remote areas. The biggest proportional change occurred in very remote areas, representing a 27% increase. By 2007 43% of Indigenous and 76% of non-Indigenous students completed secondary schooling, a reduced, but still significant margin of 33% (ABS 2008). Thus, there are some improvements in educational participation and attainment. It is important to recognise that these are the overall figures for Indigenous people throughout Australia and that there is wide variation according to the nature and distribution of the population. In New South Wales and Victoria the majority of Indigenous Australians live in cities or small country towns and their lifestyle is, in many respects, closer to the rest of the Australian nation than to that of the precolonial cultures. For example, in the 1980s few of the people at Murrin Bridge had never attended school and most forty-five years of age or under attended high school in Lake Cargelligo. However, only three Aboriginal students were in senior secondary classes and none from the community had obtained tertiary training. In 1998 only two Aboriginal students were in senior classes and still no ‘local’ Indigenous person had obtained a tertiary degree. This situation, according to Central School staff in 2007, remained unaltered. Reasons for Low Levels of Achievement One explanation for the apparent lack of success in schooling by Indigenous people is that the “... system forces the Aboriginal child to go to school and then denigrates his cultural background” (FAUSA Report). That is to say, schooling instils an intrinsic lack of self-confidence and engenders a double-sided alienation, from Aboriginal cultural roots and from Australian society. Historically, more detailed information on educational provision and outcomes for Aboriginal students has been difficult to obtain, as racially separate records were often not kept by the states. In terms of current enrolments, as we saw above, the situation does look brighter, and has for some time. There are now over 60,000 Indigenous students in vocational education and training (VET), a tremendous increase and improvement. However, literacy and numeracy standards, while improving, are still only half that of 19

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non-Indigenous students. At Year 5 one in three Indigenous students does not meet agreed minimum reading standards. “Serious gaps between Indigenous and nonIndigenous outcomes remain in literacy, numeracy, student attendance, retention…” (DEST, Commonwealth of Australia, 2004). In 2010, many similar assertions can be found, in reference particularly to remote and rural communities, but affecting all. It is crucial to examine the reasons for these gaps and to suggest reform, particularly in terms of more appropriate pedagogy and ways to improve attendance and build effective and productive relations between community and school. Population Closely related to the above pressing educational issues is the clear demographic evidence that the proportion of Aboriginal children in Australian schools is increasing and will continue to do so. The Aboriginal population is expanding at a greater rate than the total Australian population; it is young and is being rapidly urbanised. The 1996 Census revealed that the Indigenous population had soared in twenty years from 161,000 to 372,052 (1.16 to 2 percent of the total population). In part this is due to the pertinent Census question being re-phrased in terms of ‘origin’, namely, ‘Is the person of Aboriginal or Torres Strait Origin’? This is more inclusive than the former ‘racial origin’ question. By 2009, 2.4 percent of Australians, over 500,000 citizens, identified as being Indigenous. In the last 20 years changing cultural and social attitudes, community and political developments, improved statistical coverage and the broader, more inclusive definition of Indigenous origin, led to more people identifying as being Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander. Despite the tragically high death rates of Indigenous men and women, the Indigenous growth rate is double the national average. This is a high rate of natural growth by Australian standards, over twice that of the population as a whole, and, if it continues, sufficient to double the population in less than thirty years. While the last forty years has seen the percentage of the Indigenous population living in urban areas rising from 43.5 percent to over 60 percent the number of rural dwellers in absolute terms is still considerable compared to other Australians and will probably remain so. The Indigenous population is much more widely spread than the total population. Ninety percent of Australians live in only 2.6% of the continent, dominated by Sydney, Melbourne, and other State capital cities, whereas about ninety percent of Indigenous Australians live in 25% of the continent. Because of a higher birth rate and shorter longevity, a relatively large proportion of the Aboriginal population is of school age. This population has a large proportion of females in the childbearing, or younger age groups. Today the Indigenous population has a very young age structure, with 40% of the population under 15, and only 3% over 65. The age structure reflects both high fertility and high death rates. Life expectancy for men is about 57 years and for women 66 years, each approximately 15 years below the national average. In the western region of New South Wales the Indigenous population is growing steadily, for Aboriginal families usually have three, four or more children compared 20

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with an average of fewer than two for the wider society. The reduction at Murrin Bridge, from 250 to around 160, is due to families moving out to live in local towns, especially Lake Cargelligo. It is compellingly clear that the problems Aboriginal Australians have experienced in native title, social justice and education, must not be ignored, for they shall certainly not fade away. Further attempts to marginalise Aboriginal people and to leave their representatives out of deliberations directly affecting them are likely to seriously misfire, cause long-term disaffection and imperil hopes of a more inclusive and workable Australian citizenship. The next chapter discusses the rationale, focus, design, methodology and findings of my research and this book, in Australia and Melanesia. The key concepts explored, for Australia, Melanesia and elsewhere, are social change, community, cultural and racial relations, socialisation, education, pedagogy and citizenship. I focus on educational policy and practice, and their implications. NOTES 1

2

3

4

5

6

For more ethnographic detail and thorough academic acknowledgement of sources for my main ‘case study’, see Nichol 2005 and 2008. In the 2000s, amenities in the local community improved significantly, with 47 new or extensively renovated homes, a new preschool, renovated and expanded health clinic, a community hall, and sports ground and play equipment. The NSW State Government has plans for many improvements. CDEP was introduced in 1977. Tens of thousands (32,000 in 2000) of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people voluntarily opted to work for their communities to earn the equivalent of unemployment benefits. It is administered locally by Indigenous community organisations and regionally by elected representatives, or was until 2007, when administered from Griffith due to ‘receivership’. There are 35 Regional Councils. Until 2004 ATSIC oversaw and funded this program. With the Federal Government’s abolishing of ATSIC in 2004, and subsequent negative reports, in 2010 CDEP’s future is problematic. It is often seen as being not real work, as stifling initiative. Given its focus on local needs, it, or something better, more accountable, should be supported. It is difficult to quantify, as there is still a ‘floating population’, with people coming and going, especially to towns both close by and far to the west. They go to seek employment or to visit ‘lations’ (relatives). In 2007 the general view, in the community office, clinic and preschool, was that it is ‘around 150, sometimes up to 200.’ For more information about Murrin Bridge Wines, plus some very interesting detail about the contemporary community, see: http://murrinbridgewines.com.au. Certainly not with the front page news on 22 June 2007, when Prime Minister Howard virtually took over remote Northern Territory Indigenous communities, with police, military and medical intervention, because of child-abuse convictions and extensive allegations. Nor, when Prime Minister Rudd made his Federal Parliamentary Apology or ‘Sorry’ to the ‘Stolen Generations’, on 13 February 2008.

21

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Mates at the Mission. Photographer, John Morton.

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KNOWLEDGE TRADITIONS AND CHANGE

The future for local knowledge traditions is, I believe, dependent on the creation of a third space, an interstitial space, in which local knowledge traditions can be reframed, decentred and the social organisation of trust can be negotiated… Knowledge…will tend towards universal homogenous information at the expense of local knowledge traditions. If knowledge is recognized as both representational and performative it will be possible to create a space in which knowledge traditions can be performed together (Turnbull, 1997: 560–561). The ‘compelling need’ discussed above, leads me to ask the following questions: Does schooling, compulsory education in State approved or operated institutions, do something different from what it purports to do for Indigenous children in Australia and Melanesia [and many other regions and countries]? Have the school-aged Indigenous children in the Murrin Bridge - Lake Cargelligo, Alice Springs, Wewak or Rabaul, ‘mainstream’ schools received an education appropriate to their needs? Are their communities’ convenient pools of rural or urban labour? Are they refuges for the survivors of a race? Is education another form of class control? Are Vanimo, Goldie River, Wewak, Murrin Bridge or Yuendumu unique in experiencing the suppression of communally based knowledge and pedagogy and the usurpation of community control over education by the state and private systems of schooling? Can Indigenous knowledge and pedagogy enrich the wider, dominant education and society? Policies and practices of assimilation and paternalism are clearly destructive of Indigenous culture and identity, but many in power thwart community involvement and measures of control of cultural and educational programs. The reality is that profound cultural issues, such as language, custom, law and the spiritual values and traditions of a people, never exist separately from questions of economic and political power. Social Change Changes in education and social behaviour are key to this field. Resistance, persistence and adaptation of Indigenous elements in behaviour and organisation are of high interest to many social scientists and educators. How do they conceptualise change and Indigenous people? Following Radcliffe-Brown and Durkheim, traditional Australian and Melanesian anthropology was dominated by the structural-functional, social order paradigm. ‘What keeps society together’ was the central question. The clan, tribe or horde was seen as the commencement of a unilineal paradigm or pattern on a positivistic 23

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progression towards modern, namely western, society was embedded in anthropological thought. Marc Gumbert and many others argue that this concept fosters a form of social Darwinism, a justification for internal colonialism and external colonial control. It diminishes our understanding of social change in Indigenous communities and the institutions with which they operate. While appreciating the value of much structural-functional research we certainly need to assess critically the conservative, functionalist, social order approach to analysis in this field. The background to the conceptual challenges facing educators and community developers is the diversity of contexts in which Aboriginal, Torres Strait Islander, Melanesian and many other Indigenous people live, and to which education must be appropriate. There could be seen to be a structural, unilineal paradigm between tribal, village and urban societies, but, as we shall see, it is more fruitful to explore the process and multi-causal situations of change than to envisage polar opposites and inevitable, deterministic stages. Similarly, Robert Redfield’s folk-urban continuum has little relevance here. In brief, Redfield conceptualised ‘folk’ and ‘urban’ as polar types on his continuum of social change. A folk society was depicted as small, relatively isolated, homogeneous, non-literate, traditional and personal, while metropolitan society (with contractual relationships) was thought of as the antithesis of these. Redfield’s dichotomy rests on a wealth of philosophical precedents. These include the gemeinschaft and gesellschaft of Tonnies and Loomis, Durkheim’s mechanical and organic solidarity, Merton’s local and cosmopolitan, Sorokin’s familistic and contractual and the sacred and secular types of Becker. In the Australian- Bendigo, Melbourne, Murrin Bridge, Lake Cargelligo, Euabalong, Darwin, Alice Springs, and Papua New Guinean- Munari, Wewak, Vanimo, Goldie River, and other Indigenous contexts in which I have worked, the continuum proved to be too simplistic and valueoriented. As we shall see in regard to the concept of community, it does not allow for an adequate exploration of the complexities and paradoxes of community life. In Murrin Bridge, as in most contemporary, local societies, there are elements of both ‘community’ and ‘association’, but no tidy coincidence of either within neat boundaries. For the futurist Peter Ellyard, the three big agents of change for all communities, are globalisation, tribalisation and technological change. The fieldwork and wider research reveals that all three have relevance and application for students, teachers and community. Thus, the dichotomous model appears to me to be of limited value when conceptualising the changes taking place in Indigenous societies. Even the most urban of Indigenous societies are not large, assimilated, heterogeneous or impersonal, and so they bear little resemblance to the polar urban type. However, the power of these assimilative, urban influences on all Indigenous societies cannot be ignored, if only to remind one of Indigenous resistance to these influences. Also, in the Australian context, as Marcia Langton forcefully asserts, we need to be aware of “... the insidious ideology of seeing tribal Aborigines as the ‘real’ Aborigines and detribalised Aborigines as losing their Aboriginality.” Identity is an historical phenomenon and therefore is constantly open to evolution and transformation; in the contemporary period, although it may have deep roots 24

KNOWLEDGE TRADITIONS AND CHANGE

going back into the past, identity, whether political, cultural or psychological, is immensely sensitive and crucial to community control and development. The community of Murrin Bridge is but one case and each requires specific historical and contemporary social and educational research and analysis if one is to understand the nature and forms of the changes that have taken place. The notion of a ‘folk-urban continuum’ implies an urban drift, and there is one at Murrin Bridge and elsewhere around the world. An example is the establishment of ‘town-camps’ around Alice Springs and Darwin in Australia, Port Moresby in Papua New Guinea, and many other towns and cities in the regions. Nevertheless, it is important to note the significant decentralisation trend of some Indigenous people elsewhere, who are working towards their own community’s development or moving back to tribal lands in the ‘homelands’ or ‘outstation’ movement. Another interesting phenomenon is of people with high academic or business success who, despite being exposed to Western culture, sustain a strong Indigenous identity. Many urban Melanesians maintain strong relationships with their home villages, returning for ceremonial occasions, investing in commercial enterprises, and so on. Urban Indigenous Australians often retain links to former ‘missions’, homelands and communities. There are, as elsewhere, individuals who are agents of change, who embrace modernity and more efficient or profitable ways. Comparative Indigenous education in this vast region is explored. It is a way forward to counter our, often deadly, sense of ‘otherness’; for example, the erosion of respect for human rights, the wretchedness of life for so many Indigenous people, and of our ability to imagine new pathways for thought and action. It is helpful and creative to see the research findings as conjectural, problematic, to be trialled and compared. The major objective is to examine issues of education and pedagogy and to suggest forms of reconciliation between the dominant western education and the rich variety of Indigenous forms of education. From the 1980s to the 2000s the prevailing principles in Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander education stressed Indigenous self-determination and a need for other Australians to accommodate to Aboriginal concepts and to provide services requested by Aboriginal people and communities, rather than imposing what the wider society considered they ought to have ‘in their best interests.’ Many reports stress that different concepts and practices of education must be developed to accommodate this diversity of Aboriginal contexts and needs. The simplistic folk-urban continuum model cannot cope with this. The educator needs to explore the dynamics of social processes and relationships, in this case, arguably through the concepts of community, race relations, education and citizenship. Community We prefer ‘Aboriginal community’ to ‘the mission’; it sounds better, ‘tho amongst ourselves we still call it ‘the mission’ (CDEP manager and Community Chairman, Murrin Bridge, 2001). At Murrin Bridge it became clear that the concept of community was of enormous significance, if only through frequent usage, oral and written. Here, over the last 25

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few decades, we find a group of between 150–250 people, of shared biological and cultural Wiradjuri and Wangaaypuwan background and descent, who identify as the Murrin Bridge ‘mob’, with a history of being moved and located as a discrete population from one geographical area to another. They are a collection of people with a particular family and social structure, a sense of belonging or community spirit, patterns of exchange and support, a shared heritage, and, as a relatively isolated settlement, they are spatially self-contained. Thus, we have a social order based on interdependence through personal and family relationships, consanguinity, locality and custom. In this sense, for the local people, the community simply exists. There are other elements to experience of community, namely communion, emotion and ideology. The group is defined by its members, which both implies common interest or cooperation among its members and also defines its boundaries and relations with other groups. More structured elements of community, social organisation and society, become apparent when patterns or definitions of communion become routine and bridged by the adoption of visible and rational connections such as contracts and laws and patterns of sanctions or reinforcements. In a bureaucratic expression of these ideological and class relations the State is formed. Class, ethnic, racial conflicts and other disputes, for example regarding native title and land-rights, run through the State, its departments and agencies. When examining Indigenous identity, citizenship, cultural life and educational provision, the three elements of community: existential, ideological and societal, are of particular relevance. In the Murrin Bridge context the concept of community has particular complexities, contradictions and paradoxes. For example, can we see a contradiction between people with a supposed sense of belonging, community spirit and social solidarity and who yet have also a propensity to criticise and shame those who are successful, ‘flash’, or who leave to better themselves and their families? Is this criticism a form of sanction against those who would threaten the community’s survival by seemingly ‘identifying white’ and leaving Murrin Bridge? The oldest Ngiyampaa speakers in the community are also caught in a paradoxical position. The conditions for survival of the language (adaptation, flexibility, learning through mistakes) threaten the identity of those who know or would like to know the language, and thus militate against an important component of traditional community identity. This is a genuine paradox and is beyond my abilities to resolve. However, the language persists and a number of speakers wish to impart elements of it to the young, as evidenced by their compilation of a Ngiyampaa alphabet and willingness to work in the local schools as visiting speakers and cultural resource teachers. To know and share the language, to identify as one of the ‘mob’, to have group aspirations for the community as a whole, and to work towards amity and opportunity may be the ideal, but at Murrin Bridge, as with other Indigenous communities, there are frequent faction fights and quarrels. The complexities and difficulties within the community are compounded by the limitations of time for research and the ability of anyone, insider or participant observer, to explain the total reality of community life. Any outsider’s view of their world must be limited and partial. However, in order to come to even a tentative 26

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understanding of the link between education and community life the researcher does need to structure any observations within a framework or model. As noted above, the Murrin Bridge people, as for so many Indigenous people, do live within a community framework, even if it increasingly extends to Euabalong and Lake Cargelligo. They live within a finite and bounded physical location. They share a history and tradition. There is a locality-based system of interrelated social institutions, organisations and relationships, and a shared ideological view of what it is to be one of the ‘mob’. It is an identification of Aboriginality, of being one of a tiny minority, with some limited, potential native title rights, in a vast land owned by whites and the State. This is common to many other former ‘missions’ in Australia. The community survives precariously in the face of great pressures from within and without. For example, some Aboriginal people tell me that they would like to better themselves outside. Some whites, with assimilationist and integrationist views, advocate dispersing Aboriginal housing throughout the predominantly white townships. Others, especially those who strongly identify black, say that they would camp on the riverbank rather than live in the white town. Some whites prefer segregation, fearing any increase in the numbers of blacks in the town schools. They say they know of other towns where, “Blacks are in the majority in the school and give the other kids a very hard time.” Much of this tension derives from both the competitive relationship between the demands of local Indigenous communities and those of the wider Australian society and some rather narrow, restrictive views regarding what it is to be an acceptable, respectable Australian citizen. Local Indigenous communities develop on a basis of social and economic interdependence through traditional relationships and shared heritage. The wider society insists on the priority of its obligations and demands on the individual over traditional social or collective obligations. For a community economically dependent upon the wider society for its daily sustenance, the strictures and demands of that society imply that schooling and employment opportunities outside will mean the loss of its younger generation. The power and ties of rationallegal society, in particular mechanisms of the State, are increasingly pervasive. After the High Court’s Mabo and Wik judgments of the early 1990s, landed, ruling class and conservative political representatives of the State came together, declaring their interests against the Indigenous quest for native title and land-rights. My 2005 book examines this process in detail, particularly in regard to socialization, land, citizenship and leadership. Because a community study allows analysis of the interrelationship of whites and blacks, of dominator and dominated, at a relatively intimate level, it allows the unravelling of ideology in practice. Race Relations The reader needs to be very conscious of the importance of race. Many Indigenous Australian informants say that they are victims of racial discrimination. They cite instances of unjust or unfair treatment and material deprivation ‘for the blackfella’, of having fewer rights than other Australians. Conversely, white townspeople and farmers often criticise all Aborigines ‘for getting too much government money and 27

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not being prepared to work’ and of having ‘…too many rights’. ‘They’re a protected species’, is a negative, dismissive expression of this sentiment heard Australia-wide. Racial stereotypes abound. When examining race relations, any analysis should be placed within the wider context of the nature and history of the community, and the notions of social stratification, power and inequality, plus the degree of applicability in each case. A number of stages can be seen in the whole span of Australian Indigenousinvader colonial experience and very different conditions operated in each. There are fascinating parallels with Melanesia, not least in terms of race. The earliest colonial phase was the period of penetration of territories and the establishment of the basic structures of the colonial system. External political control was achieved during this period. This was followed by a period of high colonialism when settlers and State wrought major economic and social transformations. The master-servant relationship was at its strongest and domination was seen by whites to be permanent. In Australia this relationship corresponded with the long period of segregation and institutionalisation of Aborigines. For the Murrin Bridge ‘mob’, their parents and grandparents, this was the period from the mid-1920s to late 1970s. In Melanesia it was until the 1960s. However, the illusion of stability, born out of exclusion, was ended by Indigenous striving towards autonomy and self-management and a weakening expansionist will among the colonising whites, brought about by public indignation and guilt at the destruction of traditional societies and devastating contemporary conditions, highlighted by the media, particularly of poor health and high rates of mortality. In Australia this concern was exemplified by the extraordinary success of the 1967 Referendum. This gave the Commonwealth government the right to legislate and act on behalf of Australia’s Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. Recent government policies of self-determination and self-management, and High Court decisions in regard to Native Title, also reflect this awareness. By the early 1970s some urban, educated Papua New Guineans were chafing at white colonial rule. Others, particularly in villages, worried about the possible loss of government and missionary resources. In pre-colonial times Indigenous peoples well understood notions of reciprocal dependency and generosity. The worthiest person was one who gave unstintingly to those with legitimate claims on him or her. Those traditional leaders with knowledge and power, held control over their subordinates, but, in return, were expected to look after those they managed. Communities were dependent upon these leaders for their spiritual and temporal wellbeing. The fact that the Wangaaypuwan used the English term ‘boss’ for both the wireenan, ‘powerful, clever ones’, and the white pastoralists indicates that they recognised the pastoralists’ power, accepted a reciprocal contract between the boss and the mob of Aborigines camping and working on the station, and expected that there would be provisions provided for the whole group. Some women and many men worked for the whites and in return the whole community was fed. This period of pastoral adaptation was characterised by employment on the pastoral stations, alternating with periods of ‘walk-about’, conducting ceremonies and eating bush foods. 28

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However, this state changed to one of increased resentment, confusion, and resistance, when closer settlement and rural economic depression severed the relationship between large landholders and their subject Aborigines, who often became indigent and subject to government control. and subject to government control. The Missions In Aboriginal settlements, as in Melanesia, the pathway to cultural change and European proselytizing, indeed often the spearhead of the West, was the Christian missionary. In mission eyes spiritual redemption through acceptance of the Word had to be accompanied by social and economic change. ‘First we must civilise, and then Christianise’ was a common maxim. Aboriginal societies, as the missionaries found them, were seen to be the antithesis of the good Christian life, and had to make way for western values of individuality, personal initiative, modesty, cleanliness, and acquisition of property. Trade and the gospel were regarded as being interdependent, one justifying the other. Since education was the main weapon of ideological effect, the schools opened in settlements were, from the beginning, instruments of control and social and cultural change. Because they threatened strongly held values, beliefs, and practices, they were hardly welcomed. The Victorian Chief Protector Robinson and his Assistants, appointed in 1838, regarded the Aboriginal people as being inferior, child-like creatures who could become saved and useful once they accepted the benefits of Christianity and civilisation. Under these conditions of white dominance the pressures to conform became a form of cultural oppression where the white culture was imprinted on the black. Each concession towards equality made the remaining differences seem the more intolerable. This ethnocentricity created enormous resistance as Aboriginal communities strove to maintain their Law, even after the loss of their traditional land. However, many Indigenous people were ‘saved’ in both senses of the word, and Christian missions, schools and influences continue to play an important role in Indigenous Australia (and Melanesia). A Dominant Ideology Dominant groups in all cultures organise the education system to strengthen their position. Some examples are the white middle classes in the USA, UK, Australia and New Zealand, the People’s Action Party (PAP) in Singapore, the Communist Party in China, the Catholic Church in Ireland and Poland, and elites, often one-party dictatorships, in many post-colonial Third World countries, including Melanesia’s Papua New Guinea, Fiji, New Caledonia, Solomon Islands and Vanuatu. For Indigenous Australians the ruling ideology has been largely one of a deep ethnocentrism- that European, Christian, white, capitalist civilisation is superior to their cultures, reflected and furthered in schooling. This ethnocentrism is closely related to racism. Ethnocentrism becomes oppressive and racist when we are prepared not only to feel ourselves to be superior, but also to thrust inferiority on to others. Assimilationist, 29

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liberal and philanthropical attitudes may be explicitly anti-racist, “There is no reason why a native cannot be as civilised as we are”, and yet be oppressively ethnocentric. Some sociologists have been inclined to argue that since race is a category based upon scientific untruths, a false consciousness, then it is the duty of scholars to reduce all statements about racial difference to other kinds of socially differentiated structure, such as class or ethnicity. The evidence makes this so-called duty nonsense. Racial perceptions and justifications cannot be ignored. The forms of oppression over the last two hundred years were military-political, then economic and educational, and upon these bases there were constructed extensive legal and cultural forms of domination. Many of the settlers and missionaries were not content with subjugating Indigenous Australians and Melanesians; they were driven, indeed obsessed, with punishing them for being Indigenous, ‘primitive’ and different. There was certainly a manifestation of extreme ethnocentrism, perhaps as a justificatory ideology rationalising the dispossession. Paradoxically, the colonial English society had a dominant ideology of social development and a belief that all human beings were born equal. To justify the dispossession and exploitation of Aboriginal people they had to be thought of as less than human. Hence racism was an endemic feature of cultural colonialism and Aborigines and Melanesians were largely excluded from white society. PERCEPTIONS OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLE

The attitudes and opinions of the English colonial settlers towards the ‘black savage tribes’ need to be examined if we are to understand their subsequent cultural arrogance and myopia. Conscious political and social discrimination requires and generates an ideology to uphold it. Perceived differences in physiognomy, colour, intelligence or behaviour, are used to provide the grounds for ideologies of discrimination. One needs to ask whether these ideologies represent the culmination of social and political forces, or a scientific impulse to examine a gap in the orderly structure of knowledge about humans and their capacities and behaviour. Strong bursts of contention about the natural inferiority of racially defined populations came with the spread of Europeans into the New World. The discovery of the Native Americans, the Papuans, New Guineans, the Australian Aborigines, and the domination, exploitation, or extermination of them, precipitated heated discussions about whether there was an innate, natural inferiority of races of men. Indigenous cultures in this region apparently differed so radically from the European that they were accorded even less respect than that for African societies. For example, note the sentiments expressed by Peter Cunningham (in Miller, 1985), one of the first settlers to receive a land grant in the Hunter Valley, NSW, when he wrote that Aborigines lived in an “abject animal state ... at the very zero of civilisation ... constituting ... the connecting link between man and the monkey tribe.” The lack of respect amongst the educated and learned filtered through to the illiterate convicts and hut-keepers, fed their hatred, and they believed, excused their brutal treatment of them. The invaders could shoot and poison the inhabitants 30

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and steal their land because they were regarded as being like animals. There were, of course, strong economic and political interests underlying this racist attitude. COMPLEX SOCIAL RELATIONS

The contemporary Indigenous community of Murrin Bridge and the mainly ‘white’ township of Lake Cargelligo, in the central-western region of New South Wales, are the result of long and complex social, political and economic processes. Each group has been formed by a combination of shared racial background, history and way of life, economic interests, common relationships to authority and power, and an exclusion of outsiders. They have much in common with Indigenous communities and nearby towns and cities all over Australia. Stated baldly, the dominant colonising whites took over the lands and water supplies, the means of production of the Aboriginal inhabitants. The main divide in the local stratification system is between the minority who own land and the majority who work for wages or form an underclass who don’t or can’t work. In regard to income and status we can include, with the owners of land, local professionals such as physicians, teachers, lawyers, stock and station agents, and retail owners and managers. Indigenous Australians, as a group, are clearly in the second division. This broad stratum is crosscut in a variety of ways, for example by sex, religion, ethnicity and race. The latter category is highly significant for an understanding of Indigenous status and life-chances. Of course it is a social construct rather than biological. We should ask the question: who constructs it and why? As a participant observer in many communities and classrooms I am well placed to explore and assess such construction and explanation. For example, it is clear to me that so many teachers’ ready explanation that Indigenous children are shy, timid or negative to learning, and therefore do not do well at school, requires analysis and criticism. In sum, for most of the previous two centuries, Indigenous Australians were turned into a pariah status group and were denied normal political privileges and citizenship rights. They were a colony, a Fourth World, within the dominant European society, even in the so-called ‘settled’ south-eastern Australian region. This notion of internal colonialism provides an important framework of analysis with which to explain policies and practices in Aboriginal education. Racism is seen as a justifying ideology in a colonial and exploitative situation, as it was so often in colonial Melanesia. However, the European colonisation of the continent had the consequence of creating a system of race relations, which, while possessing similarities with other situations in the world, also manifested characteristics peculiar to Australian circumstances. There were all kinds of differentiation and conflict that had arisen out of the military, political, economic and social interactions between Aborigines and whites. Despite these obvious truths it seems clear to me that something additional to a class conflict or stratification analysis is required when collecting and evaluating fieldwork evidence of stereotyping and prejudice. Various ideologies, ranging from crude stereotypes to ‘scientific’ theories, have been used to justify the processes of exploitation, expropriation, and exclusion. It is 31

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crucial that the researcher has a phenomenological awareness; that is, takes into account the informants’ (the social actors’) racial attitudes and behaviours, if the full range of social and educational issues is to be analysed. The class structure remains the basic form of differentiation in Australia’s capitalist system, but Indigenous communities are formed to the extent that group members are racial and cultural identities to themselves and others for purposes of social interaction. There is no doubt that many people in the wider society see the relations between Aboriginal and other Australians in racial terms. As the sociologist, John Rex asserts, “If men [sic] typify a situation as racial, racial it must be.” He argues some biological basis for racial inequality when observing that there is a “primordial tendency to advance the interests of… one’s own.” However, this is not to say that the views of informants about racial and social relations are definitive: their perceptions, classifications and memory about race relations and attitudes and the history of culture contact can only be partly explored and, while this is a valuable approach, these findings need to be viewed in conjunction with an historical review, and be related closely to an analysis of social stratification in the region. Do these racial sentiments and ideologies represent the culmination of social and political forces? Does one find identification of racial differences with cultural and social differences? Is there an assumption by whites (including some teachers) that cultural achievements are directly, even chiefly, determined by the racial characteristics of Indigenous Australians? Is it possible for informants to conceive a more inclusive, multicultural citizenry where race is less important and cultural expression and contribution appreciated? Many non-Aboriginal townspeople emphasise that it is the behaviour of Aborigines that is the problem. Stories are told which illustrate their lack of responsibility concerning community land and property, money, drink, work and care of children. Those who are described as ‘living white’ or ‘earning their way’ receive praise, but, for the majority, the category ‘Aboriginal’ means separation, dysfunction, exclusion, sympathy or vilification. Related to the issues of inequality and exclusion is the need to investigate group identity. One needs to investigate the phases of colonial domination, from the frontier exploration phases to outright occupation, the period when the major transformation to the pastoral economy occurred, the long period of institutionalisation and finally the movement towards both a peripheral relationship to the Australian economy and a degree of self-management. All of these relate to the question of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander identity. Did Indigenous people experience forms of psychological inferiority during these phases? Were a state of dependency on whites and an acceptance of control by outsiders taught to the Aboriginal inmates during the long periods of institutional control? Have there been any changes in both Aboriginal perceptions of self and group and European perceptions of Aborigines during these phases? How effective have the various philosophical and policy changes by governments during these phases been in shaping the relations between governmental administrators and Indigenous people and the perceptions each had of the other? Is there an Aboriginal or community ideology at odds with outsiders and if there is one how does it affect racial relations, community development, schooling and 32

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affinity with other citizens and the State? How is the category ‘Aboriginal’ created and maintained in the face of changing identity and behaviour of both Aboriginal people and the wider Australian society in which the Aborigines live? To return to my example above, we need to explore and clarify the Aboriginal pupils’ socalled shyness in classroom behaviour. We also need to examine the Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal teachers’ perception of race. These are core questions and they shape the research and analysis. They are closely related to the educational themes. I’ll now discuss the crucial relationships between education and community management and self-determination. EDUCATION, POWER AND CITIZENSHIP

The relationship between socialisation and instruction on the one hand, and community management, authority, power, citizenship and self-determination on the other, is crucial. Effective teachers and community developers think about the fundamental differences between traditional Aboriginal forms and methods of instruction and those that prevail in the contemporary capitalist, nation-state system. The phenomena of power and instruction are always connected no matter what form the social system takes. What we do find, of course, is historical, cultural, and structural variation in the manner in which power and instruction are related. A people who no longer possess power over the form, content and method of instruction that is true to their culture, may face servility, alienation and despair. When we come to what has occurred with regard to education and Aboriginal communities, while acknowledging the profound, destructive consequences of British settlement, we must not fall into the pessimistic trap of declaring that, “all is gone”. For, despite the destruction, there is much that remains. This research explores the notion of instruction or education towards gaining the deep-rooted sense of Aboriginality among contemporary Indigenous Australians, in particular that held by the descendants of the Wangaaypuwan and Wiradjuri. The Indigenous notion of education is not only cultural: it is also existential. The people are, and generally wish to be Aboriginal. Their reality as Aboriginal is being lived. A difficulty here is the vast difference between the forms of power and authority in pre-capitalist Aboriginal communities and the authority structures of Australian society. There is a world of difference, as we have seen, between the wireenan (the traditional Wiradjuri and Wangaaypuwan ‘clever ones’, those with high knowledge), and the schoolteachers of the state and private education departments in contemporary Australia. Certainly, the imposition of an, often irrelevant Australian oriented, English language based education, upon the descendants of the Wangaaypuwan and Wiradjuri played a significant part in determining the character of the community today. Pedagogy too, moved from a more relevant, holistic, cooperative and person-oriented form to often didactic and imposed teaching methodologies. A good deal of valuable information pertaining to this work can be gleaned from the general literature concerning Aboriginal Australians, education and power. This literature reveals that from the beginning the dominant settler class found it 33

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incomprehensible that the Aborigines, whom they regarded as cultural beggars, could reject the riches of British civilisation. The invaders imposed and continue to impose their own forms of education on the Indigenous people and their descendants. The success of these forms is always measured by the dominant culture’s own values of what it means to be human, for example by renouncing paganism, learning to read and write, being diligent and industrious, having a fixed address and accepting and accommodating to the division of labour. The description of Indigenous people as ‘half-caste’, ‘part-Aboriginal’ or ‘mixedblood’ implies a causal relationship between degree of European genes and loss of Aboriginal, that is, traditional and cultural practices. Colin Tatz recognises this psychological inability of whites when he writes of “Aborigines and the White Problem”. Betty Watts and, as noted earlier, ‘Nugget’ Coombs, also referred to it being a white problem. A corollary to the ‘white problem’ was that of the imposed perception of the woman’s role, considerably altered in the main by the efforts of women, Indigenous and non-Indigenous, during the 1980s to the present. If we look at education from the Indigenous point of view then we may argue that whereas traditional Aboriginal instruction integrated individuals into the culture and the economy, academic Australian education, that is schooling, often threatens communities in that it severs the successful, educated person from the community, while stigmatising the rest and failing to provide them with opportunities in the Australian economy. In contrast, it could be argued that if self-management and selfdetermination are to be realistic goals for Indigenous communities then the leaders will need to be able to communicate, liaise, and negotiate with outsiders and these skills require academic education. The National Indigenous Education Policy’s long-term goals are “To establish effective arrangements for the participation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander parents and community members in decisions regarding the planning, delivery and evaluation of pre-school, primary and secondary education services for their children, increase the number of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people employed as educational administrators, teachers, curriculum advisers, teachers assistants, homeschool liaison officers and other education workers, including community people engaged in teaching Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander culture, history and contemporary society, and Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander languages, establish effective arrangements for the participation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander students and community members in decisions regarding the planning, delivery and evaluation of post-school education services, including technical and further education colleges and higher education institutions, increase the number of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people employed as administrators, teachers, researchers and student services officers in technical and further education colleges and higher education institutions, provide education and training services to develop the skills of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people to participate in educational decisionmaking, and develop arrangements for the provisions of independent advice from Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities regarding educational decisions at regional, State, Territory and National levels.” 34

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At Woolum Bellum Kurnai College in Morwell, Gippsland, Victoria, established in 1995, the goals are “To provide a quality education, that maintains a real focus on Koorie culture and identity, promotes and develops a sense of pride by all in the Koorie culture and identity, encourages all students in the pursuit of excellence, contributes to the achievement of better educational and employment outcomes for all students, and develops positive relationships among all members of the community. Our strength lies in believing that people learn together. We are a community of learners.” My experience in this school indicates that, in the main, it meets these goals, with an impressive degree of community involvement, sense of ownership and empowerment. In essence, however, much contemporary formalised education, along with the commercialised economy, creates and perpetuates alienation for many Indigenous Australians. Modern education can undermine and destroy the people’s identity, whereas traditional socialisation and instruction integrated individuals into the culture and economy. But it did more than this. It also established a clear and constructive identity both for individuals and for groups, perpetuated the division of labour between male and female and maintained the authority structure between initiated senior men and uninitiated younger men. Education was a sacred activity for it created and recreated a society and culture that was whole, a way of life that possessed a clear and definite meaning. Today, most Indigenous communities no longer control instruction; the power over formal and informal education, in the main, lies outside the community, and this shift reflects the dispossession described earlier in this introduction. Dominant groups in all cultures strive to control and organise the system of socialisation and inculcation of the primary cultural values, thus strengthening their command over society. In Australian and Melanesia, as in other nation-states with developed systems of social stratification, we find that there is a ruling class and that there are ideological elites who control the significant institutions. Usually these elites oppose constructive transformations in institutional and cultural life that contradict their immediate needs and interests, whether these be economic, political or cultural in origin. Through various mechanisms and strategies powerful groups structure and influence the knowledge, perceptions, and values of the various strata and communities constituting the total society. They lead to disempowerment, denial of land acquisition, cultural disrespect and educational inequality. In effect, schools perform their function of reproducing an unequal social order, of perpetuating social inequality. But they also do other things that contradict this function. For example, they teach students to respect and value other people and to work for other than just competitive achievement. They produce progressive students as well as complacent ones and they inspire and prepare many working-class children for other than dreary employment. The schools involved in the case study and elsewhere in my research adopt a number of stratagems designed to counter the production of educational inequality. This production of inequality is particularly true of complex systems of social inequality, but even in relatively non-stratified societies, such as in traditional Melanesia, dominant groups also structure and influence knowledge. Thus, we see 35

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that in the Busama society of north-central Papua New Guinea traditional training was closely linked with property and power, and much of the instruction in kinrelations and property distribution was given by the mother’s brother, further reinforcing the matrilineal line of descent and inheritance. It is clear then that significant kinds of power lie with those who possess control over the dominant modes of thought and knowledge. As noted earlier, ‘well-taught’ Indigenous students often state variations of, “We know the desert; white fellows make farms and cities.” If the movement towards greater community economic and managerial control is to be furthered then clearly the control of educational policies and practices must reflect this change in authority. Educational relevance also requires investigation because if education is to be regarded as worthwhile by Indigenous people it must be seen to be useful and have practical application. The aims of education, expressed above by the National Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Education Policy 1993–2008, are to relate education to Indigenous cultural values and identity and to community development. This is in accord with the Australian Government’s policy of self-management for Aboriginal communities. Community needs include administrative, civic, managerial, professional, technical, economic and political skills. These require local consultation and decision-making. Perennial demand for relevant and appropriate education, from Indigenous groups such as state and national Aboriginal Education Committees, is a major concern for Australian education and requires response based on detailed, specific community research. COMPARATIVE EDUCATIONAL PERSPECTIVES

In order to obtain a proper understanding of each educational situation it is necessary to consider the wide differences in lifestyle that characterise the Indigenous populations in Australia, Melanesia, and elsewhere. These vary from the metropolitan, country town, and fringe dwellers, to those who live in villages, on settlements, reserves, cattle stations and out-stations in the more remote parts of the respective country. Each requires an educational response based on the wishes of the community supported by specific anthropological, sociological and educational research. Teachers in the urban, country town and settlement schools need to become aware of the complex factors that affect the Indigenous child who is placed within a Western, dominant, ‘mainstream’, often ‘Anglo-centric’ school. It is also necessary that those involved in Indigenous education establish a comparative perspective that will enable them to assess recent developments and changes in education for Indigenous people and communities, as well as the lessons and insights that can be learnt from overseas developments in ethnic, community and minority education. There are many similarities in post-colonial and neo-colonial educational policies and practices in, for example, New Zealand, Canada, USA, India, Japan and Africa. The forces engendering change will not diminish. Western forms of communication and popular culture affect even the most remote of communities, with money, mining, timber clearing, social services, schooling, religious proselytizing, decisions on native title, land tenure and the law. 36

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MELANESIAN AND AUSTRALIAN EDUCATION: FROM ASSIMILATION TO INCLUSIVE CITIZENSHIP

In Melanesia and Australia, until quite recently, education was seen almost entirely by bureaucrats and governments as the major tool of policies of assimilation and nation building. This schooling, especially that which ignored the other cultural and social influences to which children and parents were exposed, was doomed from the beginning. Indigenous parents and children saw the education as at best irrelevant, and often, as destructive of local culture and of little economic value. In Australia the results have been low academic achievement and high rates of truancy, and a consequent lack of Aboriginal teachers and other success models. Many Indigenous people turned their backs upon the educational institutions, for these institutions neither recognised nor met their needs. The educator needs to see that an education isolated from the social and economic factors in a community can be anything more than futile and destructive. Conversely, how far can the localisation of the content of education proceed before it adversely affects the children? In small Indigenous communities can education be seen as one form of community development, along with communications, health, employment and housing? Is education an integral part of overall community control, management and development? Is it an agent for the development of economic and political relations between the Indigenous communities on the one hand and their respective societies on the other? Teachers need to consider the involvement of the family in the education program. In Australia and Melanesia, a further factor for consideration is that if parents have meaningful participation in the planning and process of the education for their children, as for example, in a form of school-community partnership agreement, then perhaps this is a way to narrow the gap between the goals and values of the older people and the younger, western educated. It is best if the sense of group identity, solidarity and co-operation in the Indigenous community is joined with community development activities. CREATING COMPRADORS?

In regard to this form of community-based education there is a paradox in that the creation of an educated Indigenous elite that can lead community responses to the problems confronting them might threaten the people whose cultural ethos is egalitarian. It can be destructive to educate an elite to provide leadership who subsequently feel superior and separate from their community. As noted before, “You think you’re white!” is a common insult directed against those apparently assimilating. This was a concern for Rene Dumont whose writings, it is reported, deeply influenced Julius Nyerere, former President of Tanzania. He found that for most urban and rural children in Africa school represents a means of entering the elite class of the civil service where they can have clean hands and a good income without hard work. In other words education offers social mobility for the individual who can then forsake his or her underprivileged and impoverished community of origin. Dumont argues that such an education is of little use to that community. In a similar vein 37

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the Papua New Guinean educationalist, Paulias Matane, when referring to selective secondary enrolment said that the majority is classed as failures, instead of saying they have completed primary education. They feel inferior and resentful. Secondary and tertiary education creates a feeling of superiority among the ‘passed’. The number of anti-social, violent ‘rascals’ in Melanesian towns today is testimony to his concerns. As Katherine Lepani said in 2008, “The pervasiveness of sexual assaults and gang rapes has prompted allegations that PNG is one of the most violent countries in the world”. These pervasive, coercive, violent behaviours lead to high levels of HIV and other sexually transmitted diseases. Any fostering of negative categorisation of those left behind is the antithesis of the National Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Policy’s stated aim that academic and technological skills should be acquired in harmony with Indigenous cultural values and identity. However my research reveals a variety of responses to the education provided- from a sense of failure, defiance, to a sense of liberation, power and hope, and a desire to ‘better’ themselves. Few see it as a social climbing means of entering ‘the elite class of the civil service’.1 However, community members do often criticise those who have gone away for education and work, questioning their loyalty to their own people. And those left behind, in Melanesia and Australia, too often succumb to alcohol and drug abuse, petrol sniffing and other destructive and violent behaviours. EDUCATION, COLONIAL CONTROL AND DECOLONIZATION

I argue that in Aboriginal Australia and Australian-controlled PNG, through a colonial social structure with a racial barrier between black and white, and an educational ideology and program of cultural colonialism, a social, political and economic condition of dependency has been incorporated cognitively in Indigenous children. The black child has thus been, in Paulo Freire’s sense, an object to be acted upon, to be oppressed. To put it colloquially, if you have ‘a touch of the tar’ you are regarded by some [surveys indicate by many fewer than in earlier times], as not being a ‘true blue, equal Aussie’. In other words the most Australian of heritage can be rejected as ‘Aussies’. Western education has been a factor in undermining individual and group autonomy and repressing the ability to exercise agency, engage in independent action. Many studies, however, emphasise the physical and cultural resistance put up by Indigenous Australians. One needs to pose the question: Is it the case that such an education blinds colonised people to the reality of their situation? Are they labouring under a system which not only does not enable them to gain economic and political autonomy, but also alienates them from their past life? The research reveals that most Indigenous people are starkly aware of the reality of their situation and have strong views concerning what needs to be done and the obstacles they face. A further bar to the development of decolonized, relevant, community-based and controlled Aboriginal education is the conservatism and hegemonic power of entrenched educational institutions in Australia. 38

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It is necessary to understand traditional Indigenous education as well as the history of mission and government management regimes and educational policies and practices. That is, an appraisal of colonial, imperialist society and experience must be developed, and the colonial transformation from the educational and cultural practices of the past, to one of cultural, political and economic dependence, must be analysed. For Aboriginal Australians this was internal colonialism; as with Native Americans they failed to gain political and economic independence from their respective dominant societies. For Melanesians, economic and political decisionmaking is controlled by, often corrupt, Indigenous elites and by expatriates and foreign companies and governments. They teeter close to being ‘failed states’. What part does education play in this ‘cultural colonialism’? It is fundamental. Emile Durkheim distinguished education as the systematic socialisation of the young generation by adults. If one looks at socialisation in its broadest sense, it is the process whereby adults transform a biological being (the infant) into their conception of a social being. The concept of education implies intent, deliberate instruction. In its widest sense we see that it is a process that lasts throughout life. Bronislaw Malinowski argued that every new status an individual acquires, such as parenthood, maturity and old age, has to be learned. The individual has to adjust to this learning gradually, by the acquisition of new attitudes, social duties and responsibilities. We do not always remain within the same role: although we are members of a family all our lives, we are constantly changing our roles within it, adapting to new roles and modifying old. In the ‘battle grounds of our psyches’ we are constantly forging growth and change, wrestling with the attitudes and ideas implanted by our past experience. With each role new forms of behaviour must be learned and thus, throughout life, humans are involved in the socialisation process. In all traditional Indigenous societies learning continued well into adulthood. Not only did adults become specialists at carving or medicine only long after marriage, but also they would have to be in their forties to gain admittance to the inner rites of a society. Mature and married persons recognised the fact that the gradual assumption of responsibility and the acquisition of knowledge, sacred and temporal, could come only with old age. Behind the routine of everyday, with its cooperation and conflicts, was a higher authority, the sphere of the sacred. Mothers transmitted to their children the awe that surrounded this sphere, and above all, the sphere of the secretsacred. This leads me to the, often vexed, issue of women’s traditional roles. The following is a very brief overview. The following chapters develop this somewhat more. In traditional, Indigenous Australia, women also had wide-ranging traditional responsibilities outside their immediate families. They were involved in gift-exchange and trading relationships, betrothal and marriage transactions. ‘Women’s business’ covered an immense variety of ritual, economic and social activities. While men were responsible for most of the large-scale rites the contribution by women was equally significant. They were an integral part of the Dreaming. They also played important economic roles. In the Jigalong community, Pilbara region, Western Australia, women assert a role in determining marriage arrangements and play an 39

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important role as peacemakers. The anthropologist, Diane Bell, supports this view, stating that: Male and female... have sacred boards; both know songs and paint designs which encode the knowledge of the Dreamtime. How each sex then fleshes out this common core of beliefs and knowledge is dependent on their perceptions of their role and the contribution to their society. ... women’s rituals ... focus on the maintenance of social harmony, link the ritual world of men and women. Under the Law, men and women have distinctive roles to play but each has recourse to certain checks and balances, which ensure that neither sex can enjoy unrivalled supremacy over the other. Men and women had to learn the responsibilities and complementary roles of the spiritual heritage belonging to their culture. It was an intense focus and concentration of organised energy and planning. ETHICS AND METHODS

My research is mostly participant observation in communities, schools and organisations, surveys, and extensive review of relevant literature and reports. Observation takes the form of residence in or visiting communities, assisting, contributing and observing in classrooms and on excursions, and participation in daily life. Most interviews are informal, but focus on the research themes. All informants, Indigenous or non-Indigenous, are told that the research is for possible publication. University ethics requirements are met. Critical ethical questions are: Who owns this research? Whose interests does it serve and who benefits from it? How are the findings shared? Answers are found mostly in the final chapter and my related publications. I jointauthor with Indigenous scholars, draft copies of the Socialization, Land and Citizenship among Aboriginal Australians book were distributed in the Murrin Bridge and Lake Cargelligo communities for comment and advice. I provided them with copies of the published book. The people questioned, Aboriginal or not, were often acutely aware of the personal nature of much of the information divulged and discussed, and some stressed that they did not want me to use their names. Accordingly, titles or general descriptions, such as ‘the chairman’, ‘a young man’, ‘a teacher’ or ‘a principal’, are used for the crediting of comments or information. THE EDUCATION THEMES

The first of these interrelated themes is the search for relevance- the search for an Indigenous education that is relevant to the Indigenous community; that is, one that is neither too academic, nor inadequate academically, nor too alien. ‘Relevance’ depends on the perception of the observer, and what is considered to be appropriate in one instance may not be in another. Education has a dual function in that it initiates and stimulates by expanding the physical and intellectual capabilities of the pupils as well as being adaptive. Thus it creates and accommodates change. 40

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This is education considered in its positive sense. Modern educational structures also operate so as to establish and sustain systems of inequality. People may begin to question the relevance of their schooling when it fails to foster the capabilities of pupils - even more so where economic and political inequalities are crude, glaring and turn around racial discriminations. To explore the theme of relevance I participated in school and university activities in Murrin Bridge, Lake Cargelligo, NSW, Victoria, South Australia and the Northern Territory, observing and interviewing students, parents and teachers and examining school policies and curriculum documents. The second theme is that of culture. In traditional Indigenous societies the initiated exerted social pressures. Tribal or clan elders exerted ultimate authority, acting in accord with structures laid down by the ancestors or in The Dreaming. The process of education was continuous and linked to a growing awareness of the importance of tribal and personal identity, environment and welfare. We have seen that the Murrin Bridge people saw traditional tribal organisation primarily in terms of groups of people ‘owning’ or ‘belonging to’ tracts of land in their ngurrampaa or homeland. This traditional ownership and their shared experiences on government stations provided a focus for their group identity. Similarly, the other groups I worked with stressed the importance of ‘country’ and tribal or village life, many having moved back to their traditional lands. Some of the specific issues and concepts related to culture and education which are dealt with include destruction, exploitation, assimilation, integration, inclusion and exclusion, identity, citizenship, Indigenous studies in the schools and management skills. The formation of an Indigenous elite through the process of formal education is also touched upon. At Murrin Bridge, by participating in daily activities, including administration of the community, family activities, recreational pursuits, researching in the schools, perusal of documents and interviewing a wide range of persons, I was able to explore the above. This book draws from analysis of this research. The vehicle of the culture, the language, is the third of these inter-connected themes. Its effect on school performance and past and current language policies is examined. Some of the significant questions examined are: Are traditional ‘place tok’ languages, creoles, pidgins and Aboriginal English, understood, recognised and catered for in language programs? What is the relationship between language and academic achievement? Is the traditional language being taught to the children and interested adults? If so, how effective is the instruction? A combination of participant observation in community and school, interviews with students, parents and teachers, and examination of curriculum documents (in this case language policies and programs), was used to deal with these questions. The fourth theme, perhaps for the educator, the most important, is that of pedagogy and curriculum. Pedagogy is seen as equating to styles of learning and methods of transmission, far broader than just the classroom. Teachers often debate the weight that should be given respectively to content (information) and methodology (practice). I am conscious of the valid criticism of ‘tips for teachers’ and the dangers of stereotyping Indigenous students. For example, if I were to assert, “Indigenous students can only learn effectively and well if you do it this way...” then I would be 41

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misleading my audience. Educators who turn to social science research in order to discover the ‘best’ pedagogy are, in a way, victims of the neo-positivist paradigm of quantification, hypothesis testing, and over-generalisation, claiming to arrive at generalisations applicable in almost every context. Another possible pit-fall is non-Indigenous researchers examining ‘traditional knowledge’ in a taxonomic manner, suggesting old data is handed down virtually unchanged from generation to generation. This can be criticized as being Eurocentric, implying professional or cultural superiority, and lacking dynamism. And yet the specialist is turned to for advice. The approach taken with the findings is to recommend, but to qualify. One assumption that is evaluated is that the curriculum and how it is imparted estranges the school and alienates the pupil from the Indigenous community, and that the syllabuses and the methods of teaching and testing are culturally inappropriate. Hence, should the curriculum prepare an Indigenous student for life in his or her community, for an urban environment, or both? Is there a form of citizenship education that can accommodate these seemingly irreconcilable, polar opposites? This is a political question because cultural forms like syllabuses and methodologies are expressions of domination. Particular versions of Western ideology and culture are presented to the public as though these versions were the only relevant perceptions and truths. The final theme is that of the school type- the form and function of the school and the nature of the teaching force. The research included examining various schools and other training agencies, in terms of their policies and practices. It also draws from examples of contemporary schools specifically designed for Indigenous students, such as the Victorian Koorie Open Door Education (KODE) schools or, more recently, Koorie Education Colleges. In regard to the nature of the teaching force it had become a truism from the 1970s that teachers needed to enable Indigenous students to both achieve academically and at same time retain pride in Aboriginality. Education should be provided in a community context which built on traditional ways of learning. This raises a number of significant questions that require investigation. Are Indigenous students achieving success in the schools and other educational agencies? Can the imparters of ‘traditional ways of learning’ and ‘pride in identity’ be non-Indigenous? In Australia, given the small number of teachers of Indigenous descent it could be argued that some non-Indigenous teachers must assist in achieving the above and to do so all need appropriate preparation. In 2010 less than 0.8 percent of Australian teachers are of Indigenous descent, when they are 2.5 percent of the total population. Many Aboriginal people have a clear understanding of what constitutes the Aboriginal way of learning. Can non-Indigenous teachers impart this method of teaching? Is it a contradiction in terms for pride in Aboriginality and a sense of belonging, partnership and inclusive citizenship, to be imparted by others? Methods of research into the pedagogy, curriculum and school type were as described for the themes of relevance, culture and language. The themes and their interrelationships inform the research and writing of this book. Some educators assert that the promotion of community schools is particularly appropriate in the Indigenous context. Such schools may break down the distance 42

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between the educated young and the old who received little western education; a community school can provide a learning situation in which individuals of all ages acquire skills, learn from others, and develop personally. However, are they successful and do the Indigenous communities in the region want such a system of education?2 The research indicates that Indigenous communities express a profound desire that the educative process enable their children to first, regain and retain Aboriginal culture, and second, be equipped so as to cope with the rigours, challenge and opportunities of contemporary society. The provision of education for the Murrin Bridge community has improved from the days of segregated schooling and the mission regimes but it still often fails the people. For example, at the Convent and Central schools there are Aboriginal staff, but they are, in the main, at the bottom of the decision-making and authority structure. Both schools attempt special Aboriginal education strategies to increase the cultural relevance of the curriculum and improve cultural relations and academic performance. However, they are piecemeal and hampered by rapid turnover of teachers and the pressures of a common curriculum to which all students and teachers are expected to conform. In 2007 a senior teacher at the Central School explained that he sees these pressures to conform to State-wide3 guidelines as being a constant issue affecting the relevance and value of what is taught. Most teachers over the years saw Aboriginal sullenness, withdrawal or avoidance of schooling as evidence of ‘shyness’ or ‘their inferiority complex’, when clearly they were, in the main, far more complex reactions, perhaps responding to stress, tiredness, ill-health, hunger, unfamiliar language and expectation, forms of resistance, even showing respect by averting their eyes (as do people in many Asian cultures). If the children were lacking in confidence or achievement at school then the cause was situational, historical, cultural, borne of economic and political inequity, not to be attributed to race. Any people or community subjected to such brutal, repressive, alienating treatment would turn away from symbols of that treatment. The Aboriginal parents are in a bind; they do not want their children to suffer the segregated, second-rate education so many endured and yet schooling is seen as part of the white town and society. Despite superior facilities, it is often seen as reflecting non-Aboriginal values and is therefore, for many, ultimately threatening. And underlying the schooling dilemma is the unpalatable fact that for all schoolleavers, but especially Aboriginal school-leavers, local employment is very limited. Provision of education for the Aboriginal community, as observed and evaluated by me in central-western NSW and elsewhere in Australia, despite the best efforts of some gifted and dedicated teachers and principals, often does not match the policy rhetoric of self-determination and self-management. When one examines the research material gathered concerning these schools one sees that, during and after the case study, despite the considerable efforts of a number of well-meaning principals, teachers and Aboriginal aides, the Indigenous communities were not well served by the education provided for their children. School relations were often uneasy and academic standards low. The non-standard dialect of English was either not recognized or not accepted and therefore was not adequately catered for. Teacher preparation 43

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was usually inadequate. Indigenous identity and culture were rarely affirmed and transmitted to these children, notwithstanding some valiant efforts by dedicated staff. Student responses to the research questions and from participant observation in many locations, are that they appreciate teachers who relate well to them and their community, are fair, firm, develop rapport, support their special interests, their talents, particularly in art, computer technology and sport, and build their self-esteem. Interestingly, nearly 50 per cent expressed keen interest in ‘academic’ subjects, such as mathematics, science and English. If the curriculum is relevant, interesting, involving, and links to real jobs and career opportunities, they will remain in education. Nearly all students appreciate having Indigenous teachers, aides, cultural presenters and resources, such as supportive units within a larger school. They also express anger at their treatment ‘in town’ and at the lack of ‘real job’ opportunities. The link between school and work is often not clear. EDUCATION FOR INCLUSIVE CITIZENSHIP

Citizenship and citizenship education is relevant to all of the above themes, indeed to all contemporary Australian education. It is embedded in the ethnographic, historical and educational elements of this study. Research in this field is a priority for Australian scholarship. Since the 1960s Australia has undergone sweeping political, social, economic and educational changes in the fields of relations within the AsiaPacific region, economic globalisation, economic rationalism, structural change in the economy, a post-modern information revolution, Indigenous rights, the High Court’s Mabo decision, multiculturalism, women’s rights, republicanism, and, central to this book, moves towards reconciliation of Indigenous and other Australians. These fundamental changes lead Australians to ask themselves what sort of a society they wish to live in and how best they can prepare their children for that society. In response to change and to attempt to find some answers to these questions, there has been from the 1990s to 2010 a strong Australian and international interest in the concepts and practices of citizenship and education for citizenship. This revival links past and present interest in the citizen’s knowledge, rights and duties in social, economic, political and civic life. Should these rights and duties be enshrined in a charter, a revised national constitution, or national policy goals or standards? What is this concept of citizenship? It is not simply explaining the historical and legal workings of government, politicians and elections. Nor is it just the traditional, paternalistic dictums of state conformity- virtue, loyalty, duty, responsibility and oaths of allegiance. It is positive rights as well as obligations; it is involvement, participation, decision-making and social action, in addition to knowledge of our political heritage and structures. There is, of course, a long tradition of Western philosophy concerning citizenship rights and obligations, from Aristotle to Cicero, Machiavelli, Burke, de Tocqueville, Mill, Hannah Arendt and T.H. Marshall. The starting point for citizenship is legal membership of a political community based on universal suffrage and membership of a state based on rule of law. This citizenship is a process with a social element. Marshall argues that citizenship requires a direct 44

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sense of community membership based on loyalty to a common possession and civilisation. It is the loyalty of free people protected by a common law. Its growth is stimulated both by the struggle to win these rights and the enjoyment of them when won. Our rights can only be guaranteed for ourselves if we actively protect the rights of others in the practice of citizenship. Most educators would agree with Weatherill and various curriculum frameworks that citizenship, like anything else, has to be learned. Young people do not become good citizens by accident, anymore than they become good nurses, engineers, bus drivers or computer scientists. Democratic societies depend for their wellbeing and continuation on having citizens who are informed, competent and responsible participants. Citizens should be curious, informed, tolerant of diversity, able to weigh up alternative futures, willing to act upon one’s convictions and accept responsibility for one’s actions, realistic about what can be achieved, have the skills and confidence to approach appropriate agencies, a sense of social justice, an awareness of the environmental impact of their lifestyle, and a commitment to peaceful resolution of conflict. The above is, in a sense, the ideal. There is a great deal of rhetoric about citizenship, but how successful is it in practice? Do Indigenous Australians, Melanesians, and other clan, tribal and village people, feel included or marginalized? It is difficult to practise positive citizenship if one is hungry, neglected, abused, and mistrustful of adults, the unfortunate state of many of the world’s Indigenous children. SUMMARY

All of the above conceptual, ethical and methodological exploration informs teachers and community workers who seek more effective forms of learning, education and training for Indigenous Australians and Melanesians. In an action research sense, they assist us to provide SWOT analyses, asking what are the strengths, weaknesses, opportunities and threats regarding communities and effective Indigenous education? For example, strengths might be- Indigenous identity, local leadership and initiatives, cultural expression and survival, weaknesses- poverty, low self-confidence, ill-health, for example eye and ear infections affecting schooling, AIDS, high levels of violence and injuries, alcohol and substance abuse, warring, often Byzantine, internal factions, opportunities- native title, extra land, royalties, community controlled, or at least influenced, schools, economic initiatives, housing trusts, legal and child-care agencies, and threats- isolation, town-camps, fringe-dwelling existences, even in cities, racism, hegemonic curriculum and social injustice. Education is the inculcation in each generation of particular kinds of knowledge, skills and attitudes, by the means of institutions, such as ceremonies and schools, deliberately created for this end. Every society has discovered that the transmission of its culture cannot be left to chance and supervises the education of its members, although not necessarily in a school. The leaders of traditional societies did not leave training in the culture to chance. Nor, since the occupation and conquest have the agents of the state relinquished control of their charges, although provision at the margins has been problematic. 45

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Soon after white invasion Indigenous education took place within a social system where the state dominated the lives of the original inhabitants. Education played a fundamental role in cultural colonialism. Later, I explore the potential role of Indigenous pedagogy in the development of an inclusive form of Australian and Melanesian citizenship. The focus is on Indigenous pedagogy and education, traditional and contemporary. The conclusion focuses on both Indigenous pedagogy and the role western education has played in the lives of Indigenous people. It draws heavily from the many observations and comments gathered concerning effective and ineffective education. However, as stressed above, education cannot be understood outside its historical, social, legal and economic contexts and so it addresses briefly each of these contexts as well, drawing in particular upon identity, community involvement, citizenship and pedagogy. The process of learning has a profound influence on human behaviour. The control, power and dominance inherent in education emanate from this profundity. Have changes in educational policy and practice, for example, more integrated schooling, increased recognition of the Indigenous heritage in school curriculums, and greater access to secondary and tertiary education, resulted in any real transformations in Indigenous communities? Are there any characteristics of Indigenous pedagogy that may be instructive for practitioners? These key questions, the data the research has generated concerning them, particularly the responses of students, parents and teachers to them, underpin the final chapters. The following two chapters explore Indigenous culture and heritage, in Australia and Melanesia, asking: How can we better develop an understanding of traditional (classical) Indigenous socialisation and education? Crucial links are established for incorporating ‘traditional’ elements of Indigenous pedagogy into contemporary educational settings. NOTES 1

2

3

46

Lowly paid teacher aides are understandably pleased when, on graduation as teachers, they receive professional recognition and much higher salaries. Also, qualified Indigenous teachers are often soon ‘poached’, to become managers in Indigenous organisations, with higher salaries, offices and cars provided. In 2007 a comprehensive review of Koorie education found that “The Victorian College of Koorie Education [the umbrella body for KODE schools] has not provided acceptable education outcomes” (Koorie Education Strategy Branch, Department of Education, 2008). My personal observation is that outcomes were too patchy. They range from mostly successful in Gippsland to elsewhere meeting far fewer desired outcomes. From 2011 National Curriculum guidelines will also have to be met. Indigenous perspectives and topics will be embedded in these, rather impressively and comprehensively, particularly for History.

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Murrin Bridge Children at School, 1980s. The Photographer is John Morton.

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TRADITIONAL SOCIALISATION AND EDUCATION IN AUSTRALIA

This chapter explores and explains traditional forms of socialisation, pedagogy and education, drawing upon extensive comparative study in Australia1. If the educational themes of relevance, culture, language, pedagogy and curriculum2 are to be explored with insight and credence, then both reader and I require an understanding of the traditional systems of education. We shall see that, in contrast to much of modern western education, traditional education met a greater range of mental, social and spiritual needs3. Socialisation is the process by which individuals acquire and develop their specific patterns of behaviour and experience, as well as the knowledge, skills and values that enable them to be members of a society. It is an essential part of the reproduction of social forms. This process creates a social being, the adult, and those who control elements of this process exercise great power. If one group in a society accepts control of knowledge and learning then we need to ask how this power is perpetuated. Does this inequality of status or power imply a kind of tension in the social relations involved? Gillian Cowlishaw’s view is that acceptance of roles involving subordination requires explanation. I agree and explore mechanisms of social control and organisation designed to suppress any actions that threaten stability. Subordination and control based on both gender and age are examined. In traditional, stateless, Aboriginal societies, the interlocking of personal and group relationships and the power and authority derived from the religious system held the totality together at least as effectively as the bureaucratized structure of state-based societies. It was effective at least, until the Aboriginal system came under attack from outside. With this combined military and cultural attack, the very qualities that had been important for their cohesion and continuity as independent polities proved to be a major weakness. In particular, the collapse of religious/ spiritual authority, or its restriction to the purely religious/spiritual sphere, and these amounted to almost the same thing, had cumulative effects throughout the social structure. An early European observer of Aboriginal customs in south-eastern Australia, Edward Curr,4 pointed out that it was their education which ensured respect for the Aboriginal law, and concern for the group’s welfare encouraged the people, making them “... so faithfully observant of so many customs.” He also found that the Indigenous parents were much attached to their children, rarely punishing or correcting them, indulging them in every way. This is a common observation of contemporary observers of Indigenous childrearing, for example, by my Indigenous education students while on practicum in community schools over the last 30 years. [This is 49

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not to deny that family violence, sexual assault and neglect of children is evident in many highly fraught contemporary Indigenous communities.] Indulgence and lack of coercion implies an unstructured approach to childrearing; however, research by anthropologists reveals far more systematic methods of instruction, particularly for the adolescent. For example, among the Anbarra of northcentral Arnhem Land, Annette Hamilton found that “... childhood was brief, a process of gentle continuation based on the child’s own development, stretching from birth to about nine to eleven years”. There was a sudden change as the child entered the stage of ‘the big ones’, wana ‘the breasts’, ngamanguma, when the boys went to the bachelors’ camp to be made into men, and the girls went to their husbands. TRADITIONAL EDUCATIONAL PRACTICES

There were a number of general characteristics of traditional instruction. Of course, all scholars must be wary of over-generalization and we must realize that there were changes over time and between different groups. One obvious problem is that at times we have to rely on contemporary accounts of traditionally-oriented groups in order to re-construct pre-colonial practices and behaviour. Women’s role is a particular example. There have been considerable changes, often forms of syncretism, since colonisation. Such adaptations should not defeat Indigenous claims of authenticity and autonomy. For example, regarding the Walbiri community at Yuendumu, Dussart found that perhaps the most significant changes in ritual engagement were those related to gender, with women now dominating the public ritual life of the settlement, serving as gatekeepers of ceremonial knowledge. It is less frequent and scaled-back from Meggitt’s 1966 account of male ritual, but reveals how an Indigenous society can redeploy its former ritual forms in ways that accommodate change, offset, and even at times dilute the pressures of a dominant society. Changes in transport and communication mean public yamparru ceremonies now are a means of establishing connective (and collective) strength with the senior ritual performers from other settlements. Another example is the emotional and spiritual synchronicity of ‘Top End’ Yolgnu people’s traditional beliefs and links to ‘country’5 and their conversion to Christianity. Also, aeroplanes, four-wheel drives and other community vehicles, have greatly increased the numbers attending traditional mortuary rites. So, it is not an easy task. There do, however, appear to be some ‘systematic’ commonalities of instruction that are instructive and useful for the purpose of this research. Firstly, instruction took the form of oral transmission from one generation to the next. Storytellers would pass on the legends about the spirit ancestors of the Dreaming in dramatic and forceful presentations. These stories were illustrated by dances, songs and gestures, all of which helped motivation, structure and consolidation of learning. Paintings, carvings, body markings and natural features would also reinforce the learning process. Systems of sign language were also used - a secret one by the men, another by the women, and a third which was known to everyone. Secondly, while much of this education involved informal observation and imitation, a concept of formal ‘steering’, ‘breaking in’ and transition was well developed, especially in regard to initiation and rites of passage. 50

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Traditional instruction transmitted a rich cultural heritage, ensuring the maintenance of the social, economic, and religious life of the community. Religion permeated every part of life and there was no purely secular education. Not only the philosophy, art, music, dance and mythology of Aboriginal people but also their hunting, food-gathering, exchange and social life were intimately connected with their religious beliefs and practices. Disease and death also were caused by sorcery or by the spirits so that they believed only clan doctors could cure sickness. These ‘clever’ ones, male and female, were not only clever in the ordinary manner of speaking, but also intellectually clever, and had the ability, through the help of psychic and spiritual forces, to perform wondrous feats, the manner and execution of which were incomprehensible to other people. Their training was a vital part of the authority structure of traditional Aboriginal education and the nature and form of this training is discussed later in this chapter. This is why traditional Indigenous Australian instruction is best described as organic, person-oriented, contextual and sacred. MALE AND FEMALE LEARNING

In fact, education continued throughout a lifetime. It was recognized that a male passed through definite stages of wisdom. Amongst the Warlpiri young children were called ‘small ones’, then came boyhood, circumcision, sub-incision, marriage and full membership of the tribe. In middle age, with maturity and ability, some older men would be wise enough to teach religious philosophy and appropriate behaviour. Even with considerable variation in ritual and custom from region to region it can be seen that the older men gained considerable power and authority through their control of the learning process. A man of thirty might have seen all of the sacred ceremonies, objects and locations, but for a full understanding of their significance he needed much more religious teaching and ritual instruction from the knowledgeable tribal elders. Education was embedded within the ritual process. Male and female worlds were different but complementary. Diane Bell, who researched the female world of the Walbiri, juxtaposes the men’s circumcision of the boys with the women’s nomination of the mother-in-law. Both activities were key events in Walbiri initiation ceremonies; they crystallized male and female roles and were political acts based on the ritual rights, responsibilities and ambitions of the participants. Annette Hamilton, also an anthropologist, explains this complementary nature of Aboriginal ritual in Northern Arnhem Land by stating that: …women’s secret cults rest on the same mythological basis as men’s. Men hold and care for one segment of mythology, and stress particular themes and events in their myths; women hold and care for a complementary set. ...Women also have secret ‘increase rituals’, relating to species important to their subsistence life, for example green caterpillar and grass-seed. Suites of women’s ceremonies relate to great female ancestral beings, and, like the men’s, may be read at a number of levels, depending on the degree of admission of individuals to the cults. There were women’s secret ceremonies and these were gradually revealed to the females as they moved towards maturity. Also, some women with special abilities 51

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were trained to be ‘clever’, that is, to become skilled and knowledgeable in the ritualmythic religious doctrine and practice. The question of gender relations and sexual politics is a vexed one in the Indigenous studies field. While it is clear that men everywhere valued their cults and rites more highly than they did women’s, and the research of male anthropologists has invariably reflected this, female anthropologists and informants provide a different perspective. As Bell has pointed out it is impossible for men to learn about many aspects of female religious and ritual life. There are matters of which it is inappropriate to speak in front of the opposite sex. Women will not permit the details of songs, certain designs, and ritual objects to be made public. On occasions this has meant that women appear to be ritually impoverished, finding this more acceptable than compromising their secrets. She states that the sex of the male fieldworker has obscured the importance of women’s ritual role in male initiation as well. For example, Strehlow’s interest in tjuringa ownership left women as the cooks and keepers of the home fire. Spencer and Gillen allowed that women played a role during initiation but were at a loss to explain their presence. Thus, the male anthropologist, Ronald Berndt, was perhaps misled when he claimed that although girls go through some kind of initiation in most parts of Aboriginal Australia, none as spectacular, formalized or prolonged as for males’ take place through a woman’s life. In old age some of the rules limiting women’s participation in sacred matters controlled by men were partially eased. Perhaps this was because they were seen as being less distinctively female, menstruating, fertile and ‘dangerous’, than before, and therefore posed less of a threat to the male-female dichotomy and tension of sacred ritual. As Ronald Berndt put it, perhaps the mythical mother was “no longer jealous” of them. Certainly the most exclusive of the men’s rituals were those that most closely mimicked women’s natural functions - circumcision, sub-incision and ritual bloodletting. [Here there are fascinating parallels in the ethnography of Papua New Guinea: for example, see the next Chapter, and Ian Hogbin’s The Island of Menstruating Men]. Annette Hamilton argues that prior to this minor easing of restrictions the relations between men and women while complementary and drawn from a common religiousritual tradition, were super- and sub-ordinate, between the strong and the less strong. The men’s assertion of the superiority of their cults and their consequent denigration of women, relied upon their ultimate power, the threat of force. According to Berndt, the claims of the men to superior worth, power and value are made clear during the Yabuduruwa rite of exclusion when the men say that while the women are brought close they cannot understand the meaning of the rite: “... all the time we have to trick them. Women can’t see what men are doing, although it is really their own business, but we can see their side”. Again, there are strong parallels with Melanesian societies. Diane Bell counters such claims to male superiority when she asserts that even the most exclusive and powerful of male rituals reveal overwhelming evidence of female negotiation and complementarity. Through their ritual participation in segments of male rituals, through their own yawulyu staged independently of the men during initiation, and through the control 52

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they exercised over certain key decisions associated with initiation, women demonstrate some of the checks and balances which they may apply, even in the men’s most glorious moments. Rather than a time when old men make unequivocal claims to control over women and youth, we find that initiation, like other rituals, is a time when women may make certain statements about the importance of their role in the presence of men. The right to make these statements reflects the complementary nature and negotiability of male-female relations. In everyday life women were both vital and highly valued as major economic producers. In terms of quantity of food they provided more than did men; regarding calorific value it was more even as men provided high protein game animals. Annette Hamilton has argued that it was because of this vital economic role that women had a significant level of control over their social as well as economic activities. A major characteristic of these traditional societies and their systems of education was the emphasis on ascribed6 status - on status derived through birth, rather than on the basis of individual achievement. Before the child’s birth the main lines of his or her life as a social being were already mapped out. His or her social affiliations were already established in a network of statuses and roles with associated obligations and expected behaviours. The child’s lines of descent through both parents were identified, as were the ties with certain sites. As well there were dreams or other spiritual experiences that the parents or relatives had with the child-to-be’s spirit or soul. These provided spiritual validation or confirmation of the existing social structure. The ties to the country were reinforced when a woman reported her ‘conception site’, the place where she felt a quickening or morning sickness, and then the birth site would also be important in the sacred ritual links between father and son, mother and daughter, and country. Pregnancy and birth were the focal points for the reciprocal exchange of goods and services. Structurally speaking, a child not yet born was already allocated to a prearranged slot- or the slot, with its various components, was already there, waiting for him or her. As the children grew up in an extended family they soon learnt that their family members would tell them what they should call them and what their relationships and obligations were to them and to the other people they met. The children were taught to give their loyalty first to the extended family or local descent group, then to the group of families they hunted with, and finally to the larger social groupings moiety, section and clan. Their learning, recognition, and acceptance of the obligations taught to them from birth, and during betrothal and initiation were a return gift to their parents and affines [related by marriage], or to those who helped them become initiated. As we shall see for Melanesia, the obligations of reciprocity ran through all life. The older people taught folklore and practical skills in basket making, weaving, net building and manufacture of tools and weapons. Kin-related hunters gave the older boys tuition in spear throwing and hunting techniques. Related women tutored the girls in the gathering and preparing of food; however, much learning came from observation and imitation rather than verbalization and specific instruction. This person-oriented, imaginal and kinaesthetic method of learning by frequently watching other people perform daily survival skills was effective because it was so rewarding. 53

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In summary, all traditional Aboriginal societies saw education as a continuous process in life that was begun with the young child; it was not separated from the normal flow of life except when the more formal rites of passage occurred. This continuous process involved teaching the skills of hunting and gathering, the rules of kinship and marriage, sacred and secular art, music and mythology, the complex social relations of the clan, and gradually admitted the individual into the full social, political and spiritual life of the community. It took place within a cultural context where there was a powerful and integrated relationship between the sacred and the profane. This is why I describe Aboriginal education as organic and sacred. INITIATION AND PEDAGOGY

In central-western NSW, the children were treated indulgently, with little formal instruction, until they were old enough to begin their induction into adulthood and marriageable status. This involved, for the boys, an intensive period of instruction that was based on the burba (Wangaaypuwan) and burbang (Wiradjuri) initiation ceremonies, when the novice was taken from the community and instructed in the rights and duties of the initiated. Initiation was usually referred to as ‘putting people through the rules’, ‘making boys into men’, ‘taming people into the burba’, or ‘tying people into it’. The Wangaaypuwan compared the initiation process with the taming of wild horses into harness. The use of terminology both reflected the power and deliberate nature of the process and the pastoral life being led by many of the Indigenous informants. Many were expert riders and horse-breakers. The initiate was subjected to hunger, privation, trials involving human excrement, and intensive instruction, and when his change of state was accepted an upper tooth was knocked out and new designation given to indicate the change from youth to manhood. The individual passing through this intense initial process was dramatically and symbolically reborn as a full social being, recognized as an adult man; and this transformation was given a supernatural aura. The notion of being ‘born again’ is indeed an ancient one. GROWING UP IN THE ASHES: ANALYSIS OF LEARNING STRATEGIES AND CONTROL

The initiation ceremonies were mechanisms for education and status change within the Wiradjuri and Wangaaypuwan. They were classical expressions of rites of passage. The burba transmitted, in a dramatic and communally organised form, the values, beliefs, and information maintaining the clan and wider tribal religious and secular structure. The burba not only transmitted beliefs and values, they also imparted, in a very effective manner, vital information with regard to the practice of the Indigenous way of life. This learning took place in chosen, prepared settings, often sacred, where instruction was given in language, music, art, totemic and environmental knowledge, social relationships, leadership and the skills of warfare. The whole society 54

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recognised the need for this teaching, approved of it, and made economic sacrifices to support it.7 In short, the group provided the individual with a total education. The initiates, eeramoorong, later bimbadjeri, as they changed their status, underwent taxing and unsettling rituals but sound pedagogic strategies were designed by their teachers, guardians and managers, the wireenan, to facilitate their knowledge and acceptance of this changing status. For example, the initiates knew that the wireenan, had ‘been that way before’ and they had seen the rewards and respect that being a full tribesman conferred. Also the initiate knew that not all of what he was before the burba would be gone, thus although there was change there was also continuity and stability. The learner had ‘skin’ (kinship) ties to the teacher. Much of the instruction was grounded ‘in country’. The pedagogy was highly relevant, contextual, cooperative and person-oriented. These rites were important in terms of both status and acquisition of knowledge. However, a boy was not only made into a man by the sky hero, spiritual being, Daramulan, and taught to be a man by his guardian and wireenan in the ceremonies, but also learned by what he had informally observed as appropriate behaviour for a member of the society in everyday life. He (and she) had ‘grown up in the ashes’ of their people; that is, they had grown up around the camp-fires, eating wild meats and seed-cakes cooked in the ashes, sharing the songs, stories, language and traditions of the community. This informal, spontaneous learning was characterised by observing other people’s behaviour rather than by having instructions issued. The learners modelled themselves on adult behaviour and learned by watching and participating in daily economic and social activity. This form of learning was effective because it was often so directly rewarding. The knowledge and skills imparted to a learner were often valued on the basis of the relationship of the teacher to the learner, rather than the value of the information for its own sake. That is, Indigenous learning involved, primarily, orientation to persons, mainly close relatives, rather than to information alone. For example, a Wangaaypuwan boy who was really keen to catch kangaroos was not permitted to hunt them under the instructions of anyone except his father or uncles. Thus education maintained, renewed, and expressed the deepest bonds. Traditional informal learning was also conservative in that it perpetuated the age-old way of doing things. While specialists might produce variations in dance form and song cycles it did not usually encourage innovative or divergent thinking. It was assumed that all children would conform to and accept traditional values and give deep respect to elders and their lore. Shaming, a powerful sanction in all small communities, kept most people in line. Punishment for serious non-conformity was punitive, for example spearing or banishment. Wisdom was defined by knowledge and interpretation of traditional lore, history and values. This promoted group solidarity and co-operation rather than egoistic competition. Certainly young people were not encouraged to strive for upward social mobility, to be better qualified and richer than their parents. This raises many questions when one considers the best forms of delivery for contemporary Indigenous students and their communities. Essentially, how much of this traditional pedagogical system still has relevance and value for current educational policy and practice? 55

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SUMMARY

Despite the problems faced in exploring Indigenous socialisation and education, the relative lack of educational theory and research in this field, and an acute awareness of the dangers of generalising for all Indigenous societies on the same empirical basis, it has been possible in this chapter to develop a description and model of traditional Indigenous education. It is organic, holistic and sacred. Transmission, through structured ceremonial and ritual forms and informal learning, is relevant, ‘country’ and ‘skin’ based, and it is rich with kinaesthetic, imaginal, cooperative and person-oriented pedagogical strategies. You will see this ‘model’ applied in terms of agency and communicative action in the final chapter. Crucial to the model is that knowledge and control of educational transmission shape social and political structure and those with maturity and learning control marriage, trade, religion, politics and medicine. Should we describe traditional Indigenous Australian society as one of male domination and female subordination? Men do organise the major ceremonies and they do arrange marriages and, in this sense, women are structurally subordinate. However, we have seen that women’s ceremonial life is highly significant and underrated by male researchers. Anthropologists and consultants working on land claims often note that while they usually work initially with men, the majority on panels and committees, when it comes to decision-making they almost always seek counsel and approval from their wives and sisters. Monica Morgan of the Yorta Yorta is a key and forceful spokesperson. Others, who quickly come to mind, are Jackie Huggins, Professor Marcia Langton and Lowitja O’Donaghue. Traditionally, within the separate female sphere (women’s business) they exercise considerable autonomy and decisionmaking powers. Women are vital economic producers. Within the wider ritual life we find a complementarity based on shared religious beliefs and practices. Bell asserts that women are “…the original watchdogs of the entire camp, the repositories of wisdom, the conscious carriers of a proud heritage.” Thus, for the traditional Wiradjuri, Wangaaypuwan and many other Indigenous societies in Australia and, as we shall soon see, in Melanesia, to be truly knowledgeable one needed to have high ritual status and age; the authority, control, influence and prestige that came with knowledge was not open to young people. Knowledge came with maturity and status and then it could be used to influence the direction of events and the making of decisions. The wireenan were well versed in their own language and those of adjacent tribes, skilled in hunting, capable of understanding and interpreting the kinship, religious and political systems, acknowledged as specialists in one or more dimensions of the art of ‘clever ones’, those with knowledge, possibly as skilled orators, political leaders, and organisers of religious and educational ceremonies. Certainly, the dominance of the wireenan was based on their mastery of ritual and instruction, but more than that they were possessed of high degrees of knowledge, which, with their ritual powers, provided the community with order and meaning. In contrast to modern western education, and, in particular, the usually second-rate form of education actually provided for their descendants, a greater range of mental, social, and spiritual needs were met. Above all traditional education contributed 56

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to and was part of a patterned existence rich in meaning and usefulness. When comparing traditional Indigenous culture with the formal educational provision of contemporary Australia one could not find a more radical contrast. We return to both the theoretical and practical significance of this contrast in subsequent chapters, particularly in the final two chapters. NOTES 1

2

3

4 5 6 7

For detailed ethnographic description of the central-western NSW traditional systems, see Nichol 2005. Pedagogy encompasses curriculum, teaching, learning and knowledge, and their “contingent discourses about the character of culture, the purposes of education, the nature of childhood” (Alexander, R. 2000). In Australia there are hundreds of Indigenous ‘nations’, ‘clans’, ‘communities’, ‘peoples’, ‘mobs’ and ‘language groupings’, so we must be careful with generalisations. The use of ‘tribes’ is also problematic. See Diane Barwick 1984, for an extremely critical appraisal of his work. Known as ‘country’ in Australia, ‘ples’ in most of Melanesia and ‘la tribu’ in New Caledonia. Not to be confused with ascribed economic or political superiority as, for example, in a feudal society. The anthropologist and educator, Stephen Harris, found similar attitudes towards initiation amongst the traditionally oriented Aboriginal community at Milingimbi, Arnhem Land, Northern Territory.

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Kilenge [New Britain, Papua New Guinea] children sense that their teachers may not approve of village customs. By its very nature, the school transmits to its pupils a perception of their inferiority. Because students are generally taught about non-indigenous concepts and topics, they may infer that the ideas and practices of their forefathers are less significant… When such doubts lead to acts of disrespect, outraged parents and village elders quickly blame teachers for turning them against them… in other ways they value [schooling] as a means by which their children are learning about the outside world (Zeleneitz and Grant, 1986). The complex and perplexing issue of education as a largely Westernizing force is significant also to Melanesians. Fieldwork and literature reveal many sentiments and reactions similar to those above of the Kilenge. While in an ethnographic sense this chapter explores Melanesia, it focuses on the nation of Papua New Guinea (PNG). In the years preceding Independence in 1975 there were earnest steps towards modernizing PNG society. One was to promote education, that is, Western education, and I played a small part in this. In 1970–71 I worked with the Pacific Islands Regiment, in Wewak, Vanimo and Goldie River, near Port Moresby, teaching politics and citizenship, and preparing officers and men for their roles in the national army. Essentially, they were to be the ‘loyal right hand’ of the democratically elected national government. I maintain a strong interest and some involvement in PNG education. Transformation of educational institutions and methodologies is a chancy business involving major innovations and disruptions to local communities. As seen in the previous chapter, the aims, methods and results of traditional education vary considerably from western education. Where traditional education taught accepted cultural ways, preparing individuals for village life and placing the talented in positions of leadership within the society, academic western education tends to be differentiating, setting the educated person apart from the uneducated. Traditional knowledge was a complex, but related whole, designed to ensure a cohesive community by emphasizing the interrelationship of kin. Information imparted was age appropriate and relevant to local needs and circumstances. Learning was associated with the need to use what was learned. Unfortunately, the imposed, didactic, top-down approach to education and development has, too often, failed to deliver its promises. Western-influenced schooling now plays a significant role in the institutional structure of most third world countries and for Indigenous minorities in Western countries. Those interested in cultural transmission can profit from experience gained in roughly similar circumstances elsewhere. It may be that an understanding of the 59

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evolution and results of formal education in other colonized or formerly colonized countries can throw some light on problems, outcomes and alternatives in PNG. The problem is, which countries or regions to compare? One major area with characteristics similar enough for a constructive parallel is sub-Saharan Africa. Others might be tropical Australia, particularly the Northern Territory, and much of Melanesia. In these areas tribal and peasant societies have little in the way of formal education. This comes with modernization when these societies are colonized, sometimes dispossessed, coerced, proselytised and indoctrinated to fit the new political and economic order. Both sub-Saharan Africa and Melanesia were exploited as slave reservoirs before they were brought under colonial rule at the climax of European imperialism in the late nineteenth century. For both, colonialism brought a limited number only of white settlers and the question of local political independence was either hardly raised or effectively suppressed until after World War Two. A more sociological dimension is the common lack of an established ‘overall’ civilization. As for traditional Australia, in Melanesia large-scale political and social affiliations were non-existent. The dominant ‘primordial attachments’ were clanbased in character, flowing along lines of kinship, both real and classificatory. The traditional social world can be seen as one of concentric circles. Innermost is the family, the household, the village. Next are friends and allies relatively nearby, with whom women have been exchanged1. A little wider encompasses the dialect group (wantoks), also friends and allies. Those seen as targets for raiding, but, on occasion, for trade, are next. Relations with them are fraught, suspicious; they may be seen as enemies. Finally, there are those beyond the known world, complete strangers and foreigners. Another similarity is that of the systems of land-tenure, involving community ownership either by village or a lineage group. Land tenure, heritage, customs, ties and obligations to land, are crucial to an understanding of the role and effect of Western education in sub-Saharan Africa and Melanesia. In both areas the invading colonial system endeavoured to bring about major transformations in economic, political and social life: incorporating people and economies into world-wide trading patterns, forging national communication systems and political control, and creating rigid, caste-like social systems. In Africa and Melanesia, as pressures for local self-determination and independence grew, the colonial regimes, through their educational, bureaucratic and military systems, allowed a minority to enter the colonial elite. Many of the newly educated young people adopted the manners, lifestyle expectations and values of the white colonial elite they were gradually replacing. They shunned physical labour, often turned their back on village life despite being quite prepared to use local and regional affiliations for political gain, and saw their education as both an escape from subsistence lifestyle and a qualification to exercise authority over the uneducated. Since the early 1960s a minority of Papua New Guineans has been incorporated into the ruling elite, which in 2010 still includes significant numbers of expatriates and non-Indigenous citizens of PNG. This high status class, with more political power and higher incomes than the rest of the population, has emerged due to rapid localization of the bureaucracy, expansion of secondary and tertiary education, considerable 60

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amounts of overseas aid, and exploitation of PNG’s resources, particularly minerals and timber. After reading Nadel’s report (1956) on the development and roles of elites in Africa one could be excused for thinking of this process as inevitable in an emerging country. Much depends on the attitudes of the new elites, particularly the political leaders. Former journalist, Chief Minister, now Prime Minister, Michael Somare, told the Post Courier newspaper in 1972, “I do not want to see a very rich black elite emerge here at the expense of village people.” However, present conditions in Africa and PNG indicate that Western education has been a significant factor in casting these persons in the mould of colonial rulers. In 1970 Paulo Freire argued that those controlling metropolitan societies see the third world as being historically and economically unviable. “Such a Manichean attitude is at the source of the impulse to save the ‘demon-possessed’ Third World, ‘educating it’ and ‘correcting its thinking’ according to the director societies’ own criteria.” One criterion has been that success is measured in terms of secondary and tertiary educational results. Long before Independence a PNG Indigenous school inspector summed up the dilemma well, stating, The majority we class as failures, instead of saying that they had finished their primary education. The few who go on to secondary education feel that they deserve a prize, which is high wages, comfortable employment in town and personal status in the community... It creates a feeling of superiority among the ‘passed’ and leaves the majority ‘failures’, with little or no hope of earning a good living of the sort they probably expected. They feel inferior and will not produce a society of healthy minds (Matane, 1968). It is likely that many of the disaffected, often violent and criminal urban ‘rascals’ in PNG (and equivalents in Africa), are either those for whom success in education did not produce the expected results or those whom it alienated from society at an early age2. An educational philosophy and program influenced by cultural colonialism, where the subject (the Indigenous student) in Freire’s sense has been ‘objectified’ or acted upon, leads to dependency in the learner. This poses a dilemma for anthropologists, teachers and planners, who recognise the desire of formerly colonized people for the same ‘quality’, ‘academic’ education as those of dominant western cultures. Certainly, it must be, in a technical, professional sense. They are often blinded by their economic and political inequality from the implications: for most post-colonial people such an education not only does not enable them to gain control of political decision-making, but also it alienates them from much of their traditional life. SOCIALISATION

What part does education play in ‘cultural colonialism’? As noted in Chapter Two, if one looks at socialisation in its broadest, Durkheimian sense, it is the systematic process whereby adults transform an infant into their conception of a social being. The concept of education implies intent, that is, instruction. In its widest sense we see that it is a process that lasts through life. Malinowski observed that every new 61

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status an individual acquires, such as marriage, parenthood and old age, has to be learned. The individual has to adjust to these gradually and by acquisition of new attitudes and new social duties and responsibilities. In most traditional societies in Papua New Guinea learning continues well into adulthood. Not only do persons become specialists at carving or curing long after marriage, but also they must be in the forties to gain admittance to the inner rites of a secret society. Fully-grown and married men often announce, ‘I am but a child’, in recognition of the fact that the gradual assumption of responsibility and acquisition of more complete knowledge may come only with middle age. I deal with the concept of socialisation, in the main, more narrowly- as the inculcation in each generation of particular knowledge, skills and attitudes by the means of institutions, such as schools or rites of passage, deliberately created for this end. Every society determines that the transmission of its culture cannot be left to chance, that cultural absorption by children while enormously significant is not enough, and therefore supervises the education of its members, not necessarily in a school. Learning is a significant factor in most of our behaviours. The control, power and dominance inherent in the educational process emanate from this reality, notwithstanding the importance of biology and genetic potential. Formally or informally all instructors are political cadres. To say or do nothing is a political act. Acquiescence is allowing others to fill the vacuum. We are human because we share with others cultural forms embodying the contributions and decisions of past and present members of our society. This discussion and analysis of traditional pedagogy and education in PNG does not equate learning with education. Education, deliberate instruction, is only part of the learning and socialisation process. Closely related to the issues explored in this book, and crucial to an understanding of the complexity of educational policy and practice in contemporary Papua New Guinea, is the diversity of languages and cultures in the country and the policy towards use of the vernacular for initial literacy and basic education. The nation has over 800 vernacular languages, two lingua francas as national languages (Pidgin is very common, and Police Motu is little used). English is the official language. In a population of over 4 million, the average vernacular language population is under 5,000. At present children are beginning their education (usually the first two or three years) in over 250 languages. The diversity is enormous, provision of professionally prepared teachers and resources daunting. National income barely keeps up with population growth. TRADITIONAL INDIGENOUS KNOWLEDGE, PEDAGOGY AND EDUCATION

Indigenous knowledge [IK]… is a unique formulation of knowledge coming from a range of sources rooted in local cultures, a dynamic and ever changing pastiche of past ‘tradition’ and present invention, with a view to the future (Sillitoe, in Sillitoe, Bicker and Pottier, 2002). Ethnographic studies of traditional education in PNG indicate that there is considerable diversity of practice. Some more recent studies, such as those of Paul Sillitoe, 62

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reveal both diversity and considerable adaptation. Anthropologists giving special attention to education and Indigenous knowledge in the Melanesian societies they studied include Demerath, Fajans, Goodale, Hogbin, Mead, Wedgwood, Whiting, Schieffelin and Sillitoe. Other practitioners, including teachers, provide additional material. The fullest data come from the East Sepik region and the islands north and east of the mainland. My own ethnographic and teaching experience ranged from Vanimo and Wewak in the north, to Goldie River and Port Moresby in the south. The diversity of empirical evidence means one can only note convergences and divergences among the systems of education. Also, Ronald Berndt warned of the difficulties and dangers of generalisation by pointing out that what is true of the village in which an ethnographer lives is not necessarily so for the next village a short distance away. Jane Goodale found that in South-West New Britain siblings of the opposite sex engage in intimate behaviours, men marry women they term ‘sister’ and women ‘brother’. Women often act aggressively and are perceived as ‘powerful’, having the ability to ‘kill’ men, through “the pollution of their maturity, and in periods of menstruation and childbirth.” This is very different from accounts of gender relations elsewhere in Melanesia. Some cultures are particularly difficult for scholars to understand. For example, the Baining of East New Britain were the despair of the anthropologists Gregory Bateson and Jeremy Pool and a number of other researchers. They are a close people, famously reticent about explaining their ways of doing things and their private thoughts, certainly not amenable to ‘prying outsiders’. However, Jane Fagans explains that she did eventually, gradually, discern some patterns of behaviour that made their social life more explicable. For example, with adoption of a child there was a gradual, deliberate fostering of ties and obligations. Further curbs to generalisation are that children’s environments are affected by their gender and upbringing, the status of their parents, the status or ‘health’ of the community3, the family structure- polygamous or monogamous, large or small, matrilocal or patrilocal, their legitimacy or not, and whether their parents are living. However, even allowing for these curbs to over-generalisation, as for Indigenous Australia, it is possible to discern fairly consistent elements of the social training of children in traditional Melanesian societies. What follows is an examination of traditional ‘classical’ education in the context of its links to social relations and social structure. The traditional villager, a subsistence horticulturalist4 and pig-keeper5, or fisher and sago-gatherer, each supplemented by foraging and hunting ‘bush foods’, was brought up in a world where closely related people tended to live together and associate with each other in various enterprises. He or she saw and expressed relationships in kinship terms, regardless of actual genealogical connection. Ties of kinship or marriage relate villagers to each other. Other kinsmen live in neighbouring settlements, but beyond all are strangers and therefore potentially hostile. However, trading relationships may exist between widely separated partners. Classificatory kinship ties are extended to trading partners. The most famous of these is the kula exchange of the Trobriand Islands. 63

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For the first year or so a child is close to mother, older siblings and close female relatives. Often naming comes after a few months; traditionally this may have related to high mortality rates. Also, it might take some time for the mother’s relatives to organise a feast and gather enough wealth, perhaps sago, taro, pots, shells and dogs’ teeth6, for an exchange to mark the arrival. The child is encouraged to develop independent skills when ready, mostly through observation and participation. As appropriate or necessary children learn to swim, row, dig, climb, avoid or garner at an early age. With increasing independence fathers begin to involve themselves, often in a more indulgent manner. They take their children on fishing or hunting excursions, with all the fun and excitement of the chase. Mother is always involved with tedious subsistence work. In some parts of PNG the child is made well aware of distant, fraught shame and guilt-oriented relations between husbands and wives, reinforced by the husband’s family members constantly belittling “… his wife’s claim to parental regard. The image is vividly conveyed by three year olds who frequently leave their father’s arms to satisfy themselves at their mother’s breast only to return swaggeringly to their tractable fathers, grinning insolently at their mothers” (Sillitoe, 1998a). Much sooner than boys, girls learn to cover themselves. Once menstruating they must avoid all others. Throughout much of Melanesia (and much of traditional Australia), there is avoidance of menstruating women. Men frequently equate menstrual blood with poison, an ingredient, with bone dust, of sorcery. Another form of proscription, again quite common and falling heavily on women, is that of avoidance of in-laws and siblings of the opposite sex, often unpleasant and difficult when people live so closely together. The latter is another similarity to much of life in Indigenous Australia. Exchanges of food are important to reinforce everyday life and obligations within the village, often spectacularly so on ceremonial occasions or to mark stages in the life cycle, such as initiation, marriage and death. These are common in societies that produce a small surplus but do not store food. They help to forge social and political links. These may be between kinship groups at a marriage, establishing a long-term relationship between a man and in-laws, particularly his brothers-in-law, making a truce after a war, or earning prestige for a man, his kin or clan. The reasons for an exchange vary widely, from large-scale between allies, such as the moka of Mt. Hagen area, to appeasing a ghost or winning a lover. Most involve cooperation with kin in preparing for exchanges and competition in giving them. Those with the influence to do so manipulate kinship relations so that the actual relationship between the leader and his followers (all ‘big men’ are male), forged by the leader’s success in exchanges, warfare, oratorical ability and ritual knowledge, was expressed in kinship terms. Social training and exigencies prepare them to be flexible, if not creative, in conceptualising their social relations, particularly the classificatory kinship system. In general, Papua New Guineans were (and are today) socialised to believe that all kin should be loyal and helpful (obligated morally and financially to support each other). Each kin term has appropriate conduct towards others associated with it. For example, mothers, fathers and older siblings encourage small children to share food. Evoking their close relationships they appeal to children to feel sorry for 64

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them and give, as they have so often to the child. If the child refuses to share the mother might say, “And what do we call each other?” This is a reminder of their shared name and the continued expectation of reciprocity in that relationship. If older children find young children are not acting cooperatively they might show their annoyance, shame them directly, or leave them alone, a common tactic to socialise younger siblings to act appropriately. The use of these categories expresses the rights and obligations between kin. Traditional education conferring Indigenous knowledge teaches children to recognise their place in the system and to behave appropriately. In regard to boys it might prepare them for associations based on age and sex, for appropriate behaviour with age-mates and different age groups in the clubhouse. It might also determine their degree of fear of female ‘pollution’ (usually of menstrual blood). In general it seems that there is much less fear of female pollution where people marry into friendly groups; however, it is quite common to hear people say “we marry from those we fight”. Many observers describe the learning as experiential and the children as relatively free compared to those involved in Western-style education. Despite the prevalence of ‘big men’ each society reflects an egalitarian political organisation. If a husband or ‘big man’ tries to dictate to others often there are rights that cannot be violated without sanction. Paul Sillitoe describes the village as being, …a loose democracy; families are bound together by ramifying exchange obligations, with fear of ancestral spirit sanction enforcing, if necessary, observance of proper conduct. The freedom extended to children reflects the egalitarian ethos of this acephalous (headless) society, conditioning them not to tolerate domineering behaviour on the part of others. From childhood onwards, no one has the power to control the actions of others or the right to force from them anything that they are unwilling to concede. AIMS AND OBJECTIVES

Elders, specialists and organisers of rituals aim to impart knowledge when it is needed, however in most cases, as for Indigenous Australia, observation and imitation are initial drivers of learning, particularly for everyday, practical skills. There is an imperative to pass on technical as well as sacred knowledge as it is believed everything derives from the spirit beings. In most traditional Melanesian societies one finds expressions of a desire to guide or steer children and young adults along what is perceived to be the correct way to full cultural participation. Whiting found that, A Kwoma child learns but a small part of his cultural habits by free trial and error, that is, without some member of his family guiding or directing him. Were he to do so, he would learn those habits which were most rewarding to him and to him alone… he is forced to learn the habits which are specified in the culture as being the best. For boys and young men, particularly in the Highlands, learning promotes a ferocious male ethos and encourages harshness and disdain of physical pain. These are important 65

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traits in the “… violent acephalous [lacking a chief or governor] Melanesian political environment. Throughout Melanesia we find initiates thoroughly frightened and subject to terrifying ordeals as adults introduce them to some of the secrets of their ritual world. Coming of age in Melanesia is no mean feat” (Sillitoe, 1998a). Kenneth Read characterises the ordeals of the Gahuku-Gama of the Asaro Valley, Eastern Highlands, as “vindictive assaults” on boys and youths. Learning is also rather conservative. Ian Hogbin found that the island people of Wogeo, living off the north coast, considered their way of life as the perfect ideal. Having been taken over directly from the heroes of old it was the obligation of each generation to hand it intact to the next. Leaving aside its practical significance, education was looked upon, quite literally, as a sacred duty, to pass on the perfect way of life, intact, to the next generation. Someone must watch over the land and perform the magic given to the forbears by the heroes. If one fails to do this blasphemy would be committed. The social order has to be maintained and passed on- the initiates have to keep the secrets of the flutes. It is imperative that the pollution taboos and rituals are maintained (for the purity of the order), and technical and moral knowledge and behaviour has to be transmitted. This is systematic socialisation of the young by the elders. Ann Chowning describes the control of knowledge for a man, as follows: As a child he was taught a few simple spells to… keep away rain, lure octopus… attract a girl… [later] he is admitted to the repertoire of garden and hunting magic, serious love magic, and spells to protect property and cure disease. Before he is ready to marry the principal secrets of the men’s house, if any, are revealed to him. … Only long after marriage does a man become a specialist at carving or curing; only in his forties perhaps admitted to the inner rites of a secret society; only when about to become a father taught the spells to ensure the growth of his children; and only when his own father is about to die is he instructed in the last special knowledge (Chowning, 1972). CHANGE

Some significant changes in contemporary Melanesia are: attempts at suppression of traditional warfare and male ritual cults, increased mobility shaped by new ideas and improved transport, employment opportunities and measures of urbanization, moves towards trade and a cash economy, Christian and Muslim conversion, consequent new cosmologies and notions of causality, and Western educational opportunities. It is clear that what and how children are taught traditionally already anticipates some sense of change, adaptation or innovation in society. Physical skills taught are mainly those necessary for food production and gathering, domestic and artistic activities, and for warfare. However, new crops, for food or cash, are readily trialled. Social skills are mainly those associated with knowing how to get on with one’s kin, meet obligations, later to perhaps exercise leadership. These skills become ‘the Melanesian way’ in provincial and national politics, for good or ill. Cognitive development is mainly the inculcation of a store of local knowledge concerning the environment and some concepts of causality, usually fatalistic, concerning the 66

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physical world. Specialists- craftspeople, healers, leaders, and so on, require higher degrees of Indigenous knowledge. The basic premise inculcated by traditional education is that the present way of life is the ideal. Children are to accept this. If they learn faithfully and conform they are accepted into adult society. And yet new religious and educational notions are acquired, often fervently. However, as for Indigenous Australia, the traditional, too often, does not prove to be an adaptive system when it comes to coping with the changes wrought by invaders and colonisers. For example, cargo cults are a common reaction to the invaders and their seemingly incredible material riches. Cults are a way of interpreting circumstances within the framework of traditional knowledge and pedagogy7. As Smith (1975) argues, if success in accumulating wealth emanates from ritual knowledge and the spirit-beings and the dead have a continuing relationship with the living, then the large amounts of material goods possessed by the Europeans can be explained quite logically. These goods must have been sent to villagers by their ancestors but diverted to themselves by the Europeans. “During the time the white man has been present in our land…we have seen many ‘good things’- steel tomahawks…knives…good foods…these have always been sent to us by our predeceased forefathers but… the white men knew how to intercept them and did so. Then, instead of passing the goods to us they put them into trade stores and we had to work very hard to get even a part of them” (Patrol Report, quoted in Berndt, R. Oceania, No. 23, 1953). On the surface at least there is a contrast with one of the most popularly believed aims of Western education: that a child is taught to have ‘expanded horizons’, to be independent in thought, sceptical and prepared to anticipate, accept and adapt to change in all spheres of life. Indigenous knowledge and pedagogy are denigrated or ignored because they are not understood or respected by imposed institutions and schooling. They are still, too often, seen as static and unchanging, whereas in contemporary practice they can be relevant, inclusive, ever-changing, often exciting, conducive to new technology, and dynamic. VALUES

It is instructive to examine commonly held values, ones often undermined by dispossession and fringe existence. Respect for the property of others was taught, not usually because of a strong sense of possessiveness, but mainly because of a fear of damaging other people’s property, infringing their rights, causing them to feel anger, and damaging social relations with them. While there was, and is, a fair degree of ‘give and take’ and joking relationships on the surface in PNG villages, and clearly conflict plays an important role in social life, great store is set on maintaining harmonious relationship within the village. According to Margaret Mead, ‘honesty’ as a concept in its own right was not traditionally taught [while it is often today, explicitly as a result of Christian influence] but rather a fear of arousing the wrath of people by tampering with their property. 67

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In Manus, Mead found a deep respect for property, personal and communal. Here property was sacred and one wailed for property as for the dead. Respect for property was taught early; before babies could walk they were rebuked and chastised for touching anything and the slightest breakage was punished without mercy. Hospitality, reciprocity and generosity to one’s kin and neighbours, in the form of food and shelter, are given great value throughout Papua New Guinea. They strengthen social relations and assist in gaining prestige. Even in times of food scarcity, such as during World War 2, Busama were ashamed if they could not offer visitors some food. During the war, Busama, proudly seen by the people as being the ‘home of taro’, had to depend on army rations and the people felt maya, shame. They cooked indoors and social relations were strained. The Busama looked back with affection to the days of plenty, when food could be cooked openly and shared with visitors. Close kin offered the young child food and shelter and built up a legacy of future obligations. The child was expected to share food with kin and playmates. A child who did not reciprocate brought maya, shame on its parents. The polar opposite of generosity is meanness and/or greediness and most ‘traditional’ societies decry this, punishing a mean child by ostracism, deprivation of food, scolding or blows. A common theme is that friends are more helpful than enemies in times of need, and there are occasions when crops, hunting or fishing fail. Maintaining existing friendships and obligations is stressed. Ian Hogbin found that most societies do their best to prevent children from fighting and hurting each other. PAYBACK

Many traditional cultures teach that outside the clan or village they have the obligation of ‘pay-back’, of roughly commensurate revenge against anyone who harms one of their own. This usually results in a form of internecine warfare with traditional enemies. Often these enemies are consanguineous (by blood) and affinitive (by marriage) kin, as expressed in the common saying, ‘We fight those we marry’. This means son and father may shun mother and wife, which make relations within also fraught. Significant elements of initiatory instruction imbue such in-group and outgroup values and prepare novices to be warriors. Traditionally they were taught to ambush and kill mercilessly. Again, one can see some parallels with aspects of traditional Indigenous Australian initiation. Sometimes, in Melanesia, there are links with headhunting and cannibalism. These pervasive and violent customs are perhaps the least desirable and supportable if one is attempting to work towards future reconciliation, inclusive citizenship and a cohesive nation state. They are against national and international law and it is difficult to justify them when planning future educational policy and practice. TEMPERAMENT

Among the Arapesh of the East Sepik, as in other societies, one finds a range of temperament. However, according to Margaret Mead, the most active Arapesh child is less aggressive than a normally active American child. In all societies children 68

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are trained towards socially defined and acceptable forms of behaviour (although, of course, this is often not seen as traditional enough by some members, particularly the conservative and elderly of the group). An example is adults’ attitudes towards egotism, either the form that attempts to build a position through the accumulation of possessions or accolades, or that of power over others. Traditionally, in many societies, adults praise and reward the selfless, obedient children and disapprove those exhibiting selfish or disobedient behaviour. In this way, through the use of positive and coercive social sanctions, they form and shape their society’s attitudes. Similarly, among the Busama, Hogbin found that maya feelings meant that ordinary villagers were too fearful of becoming conspicuous to attempt to exercise authority in commercial dealings with outsiders. Anthony Forge cites a similar situation when he writes of the Abelam of the Sepik ‘learning to see’. He suggests that through their early experiences, particularly in the instruction given during the tambaran cult, …boys and young men acquire a set, fixed expectation about what they will see in two dimensions, that is on the flat; and hence the polychrome two dimensional paintings become a closed system, unrelated to natural objects, or to carvings or any other three dimensional art objects, or, indeed, to anything outside the paintings (Forge, in Mayer, 1970). These expectations prevent the Abelam from ‘seeing’, that is making sense of, anything in two dimensions that is not part of the closed system. They also enable the paintings to act directly on the fully initiated adult as a system of communication and not as a representation of any other communication system, such as myth. The ritual instructions shape their perception and experience. Hogbin finds that for the Wogeo norms of behaviour are often contradictory and, as Mary Douglas suggests in Purity and Danger that ‘pollution behaviour’ compensates for this [perhaps being a key reason why men often fear female menstruation]. Sex Roles According to Ian Hogbin, in Wogeo males and females are in relatively balanced opposition. They are mutually dependent and of nearly equal status, with men having only a slight edge. Yet men continue to claim authority and to feel they have a right to act in a high-handed manner. They think that their wives ought to be faithful. The women, however, take occasional lovers and maintain that their wishes ought to be respected on account of their importance to the economy and the vital roles they play in the social system. They smother their resentment at male pretensions. Direct and open retaliation for unfair treatment may present difficulties with male aggression. Notions of pollution provide a solution: the underlying theme of initiation rituals is the distance between men and women, physically and socially. Hogbin found that the purpose of the male initiation rites is to ensure that the boy will grow into a man. Elders direct all their endeavours to ensure this progression. They proceed step by step. In infancy they pierce his ears, convinced that only by such means can he attain childhood. In childhood they take him from his mother and insist that he 69

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sleep in the men’s clubhouse. To reach puberty they scarify his tongue to enable him to play the flutes. In his youth they incise his penis on the understanding that without menstruating he cannot advance to manhood. In Wogeo there is an intense preparation for adult roles involving the dimensions of both male/female dichotomy and kinship roles and relationships. Sex roles are clearly defined in daily activities. Also, there is thought to be a strong nexus between sexual intercourse and productivity. Over indulgence in sex could affect industriousness and therefore the food supply. Male initiation rites are highly significant for forging social identity and gender identity. They promote social integration among boys and men. Paul Sillitoe finds that, Before initiation males are juveniles; after it they are adult persons, with all that change of status implies for rights and obligations. Their masculine identity is impressed upon them. The implication is not that that they all have the same perception of, or assume the same roles. Personhood is a more individual quality. …It would be incorrect to suppose that during initiation all novices have similar experiences or perceptions of events. It is probable, for example, that the initiators treat younger boys and timid and popular ones more gently than older and particularly obstreperous and unruly ones. …having endured the trauma of initiation in one another’s company, the sense of ‘communitas’ felt, breeds an enduring ethic of togetherness... The inculcation of at least a measure of industriousness8 is a very necessary aim in subsistence economies. For a girl this is crucial, for later as a wife and mother she will grow and gather food, clean the dwelling and surrounds, raise and mind children. A Busama girl is told that if she plants taro, works hard, minds babies, and brings wood and water to her father’s clubhouse, she will marry. A boy, wishing to become a married and respected adult, is encouraged to be obedient, industrious and generous. His tasks may take several forms: growing food, minding pigs9, gathering coconuts, fishing, etc, with building activities and preparing for warfare growing in importance as he gets older. In many ethnographic accounts the inculcation of physical prowess has been highlighted. For example, Mead and Hogbin record the very high levels of proficiency the Manus people attain in swimming, climbing, fishing and sailing. Gitlow has described the physical proficiency of the warlike Enga. As in Western societies, the standard of obedience to parents and older relatives reveals a great deal of variation. While the Enga had the strictest ideas regarding obedience, Peri children used no respect language for parents and the smallest child could shout defiance at anyone. However, the Peri, as for so many ‘indulged’ children in Indigenous Australia, received their comeuppance with rites of passage and the demands of adult life. METHODS AND PEDAGOGY

Methods of traditional education varied widely: from the Enga, Kuma and Iatmul, who acquired prestige through warfare and taught their children accordingly, to the 70

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more peaceful Arapesh and Wogeo. In general, education is informal, from observation, close contact with skilled farmers, fishers or crafts persons, and participation in their activities. This implies cooperation, but the picture is complex. Marie Reay tells us that among the Enga it was difficult even for brothers to live in amity. Paul Sillitoe describes the Iatmul’s “… terrifyingly malicious behaviour [which] demonstrates their vicious regard of women’s values [predictable, quiet, unostentatious and even jolly on occasion] and violently knocks any association with them out of young men”, [Who are to be ‘… unpredictable, public, histrionic, proud and sometimes frightening’]. Kenneth Read portrays the “ideal male” Gahuku-Gama as being “amuza ‘strong’ or ‘hard’: aggressive, prideful and self-assertive, disciplined, superior and touchy with regard to his reputation- the epitome of the warrior”…The opposite were the “hoipa ‘weak’ and ‘soft’…they lacked a reputation and had no chance of rising to leadership”. An Australian parallel might be the warlike, harsh, desert Walbiri compared to the relatively peaceful, confederate Ngarrindjeri, of the benign, rich eco-system of Lake Alexandrina, South Australia. Margaret Mead describes the Manus of the Admiralty Islands, Bismarck Archipelago, northern PNG, as having a very free childhood with little instruction other than in engendering feelings of fear of spirits and shame regarding sexual matters. Children and adolescents make almost no contribution to economic production before marriage. After marriage men and women are obligated to pay back all done for them, particularly the enormous dowries and gifts for marriage. It is a radical transformation. On all sides he must go humbly. He is poor, he has no home; he is an ignoramus. His young wife, who submits so frigidly to his clumsy embrace, knows more than he, but she is sullen and uncooperative. He enters an era of social eclipse. He cannot raise his voice in a quarrel, he who as a small boy has told the oldest men in the village to hold their noise. Then he was a gay and privileged child, now he is the least and most despised of adults. All about him he sees two types of older men, those who have mastered the economic system, become independent of their financial backers, gone into the gift exchange for themselves, and those who have slumped and who are still dependent nonentities… The ‘learning-curve’ is steep. Economic, trading success is power. By the age of thirtyfive those who have succeeded, by learning quickly, working hard, establishing trading relationships and suppressing their generosity, again [men especially, but women also] are vociferous, confident; those who have not remain meek, abashed, sulky, weak and dependent, “skulking about the back doors of their rich relations’ houses…tyrannized over by their younger brothers, forced to fish nightly to keep their families in food.” IMPARTING KNOWLEDGE

Teaching is traditionally the primary responsibility of the parent of the same sex, particularly for everyday life. Experts in specialties such as canoe manufacture or 71

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weather ‘control’ will sometimes train nephews or more distant relatives, on occasion being paid for doing so. Often, as in Australia, the child will learn incidentally, by observation, trailing along, and attempting tasks. Children are often encouraged to help with small tasks, and through doing, acquire skills. In some societies parents encourage children to ask questions and, in turn, question the children to test their fund of knowledge. Conversely, and somewhat in contradiction, scholars often note a distinct lack of questioning and instruction. This is because those in small communities, tribes or villages, just ‘know’ or anticipate others’ needs or requests. In general children are eager to display their learning and knowledge is esteemed. Storytelling is used not only to entertain but also to teach. Frequently stories will illustrate a moral, teach the rules of traditional kinship behaviour and customs, describe the spirit world, or give the sacred history of the child’s own clan. During play ties of friendship are forged, and while children are amusing themselves they are practising hunting, paddling canoes, playing ‘house’ or hunting, engaging in a ceremonial exchange, or carrying out a mortuary rite. They may also be simulating adult sexual behaviour, like children everywhere playing ‘mothers and fathers’, and there are many accounts of precocity. Control of the emotions, in the conventional European sense, is not usually taught. When tempers are aroused through jealousy or frustration and begin to be expressed in anger, tantrums or fighting, usually some form of diversion or cathartic behaviour is devised. The Peri child gives vent to his or her spleen (usually his!) by verbally abusing the adversary, while the Busama, Arapesh and Wogeo lead the child away, give him an axe and tell him to take it out on a tree. Personal dignity is felt to be infinitely less important than the peace of the village, so ideally, in theory, fighting in any form within is forbidden. One can express one’s emotions so long as that expression does not harm anyone else, particularly any other man. Of course, in many fiercely egalitarian Melanesian communities the individual’s point of view is quite divergent from the ideal. Also, this does not apply to the tormenting and denigration so common a part of initiation rituals as the initiate is re-born and re-made. For the Wogeo this comparative amity was maintained by a definite concept of education called singara or ‘steering’, and they maintained that children had to be guided, “… in order to achieve technical knowledge and have a proper sense of right and wrong.” They informed Hogbin that they considered that one of the chief disadvantages for orphans was their lack of deliberate instruction. This contradicts the common Melanesian practice of close kin caring for orphans as if they were their own. Young children were taught to moderate boisterous behaviour, while older boys, if not gardening or fishing with their fathers, were not to play with girls. Such association, they were told, would stunt their growth. When playing with model canoes the boys were given instruction in construction methods, and faults were pointed out. Children in Wogeo were encouraged to work alongside their parents even though initially they were a hindrance (for example, when building a canoe or preparing sago leaf for thatch making), although, in most cases they were more eager to learn than the elders were to teach. Walking to and from the gardens was also a time for instruction and the boy or girl was told of the different allotments into which their country was divided. 72

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Direct participation and instruction were also important in learning about fishingabout the types of fish, the dangers, the tides, and the handling of the necessary equipment. Not far from Port Moresby I participated in a number of fishing expeditions with Hanuabadan friends, usually with a flotilla of small boats, lakatoi (outriggercanoes) and a long and deep net. We set the net beside reef formations we knew were teeming with fish, then paddled quietly some distance away, spreading the boats but not too far apart. At a signal we struck the water with the oars and shouted loudly while paddling slowly towards the net, driving the fish towards it. When we reached the net nearly all on the boats, some quite mature persons, but all of the children and youths, dived down to spear with slivers of steel the fish caught in the net. We swam to the surface, threw the fish in the boat and then dived below for more. It was a time of great excitement and pleasure, rewarded with a fish barbeque and ‘sing-sing’ dance ceremony on shore. You certainly learn the best places to fish and the sweetest fish to catch and eat when having such direct experience. Similar experiences, with the gathering of sago in swamps, hunting, and the building of houses, taught cooperation, coordination, preparation of physical materials and leadership. Girls were similarly taught social roles, during learning opportunities in the gardens, in the home and food preparation, dancing and making music for ritual and social events, such as ‘sing-sings’. Hogbin points out the contrast between the Wogeo system- where children were treated like miniature adults, allocated land and reasoned with, to that of the Busama, who felt that it would be foolish to expect understanding from a child. Perhaps this was because of the Wogeo’s deeply felt conviction that gender and social roles must be polarised- the sooner the better. A similarity in both educational systems was the absence of competition. In neither did Hogbin find evidence of games leading to a winner, nor a desire for the collection of objects. This is not surprising in village societies where the need for cooperation and generous distribution is so great. This is not, of course, a claim that this situation was general in traditional PNG, where competition and conflict frequently played major social roles (as Young, 1970, Strathern, 1970, Strathern and Stewart, 1999, make very clear). According to Hogbin the Busama were aware of competitive exchange. In Transformation Scene he suggests that the introduction of Christianity may have modified competitiveness. This seems unlikely. It was more likely a result of the competitive exchange system collapsing; competitive behaviour became increasingly irrelevant. When a Busama boy is old enough to appreciate that food must be gained by toil he is turned out of his house to sleep in one of the clubs, initially that of his father. Formerly this was to protect the growing boy from the ‘contaminating’ influences of women; later the elders called the club ‘a kind of school’. The maternal uncles are the main teachers. They offer the boy the freedom of their club and they explain his ties with the land, the location of the gardens, the types of soil and so forth. In so doing they reinforce the matrilineal line of descent and inheritance, usually through the mother’s brother10. The father and uncles supervise technical training in a similar fashion to that of the Wogeo, providing instruction where it is needed, never forcing the educational pace. 73

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POSITIVE AND NEGATIVE SANCTIONS

In addition to the positive inducements, such as praise, acceptance, prestige and inheritance, the Busama ensure conformity to accepted social behaviour by the use of negative sanctions, especially physical coercion and the use of shaming techniques. Shaming is important throughout PNG, where it is difficult for anyone in the small communities to have a private life. Of course there are many parallels with Indigenous and other small communities in Australia and elsewhere. The phrase, ‘Everybody knows everybody else’s business’ is commonly heard, and if you care what others think of you then you behave accordingly. If Busama are asked why they behave in a certain way they often say that they would be maya, ashamed, to have done anything else. Hogbin cites an extreme example of the effect of this value: Busama paid twice as much for locally produced string bags- they would have felt maya to treat fellow villagers as tradespeople. A feeling of shame was induced in young children to combat immodesty, stealing and disobedience. The idea of maya was so widespread and deeply imbued that youngsters were warned that they should not embarrass one another. Even if they knew someone was wrong they should not make him suffer shame. This is similar to the traditional Japanese reluctance to cause another to ‘lose face’. If criticism is made it is so oblique that an outsider will often miss it completely. Nevertheless, in PNG this sense of shame and guilt is frequently used to bring wrongdoers to heel and is usually achieved by referring to the miscreant’s idea of what is shameful. The sense of guilt will be inculcated by asking, ‘Have you no shame?’ The traditional view is usually that the child is not intrinsically to blame for being naughty. The Fore and Wogeo draw a clear distinction between the naughtiness arising from a bad upbringing and that derived from inherited temperament. Fundamental vices are incurable, but faults from improper or inadequate teaching will generally correct themselves. In fact the Wogeo and many other groups (including school teachers) often blame the parents for the child’s misbehaviour. Verbal punishment, yelling, scolding, sarcasm and threatening, is probably the most common form of enforcement, but it is debatable that it is very effective. Often the threats go against traditional custom. Parents might suggest that the child will receive no pork when the next pig was killed, that he or she will be banished to the forest, or that naughtiness will be reported to the headman. In practice, however, children are never denied food before bed, and adults are too afraid of spirits and sorcerers to banish a child to the forest. The headman, if he hears his name mentioned might deliver a short lecture, but discipline is felt to be a family affair, and he takes no steps to administer punishment. Busama and Wogeo children are not worried when threatened with deprivation of dinner. Like children all over Melanesia, they can always get food at a relative’s house. The children soon learn that they have little to fear of that particular sanction, however, the disapproving tone in which the leaders speak, and the actual or implied threat of shaming and ostracism, generally has the effect of making them mend their ways. A common verbal admonition to children in Melanesian villages and settlements is that they should imitate the behavioural standards of the hero children of their mythology; they were obedient, as should the child. 74

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Physical Punishment Physical coercion varies greatly in terms of degree of harshness. For example, Mead found that the Arapesh do not physically punish their young. Similarly, Malinowski states that for the Trobrianders, The idea of definite retribution or coercive punishment is not only foreign but repugnant to the native… when I suggested… that it would mend matters for the future if the child were beaten or otherwise punished in cold blood, the idea appeared unnatural and immoral to my friends, and was rejected with some resentment. However, Ian Hogbin found that most societies slapped, cuffed or beat on the cheeks, ears, back of head, or shoulders. By contrast, in villages, and in towns such as Lae, Wewak, Vanimo, Goroka, Mount Hagen and Port Moresby, I have seen little of the public hitting and verbal abuse of children that occurs too often in Western shopping malls and towns. Most physical punishment is carried out in the heat of the moment when children are particularly disobedient or damage the food supply. Only the conflict-driven Highland Enga people are reported, by Bauer, to carry out punishment in cold blood, for example, cutting off a child’s ear or finger, cooking it and making the child eat it, or being trussed up like a pig and suspended over a smoking fire. These extreme punishments are only for severe misdemeanours. All traditional Melanesian societies have heavy punishment for stealing offences, because in subsistence economies, where there is great emphasis placed on respecting and preserving food sources, the offence of stealing brings great shame on the offender’s family, as well as on the miscreant. Warfare is the most extreme of sanctions and underpins much of traditional life and values. While somewhat extraneous to child rearing and education it clearly influences the products of the system. It is quite distinctly Melanesian in form, with little idea of winning and losing, but usually comprises on-going feuds, punishment, retribution, ‘pay-back’, ‘an eye for an eye’, Paul Sillitoe sees it as “…another manifestation of the all-important equivalence principle that governs Melanesian life. Some cultural groups have marriage rules determining that men marry women from clans seen as enemies. Therefore all have relatives spread over a relatively wide area. These family ties do not prevent the outbreak of payback if a wrong or loss is perceived; and the notion of equivalence means feuds have long histories and are easily re-kindled. However, if the protagonists have enough relatives in common these persons may work to shorten the conflict. Resolution, a peace settlement, temporary though it may be, is marked by ritual singing and dancing concerning peaceful intentions and slaughtering of a pig or two, distribution and consumption of the meat representing agreement. McArthur states that payback (hani) permeates Kunimaipa [Central Highlands] social life and thought. Wherever possible, action and reaction must be identical: theft for theft, adultery for adultery, killing a pig for killing a pig. The Kunimaipa social division is between ‘pain’ and ‘sweet’ people. ‘Pain’ are kinfolk, close relatives with whom they must behave in a reciprocal manner. 75

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These are people they live with, visit frequently, and help in many ways. A clan member feels shame to refuse their requests. In their company they feel safe from sorcery. They should not joke with them, tease them, or make mention of sexual matters. They cannot marry any so classified. They are contrasted with pleasure or ‘sweet’ people, who may live close or be strangers. These they may marry, trade with, and often fight. THE PRODUCTS OF THE SYSTEM

The result of such values and knowledge systems, passed on by the various pedagogical stratagems outlined, is a reduction or channelling of aggression within the village. They learn to take out any aggression on strangers, those ‘beyond the pale’. The child’s world is cognitively divided into two great categories: kin and classificatory kin (often those with whom we trade and exchange), and strangers or enemies. As Margaret Mead points out, the stranger plays the duel role of bogyman to be feared and enemy to be mocked, outwitted and hated. It is upon the stranger that the hostility forbidden or channelled within the group is allowed full vent. Another result in many societies is that what the child has learned is not exactly what the parents intended to teach. Children learn that threats don’t always have substance, or that some commands can be evaded if action is substituted which wins approval. Sometimes too, aggression, retaliation, or assertion, prove more rewarding than submission and obedience, particularly as the child gets older. Schieffelin argues that, in the Kaluli (of Bosavi kalu, Papuan Plateau) sense, the child is going from ‘soft’ (infant) to ‘hard’ (adult). Here, the goal of socialisation is to harden the production of well-formed individuals in control of themselves as well as being able to control and influence others. Active and guided participation in verbal interactions with others prepares children to learn the language that ‘makes them hard’. This educational process is a literal and metaphorical construct for their socialisation and physical and mental development. Similarly, by the age of nine, according to Fortune, a Dobu child has learned to imitate his parents’ behaviour. If struck by a parent he might retaliate by breaking his mother’s cooking pots, or kicking his father’s dog. Ronald Berndt summarizes the Eastern Highlands’ child as having learned that, acceptable attitudes and actions lead to rewards, intangible and otherwise. They also offer the only secure defence against similar actions by others. What seems clear is that, as for traditional Australia, a pragmatic code is learned. Often, during initiation, it is forcefully coerced. Forms of behaviour that are considered appropriate for acquiring the knowledge to comprehend causality, manage the environment and local economy, and to get along with one’s kin and fellow villagers, are not left to chance. ‘Getting along with’ means, in effect, the maintaining of social institutions, such as gender relations and rights, and the pre-eminence of the matrilineal or patrilineal form of land inheritance. This conservative code precludes neither the individual’s accumulation of power and prestige within the village, nor the existence of rival factions. On the contrary, if a person works hard, makes useful alliances through marriage, effective giving of gifts, and has oratorical and leadership 76

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abilities, then there are acceptable ‘rites of passage’ to respected adulthood and possible positions of leadership. Traditional education shows the way to these positions. In sum, the basis of political and social organisation in traditional Papua New Guinea is the descent group or lineage. Status depends to a varying degree upon set criteria, such as sex, age and lineage. In general, however, the ‘big man’ or the ‘powerful’ healer, sorcerer or sorceress, achieves this status by exercising the personal abilities and achievements listed above. CHANGE AND DIFFERENTIATION

One must be wary of over-generalisation, however, the general impression is one of the cultural homogeneity of each society and the relative lack of differentiating behaviour between different ‘strata’ levels. In fact, in traditional village societies kinship organisation is far more meaningful than social stratification. With the bulk of the population being subsistence farmers and limited deference given to special abilities and training, the absence of a complex division of labour means the absence of formal educational institutions, such as schools. The main function of the informal type of traditional education is conservative: the transmission of an essentially common knowledge base, belief system, common culture and maintenance of social cohesion. As the political system rests fundamentally on kinship, a system of built-in checks and balances restrains political leaders and limits their range of innovations. The conservative outlook of traditional leaders may be reinforced in that they often have religious and spiritual roles, acting as intermediaries between the living and the ancestors, deities and the spirit world. The traditional land-tenure system, with restraints against any form of land-alienation, also limits the power of big-men. This is not to deny that the traditional systems adapted historically, hundreds of years ago, to cultural innovations such as new musical implements and performance types and to new food staples, such as sweet potato, sugar cane and bananas. Far more recently they adapted to trade goods, such as steel axes and the introduction of cash crops. A key argument in this book is that significant elements of Indigenous knowledge and pedagogy, holistic, contextual, kinaesthetic, mentoring, cooperative and participatory, can and should be applicable in contemporary and future classroom and development projects (see the final chapter). The heuristic device of seeing these societies as having a high level of structuralfunctional integration and a holistic interdependence is useful here. It implies that the transfer of Western educational institutions will have significant effects on most aspects of social organisation. These institutions are now being incorporated, usefully or harmfully, into the way of life of local villagers and townspeople. The structural-functional form of analysis does, however, tend to be conservative and does not explain change well. That is why analysis that is inclusive and responding to change seems more productive and more likely to reduce antagonism, fear and sense of otherness. 77

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How have Western influences affected the traditional social organisation, and why have some people in Papua New Guinea so embraced Western education, schooling and its likely disruptive and radical influences? The evidence here is relatively meagre, with few scholars providing tangible, detailed accounts of the changes wrought in traditional societies by the agents of Western change: government, outside educators, missionaries and the commercial sector. There are, however, some valuable overviews of education and colonial rule in Melanesia (see Barrington Thomas, E., Smith, P. and Weeks, S.). Two very relevant and detailed anthropological accounts come from Hogbin and Belshaw. Hogbin reported that on Malaita Island the Christian children were badly behaved, while the ‘heathen’ children were obedient and polite to their parents. Among the Hanuabada people, near Port Moresby, Belshaw found great tension between the Western-type school and village life in general: Discipline is lax. To control children emerging from the life of Hanuabadawith its continual movement, its emphasis on freedom for the children, even its recognition that children have limited rights to repel authority- is a major task, requiring the utmost patience and skill in the supervision. When these same children enter the school in large groups, full of intrigue and emotions for and against their classmates, derived from daily contact; when the classes are large and mixed in age; and when most of the teachers are innocent of training, the situation becomes almost impossible. The children do not like school, because it means sitting still, because they want to be outside, and because they are frightened of discipline. Hogbin found that the Busama, in general, embraced Western education. In their eighth year the children went to the village school to be taught by mission-trained, Indigenous teachers. They attended morning school for four years and then the boys went to the Area School at Mala’lo for two years. The best pupils then went to the Government High or technical school at Lae, or to mission colleges. Presumably, after four years of morning school the female half of the population was expected to remain with family and village. Why did the people accept these disruptions and tensions? Firstly, there is no doubt that paternalism, backed by coercion, played a significant role in the initial ‘acceptance’. The Europeans, from kiaps or patrol officers, to teachers and missionaries, wanted to proselytise and civilize and virtually did as they wished. They had the economic, political and military power to enforce their will. Medicines, steel axes, knives, guns, tobacco, alcohol, abundant food, aeroplanes and radio (that is, cargo) were such powerful forces that the village elders and the tenets of traditional society were no longer seen as wise and powerful. Everyday problems could be solved, no longer, by harking back to precedent. In many Melanesian communities today it is an archaic notion that elders are a force with which to be reckoned. The Europeans acted in ways that were contrary to traditional customs and yet no misfortune befell them; unlike the Wogeo they slept with their wives every night, never drew blood 78

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from their penes, yet they did not become ill or die. Parents also did not dare to take their children out of school. They feared the criticism of other villagers and the teachers; also they thought the government would object. Ian Hogbin was told that it was better for a child to know his Bible and be disobedient than for him to be ignorant and respectful. Finally, and most importantly, subsistence farmers then and today see that the path to economic and social success, access to ‘cargo’, has changed. The new, imposed methods of obtaining these goals is through a Western education and subsequent employment. As in Australia, the European invasion and conquest produced a colonial situation with an enormous economic, political and social gulf between the ‘educated’ whites and blacks and the ‘uneducated’ blacks. In Pidgin a common saying among those perceiving themselves as being uneducated and worthless, is “Me rubbish man tru”. In areas close to European settlements, and in fringe camps, the ‘big man’ system has largely collapsed and the villagers’ traditional guidance and leadership is missing. Hogbin found that for Busama people maya feelings meant that ordinary villagers were, as a rule, too fearful of becoming conspicuous to attempt to exercise leadership. He felt that the Busama and other Papua New Guinean communities were drifting rapidly, if not into chaos, at least into a state of dependence upon administration officers for the management of their affairs. He cited the example of a large commercial canoe falling into disrepair because the villagers failed to organise maintenance, afraid they might have “… people saying we wish to claim it ourselves”. My own experience was, in the main, teaching English and Social Studies (aka Politics) to recruits and soldiers in the PNG army in Goldie River, Wewak and Vanimo. My students came from every part of the country. I found that didactic, discipline-based instruction was not very effective, particularly with those from disparate backgrounds and limited English. However, when we acted out scenarios based on English text activities, or recorded actual experiences of army activities and excursions, expressing these in prose, illustration or photography, learning was both effective and enjoyable. Activities ranged from “When we walk to the classroom window and look out, we see… ”, class excursions to civic institutions, for example, the House of Assembly, to weeks of community development projects, such as building an airstrip at Munari Village on the Kokoda Track. Many of the older soldiers, in particular, had poor English, a strong fear of failure, and were resistant to school-like settings. Conventional Western pedagogy just did not work for them. Younger recruits, whose academic record was both recent and impressive (an offer of an army career was much sought and they were near the top of the schooling pyramid) were more accepting of conventional teaching methods, but did even better with more integrated, holistic, experiential and inductive learning, which is much closer and complementary to traditional forms. CONCLUSION

Today, in situations where villagers, townspeople and fringe-dwellers feel powerless, they seek a means of access to material prosperity. Education still promises much, 79

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but even for the successful it cannot always deliver. Too many seek alternative, often illegal and corrupt, alternatives. Those who have survived the progressive dropping out and not ‘failed’, instead of striving for the nation’s betterment, have in Paulo Freiere’s sense, often become sub-oppressors or compradors. The structure of their thought has been conditioned by the contradictions of the post-colonial power structure, indeed the realities of the revised ‘Melanesian way’ in Papua New Guinean politics. Their ideal is to have considerable political and social control over their environment and culture, as before colonial rule. However, to be a ‘big man’ has often required corrupt and repressive behaviour. AIDS, drugs, guns and bribery, complicate the issues of law making and enforcement. Commonly in Papua New Guinea there is an ostensible adherence to Western, Australian, and increasingly, Malaysian, Chinese, Taiwanese and Japanese ways of doing things, and to the formal, bureaucratised educational system that underpins and beckons access to it. As Les Johnson, Director of Education, related five years before Independence, I think most of us have been in villages where the old men come up to you and say, ‘I am but an ignorant old man but my son is not going to be an ignorant old man. He is going to school, he is going to read and write in English and he is going to be an important man in the future’. Villagers have accepted this reality to the extent that the demand for schooling has far exceeded the supply to the present day11. Access to power was very limited for Indigenous people until the late 1960s when the Australian government determined that Independence was to be sooner rather than later. ‘Nationals’ were rapidly trained and prepared in almost all fields deemed necessary for an independent nation, often by being mentored by Australian bureaucrats and specialists and promoted rapidly through the ranks. Many argued at the time and since that it was too rapid, too pressured, and led to mistakes being made. Certainly development is patchy and Papua New Guinea, a country with enormous national resources, is still dependent on overseas aid, mostly from Australia. Even today the main opportunities for the educated and credentialed lie within government- the public service, police and army forces, and the educational service, from pre-school to tertiary. The vast majority of the people remain subsistence farmers and little of the wealth generated from extensive timber and mining extraction finds its way to them, except perhaps just before elections. Local aspirations and notions of self-determination and self-management receive little support from regional and national government. As for Australia, the form of education provided often meets different, sometimes fewer, mental, social, and spiritual needs than did the traditional systems. If this is to change and improve then educational policy and practice that works is crucial to such outcomes. Key elements of the Australian and Melanesian traditional systems, the holistic, integrated nature of education, powerful imaginal dimensions, importance of contextual, experiential learning, highly participatory, personal and group bonding and orientations, kinaesthetic and ritual strategies, and tangible rewards for appropriate attitudes and behaviours, are analysed in the following chapters, but particularly 80

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the last, for relevance and application in contemporary education. The next chapter focuses on the following, closely related questions: What are the social, political and economic changes that have occurred since the invasion of these regions? And…What are the social, historical and economic contexts in which Indigenous education has developed? NOTES 1 2

3 4

5

6 7

8 9

10 11

This is becoming old-fashioned as young people, subject to outside influences, demand more choice. At the time of writing this section, September/October 2007, and place, Durham, UK, education determining winners and losers was seen as a major factor in developing disaffected and violent Indigenous white and immigrant black youths in UK cities, particularly Liverpool, Manchester and London. Squatter, fringe camps, or dysfunctional communities often place inordinate stress on their members. Traditionally swidden ‘slash and burn’ agriculture is practised, moving gardens as soils become leached and exhausted from high rainfall and close cultivation. However, particularly in areas of rich volcanic soil, gardens may produce well for generations. Villagers are usually expert gardeners, keen to try new crops for dietary variation and commercial possibilities. Most, particularly horticulturalists, seem to have conditions of ‘affluent’ subsistence, leading to relatively stable societies. In the past this clearly influenced the knowledge they needed and how it was conveyed. As for Australia, harsh and problematic environments and economies led to more competitive, aggressive, ‘Spartan’ ways of life, reflected often by violent social, gender, ritual and military systems. In 2010 economic survival for most Papua New Guineans, perhaps 85%, is by subsistence means. Today, probably cash as well. Cargo cults are, however unrealistic, adaptive in a psychological, short-term sense. That they can persist is clear. People may secure their livelihood with relatively little ‘work’. The obsession with pigs, key items for ceremonial exchange, has lessened over the years: money is now more important. Matrilineal societies give rise to quite different cultural formations from those that are patrilineal. Some who have seen and experienced the desire for educational opportunity in third world countries, such as PNG and Indonesia, often wish that disaffected youth in the West had some inkling of the privileges and opportunities they are rejecting.

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The Murrin Bridge Health Clinic, 2007. The Photographer is the author.

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COLONIALISM AND WESTERN EDUCATION IN MELANESIA AND AUSTRALIA

No child fails to learn from school. Those who never get in learn that the good things in life are not for them. Those who drop out early learn that they do not deserve the good things of life. The later dropouts learn that the system can be beat, but not by them. All of them learn that school is the path to secular salvation… (Reimer, 1970). There are exceptions to Andrew Reimer’s statement, such as illiterate entrepreneurs who understand farming or the market, but they are very much in the minority. Education, Western education, is usually the pathway to success for third and fourth world peoples. Colonialism in Melanesia and Australia is a comprehensive and deliberate penetration of the small, face-to-face communities of subsistence agriculturalists or hunters and gatherers by the agents of European, metropolitan powers. The colonizers, capitalists or governors, utilizing educational systems, restructure the patterns of organisation, resource use, economic, political and cultural systems, bringing them into a linked relationship with their own. The driving force behind this is an expansionist, acquisitive policy and a proselytizing ideology among the colonizers, or post-colonial elites and their backers. Of course, there is a reaction to this process among those so treated. It can be summed up in the term, ‘independence’, a process with the object of obtaining local or national self-determination, control of the community or country’s future and of its relationships with outsiders. For the clan, village or language group it is usually relations with agencies, local, regional and national. In the case of a nation it also encompasses external affairs, treaties, trade and aid. ON BEING COLONIZED- THE CASE OF PAPUA NEW GUINEA

Papua New Guinea is remote from Europe, in reef-strewn seas, with large coastal areas of mangrove swamps, almost impenetrable tropical jungle and steep, jagged, mountain ranges. It had little to attract the early agents of colonialism. However, the desires for tropical produce and the saving of ‘heathen’ souls, means that there is today some settlement from ‘outsiders’, mostly Chinese and Europeans. A number of stages can be recognized in the whole span of colonial experience. These are invasion, settlement or overlordship, consolidation and ‘high’ colonialism, when major transformations are wrought and inequity seems permanent, to local striving for independence and weakening expansionist will in the metropolitan power. Very different conditions operate in each. The latter is characterised by 83

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rapid growth and localization in the public sector and the granting or seizing of political independence. The British establishment of a penal colony at Sydney Cove in 1788 provided a naval base for the exploitation of the Pacific islands. Paucity of food in the colony encouraged a scouring of the islands as far away as Tahiti. These provision-traders were followed by whalers, shellfish and sandalwood traders, and, later, the infamous ‘black birders’. The Pacific labour trade began in the 1850s and the recruiting schooners took Melanesian labourers from the New Hebrides, the Solomon Islands, and, later, from eastern Papua, for service in the cane fields of Fiji and Australia. The mainland of Papua New Guinea was hardly affected by this trade; in fact, the first significant European development came later with German establishment of plantations for coconut fibre, copra, cotton, rubber and coffee, in the Bismarck Archipelago. Queensland absorbed the bulk of Melanesian labour, and, from the late 1860s until 1901, white labour interests and the sugar companies fought a running battle over the ‘Kanakas’. By 1890 the non-white population of northern Queensland had reached 22 percent and recruitment was halted. The powerful Labor movement, union and political party, had great concern about foreign ‘coolie’ and ‘kanaka’ labour bringing down working conditions for all. Soon Italian workers became available for labour on the cane fields and by 1906 most of the Melanesian labourers had been repatriated to their respective islands. INDIGENOUS PERSPECTIVES AND RESPONSES

Melanesian reactions to indentured labour provide a valuable insight into the complicated set of responses in the minds of those the Europeans encountered. The recruiters’ methods were often questionable to say the least. Vengeful islanders overwhelmed some vessels. However, many were very willing to go, as we saw previously in the account by Margaret Mead. Giles describes how men leapt into boats, deaf to the entreaties of their wives, and how they preferred the ‘civilisation’ of Australia to the familiar landscape of Fiji. Throughout Melanesia, indeed through much of the non-European world, in the early phases of contact, the reaction to the Western world was far from negative, except in response to disastrous epidemics or gross depredations. It was an opportunity to acquire new goods, pleasures, and weapons with which to vanquish traditional enemies. Throughout PNG there was interest in manipulating contact and trade to advantage, in using the opportunities of labour recruitment to learn about the outside world, and to exploit any perceived opportunities to gain access to the secrets and ‘cargo’, that is material wealth, of the Europeans. Many villages were relocated on the seashore to be closer to the source of new knowledge and goods- the missionaries, traders, planters, and kiaps or district officers. The ‘mountain’ Arapesh are now living on the coast, in part because of their harsh, difficult former life, but also because of the greater opportunities, especially economic and educational, provided by Europeans on the coast. All over contemporary Melanesia and Australia we find similar examples of Indigenous migration to larger settlements, towns and cities, 84

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seeking opportunities for their families. Too often this exciting potential is not being met. Indeed, it often results in disaster. When land was given up it was in exchange for the contact a transfer implies; having a resident white man would be advantageous to the village or clan. It was hoped to use and manipulate the newcomers, to benefit from their economic, spiritual and educational activities. In Melanesia and Australia, it was only when the high phase of colonialism or ‘protection’ appeared permanent, that the psychological reaction hardened. Most whites refused any notion of reciprocal dependency. Blacks saw themselves as less than equal and it hurt them cruelly. The clamour for equality began but concessions proved inadequate, for every move towards equality made the remaining differences seem intolerable. In Papua New Guinea (as in Australia and many other colonies), the spearhead of the West was often the Christian1 missionary. In mission eyes spiritual redemption through acceptance of the Word had to be accompanied by social, educational and economic change. Clearly some traditional ways, such as payback, internecine warfare, cannibalism and headhunting were anathema to practically all outsiders, not just missionaries. PNG societies as they found them were the antithesis of the good Christian life, and had to make way for the Ten Commandments and Western values of individual rights and personal initiative. Trade and the Gospel were regarded as interdependent, one justifying the other. As education was the main instrument of ideology and values affecting schools those opened in PNG were, from the beginning, instruments for affective, social and cultural change. As they promised a means of access to the power and possessions of Europeans they were usually welcomed. The pattern of political unification, economic development, clan and village disruption, often dispossession, was imposed in the early days of colonialism in PNG and Australia with a supreme nineteenth century disregard for local needs and aspirations. There was a colonial belief that Indigenous values were irrelevant, unworthy, if not repugnant, and should be ignored2. The First World War, the Great Depression, the Second World War, and growing resentment and assertion of rights in the colonized countries, were needed to destroy this overconfidence in the Western way of life, and make the colonial powers more receptive to ideas of compromise and adaptation. Throughout the world much of the initiative passed from the colonizer to colonized. In 1963 an ordinance was passed in Australia, which also affected PNG. It outlawed all forms of racial discrimination. Blacks and whites were guaranteed the right to swim in public pools, use public lavatories, drink in hotels and represent the people in local and national government. The old separatist, discriminatory ideas of gradualism were replaced by a vision of multi-racial societies. Of course policy is not always reflected on the ground. Since Independence, 1975–2010, there has been considerable psychological ambivalence in the attitude of Papua New Guineans towards the attempts made to attune Western influences and institutions to local needs. Cultural colonialism, Christianity and the psychological processes discussed above mean traditional village customs are frequently denigrated from within. Parents often do not regard schools and schooling as having any intrinsic merit; however, they want them 85

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because they offer a way up and out of a harsh subsistence way of life. Communitybased, practical, technical, ‘hands-on’ education also faces obstacles. Villagers often complain, “We already know how to grow food.” Some of the educated ‘westernized’ elite argue that, “It is a devious plot to foist on our people something that is secondrate.” Many argue that commercial ‘bisnis’ skills are those urgently required, as the following example, adapted from Brookfield, illustrates: Kawagl is a Chimbu subsistence farmer of moderate means. He is not a ‘big man’, and although he has adequate land, is not rich. He can read some simple words in Pidgin and English but cannot write. His farm includes a small, but useful plot planted to coffee. He has participated in several cooperative coffee processing enterprises over recent years. With some modest savings of his own and help from wantoks he establishes a trade store adjacent to a main walking track. Soon he purchases a commercial oven and begins baking bread. The enterprise is quite successful and he decides to diversify. With his trade store profits and assistance from wantoks he purchases a small truck, hires a driver, and begins delivering coffee beans to a processor. His interest and focus are diverted from the trade store, which loses business alarmingly. Coffee prices plunge, overheads for labour and truck fuel and maintenance are high. He cannot afford to continue and, disgusted, goes away to work and recoup some capital. Later he resumes the trade store. He feels that he was badly misled by expatriates regarding the business potential of the transport enterprise. He was not warned about the high recurrent expenditures or the possibility that coffee prices might plummet. It is very clear that there is a need to synthesize old and new in ‘bisnis’, development and education. The path is fraught with situational complexities and difficulties, but an attempt should be made. Communities struggle over relative value and utility of school-based and village-based knowledge and skills. Individuals and clans pursue their best interests within many structural constraints. Dire economic circumstances in Melanesia are forcing many former aspirants for credential-based employment to adjust to, even extol, village life. In Manus school has reached the limit of what it can do for the people… This kind of knowledge, it has reached its end…We must go back to the knowledge of our ancestors- the knowledge of the village…Life is good here in the village… PNG is in a financial crisis. It’s very hard to get a job. This is part of the reason (Community School Chairman, 1995, in Demerath). Education, the cornerstone of government policy for development has, too often, failed to ‘deliver the goods.’ The pre-Independence Australian policy of focusing on developing an elite to take over government resulted in many ‘qualified’ unemployed. Some became ‘rascals’, other returned to village, largely subsistence life. Seeing this, bureaucrats focused on initial, primary education, thus severely restricting secondary and tertiary opportunities. Concurrently, employment opportunities were limited due to reduced mining income because of the Bougainville crisis, local business incompetence or corruption and to inadequate levels of much needed foreign aid. 86

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These factors of efficacy and provision have rocked Melanesian education. Student achievement is also affected by the differences between Indigenous and Western notions of the production and use of knowledge and pedagogy. Dissonance is created in students’ minds and a healthy, confident sense of identity is threatened when schools devalue or decry traditional knowledge and life in the village. COLONIALISM AND NEO-COLONIALISM

While colonialism or neo-colonialism persist there is inequality between the two forces- in terms of wealth, military strength, organisation, and, of course, cultural ethos. Papua New Guinea has experienced over thirty years of de-colonization since Independence in 1975. Indigenous Australians, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders, have had a similar period of ‘self-management’ policy. From the 1992 High Court Mabo judgement the possibility of intrinsic customary right to land was recognized in Australia. There has been ostensible widespread withdrawal of dominant culture power and yet quasi-colonial power persists. Paradoxically, the laudable desire to develop or modernize Third or Fourth World minorities or small nations has resulted in this effect. Economically Melanesian and Australian Indigenous communities are incorporated into a worldwide trading pattern. The clans, tribes and villages, sell their labour or primary products and acquire services and manufactured goods from the west and east. They also pay towards the cost of the administrations which control, or attempt to control, their communities. In colonies foreign administrators controlled often slow changeovers to money based, market oriented economies, building up the infrastructures of communications, law and order, which are the bases of self-determination and nationhood. Therefore, pan-Aboriginal identity and nation-wide notions of the ‘Melanesian way’ were direct products of colonial efficiency. However, in most colonial possessions economic integration and the emergence of larger social and political units were piecemeal and haphazard. This led to widely different rates of modernization and great economic inequalities within the colonized and well as the major divisions between them and the colonizers. This imposes considerable strain on all newly independent countries and on all First Nations people, such as the Maori of New Zealand, Native Americans, the Fijians, and Indigenous Australians. THE IMPACT OF THE EXPANSIONIST WEST

The influence of the West was as effective culturally and ideologically as it was militarily, economically and politically. Colonialism had its beginnings in the development of navigation and maritime commerce in Western Europe, a region comparatively poor in natural resources, and, initially at least, comparatively backward in economic development compared to some of the regions it penetrated. It was also related integrally to the development of the nation state by bourgeois interests for the furtherance and development of commerce, both in Europe and in the colonies. This was in marked contrast to not only the ‘complexes’ of relatively self-contained economic units in Melanesia, Australia and other largely subsistence regions, but also 87

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to the large, ancient cultures of Asia, particularly India, China and Japan. The latter had centrally situated political organisations but, in general, their economies comprised many largely self-contained units. Europeans sought tropical produce, precious metals and the valuable products of Oriental skills. They were very successful. Trade flourished, often combined with piracy, plunder and slave trafficking. The rapid development of great mercantile fortunes led to exponential change and development. The needs of navigation and conquest provided strong stimulus to scientific discovery and technological progress. The accumulation of capital provided the foundation for industrial development. The European states, increasingly under the control of those with capital, aided and advanced the entrepreneurial cause. One could reasonably postulate that increased contact with more technologically advanced nations would quickly facilitate modernization, scientific, industrial, medical and technological improvement in the ‘host’ countries. For most the opposite has been the case, and particularly so in tropical Africa, South America, Indigenous Australia and Melanesia. So many people have been shown an image of their future as middle-class consumers, particularly by Hollywood. For most it has the substance of an image. Hunters and gatherers and subsistence farmers living in temperate climes were pushed aside as Europeans emigrated and forged cohesive, wealthy capitalist nations, for example in North America, South Africa, Rhodesia, Australia and New Zealand. However, in India, China, Japan, South-East Asia, the Middle East, Africa and South America, they faced either large, ancient, rich societies, or small, tribal societies in regions where climate or geography restricted European emigration. Here they plundered and removed almost anything of value they could seize and send to Europe. They altered the patterns of agricultural economies by seizing peasant-occupied land for plantations and mines and the production of exportable crops and resources, such as sugar, coffee, tea, palm oil, rubber, tin, diamonds, iron ore, oil, gas, and so on. Rural handicrafts, as had happened in Europe, were ruined by competition from industrial products. This created great pools of pauperized labour and smothered fledgling industries. The colonizers practised tactics of divide and rule, stifling local dissent. Compliant domestic overlords, colonial elites, were invested with considerable power and wealth. These overlords, freed from traditional feudal constraints, often became more corrupt and unjust. Japan is a fascinating exception. The obvious threat of economic and political take-over by the West stimulated Japan to speedily modernize and industrialize. Japan is the only country in Asia, Africa and Latin America to escape foreign domination and exploitation. However, American ‘gun-boat’ diplomacy cannot be denied as a factor for change. Japan was fortunate that its strategic position in regard to the huge ‘cake’ of China meant that each Western nation was loath to allow another power to control it. The country had poor natural resources and was hidebound by feudal restraints. And yet it modernized and industrialized successfully. It even became a military power, in 1902 defeating Russia in Manchuria. As Lenin observed, by their looting of Asian countries the Europeans managed to harden one 88

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of them, Japan, for greater military exploits that enabled it to forge an independent national development. When Japan industrialized she, in turn, became an imperial power, establishing an empire or sphere of influence in Asia and the Pacific. Melanesia and Australia were attacked during the Second World War. Having successfully ‘colonized’ the Japanese peasants, the Bakufu, business leaders, aided by the state, sought new sources of profit and trade. These are the twin engines of colonial and neocolonial impositions on Indigenous people, affecting them today as before. So many Indigenous people, cultures and languages, have not survived this relentless historical domination of the market. Malaysian timber companies currently plunder PNG’s virgin rainforests, much of the produce then sold to Japan. IMPLICATIONS FOR INDIGENOUS MELANESIANS AND AUSTRALIANS

The lesson for Indigenous Melanesian and Australian societies and communities is that local and trans-national companies require desperately the resources of their lands (and, to varying degrees, the skills of their people). Fairer deals can and must be bargained for by communities and workers. Partnerships, equitable agreements must be negotiated. The current power imbalances in development projects must be addressed. Outside investment, while welcomed, needs firm guidelines from national governments, ensuring local decision-making, involvement and equity, and, crucially, support for training and education in relevant knowledge and skills for social and economic development. As Paul Sillitoe asserts, the secret is to promote methodologies that tackle the hierarchies and power imbalances in current development models. In my experience, education and pedagogy, whether community or national, will not be relevant, effective or internalized, if imposed ‘top down’ and ignorant of the peoples’ wishes and needs. The final two chapters discuss education for community empowerment and development, responding, in particular, to the following questions: What is a relevant and effective contemporary Indigenous education and pedagogy that bridges cultural and historical gulfs? How can we best conceptualise, understand and respond to the challenges of Indigenous education in the twenty-first century? NOTES 1 2

I am well aware that Christianity is not the only religion with missionary zeal. Times and policies have changed. “Australia’s official engagement with Pacific countries [should] be informed by a nuanced appreciation of …indigenous cultural practices, social mores and authority structures” (Canberra: Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade Report on Pacific Aid, 2007, Recommendations).

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INTEGRATING TRADITIONAL KNOWLEDGE WITH EDUCATION AND DEVELOPMENT

Of particular importance to the engagement of Indigenous students is… inclusive teaching practice…pedagogy that helps to make learning more meaningful and important to students. Such pedagogy draws clear connections with students’ prior knowledge and identities, with contexts outside the classroom, and with multiple ways of knowing or cultural perspectives (National Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Education Policy, 2005–2008). The quote above reflects the key educational themes, the findings of the ethnographic and educational research, and the conclusions and recommendations to come. It is urgent, compelling, that significant change and reform is implemented. This chapter and the next provide overviews of the problems besetting Indigenous Australia and Melanesia and suggest practical, professional ways we can build upon pedagogy1 and curriculum to improve outcomes in education and to work towards a more inclusive citizenship. As the Report of the Working Party on Indigenous Studies in Teacher Education (2004) found, a major positive measure is that of teachers being able to apply pedagogical knowledge to help Indigenous learners achieve successful outcomes. Too often education (schooling) is seen as differentiating and alienating, to be feared or resented by many Indigenous students. Indigenous Melanesians and Australians find that much of what their children experience in education leads them down a path to failure, loss of confidence and self-esteem. Their communities’ needs, cultures, languages, beliefs and learning styles are often ignored or derided. I confront this ignorance and derision and recommend positive changes to philosophy, policy and professional practice. Schooling has largely undermined the Indigenous cultural heritage and the management and control of their communities. Schooling has, in the main, failed to promote Indigenous peoples’ identity and culture. There is considerable evidence of both resistance and accommodation to this process, in the face of powerful bureaucratic and educational forces. The chapter both summarises the measure of negative and positive reaction in Australia and Melanesia, particularly Papua New Guinea, in regard to schooling and authority, but also provides a framework for policies and practices, especially in pedagogy and citizenship education. It is grounded in ethnographic fieldwork, review of literature and consultation concerning the express desires and perspectives of many Indigenous people and their organisations, in both regions. It is argued that the relationship between school and Indigenous community is crucial to successful educational outcomes. If the curriculum and pedagogy, learning and teaching strategies, are devised and controlled by outsiders and Indigenous 91

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people are seen as passive clients then education is doomed to failure, as revealed in the various case studies and statistical evidence. Indigenous education faces enormous challenges. Regardless of curriculum or pedagogy adopted it is probably doomed to failure if economic and political realities do not change. In Australia, the sense of loss and pain experienced by Indigenous people and their descendants was, and still is, beyond the comprehension of most non-Indigenous people. In PNG, while on occasion loss of land is an issue, the main factors are corruption, inadequacy of provision, cultural disrespect, and imposition of alien, irrelevant, differentiating and unworkable education. That is why this story must be told. In Australia, with the expropriation of homelands and the destruction of an age-old political and legal structure, a mode of education that was an organic part of an existence, rich in meaning and usefulness, was suppressed. In place of this Indigenous education, imbued with sacred myth, ritual and meaning, holistic, contextual, person-oriented and cooperative, the farmers, officials, missionaries, politicians and teachers imposed an alien culture. It was a culture driven by economic motives, with an imperative to control and to dominate both the land and the people. While terrain, climate, and the oversight of international bodies, restrained colonial expropriation and domination in Melanesia, it still wrought enormous change on the region. The wide-ranging emotional, social, spiritual and political needs met by the leaders of ritual, instruction and knowledge, were lost to the people in both regions. In their place came the imposition of compulsory schooling, heavily influenced by the dominant Australian culture and polity. Here, in form and outcome, one would struggle to find a more radical contrast in both philosophy and practice. It is clear that an understanding of the circumstances of Indigenous people and the survival of their sense of cultural identity requires a probing of the past; in particular, it requires knowledge and appreciation of each community’s struggles with previous administrative and educational policies and structures. Policies and practices determined by Canberra or Port Moresby (the Vatican, Canterbury, UK, or Salt Lake City, USA) have, too often, been thrust upon mission, station or village dwellers. EDUCATIONAL INADEQUACIES

The education provided by a succession of administrations in ‘protection’ and ‘welfare’ eras in Australia, and in pre-Independence PNG, was inadequate in the extreme, particularly when compared with the traditional system of preparing the young for life and imparting knowledge. When examining the evidence one feels that these bodies were often more concerned with mounting an assault on Aboriginal identity and culture than with education. Certainly, Indigenous Australians criticized roundly the management strategies and provision of education provided by the various Aborigines’ Boards, State and Federal. The teachers, whether trained or not, usually believed that their Indigenous pupils had few abilities. Conversely, in the 1960s and 1970s, Australian former residents during the ‘mission regime’ and Papua New Guinea villagers pre-Independence, 92

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remarked to me that many of their teachers had little ability or practical knowledge when dealing with their children. Furthermore, during these high and waning colonial periods, approximately 1920–1975 in each case, Pre-School and post-school opportunities for Indigenous students were virtually non-existent. These inadequate educational provisions were a result of political and social philosophies and practices that not only exerted direct influences on Indigenous education, but also determined the people’s life circumstances, including their forms of employment. These were major determinants of each student’s desire for, and ability to, master the system of schooling. Many Indigenous students, particularly in Australia, resisted the system by avoidance, passivity or misbehaviour. In PNG educational opportunities were limited or non-existent for the majority. The research indicates that there was, and is, confusion about what constitutes relevant education and community management, development and citizenship policies for Indigenous communities. In Australia, state policies moved from protection, assimilation, and integration, to self-management and self-determination. In Papua New Guinea and other Melanesian countries they moved from paternalism to an unseemly rush to Independence, characterized by extremely patchy resourcing and delivery by administration and church organisations. As the ethnographies and educational research indicate, the problem of what constitutes appropriate education and political organisation for an Indigenous community is compounded by the interaction between two separate forces. On the one hand there is the obvious loyalty of the Indigenous people to their own community. They have ‘grown up in the ashes’, or been ‘steered in the right direction’ by traditional mores and practices. They share the language, culture and history of the village or the ‘mob’. This constitutes the people’s most valuable psychic, social, and often practical economic resource- economic in the sense of mutual aid, co-operation and reciprocity. They identify as Busama, Wogeo, Koories, Nyoongar or Yolgnu, with a similar cultural heritage to that of other communities living within or on the perimeter of their traditional homelands. They identify existentially and ideologically to a degree at least as Indigenous Papua New Guineans or Australians. Through their ‘big men’ or other forms of leadership, they, as communities, formulate and define their relations and boundaries with other groups. In many ways this is a case of the dominated attempting to re-negotiate the complex and changing power relationship between themselves and the dominators. While recognising the need for better provision of education the people ‘on the ground’ also fear its differentiating capacities. It might, ‘take them away’ to study and work, never to return. On the other hand there is the often parlous economic state of the communities, the damaging levels of smoking, drinking and gambling2, perhaps internecine quarrelling, even warfare, the negative perceptions, policies and actions of external agencies, groups and individuals, and these are largely beyond the control of each community’s members or leadership, whether in Australia, Melanesia, New Zealand, Japan, Malaysia, Thailand, Scandinavia, Canada or the USA. But this should not be so. 93

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ECONOMIC CONDITIONS

In regard to the Murrin Bridge community today, the economic reality that confronts it, as it does for so many Indigenous communities in rural Australia, operates on a number of planes. There is the regional rural economy, the Australian economy, and the international economy. At all levels this is bad for the community, and, in fact, has gone from bad to worse. From the early 1980s to 2010 the local nongovernmental economy offered virtually nothing: little future, no economic security, and few economic rewards for the dispossessed Murrin Bridge and many other rural NSW Indigenous people. Then there is the economic activity that results from state and federal government action. In the period of the initial case study, when the policy was one of restriction in state and federal economic activity, the funding of the community organisation was limited to a holding operation. Any profits made by this organisation merely resulted in a reduction of funding. However, housing and training opportunities were offered away from the ‘mission’, an obvious threat to the viability of the small community. In such a context then, while many of the problems of the community derive from the harsh facts of poverty, the solutions to these problems do not lie in the immediate economic realm. The community leadership has gone as far as it can, with applications for land and provision of housing, health, environmental improvements, and economic initiatives such as sharecropping and viticulture. The solutions to the ‘sea of woes’ can only come from changed political decision-making and action. Only with particular political decisions concerning far greater land-acquisition and professional support for the community’s control over its own management, housing and education could the many difficulties begin to be dealt with, including the 2007–2008 situation of being in receivership. However, the State offers inducements to residents to relocate, particularly with the provision of housing, education, training and employment opportunities outside Murrin Bridge. This latter, more integrative, strategy has resulted in a number of families relocating, particularly to the nearby Lake Cargelligo. In 2007–2010 many rural and remote Indigenous communities are undergoing extensive Federal intervention, on the grounds of mismanagement and systemic child abuse. One result, almost certainly, will be encouragement, if not coercion, to integrate, to move to work and opportunities outside. This may be advantageous for some, but the strategy of taking decision-making away from leaders (and not all are evil, exploiting the young) has been shown, time after time, to lead to passive resistance at best, dependence on welfare, sense of anomie, self-harm, violence to others and criminality, at worst. In Melanesia and Australia economic and educational opportunities outside small and remote Indigenous communities mean many shifts to towns and cities, resulting in often disastrous lives in marginalized suburban, fringe-dweller, shanty-town or town-camp settlements. PEDAGOGY AND CITIZENSHIP EDUCATION

From this vantage point we can evaluate, in a wider context, the operation of the educational policies, practices and institutions examined. Two central paradoxes 94

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stand out. First, the research reveals that Church and State schools and universities, as they exist in Australia and Melanesia, are shaped by and are intimately connected with the prevailing class and dominant culture structure. While these institutions allow for a certain degree of social mobility and adaptability to different cultural backgrounds, they both manifest and reinforce the existing economic and social privileges. The class structure and related racial and cultural differentiation is neither denied nor contradicted by the existing educational institutions. In essence, they perpetuate and ‘fine-tune’ both the division of labour and the recognition, the civic identity and sense of belonging, of Papua New Guinean and Australian citizenship. In 2010, the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Australian population is a little over half a million people; this is around 2.5 percent of Australia’s 23 million. As seen in Chapter 1, this number, based on recent ABS estimations, reveals an enormous increase from the 1992 census figure of approximately 260,000. It reflects both the relatively high birth rate of Indigenous Australians of 2.3% per annum, compared with 1.2% for the total population, and an increased willingness to identify as being Indigenous. To be accepted as such by the Federal Government they must be of Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander descent, identify as being an Indigenous person and be accepted by their community. Unlike most Australians, who are among the most urbanised of people, more than 60 percent of Indigenous Australians live in smaller towns and locations that are remote, rural and provincial. Often these places have poorer infrastructure and facilities than those in the capital cities. All social, economic, health and educational indices reveal that they are the most disadvantaged of Australians. In Australia, it is an irony, not lost on Indigenous people, that many of the externally imposed precepts of citizenship have excluded the most Australian. Further, since the Second World War, Australian educational philosophy and practice have been heavily determined by the facts of considerable economic development and confident, steady economic growth. Yet the rural, regional economy, in particular, has faced a different economic phase from the early 1980s to the present day, where these wider realities are not apparent. Growth is patchy, structural and negative in many rural areas, particularly those affected by drought. Thus, Indigenous students in rural and remote Australia face a double-barrelled problem. They, and their fellow non-Aboriginal students, are being educated to take their place in a situation of economic growth and development, but there is little growth or development and fewer jobs in the regions. Training and jobs are now largely to be found in regional and capital cities. For most Aboriginal school leavers there is just not any work available. Mechanisation clears the land and ploughs, fertilises, sows, strips, bags and loads the crop. The potential in mining, usually away from home, is far greater, but often daunting. On the more extensive pastoral properties either the owner’s family or contractors do most of the work. Community leaders all over rural Australia realise that they need their own land to acquire and develop modern technological, business and marketing skills, to generate their own employment and income. They attempt to gain more land, usually through native title legislation, with varying degrees of 95

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success. Even if successful they often find that the land is not such a panacea as imagined. For the Murrin Bridge community their hopes have come to very little, for the Western Lands Act recognises individual need and achievement rather than the need for Aboriginal community economic development and self-management. A successful ‘Booberoi’ claim has had little overall impact due to distance from the community, low carrying capacity for stock, and limited size. The ownership of land remains a prerequisite to any substantial Aboriginal involvement in the rural economy. It could signal the ending of the life of economic poverty. More relevant, effective education could also perform this function. The evidence indicates that the main thrust of educational institutions in Australia, including those in towns and cities, however, is to reward, develop, and find a place in the world for the more privileged, academically able, and economically endowed of the non-Indigenous students. Many teachers and principals have inappropriate pedagogic strategies with regard to their Aboriginal students. They often hold stereotyped views of Aboriginal students, parents and community, based on their own lack of appropriate education in the first place, and on inadequate knowledge and information in the second. They have few skills and little training that would enable them to deal with greater community involvement in the schools. There is little basis for adequate communication between most of the staff and the Aboriginal students and parents, although usually one finds a nucleus of very knowledgeable and committed staff, Indigenous and non-Indigenous, trying to get a better deal for Indigenous students, parents and community. Also, a talented and committed principal can make a definite improvement in relations and results.3 Unfortunately, for many staff it is a trying situation, to be weathered before moving on. In most classrooms with Indigenous students, educational processes involve social and cultural reproduction of ‘white-fella’ education and society. The teachers are usually white, inexperienced and know little about Indigenous languages, cultures or histories. Students are often resistant or absent. To survive teachers use coping strategies involving a great deal of ‘busy work’, often photocopied sheets to be coloured in or copied, or computer exercises involving little academic or challenging academic, conceptual work, particularly in literacy and numeracy. Instead of being a fundamental element of community development and management the school exacerbates the generational gap between children and parents, which is already resulting in dysfunction and violence. As with the old days of the mission schools, the high turnover of staff makes things even worse. In terms of the themes discussed in this book, too often the education provided has little cultural or economic relevance, virtually ignores Aboriginal English, traditional languages, Indigenous history and culture, and provides little opportunity for Indigenous involvement in curriculum development, organisation of schooling or teaching. Victoria’s school-community partnerships do, however, attempt to cater for the required community involvement, including selection of appropriate staff. It is also difficult for schools to retain qualified Indigenous staff. They are frequently ‘poached’ for management or training roles elsewhere. 96

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In many respects the local system of stratification in Australia has caste-like qualities, with the Aboriginal people constituting a pariah group, ignored or belittled, and yet occasionally used as a pool of cheap labour. There are many communities today where such relations and opinions persist, for example, Alice Springs. All too often the unpleasant, inhumane reality of this state of affairs ends up being presented by teachers and other authorities as failure on the part of the individual Aboriginal student, and, by extension, his or her family and community. They say or imply, if only they had the correct family life; if only they had the right motivation; if only they had the right personalities; if only they didn’t have those bad habits; if only they were cared for better. Such blanket criticism, while based, in part, on empirical evidence affecting learning, results also from their own ethnocentricity; it inhibits intercultural relations and rational socio-historical analysis and understanding, and thus unintentionally, but effectively, plays a major part in perpetuating the inequalities. The assumption is that Indigenous people are problems which education must cure. Many whites cannot see beyond the problems, the health and strife of the Aboriginal community. This cultural disrespect and powerlessness in educational provision is a very real concern to Aboriginal parents and their representatives in the Local Aboriginal Education Consultative Groups (LAECGs) established in many communities. They advise schools on Indigenous education matters and sometimes offer personnel for programs and activities. They want Aboriginal culture and community development topics taught to their children in schools, and sometimes after school hours, in Aboriginal-controlled cultural centres. They encourage staff to acquire a more inclusive sense of citizenship, of what it is to be Australian. They would also like them to learn about and from Indigenous learning styles so that their organisation of learning is contextual to the children’s interests and is more relevant, organic, person-oriented and cooperative. As a teacher commented to the Working Party on Indigenous Studies in Teacher Education, “I think it is the ethos of the school itself which is probably …more powerful than anything…it’s often best to start with looking at where school culture is.” As a corollary to this involvement in the preparation of the staff for these courses, the parents state that they wish to have an influence and a measure of control over their children’s formal education, with Aboriginal parents, or a combination of parents and the principal, being in charge of Aboriginal schools and courses. The parental responses reject their lack of involvement in the system of education for the community and reflect the growing assertion of Indigenous identity, culture and community control. Conversely, changes must be made to reduce Aboriginal resistance to schooling. This will only come through genuine community-based decision-making concerning education. There is less likelihood of non-Aboriginal teachers reinforcing the community’s values and culture and so there must be Aboriginal teachers who are accepted by the community. Spending more money on various piecemeal Indigenous education strategies in schools will be of some value, but ultimately their value is reduced, for they disguise the true relationship between school and community, 97

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which is one of disburser and recipient. Aboriginal participation on school councils and curriculum development committees is also of considerable value but smacks of tokenism if taken in isolation. Within communities, such as Murrin Bridge and Lake Cargelligo, the community councils, through LAECGs, should have considerable authority and resources for all educational provision, from pre-school to adult vocational training. This would bolster and complement increased Aboriginal involvement in the schools and other education providers. The answers must come in the regions, for there seems to be little interest in seeking educational opportunities far from the communities. That is why some institutions, such as Batchelor College in the Northern Territory, and, on occasion, La Trobe University, deliver their courses in or close to communities. I have attempted to discover what Aboriginal communities need and want for education in the future. The clear message is that the need for educational reform is urgent and it is for the community to decide the precise form this should take. The message for all Australians from Indigenous scholars is that it is long overdue for their communities, “…to determine their own future as a distinct…race in a multicultural Australia. A stake in the land...must be the main basis for that selfdetermination” (Miller, 1985). Educational solutions, a more relevant pedagogy and curriculum, and Indigenous controlled educational institutions by themselves cannot bring about changes in the structure and strategies of social closure in a society that has massive inequalities and discrimination for those excluded on grounds of race, ethnicity and social class. Many local whites, not just poor whites, are convinced that it is they who are discriminated against, for they cannot apply for special housing and educational grants. In regard to legal prosecution many are convinced the police cannot or will not act against Indigenous people. It is often heard around Australia that, “They’re a protected species”. The Pauline Hanson ‘One Nation’ movement in the late 1990s thrived for a time on such sentiments. In fact, taxation deductions, grants for students boarding away, and many other forms of government support, are available for all ‘qualified’ rural dwellers, especially farmers and graziers. In 2004 the national, elected ATSIC was abolished and Indigenous affairs hardly rated a mention during the Federal election campaign won by John Howard’s Liberal-National Party Coalition Government. Later initiatives, announced by then Minister, Amanda Vanstone, led to appointment of a small Indigenous Advisory Council and the likelihood of the end of so-called ‘sit-down money’, passive welfare. Welfare payments are to be tied to acceptable behaviour, for example sending children to school and spending considerable amounts on food. As we have seen, many Indigenous people do work for their welfare payments. There are mixed reports concerning the ‘Intervention’ and other attempts to improve the health and safety of Indigenous children and women. If nutrition and school attendance improve and fewer children are physically and sexually abused then it is difficult to criticise the changes. What history and experience tell us is that paternalism, once abandoned, leaves the recipient less likely to cope with future challenges and more likely to be both exploited and resort to deviant behaviours. 98

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The research shows that Indigenous Australians want to be fully-fledged citizens leading dignified and satisfying lives within Australian society. In their eyes, therefore, the question of education is crucial. But more than this the people want the shattered links with their rich heritage restored, and the survival of their community and sense of identity. In their work histories, moves to western education, frequent embracing of computers and the Information Age, contribution to the arts and sport, adjustment to life in towns, they have integrated to a considerable extent. But they don’t want to be ‘coconuts’, black on the outside, white on the inside. This is what they mean when they declare that, “We don’t want that education to take them away. We don’t want to lose our children who have grown up in the ashes.” Education that is too differentiating imperils their heritage and community. PAPUA NEW GUINEA, EDUCATION AND CITIZENSHIP

Citizenship in Papua New Guinea is synonymous with a developing sense of national identity, education and development. Unfortunately, it is a fragile, nascent concept in a very complex and difficult polity. State agents, such as teachers, police and soldiers often struggle with the notion, so it’s not hard to see why many isolated clan members have little understanding of it. To appreciate something of the complexity the reader needs some historical and political background. Malay traders visited the Papua New Guinea coast for many centuries. Many Malay words are found in Tok Pisan (Pidgin English). The initial European contact was by Portuguese and Spanish sailors in the early sixteenth century. Spain claimed the west in 1545 and named it New Guinea because of a supposed resemblance to the people of West Africa. Papua was so-named because Malay visitors used their word for curly, frizzy, to describe the inhabitants thus. European traders visited more frequently from the 1850s, for example, Germans seeking coconut oil in the north, English and Australians to the south and east for trade and missionary, proselytizing work. All sought one or more of gold, glory and god. The Dutch began to colonise the west (as part of their East Indies empire). After Australian pressure (the state of Queensland threatened annexation as a bulwark against German New Guinea) Britain established a southern and eastern protectorate in 1884. The Anglo/German Agreement, 1885, recognized German control of North-East New Guinea, Bougainville, New Britain and New Ireland. British New Guinea passed to Australian control in 1902, shortly after Australian independence in 1901. It was re-named the Territory of Papua in 1906. In 1914 Australian forces seized German New Guinea. From 1921 Australia administered it as a Protectorate under the League of Nations and, from 1947, the United Nations. An elected House of Assembly, meeting in Port Moresby, was established in 1964. The Territory was renamed Papua New Guinea. Self-government was granted on 1 December 1973. Issues to be dealt with by the Assembly included separatist 99

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movements in Papua (many considered government departments and institutions were ‘captured’ by ‘New Guineans’). Also, Bougainville threatened secession (it had considerable mineral wealth, generating half of the new government’s recurrent expenditure, and considered it could manage better, be less environmentally destructive, than could the far-off Port Moresby House of Assembly. Papua New Guinea achieved complete independence on the 16th of September 1975, with Michael Somare Prime Minister of a coalition government. He, his successors, now he again, from 2002, have had to deal with frequent no-confidence motions, the Bougainville secessionist war, financial mismanagement at the centre and in provincial government, corruption in resource management, social unrest and waves of crime in towns, especially Port Moresby, occasioning states of emergency and dusk to dawn curfews, drug and gun running, high levels of AIDS, riots and tribal warfare in the Highlands, hiring and firing of mercenaries, corruption, strikes and mutinies by police and army personnel, violence and wide-spread electoral irregularities. Population growth is rapid, the age profile is young, and resources from national income and overseas aid, struggle to meet basic needs in housing, health and education. Poor health and social indicators reveal that poverty is a real problem. Also, there is a long way to go before a widespread, strong sense of national identity and citizenship is engendered. Of the 6 million people in PNG approximately 50 per cent are under the age of 20 years. Population growth is averaging 2.7% pa and the fastest growing provinces are Southern Highlands, West New Britain, National Capital District and Western Province, all of which have population growth rates of over 3%. Pre-Primary, Primary and Community Schools (up to Grade 6) cater for over 500,000 students and the primary participation rate is improving. The Provincial High Schools (Grade 7–10) cater for in excess of 60,000 students, while National High Schools enrol over 2000 students. Therefore, while over 500,000 students receive education through the formal school system, far more do not have access to formal education, mainly due to location and cost. The dropout rate from Grade 6 is very high and gets a lot higher progressively. Up to Grade 6 level students attend local communitybased schools. Family issues, traditional cultural factors, distance and cost, including school fees for the Provincial High Schools, often restrict further education opportunities. From Grade 10 level the reasons differ somewhat. National High Schools are residential and there are only a limited number of places available. Competition is fierce. In effect, senior secondary, technical and tertiary studies are restricted to a privileged minority of students (despite aid programs often specifying the need for equity and access). It is clear that, as for Australia, education is only one sphere, one answer, but it can and should be profound. A sense of national purpose and identity can only be fostered if individuals and communities have a sense of ownership and empowerment. This cannot be attained if the education system fosters notions of failure for the vast majority, of identification as ‘mi rubbish man tru’. Drawing from the past, incorporating elements of Indigenous knowledge and pedagogy, syncretism, insights from participant observation and ‘bridge-building’, are more likely to be sensitive to present and past. Such a model is dynamic, responsive, innovative, 100

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theoretically and practically, and reflects the best of contemporary educational practice, complementing and enriching constructivist, inductive and learner-centred approaches. Contemporary social attitudes, particularly towards gender and class, need to change dramatically. Adopting the recommendations suggested in this chapter may be the best way to convince traditionalists, from both systems, to accept change, modernity, scientific explanations and development, knowing that not all of the old ways are to be consigned to the rubbish bin. SCHOOLING AND CITIZENSHIP

For many Indigenous students, in Australia and Melanesia, the school functions not so much as an authentic pedagogic institution, but rather as an instrument of social control that serves to ignore or belittle their cultural heritage, identity, family and community, and to institutionalise their resistance and withdrawal. In this sense the school is better understood as just one part of a wider system of social stratification and domination by elites. It is made abundantly clear in a small town or village that one cannot view the school as a self-contained unit, cut-off from the rest of society. No doubt, for certain forms of analysis, it is useful to regard the school as a social system in its own right, and have its roles, relationships, processes, and sense of identity and communion analysed from this point of view. But such an approach is ultimately unrealistic, for obviously the school is but part of a set of wider social structures. For example, it is an expression of the State, and this is a complex economic, political and cultural reality, deeply historical in its nature. The school, including its personnel and curriculum, is rooted in the dominant social and cultural system. Examination of all of these dimensions, while undoubtedly important, is beyond the province of this little missive. SUMMARY

What is pertinent to my argument and suggestions is the manner in which schooling is caught up in the system of stratification at both the local and national level. Factors of race, class, status, economic and political power, bear down upon all who participate in schooling. While educational systems in Australia and Melanesia obviously facilitate some individual social mobility, making potential leaders and others more confident in dealing with outsiders, they also place people in particular race, class and status categories. They organise and structure the life-chances of both their beneficiaries and victims and legitimise their place in the system of unequal privileges and rewards. Hence, schools at present, despite the best efforts of many principals and teachers, do not usually contradict the local system of racial and social stratification. Ultimately they, in the main, function to preserve and legitimate the existing inequalities of power, wealth, status and ownership of land. The following chapter, suggests another way, drawing from my and others’ ethnographic, historical and educational research data and analysis. It is an inclusive, affirming, relevant, effective, approach, to move sensitively and inter-connectedly, 101

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from the immanence of tradition, inequality and dominance of others, to one of opportunity, development, increasing equality and modernity, by engendering inherent respect, networking and effectiveness. It is a form of two-way education, bridging to the past, utilizing present best practice and planning inclusively and cooperatively for the future. NOTES 1

2

3

Pedagogy includes classroom practices, learning styles, but is broadened in this study to include more institutional community and school practices. It is seen as inherently contested between mainstream and Indigenous forms, however I suggest more inclusive and productive paths. In 2007 Murrin Bridge Health Centre staff informed me that the ‘pokies’ in Lake Cargelligo were having a very destructive effect on many local Indigenous families, saying “They take away all the money; there’s nothing left for the kids”. Many reports, in PNG and Australia, cite the damaging effects of gambling. The usual explanation from participants is, “It’s fun, sometimes I win, and what else is there to do around here?” As noted above, very frequently they also have other addictive behaviours, such as smoking and drinking. Clearly these are linked closely to poor health and high mortality indices. Noel Pearson, read by Melody Potts, Cape York Institute for Policy and Leadership, said that while “Indigenous education is a massive disaster … there are a few good programs for Indigenous education, usually due to an inspirational principal.” Pearson added that we must build local interest and demand, and “If necessary tie parental income to attendance. Schools and educators must be accountable” (Making Schools Better Conference, Melbourne Business School, University of Melbourne, 2004).

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INDIGENOUS PEDAGOGY AND DEVELOPMENT Present and Future Success?

Indigenous knowledge is a growing field of inquiry, both nationally and internationally, particularly for those interested in educational innovation. The question, ‘What is Indigenous knowledge?’ is usually asked by Eurocentric scholars seeking to understand a cognitive system that is alien to them. The greatest challenge in answering this question is to find a respectful way to compare Eurocentric and Indigenous ways of knowing and include both into contemporary modern education. Finding a satisfactory answer to this question is the necessary first step in remedying the failure of the existing First Nations [Canadian] educational system and in bringing about a blended educational context that respects and builds on both Indigenous and Eurocentric knowledge systems. (Batiste, M. 2002) This final chapter, responding to the challenge from Marie Batiste and many others in the field, addresses the key question: What is a relevant and effective contemporary Indigenous education and pedagogy that bridges cultural and historical gulfs? Most of the Indigenous and non-Indigenous teachers interviewed stress that mainstream schools don’t cater well for a diverse range of students. In Australia they teach in a mainly white, middle class fashion. Students from different cultures are expected to conform, almost assimilate, or face difficult learning situations. These often lead to them to ‘wag’ or even ‘drop out’ of school. Contemporary societies in Australia, Melanesia and elsewhere, are confronted by the need to address difference and diversity. New complexities, identities, notions of inclusive citizenship and the challenge of assimilationist ideologies lend urgency to the task. Given the unique role of education in the socialisation of future citizens from so many cultural backgrounds and its pivotal position between family, community and society, the ‘school’ as an institution is particularly challenged. Education and culture are interwoven inextricably. The content of all education has value underpinnings, always associated with particular cultural agendas. Adults, if empowered, don’t leave transmission to chance. The expectation that cultural particularity be accommodated is growing. Theory and practice need to respond to acceptance of diversity, social cohesion, national identity, inclusive citizenship, empowerment and equity for marginalized groups, such as refugees and Indigenous minorities. Of course, this must be within reason. We don’t want intolerance or calls to violence against others taught by such institutions. What ought to be the role of schools in what are often fraught social, economic and educational localities and challenges? Is it possible to construct a responsive, effective pedagogy in the contemporary framework of pluralistic education? 103

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It is now time to summarise and respond to the case study, the wide-ranging ethnographic, historical and educational material, and to recent policies and practices in Indigenous education (see Harrison, 2004, 2008, Partington, 1998, Koorie Education Strategy Branch, 2008, and What Works on the Web). Drawing from my own work, current perceived ‘best practice’ in Australia and Melanesia and the need for empowering agency and communicative action, this chapter recommends to all educators and community developers that they consider the incorporation of elements of Indigenous pedagogy into learning, classroom practice and development projects. It is a distillation of pragmatics and sensitivities in the field, leaving out what is assessed from experience and advice as being redundant or potentially not as productive. I also explore the crucial contemporary issues of reconciliation between Indigenous and other Australians and the lack of a sense of national identity and citizenship of people from the various provinces and social strata in Papua New Guinea. Some of the roles educators and community developers can play to ameliorate these social dilemmas are discussed. Elements of reconciliation and citizenship range from the wording of preambles, constitutions and treaties, to social, economic, legal, cultural and political justice and acceptance. There are numerous issues and dilemmas facing decision-makers. For all of them appropriate education is vital. People learn better together if they know and appreciate something of the others’ pedagogical background. To feel comfortable and confident when learning is crucial to outcomes in education. This includes Indigenous and other students, community members, specialist educational and developmental researchers, and educators and developers who work with children, their families and communities. Adoption of the recommendations in this chapter, resulting from various ethnographic studies, teaching in schools, universities, and Indigenous communities in Australia and Papua New Guinea, a literature review and suggestions by practising Indigenous and non-Indigenous teachers, should lead to more positive outcomes and to less alienation from school and society. EFFECTS OF WESTERN EDUCATION

After the invasion and occupation of their lands by Europeans, Indigenous peoples were expected to benefit from a Western education system based on that of the dominant Europeans. The benefits were seen to be apparent, particularly in comparison to the perceived ‘stone-age culture’, ‘heathen’ beliefs and customs, and in Australia the ‘squalor and horrors of the black camp’. In the latter case, thousands of Aboriginal children, particularly those of mixed race, were taken from their parents, to be assimilated to European ways. The inadequacies, often horrors and abuses, visited upon many of those children constitute another story. Those who remained with their parents were provided with a second-rate education that not only tried to assimilate them, but also to denigrate their language, culture and community. SOME COMPARATIVE DIMENSIONS

Of course, this is not an exclusively Australian or Melanesian experience. Educators in other regions, from all levels of the education system, may care to compare the 104

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way minorities in their country have fared in education and society. For example, in Japan, the Burakumin ‘untouchables’, Koreans, Indigenous Ainu, even Kikokushijo, Japanese returnees from extended periods overseas, also experience an educational system that is, at times, less than supportive of their needs. Studies of African, Indian, Native American, South American, Maori and Sami societies, also provide telling examples of Indigenous systems of learning and knowledge being ignored or derided. The immigrant experience is often a similar one. Traditional cultural values underpin much of what people emphasise and think about. They continue to be the framework that people use to justify their behaviour and to explain the behaviour of others. The ‘cultural gap’ is small for those whose home cultures reinforce formal education, but wide for those whose home culture is very different. A major concern in education has been the lack of relevance of much of the content and methodology imposed upon Indigenous students. Many educators realize, from their own experience, or from writers such as Batiste and Thamen, that Indigenous children learn differently and that their cultures and pedagogies have validity and strength. They also need to be acutely aware of the diversity of Indigenous cultures, particularly in Australia and Melanesia, and that there is not a monolithic sense of identity or pedagogy. Dispossession of land and alienation, poverty, poor health and few employment opportunities must also affect educational interest, attendance, application and performance. Often, the inability to make decisions for the community, particularly about housing, land and community development, also affects educational outcomes. Drawing from the examination of traditional education and pedagogy, historical, ethnographic and educational data and analysis, and literature in the field, the characteristics of Indigenous learners are examined and pedagogical strategies explored to assist in both students’ learning and teachers’ delivery. The most appropriate and effective learning strategies for Indigenous students are explained as being holistic, flexible, creative, imaginal, kinaesthetic, participatory, mentoring, cooperative, contextual, respectful, accepting and person-oriented (Craven, 1996, 1999, Nichol, 2004, 2005, 2008). As the Maori academic, Professor Russell Bishop, argues, they should “allow the diverse voices of young people primacy and promote dialogue, communication and learning with others.” To ignore key cultural, social and environmental aspects of learning, as too often occurs, is seen as being particularly damaging for Indigenous students at all levels, in all places. RELEVANCE AND APPLICATION IN THE CLASSROOM AND COMMUNITY

The message conveyed in this section has particular relevance for teachers of social education and related subjects, such as anthropology, sociology, history, geography and economics, to Indigenous and many other learners. However, its relevance for the wider curriculum and community development is also clear. Many teachers find it of considerable value when teaching other subjects, for example, mathematics and science to Indigenous and other students, in Melanesia, Australia and elsewhere. Teachers often comment that effective oral and written English is essential for all students, but is often missing with their Indigenous students. They enjoy practical, 105

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‘hands on’ activities, but then struggle to explain what they have done. They find it difficult to respond to oral and written directions. It is clear that significant time and effort must be devoted to oral and written English, from preschool on. This is a common sentiment of teachers trying to teach Western concepts to Indigenous students. It raises many issues of relevance, such as communication, initial literacy, language, and recognition of and catering for an Indigenous pedagogy. In 2009 the Northern Territory Department of Education stipulated the importance of initial and sustained instruction in English. It also instigated measures to overcome chronic levels of truancy. Lack of literacy skills usually means little chance of employment and acquiring inclusive, effective citizenship. Acquiring such skills is almost impossible if attendance at school is problematic. The dilemma is what will happen when the enforced, coercive intervention ends. Of relevance to the equity debate is my own awareness that providing the same education for all will perpetuate inequalities. This latter point, lost on so many for it seems counter-intuitive, is of crucial importance for the many teachers and administrators who hold strongly to the view that “a ‘fair go’ means treating all the students the same, equally.” Of course, if educational provision has been second-rate, then moves towards ‘equality’ or ‘sameness’ are improvements but, too often, are far from being engaging or culturally relevant. Indigenous and other specialist teachers in the field argue that to expect one style of teaching to work for a diverse range of students is unequal and unjust. Contemporary Indigenous culture, in Melanesia and Australia, is complex and diverse, from traditionally oriented people living in isolated communities with very little knowledge of the outside world, to people living and functioning very ably in predominantly urban, post-industrial cultures and societies. For example, Yipirinya School in suburban Alice Springs caters for considerable diversity among the students. There are four main local language groups and the students come from ‘bush communities’, ‘town camps’ and Alice Springs. Aboriginal English is a lingua franca. An Indigenous teacher at the school explains the students’ backgrounds as being: “‘Town Campers’- these are students who live in small Aboriginal communities in and around Alice Springs. They can still speak their languages, but are increasingly influenced by the western ways. Most of these students face an overwhelming swag of difficult issues, such as living with alcoholism, petrol sniffing, domestic violence, child abuse, racism, poor health and poor housing. ‘Bush mob’- students live a more cultural and traditional way of life. Their language and culture is very strong and they speak little English, or ‘Townies’- these students live in urban Alice Springs. They either suffer from the same issues as the ‘town campers’, or at the other extreme they don’t suffer at all. They tend to lack culture and tradition, speak little or no Aboriginal language, but do speak Aboriginal English.” In the town camps about 1900 people are crammed into 188 houses and 72 tin sheds. The population can swell to more than 3000 with visitors from remote communities, usually in ‘Alice’ to go to hospital, visit family or have a holiday away from a ‘dry’, alcohol-free homeland. For most, especially children, these are truly places of oppression and despair. 106

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Many children living on the fringes of towns and cities in Melanesia face similar harsh realities and complexities of everyday life. One can see why education, if available, suffers. Primary schools in Melanesia cater for a large number of early and mid primary children, but as ‘cut-offs’ occur quite drastically in secondary and tertiary education those from villages and marginalized settlements are increasingly denied opportunities for education and employment. Decisions made are not just logistic and economic. Many students are disengaged and disillusioned by the schooling offered. Education systems, in Melanesia and Australia, need to cater for the consequent varying interests and cultural backgrounds of Indigenous students. Subjects that, by convention, have been taught to European standards and by European methods, including history, social studies, geography, mathematics, science and Vocational Education Training (VET) offerings, have to take into account their relevance to the Indigenous student, his or her background and needs. Many Indigenous parents in Australia express distaste for much of what their children are taught. For example, it particularly galls when children are told that Captain James Cook discovered Australia and that Australia was settled rather than invaded. So content, as well as pedagogy, needs to be accurate, appropriate and relevant. In Melanesia readers and textbooks are often neither relevant culturally for provincial readers nor appropriate for the needs of employers in such a diverse region. In both Melanesia and Australia students applaud black athletes winning at the Olympics. ‘Winners’ they can identify with are, or particularly were, often thin on the ground in film and literature. Much of what is found in these concluding sections has wider application for contemporary educational philosophy, policy and practice, especially engagement. Indeed, many students of Western and Asian origins experience difficulties with the subjects and methodologies offered in schools. Students whose language and culture is not based on Anglo-American Western customs and heritage often find these difficulties to be compounded with history and social studies. Conversely, as noted above, many of the insights and methodologies proposed in this section to develop a more applicable and relevant general curriculum for Indigenous students in Melanesia and Australia could be used to make subjects and courses more interesting, relevant and successful for all students. I certainly do not intend this pedagogical model to be seen as prescriptive, compulsory for all Indigenous students, as a model for separating Indigenous from other Australians, or Indigenous ‘wantoks’ from one region or island from other Melanesians, Indigenous or other ethnicities. CHARACTERISTICS OF INDIGENOUS EDUCATION IN MELANESIA AND AUSTRALIA

As we saw previously, traditionally Indigenous people learned as they grew up, with an informal learning system based, in the main, on the need to know, supported by a more formal system of initiation and organised instruction. This instruction was organised by ‘clever’, ‘powerful’ or ‘big men’ educational and political leaders, 107

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whom the anthropologist, Adolphus Elkin, termed, in Australia, ‘Men of High Degree’, [while he acknowledged that older women could also qualify and practise]. In central and western New South Wales these leaders were known as wireenan and walamira. All over Australia and Melanesia they were the repositories and controllers of Indigenous knowledge. Usually they had strong genealogical ties to the learners. All young people were ‘put through the rules’, ‘broken’, ‘tamed’ or ‘steered’ through life. While much learning was observational and incidental, no society left learning to chance. Sanctions for going against ‘The Law’ were serious, from shaming, physical punishment, banishment, to death. Education was organic, multidisciplinary and ensured a complementarity of gender roles (if, rather frequently, with fearful, antagonistic, oppositional, violent elements, particularly in Highland Melanesia and Central Australia). Learning took place, in the main, during day-to-day activities. Indigenous people were often fluent or could ‘hear’ in a number of neighbouring dialects, allowing communication with surrounding groups. Skills were learned by observation, imitation and real life practice and from the oral tradition linking song (stories, legends, instruction), site (land, property, fishing, hunting, gathering rights), skin (kinship, family, lineage, obligations) and ceremony (rituals, dancing, instruction and ties to the past). This led to the following characteristics of traditional Indigenous education. In brief, and recognizing significant caveats throughout this enormous region, learning was largely oral and the use of storytelling was important. Sign language also was used. Education was largely informal, except during preparation for initiation when formal, even coercive, and rigorous methods of education were used. Initiates later referred to being ‘ritually killed and born again’, ‘tied in’, ‘broken into’ or ‘steered’ through initiation. The more informal methods employed for learning included observation, imitation and casual instruction. Learning occurred through participation in the life of the community. Often instruction came as people gathered around a fire, leading to the phrase, ‘We grow them up in the ashes’. Everywhere the hearth, the family or community fire, constituted a place for gathering at the end of the day, where food was shared, stories were told, songs sung. Usually the very seating arrangements around the fire were significant in terms of the location of the person’s land (sitting in direction of country) and those with whom he or she could be close or distant, generous or practise avoidance. Through these means, a rich cultural heritage was transmitted and children learned the social, economic and religious life of the community, including philosophy, ethics, art, music, dance and mythology. Religion (perhaps better, spirituality) permeated every aspect of life. There was no purely secular education. In Australia, all hunting, food-gathering, family life and social life were intimately connected with religious beliefs. For the Orokaiva of PNG, Sillitoe found that, “…religious beliefs and many of their medical practices centre on two spirit concepts, asisi and sovai….” According to the Orokaiva, all living things, animals and plants, have asisi. The assisi of things may impinge on human life in many ways [for example, causality]. The sovai, in contrast… [are spirits of the dead]. 108

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Education was closely adapted to the economy. Skills of, perhaps, hunting, fishing, farming, house building, tool and ornament making, exchange, gathering and tracking, knowledge of the seasons for fish, animals, fruits, tubers, sago, the location of water holes, methods of obtaining water from certain tree roots and plants and so on, constituted important elements of education. It was life-related and life-inspired. Children learned social responsibilities associated with relationships: the significance of certain individuals in their education; (often for boys they were father’s brothers or father’s father’s brothers, and for girls, mothers and mother’s sisters (also referred to as ‘mother’) and other female relatives. Knowledge and experience of the kinship system was central to learning. Personal development, within a prescribed pattern, was encouraged. For example, each young man might be ‘apprenticed’ to an older master of ritual, dance, art or song, sometimes described in English as a ‘boss’, ‘guardian’, a ‘clever one’ or ‘powerful one’. Usually this mentor was a close relative who would hand down the traditional forms of skill and ritual to the learner who, in turn, would be entrusted with preserving that part of the culture. However, sometimes it was the learner who initiated the process. For example, a person wishing to learn a particular craft would observe a specialist over quite a long period. When ready in his or her mind the ‘apprentice’ would manufacture the artefact, usually to a high level of replication and quality. Education extended throughout life. Definite stages of wisdom were acknowledged according to age, and status in the community. AFTER THE INVASIONS

After the European invasions and occupations in Australia and Melanesia, Indigenous students were gradually introduced to the European, Dutch, German, British or Australian form of education. Many efforts were directed to remove the Indigenous ‘heathen’, ‘savage’, ‘stone-age’ culture and to replace traditional learning with that perceived as being superior, the dominant European knowledge. Initially, Indigenous children, and adults to a lesser extent, were taught a very basic form of Western education that allowed them to function as servants to and worker for the European colonists. Advanced studies were thought impossible for the ‘natives’ to grasp. Until the 1930s they were considered, on an official, governmental level, over the whole region, to be virtually ‘in-educable’. Charles Barnes, an Australian Minister for Territories, thought that Papua New Guineans “might be ready for self-government in a hundred years.” However, Paul Hasluck, a previous Minister, had been much more positive concerning the country’s potential for independence, so there was no unilateral position in Australian government. Barnes did state that Australia would implement a timetable for an independent Papua New Guinea if a party with a coherent program for self-government were successful in the 1972 House of Assembly elections. To the surprise of many, one of whom was undoubtedly the Minister, Michael Somare and his Pangu Party duly won the election and formed an effective coalition. A popular book around the time of Barnes’ comment was “Kiki: Ten Thousand Years in a Lifetime”, which incidentally contains some brave and barbed criticism of the colonial attitudes persisting into the 1960s. 109

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These attitudes continued in the wider community until quite recently. In pockets of Australian and expatriate PNG society they remain. The curriculum until the 1960s was, in general, one deemed appropriate for the lower orders and one that, by all the evidence now available, usually failed miserably. The mid to late 1960s and 1970s in PNG signalled an enormous, last ditch desire to prepare an elite for self-government and independence. It was they who were provided with vastly disproportionate levels of resources, time and energy. In the main, their children and grand-children still are the privileged ones. ATTITUDES TOWARDS THOSE ‘MISSING OUT’

In Australia and Melanesia, notwithstanding the reaction of some conservative elements, particularly privileged and expatriate groups in Papua New Guinea and in rural Queensland, Western Australia and the Northern Territory, there is greater appreciation today, in terms of policy at least, by society and government of the worth of all citizens. In Australia, there is a considerable breakdown of societal barriers to advancement. Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander students have far greater access to education, with positive community support through Local Aboriginal Education Consultative Groups (LAECGS), and government support, for example, in Victoria’s school-community partnership agreements. In Papua New Guinea national and regional agreements in education have led to some success in education, particularly wider access to primary community schools and, at the other extreme, to tertiary education. As Prime Minister Michael Somare stated, in 2007, Education in PNG is a success story. And many great things have happened in our country but we have been conditioned to focus on the not so good and forget the leaps and bounds we have made. We can compare ourselves to the rest of the world and be discouraged or we can compare ourselves in terms of our own history and be encouraged to do more. It is a simple truth, that there have been more people educated in the last 30 years than ever before in PNG’s colonial history. When I led the country to nationhood there was just one newly established university (UPNG) and very few university graduates around me. Today we have six universities, many colleges and other tertiary institutions for our five million people. And I have around me many well-qualified men and women who serve the country in many different ways, both in the private and public sectors. This is obviously putting the best possible construction on the present situation in his country. As for Australia there are many dysfunctional communities, particularly fringe settlements, with poor records of achievement in education. In remote, subsistence communities, there is likely to be no access to western schooling. Change is desperately needed, especially to counter the sense of ‘otherness’, powerlessness and lack of inclusiveness and citizenship. Too many teachers in the region, particularly in secondary education, carry a hangover of ‘superior’ Western or dominant culture knowledge and methods, a feeling that only they know what is ‘correct to know’. They are wedded to the methods that have applied in their classrooms for many years. 110

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Their cultural background and training usually ensure this is so. Often they teach as they were taught. Academic subjects, from history, geography, social studies, to health, science and mathematics, provide little exception to the above. The traditional Western classroom, particularly in secondary schools, has a teacher who explains or demonstrates an issue, problem or concept, provides some examples and then sets the students to research and work on problems or issues of a similar kind. These problems are graded, from simple to difficult. Often they are designed to tie in other learning, concepts and themes. If a justification for the topic, issue or problem is given, it is, ‘It’s on the Essential Learnings, the Curriculum Standards or Framework’ (the national, state or regional-approved curriculum framework), or ‘It’s good for you.’ Rather synthetic examples from life are often used to attempt to add relevance. The content is largely derivative and positivist and teachers and textbooks are still, in reality, seen as being the font of wisdom. In many, especially older, Australian history and social studies courses there is little sense of ‘blood on the wattle’, ‘clearing the run’, and the destruction, dispossession, segregation and attempted assimilation of Indigenous Australians. There are some admirable Indigenous Studies courses, particularly at primary and upper secondary levels, but delivery is patchy, methodology often questionable and community relations not necessarily enhanced. Clearly content, as well as pedagogy, needs to be accurate, appropriate and relevant. As a Yipirinya teacher commented to me, “To ignore content is to ignore why Indigenous students often choose not to access mainstream schools. The learning is not relevant to them or their lives. They don’t see the value of an all-inclusive white education, especially if it is at the expense of language and culture. Content is equally as important as pedagogy and learning styles.” In Melanesia and the wider Pacific similar sentiments are close to Thamen’s identification with Oceanic cultures. She sees the theme of decolonizing Pacific studies as being about the struggle, from kindergarten to university, to learn about the dominant study paradigms and worldviews of western peoples who lived in other places at other times. Globalization is “the spread of mainly Anglo-American knowledge, values and practices, rather than indigenous knowledge and wisdom… [it] may be compared to the spread of monocultures in agriculture, where imported, hybridized, fertilizer dependent seeds… crowd out indigenous local varieties”. Russell Bishop observes in a similar vein that, “In New Zealand most students report being Maori in a mainstream secondary school is for them a negative experience… Overall, the majority of students interviewed wanted to attend school, to have positive educational experiences and achieve. Most of all, however, they wanted to be able to do this as Maori.” Responding to similar concerns to those above, in Papua New Guinea (as in Africa and all First Nation locations) it has been argued from the nineteenth century to the present day that a national education system should be more responsive to local and national needs, and in particular be more appropriate to the economic circumstances of the country. As Smith observed, “In a few short years the school system seemed to have moved out of step with the occupational structure and was creating 111

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potentially dangerous social problems.” Thousands of Standard 6 and higher school graduates found themselves not useful either in the village or in outside employment. They sought opportunities in the larger towns. If lucky they found work. But most remained unemployed for long periods of time. These young men started other forms of education- cowboy and pornographic films, pubs, drinking, gambling, ‘rascal’ crime, drugs, violence, and so on. The clans these young people come from are crucial to their futures. They are the basic social units, and their customary systems of education, decision-making, allocation of resources and resolution of disputation, form the basis of the political culture that pervades the state. They, and their customary ways of doing things, must be linked more closely to schooling and pedagogy. Language of initial instruction is also vital. As Spencer, in Simanu-Klutz, argues, “We spend millions on textbooks that neither teachers nor students can read or understand and that have irrelevant content. We suppress the languages which are clearly the strongest mechanism for the transmission of knowledge… We spend almost next to nothing to develop… education materials in the languages of the students with content relevant to the Pacific Island environments in which teachers and students live.” LINKS TO CONTEMPORARY ‘BEST PRACTICE’ LEARNING

Modern, constructivist, inquiry-based approaches to teaching the social sciences, sciences and mathematics, encourage students to discover the concept by experimenting with tactile, relevant and contextual teaching aids. They strive also to develop intellectual and academic quality, connectedness, social support, and recognition and catering for difference. The research indicates that these approaches can integrate and link well with traditional forms of learning. They too tend to be more responsive to students’ interests and needs, engaging, contextual, group-oriented, conceptually creative, holistic and conducive to solving problems. Teachers, while crucial for establishing trust, support, resources and ideas, have less dominance of the learning process. It is not didactic or top-down, although a positive, supportive principal is essential. The work of Chris Sarra, the former principal of Cherbourg, Queensland, is significant in this regard. At Lake Cargelligo Central School, a program for disengaged boys which integrated student enquiry had culturally related topics and fostered experiential learning, often out of the classroom with Indigenous elders. A trusted and senior teacher, the Deputy Principal, organised and conducted it. The result was far more engagement and improved school attendance. Their literacy program was structured around it. Students took photographs, sketched, made notes of their preparation and experiences, and prepared assignments based on these. They gave oral presentations, which developed their confidence and surety with others. Academic outcomes improved considerably. The program reflected the aim of equitable negotiation, a central tenet of participatory development. Such initiatives are likely to be embraced by more people and hence be more sustainable. When working with Indigenous students, in village, community and other schools, much of the teachers’ planning involves liaison with Indigenous students, staff, 112

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parents and community education committees. Ideally, students and staff work together more cooperatively, using field research and community experiences, computers and the Internet, as well as book research, to allow real-life data to be processed and evaluated more easily and effectively. These forms of pedagogy and teaching encourage Indigenous and other students to have ownership of their learning and to take far more interest in their subjects, general learning and even school attendance. For example, the Indigenous students in Gippsland, Victoria, went from having the highest truancy rates in Gippsland to the lowest when they began attending their community controlled and supported school. The principal, chosen by the community, was non-Indigenous, but committed to Indigenous involvement and empowerment. The Indigenous ‘presence’ in this and other effective schools is strong. Parents and other community members are frequently in the school, supporting the students and teachers. The school is also very impressive in its use of information technology. Communication is an enormous factor if the school or other development agency is to involve and empower the students, parents and community leaders. LINKS TO THE INDIGENOUS CHILD AS LEARNER

Karen Watson-Gegeo observes astutely that we must start where children and their communities are with regard to learning-teaching strategies, ontologies and epistemologies, even if the goal is to develop in them the forms of knowledge valued by the dominant society and globalisation. If we are to respond to her recommendation to develop and implement an Indigenous pedagogy for learning, then we require a framework, a paradigm, cognitive, geo-spatial, adaptive and ‘whole system’ for appropriate learning. It must be based on sound ethnographic and educational research and respond to the needs of Indigenous students and communities. This is the aim of the book. Of course, the reader is well aware that I am cognizant of the dangers of over-generalisation, binarism, reductionism, dichotomous thinking and ‘tips for teachers’. The following characteristics of Indigenous pedagogy, particularly applicable to Melanesia and Australia, grounded in the ethnographic case study, refined and enriched by the comparative dimensions and cumulatively over time, draw from the research and writings of Craven (ed) (1996, 1999), particularly Halse and Robinson, Main, Fennell and Nichol (2000), and Nichol (2002, 2004, 2005, 2008). They are also influenced by ‘two way’, and Ganma ‘both ways’, forms of theorizing and developing cross-cultural dialogue, exchange and education (Harris, 1990, Creighton, 2003). The cultural dimension is often argued for passionately. For example, The Melanesian Way website stresses that, “… culture is important to the future of our children and to our nation, because culture ensures a history, a past, present and certainly a future. It is therefore important, and absolutely necessary, to hand down such an important birthright and inheritance to an informed and prepared generation. The future of this nation lies in the hands of our children. And they must carry our identity. They deserve to be cared for, directed aright, nurtured, and cultured, and prepared ready for the future of this nation.” 113

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At the Central and Convent schools and in many other Indigenous schools, children are pleased to hear Indigenous teachers or guest speakers tell them about their rich heritage. They nudge each other saying, “She’s one of us.” Conversely, on occasion, ‘Aboriginal Studies’ conducted by a non-Indigenous teacher and featuring a ‘museum studies’ approach, with film of Western Desert ‘tribal’ people naked, clouds of flies and lean-to shelters, causes Indigenous students to be embarrassed. A MODEL OF INDIGENOUS PEDAGOGY

The following ‘model’ of Indigenous pedagogy, refined and developed from my 2005 book, Socialization, Land and Citizenship… and subsequent research, is recommended for practitioners in the fields of education and community development. It should be implemented along with quality instruction in English as a Second Language (or, if applicable, other language of instruction). The first feature of the model is holistic learning. Holistic means complete, cooperative, integrated and all-encompassing. Indigenous children tend to prefer holistic or integrated approaches to learning. They reflect traditional Indigenous worldviews explored earlier, in which everything is interrelated and all relationships are important. They also reflect the ethnographic study’s findings of the importance of family and place. When elders are asked how a sense of identity, of Aboriginality, or of being a wantok, a villager, Busama, Wogeo or Hanuabadan, is acquired, they often say something akin to ‘We grow them up in the ashes’. That is, ‘our children learn around a campfire or hearth, in the bosom of their family and kin (or the men’s house or place, perhaps the women’s retreat or menstruation/birthing building).’ As a Yipirinya teacher observes, “At… school awareness of relationships is acute among the teachers and students. This allows students to feel safe and happy and therefore able to learn.” Holistic, integrated and creative learning approaches do not compartmentalize learning according to academic disciplines or subsets of apparently unrelated skills. Areas of study are concurrent and integrated so that learning flows smoothly between content areas, and the interrelationship between knowledge and skills is apparent. Students prefer to observe and discuss a task or topic before working through components and activities. Culminating activities encourage creative expression and outcomes. They learn more effectively if the overall concept and direction of a lesson is outlined, discussed and modelled before specific learning activities are introduced. Another Alice Springs Indigenous teacher finds that, “… children tend to learn better when they can make the connection and relate it to the whole concept, as opposed to looking at concepts in an isolated manner. It has a more real life approach and is more reflective of their Indigenous worldview.” This is particularly significant for the early years of learning, however secondary and tertiary teachers should also endeavour to integrate learning more and to apply concepts across disciplines. The second is imaginal, creative and flexible learners. Imaginal is understood as being relatively unstructured and consists of thoughts, images and experiences 114

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of learning. As for holistic learning it is strongly linked with notions of identity, perhaps expression of Aboriginality, of being a wantok or citizen. In the Murrin Bridge community and in other Indigenous societies, learning occurs more frequently in informal, unstructured situations, through observation and imitation rather than verbalisation. A Yipirinya teacher finds that, “Aboriginal students form pictures of tasks in their minds and then perform them through imitation. They prefer to see the ‘whole’ rather than ‘little bit by little bit’. In this way they have the task and the expected outcome and are then prepared to give it a go… They often need concrete materials to conceptualise what they need to learn. For example, when teaching a social studies lesson we might take students on a ‘bush tucker’ excursion.” These cultures are strongly auditory, as shown by their oral traditions, but there is relatively little verbal interaction when teaching and learning. There is a tradition of oratory at ceremonial gatherings, which may well have an educative function as it often has a berating element! However, information is transmitted primarily through extensive observation and involvement. For the imaginal learner, images are also a more effective means of regulating classroom behaviour. Imaginal learners may have difficulties with purely cognitive operations. They learn more effectively if concrete examples precede abstract understandings. Many Indigenous children are imaginal and referential learners. They rely on and enjoy visual images, symbols, diagrams, maps and pathways to acquire new information and understandings. One might argue that their, often uncanny, skills in football and other positional sports derive, in part, from this form of learning. Throughout the research the more intuitive, experienced teachers stated or implied that Indigenous learners are imaginal, preferring lessons that are experience-based and sequenced, so that a shared experience (film, excursion, role-play and story) is followed by modelling, reflection and self-performance. Exclusively teacher-centred instruction (that is, ‘chalk and talk’) is not an effective form of instruction for imaginal learners. However, there is certainly a place for teacher-centred instruction at times, particularly if the class or group has a common misconception or misunderstanding. Definitions, such as ‘colonial’, ‘constitutional’, ‘swidden agriculture’ or ‘eutrophication’, rules for games and instructions for student safety, come to mind. Participatory, or hands-on learners, acquire tactile learning through manipulation and movement within the learning environment. Most Indigenous students benefit from kinaesthetic activities. Information is taken in more easily through their hands and through movement. They like to handle things, to move them around; to also themselves, participate and move around. As noted above, they are often talented ‘play-makers’ in games and sports, anticipating and moving into an ideal position, seemingly effortlessly. Many teachers and community developers find that cultural experiences and visits to ‘country’ provide excellent opportunities to extend this form of learning. These kinaesthetic students prefer to learn by observing and then doing. They need learning strategies that allow them to be physically active. One of the most effective social and environmental education strategies for kinaesthetic learners, as for the disengaged boys at the Central School, is to develop excursions and tasks 115

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where students, in working groups, collect data outside the classroom. This is recorded in notes and photographs for later application at school or home. I have seen this in practice as a key factor in the success of many school programs. It is enjoyable, engaging, often challenging, and the participants can later share their ideas and products with family and other students. Models, including computer models, websites, dioramas, sculptures, tableaus, and artistic project presentations, tap this propensity. Computer games, simulations, computer skill, dexterity and attractive presentation activities, also build on this form of learning. Mentored learners emphasise communal, cooperative, shared and group learning. As the research has revealed in abundance, Indigenous cultures often place a higher priority on the group than the individual. Learning generally takes place in groups and is a collaborative process. Peer learning is commonplace. Cooperation is more important than competition or individual achievement. Students who are appreciated and respected, given time for group discussion and interpretation of instructions and assistance are more likely to be successful. Conversely, those who are not, may exercise group behaviours that reject the teacher or task on offer. It is crucial that teachers model respect. Russell Bishop found that in New Zealand, most Indigenous students identify their relationships with teachers or mentors as the most important factor in their ability to achieve in school. In many Australian Indigenous schools, such as I found at Murrin Bridge and Lake Cargelligo, staff often ‘constitute a movie’. Those who stay for at least a few years and commit, get to know the community and establish firm, supportive, mentoring relationships with students and their parents, achieve far better educational outcomes from their students. Students whose learning pattern is more cooperative than competitive will learn better in small groups that allow for collaborative work with peers. Pointing at and singling out a child, even for praise, may be seen as confronting. The child, who responds with downcast eyes and what may appear to be a sullen expression is not necessarily showing you disrespect. By contrast, in non-Indigenous society teachers usually deliver instruction with a strong emphasis on competition, individual benefit and achievement. Looking the teacher in the eye and answering confidently, directly and openly is praised and rewarded. Some students, including some Indigenous students, thrive on this; many do not. As a 2004 ACER study found, “…Indigenous students and non-Indigenous students differ in their learning styles. Indigenous students are more likely to be cooperative learners, whereas nonIndigenous students are more likely to be competitive learners. This finding would suggest that appropriate and effective pedagogical and assessment practices for Indigenous students would be ones that [incorporate] Indigenous students’ learning style.” For situational, contextual and experiential learners, in every Indigenous location researched in Australia and Melanesia, specificity and relevance, placing content and pedagogy in context, were revealed as crucial to effective learning. Literacy was a key example. Texts and topics relevant to the life experiences of the students invariably led to more engagement and higher academic achievement. Also, initial success led to more confidence when dealing with wider issues or less contextualized 116

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tasks. Students perform better when concepts are explained in terms of their personal experience. Teachers who use local metaphors and strive to be highly contextualized in their preparation invariably experience more success. In traditional Indigenous societies, cultural learning occurs in the specific context to which the learning relates. Children learn hunting techniques during food gathering expeditions, songs and dances during community celebrations, kinship law by interaction with relatives, artefact construction by long observation in situ, and little verbal instruction. By contrast, Western schools are often more artificial, human-made environments, where content is removed from and has little apparent application to daily life. By placing information, activities and learning in context, students discover that education is meaningful and relevant to their own lives. The ‘expanded horizons’ approach often has contextual value. Generalisations and skills acquired through a local study can be applied in a wider context. For example, studies of farm chemicals may lead to industrial applications, or local viticulture is contrasted with swidden ‘slash and burn’ agriculture or ‘factory’ farming. Participatory, relational and person-oriented learners are last, but not least, in the model. “A good teacher is someone who likes me and is fair” is the most common response from Indigenous students, in many locations, to the interview and survey question, “What makes a good teacher?” Students, who often feel crushed by their life experiences, the poverty and dysfunction of their background, need affirmation, support and structure to learn effectively. The research reveals, in all contexts, that a good teacher, or even more importantly, a good principal, is crucial to acceptable outcomes. By developing person-oriented learning for Indigenous students, we emphasize that family and personal relationships are the key to positive learning outcomes. Indigenous cultures are more participatory and person-oriented than informationoriented. Teachers are assessed on the basis of how they relate to children as people rather than by their qualifications or performance as instructors. Students who feel personal connection with the teacher will be more cooperative, interested in learning, willing to take risks and attempt new tasks. Indigenous and non-Indigenous teachers who take a consistent personal interest in their students’ culture and life outside school will establish a more positive rapport and hence a more favourable learning environment. Peppering your discourse with ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and other English gentilities is often disconcerting for Indigenous students. It is likely that, over time, the student will acquire some of these cultural niceties, as many a visitor has in other cultures. Students will work well with and for you if you have established positive relationships with them and a clear understanding of reciprocity has been established. The most effective teachers take a particular interest in each child, get to know their families and become part of their lives. Tangible reinforcement is better than verbal. If teachers anywhere are rigid about excessive politeness and formality then they risk a breakdown of communication with their students. Teachers can improve student achievement through simple strategies such as acting positively and consistently, welcoming students warmly to class, and building self-esteem through positive reinforcement. Getting out of the 117

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classroom on relevant, enriching excursions, or shared workshop projects, is often a good start. Indigenous children are highly skilled readers of body language; teachers need to ‘be themselves’. As noted above, Indigenous students, responding to the research questionnaire and interviews, most commonly define a good teacher as, ‘Someone who likes us and is fair.’1 SOCIAL AND CULTURAL DIMENSIONS

Today, the … way we think and learn largely depends on our ability to clarify for ourselves the differences between our received wisdom (from our formal, mostly western education) and the wisdom of the (home) cultures in which we grew up and were socialised, and from which we continue to learn important knowledge, skills and values (Thaman, 2001) These dimensions are profound. In essence, Australian and Melanesian societies have dominant and dominated cultural traditions, to varying degrees identifying with the colonizers or with the colonized. It is inevitable that there be conflicting attitudes towards present and past social, political and economic relations. If we are to share a common, inclusive citizenship then we must agree to some shared values, such as justice, equity, egalitarianism and a ‘fair go’ for all. Classroom and teaching methods that take into account the social implications of Indigenous cultures will help all students, Indigenous and non-Indigenous, to participate more and consequently learn more actively. The following strategies are recommended to strengthen the social and cultural aspects of learning and help bridge some of the gaps in outcomes. – Focus on tasks that can be performed as joint projects. – Introduce peer tutoring. – Do not insist on direct or immediate answers to questions. – Avoid public confrontation and reprimands. – If possible, and especially at first, avoid asking many personal questions. – Work on sharing, cooperation, values clarification, and a ‘fair go’ for all. – Ask a question to the working group and give them time to discuss and respond. In some areas, particularly in schools with bilingual programs, this enables those stronger in English (or other language of instruction) to explain the concept to their fellow students. – Expect a consensus of opinion; however, if there are divergent views, encourage appreciation of other viewpoints. If you consider the response requires more thought and work, explain this and repeat the process. – Be explicit about the purposes of questions. Use questions to the class or small groups to reduce ‘shaming’. Try directing questions to the entire class or groups of students rather than to the individual student. – Allow time for students to respond to questions. Ask broad questions more often than specific questions. – Finally, encourage and use peer questioning to stimulate discussion and involvement and to evaluate student knowledge.

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COUNTERING EFFECTS OF POVERTY AND OPPRESSION

Perhaps the over-riding background or environmental influence affecting education, in Australia, Melanesia, Asia, Africa, Europe and the Americas, is widespread Indigenous poverty2. Parents and guardians often have difficulty finding money for lunches, school fees, clothing and transport. Being embarrassed about poverty, “I feel shame”, is a major reason for absenteeism. Also, in many third world countries it leads to exclusion by school authorities- no fees, no service. The learning environment or context in which the student operates is crucially important to all students and can be used to good effect in helping Indigenous students. Ensure that Indigenous and other networks are tapped to reduce the effects of poverty3 and that there is, as strong as possible, a local presence, both with personnel and resources. Liaise with and seek support and approval from the local community, especially through parents, any local education consultative groups and community leaders. Use models, the playground and familiar ground as a teaching and communication resource. As a Yipirinya teacher, Alice Springs, observes, “Many students come from village, bush, fringe communities and town camps where much of their time is spent outdoors. It is essential that this be translated into the teaching situation. We hold many classes outdoors and out bush. In the language classes, students are allowed to move about freely.” If the latter is a popular picnic, sporting or fishing place for the local community, then you are much more likely to have parents accept your invitation to be involved in activities4. You will find the students to be far from shy and timid. When the setting is not confronting and younger siblings, parents and elders are around, aggressive or confrontational behaviours towards teachers also tend to disappear. Encourage student and teacher role-playing of various concepts, photographic or sketching activities, for later literacy, social studies, science or mathematical development. Make students responsible for their own learning by using research assignments and self-paced learning. Allow them to move around the classroom to explore and observe. Re-organise the physical learning environment to foster group work. Allow students to form their own groups. They often work better with friends and relatives, especially initially. However, there are times when one-on-one teaching is required. For example, a Literacy and Numeracy Tutor at Yipirinya School, develops, “… a very strong, personal connection with each child. In this way they feel comfortable and supported.” Particularly able children will often feel held back if the group is too slow or the teacher so determined that they should ‘discover for themselves’ that frustration at lack of instruction, support and feedback, leads to alienation. It is often advisable to accept higher levels of ‘working noise’ in the classroom and use non-verbal strategies to regain attention. Also, it is enjoyable and valuable to work out a sign-language system understood by all. Organise the classroom furniture with quiet areas and areas for group activities to give students more control of their own learning. Lastly, create a comfortable, relaxed and secure learning environment with many Indigenous symbols and references. 119

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ASSESSMENT: WHAT WORKS?

Assessment can be very confronting, particularly for Indigenous students, so the teacher should aim to use methods with which the students are comfortable. New forms of assessment, particularly self and peer, need to be developed that take account of the recommended changes in knowledge and pedagogy. Include assessment tasks that allow students to demonstrate knowledge visually and physically rather than just in verbal and written forms. Try fostering expression of concepts and themes by using environmental and immersion language techniques, drawing on the students’ own experiences. Assess comprehension by having students retell the activity, task or story using movement and facial expression. Use assessment that rewards teamwork. Avoid alienating students through criticism, particularly in the early years, or with new concepts or skills, by trialling the introduction of self and group-assessment of work. Most Indigenous respondents say there is no comfortable form of assessment. They find it confronting and will avoid it if possible. More progressive, on-going forms of evaluation and assessment are seen as preferable to large, formal tests or examinations. The more ‘hidden’, incidental, they are, the better. Failure is often seen to be, in part at least, the fault of the assessor. Of course, if student attendance is poor, then one can hardly blame the teacher, particularly if the school is well run and welcoming. As the students will face more formal forms of assessment for upper secondary and tertiary study I suggest that you gradually prepare your students by introducing small class tests, ‘open book’ at the beginning. Also, short dictation tests allow for immediate assistance from you, with the bonus of checking whether students are ‘hearing’ you effectively. Spelling and punctuation, often way under par, improve greatly with regular English dictation exercises and immediate feedback, reinforcement, encouragement and support. TEACHING EFFECTIVELY, WITH CULTURAL AWARENESS

In teaching, it should not be assumed that students from different cultures have the same requirements and expectations. As stressed above, barring overt discrimination, there is nothing more unequal than the equal provision of education to unequal children. That is, if you wish to perpetuate inequalities then provide the same education for all. Teachers could consider encouraging students to negotiate content, tasks, assignment format, and the time required to complete a task. Students might also negotiate classroom housekeeping tasks; they may prefer to work in teams. Taking turns with reading is often effective, as it is seen in the community as being somewhat anti-social. For example, in Melanesian and Oceanic contexts where the spoken word is so important, books are written, in the main, in English by foreign authors, for readers in other places, with differing values. The research indicates that teachers should try to recognize that effective learning is more important than ‘good’ behaviour or unquestioning obedience, although a 120

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measure of success will lead to more positive behavioural outcomes and the desired busy, productive ‘hum’ of students engaged in activities they find to be relevant and interesting. If either behaviour or attendance is a problem then seek advice from Indigenous and other colleagues, parents and community leaders. Also, as noted a number of times, using unambiguous body language will aid classroom management. TOWARDS PEDAGOGY FOR THE INDIGENOUS

The NSW Aboriginal Education Consultative Group cannot think of a single problem plaguing Aboriginal children- alienation from school, high rates of absenteeism, enjoyment of school, significant under-achievement, reduced educational and career aspirations, youth depression and suicide, conceptions about employment prospects… that is not traceable, at least in part- to the failure of education systems to maximize our children’s identity concepts as Aboriginal people… (Craven and Parente, 2003). [My emphasis] The following, if applied to teaching methodology and content, will play an important role in helping students to gain and reinforce their social and cultural knowledge. Their knowledge will then be both appropriate and relevant to their cultural background and heritage and will also equip them for life, work, and exercising citizenship rights and obligations in Melanesia and Australia. There is much about the wider societies and their political and economic systems that Indigenous people need to know if they are to be empowered and confident enough to embrace citizenship fully. It has been said, somewhat ironically, that they need ‘dominant culture’ anthropology, so they can understand and deal effectively in the wider society. ‘Two way’ means just that. The school and university curriculum can provide the above, and more, if teachers provide opportunities to learn by doing, with as much community involvement and teaching by Indigenous people as possible. They should emphasize ‘showing’ or modelling rather than explaining and use models and examples to demonstrate concepts, in particular from the local environment and resources. For the humanities adopt an ‘expanded horizons’ approach, commencing with the familiar before moving to broader conceptual understanding, for example from family, community organisations and local governance, to State, Federal and international politics. However, for any level, try to provide local, relevant experiences and information for all topics. If possible, use images, charts, diagrams and models to convey information and concepts. It is advisable to use multimedia resources, including the Internet, computers and video, to explore and demonstrate concepts. The websites of Australian partnership schools are particularly illustrative of how creative and talented Indigenous students are when provided with such opportunities. There are useful websites for Melanesia, NZ, the Pacific, USA, Canada, and other Indigenous education locales. Incorporating ‘real-life’ experiences and the manipulation of materials into lessons demonstrate the meaning of terms and concepts. That is, use plenty of concrete to 121

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build your concept. For example, when exploring the concept of ‘culture’, as well as the usual literary and multimedia sources, learn from students, parents, other community members, teachers, and lots of experiential, involving, enriching activities. Students need to be able to use their everyday literacies to learn the new literacies of contemporary schooling, verbal, visual, graphical and numerical. They need to connect learning to their everyday worlds, concerns and values. As Paulo Freire suggests, real life injustices can sometimes motivate individuals and groups. Such subject matter can focus and energise learning, particularly for literacy and citizenship topics and activities. Closely related to the above is the crucial need for positive and empowering self-concepts, to value themselves as Indigenous people. Echoes of PNG’s ‘mi rubbish man tru’ reverberate throughout the Indigenous world. EDUCATION FOR THOSE WHO HAVE GROWN UP IN THE ASHES

Tensions, complexities and dilemmas explored in this book involve tradition and modernity, spiritual and secular, local and global, cooperation and competition, inclusion and exclusion. Exclusion leads to feelings of inadequacy and alienation. As Bob Teasdale relates, “Almost every educator I speak within the Pacific believes that the balance is wrong, that the global, the competitive and the temporal have a disproportionate influence in most learning environments. How do we restore the balance?” Indigenous students and their families must not continue through the new century finding schooling to be alien and threatening. Learning about their own culture and community, as well as a Western education with strong ESL teaching, should lead to positive self-identity, to study, experience, confidence and power in the wider social world. As an Indigenous teacher argues, “All teachers should embrace Indigenous pedagogy; indeed, all students would benefit from this. In terms of reconciliation this is only one part, but it is certainly an essential one.” Social education, civics and citizenship education, English, mathematics and science, art and physical education, and so on, can then be vital, valuable and enjoyable components of what they are learning, of value to their very survival as a people. If the various suggestions are heeded and the learning strategies presented trialled and implemented, then educators, Indigenous and non-Indigenous, will be far more likely to assist Indigenous students to negotiate their place in contemporary Melanesia and Australia, in the global economy and a world of rapid technological change. Educators of Indigenous students need to both examine and appreciate the cultural constraints on learning faced by their students within the context of a mainstream curriculum and to build on the large pool of knowledge and pedagogy that the diverse Indigenous societies bequeath to their students. We can all learn a great deal from Indigenous worlds. The astute, culturally sensitive and professional educator can apply the cultural differences and knowledge base of Indigenous communities as a force to promote learning. While we should be aware of the diversity within 122

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Indigenous societies, the strategies recommended in this book have wide application. In fact all teachers and others working with Indigenous communities, can learn much from Indigenous pedagogy. Also, Indigenous and other scholars need to prioritize the diverse research needs of Indigenous communities and promote the ongoing development of culturally appropriate ethics and methods. As well as diversity there is often dispossession, anomie and poverty, enormous socio-political problems, poor service resources and delivery and few or inferior employment opportunities. In Australia, social justice and acceptance of an inclusive paradigm of citizenship are needed to complement the former Federal Government’s5 policy of ‘practical’ reconciliation in health6, housing, employment, economic development and education7. It is crucial that Aboriginal, Torres Strait Islander and Melanesian community organisations and teachers, Indigenous and non-Indigenous, work hard to ensure schools develop programs that meet the specific needs of students and their communities. Community education has specific and intrinsic paradoxes and dilemmas- possible conflict between national needs and preoccupations of local people, development of suitable staffing and governance, difficulties in providing relevant, attractive, comprehensible curricula over diverse cultural and linguistic regions and the provision of skilled and motivated resource teachers, librarians and information technology specialists. In Melanesia, and Papua New Guinea particularly, the dilemma is that national income is not generating resources sufficient to meet the burgeoning population and raised expectations, particularly for health and education. The ‘informal’ subsistence economy does, however, meet most basic needs. Factors of efficacy and provision [mainly lack of] transform education. As in Australia, community members attempt to pursue opportunities within structural constraints. Student achievement is also affected by differences between Indigenous and Western notions of the production and use of knowledge and pedagogy. Dissonance is created in students’ minds, inclusive identity and citizenship threatened, when schools devalue traditional knowledge, tradition, custom, and life in the village or other community settlement. Konai Thaman, a Tongan, stated in 2004 that, “For citizenship education to be sustainable, we need to re-define wealth in the way Pacific peoples define wealth, to include responsibilities to oneself, to each other and to the place that gives us identity and meaning- the earth.” This has enormous resonance in the whole region. As noted previously, I am acutely conscious of valid criticism of trite, simplistic advice, and of the dangers of stereotyping Indigenous students and their cultures. Educators who turn to social science research in order to discover the most appropriate forms of pedagogy may be victims of neo-positivistic over-generalisation, hoping for ‘recipes’ applicable in almost every classroom and community. And yet, a specialist is turned to for advice. The approach taken with the findings in this book is to recommend, but to qualify. I am also aware that ACER “Research data… does not support the current policy contention that culturally inclusive curriculum and/or the presence of Indigenous teachers will automatically lead to an improvement in Indigenous student outcomes.” It is clear that education, while a key factor, is 123

CHAPTER 7

not a sole solution. I certainly agree with Paul Sillitoe’s view that Indigenous knowledge is “a unique formulation of knowledge coming from a range of sources rooted in local cultures, a dynamic and ever changing pastiche of past ‘tradition’ and present invention with a view to the future” and that development cannot be meaningful unless Indigenous knowledge is integrated into the development process.” In response to the need to determine an effective contemporary Indigenous education and pedagogy that bridges cultural and historical gulfs, the research and analysis indicate that Indigenous students need to have positive relationships with teachers (who must include a representative number of local Indigenous teachers), a sense of ownership of knowledge, appreciation of their cultural background, and assurance that the school is a relevant and productive environment. Awareness and appreciation of that cultural, educational and historical background and application of the Indigenous pedagogy explored in the book, is crucial to these outcomes. The above, including many practical recommendations, is a contribution as to how we can best conceptualise, understand and respond to the challenges of Indigenous education and development in the twenty-first century. The book has examined policies and practices of educating Indigenous people for cultural and economic integration and assimilation into dominant cultures and societies. It has also explored and analysed more recent approaches, which reflect, albeit often in action rather ineffectively, notions of agency, communicative action, self-determination, self-management, cultural recognition, and inclusive membership of their societies and polities. All First Nations people who have ‘grown up in the ashes’ should experience success in education and in their lives as fully participating citizens of their own community and country. If we are determined to ‘close the gap’, social, economic and educational, between Indigenous and other citizens, the suggestions outlined in this chapter are crucial. Education, Indigenous pedagogy, strong oral and written English, empowering agency and inclusive citizenship, are key factors if we are to close the gap in health, wealth and political decision-making. Around the world and exemplified in Australia and Melanesia, the state, with its missions, reserves and colonial institutions, intended (and often, still intends) to make Indigenous the same as the invaders and dominant elites, or at least compliant to their legal, social and economic norms. Often the state, its institutions and dominant elites, on the ground if not in policy, seeks to integrate, even assimilate, the Indigenous out of existence as distinct peoples. A paradox of this intent is that, to a surprising degree, this process has given Indigenous individuals and communities opportunities to resist assimilation, conformity and compliance, to assert and revitalize much of their identity, custom and ownership. While it is fascinating to the outsider, it is survival, life and death, for First Nations people ‘growing up in the ashes’. What can we draw from this book? Clearly, as noted from the beginning, this is a complex, difficult and paradoxical field. We, as community leaders, developers and educators, need to think through and act on many issues if we are to effectively reduce disadvantage in educational and other crucial indices of cultural and 124

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existential survival. Inclusive and empowering negotiations, ownership of ‘country’ and knowledge, a strong sense of personal and community worth, getting off ‘welfare’, and effective and relevant ways of learning and teaching, are the keys to improved outcomes in education and community development. NOTES 1

2

3

4

5

6

7

Other significant student responses to research questions and from observation are that they appreciate teachers who support their special interests, talents, and build their self-esteem. Many add that sporting opportunities keep them coming to school and that relevance of curriculum, interesting, involving activities and links to real jobs and career opportunities, will keep them in education. They also appreciate having Indigenous teachers, aides and cultural presenters provide liaison with parents and communities, support in the school and relevance to knowledge and teaching methods. Girls, in particular, wryly, even bitterly on occasion, assert that older siblings with Year 11 or 12 “…cannot get a job in a shop in town.” Another frequent observation is that “The owner’s kids get employed first, then local white kids, the top students first. Koories come last and few get jobs in town.” The link is clear between attitudes to schooling and perceptions of employment opportunities. Poverty also profoundly exacerbates the problems of alcohol, drug abuse, violence and gambling addiction. For example, as mentioned earlier, if one has an expensive weekly ‘habit’ on a high income it is manageable, whilst on a low income it is disastrous. Fundamental needs, such as food, clothing and shelter, cannot be met. Schools that provide breakfast and lunch attract children from dysfunctional families to attend school. Swearing, fighting, self-harm and disengagement are not uncommon reactions to poverty and perceived injustices. For example, during NAIDOC week celebrations 2007, the Central School, Lake Cargelligo, issued invitations to the Indigenous community through the Indigenous Classroom Aide, to participate in an excursion to the midden (ancient shell mound) at Deadman’s Point. Indigenous personnel of the NSW Parks and Wildlife Service conducted a presentation. Lunch was provided. Many parents and community representatives attended, including two Aboriginal Aides from the Convent school. See: http://www.naidoc.org.au/NAIDOC-about/naidoc.aspx John Howard’s Liberal National Party government lost the November 2007, election to Kevin Rudd’s Australian Labor Party. At the time of writing, November 2010, ‘practical’ reconciliation or ‘closing the gap’ continues with Julia Gillard’s Labor government, including interventions in allegedly dysfunctional remote communities. However it has now been supplemented with the highly symbolic ‘Sorry’ Parliamentary apology for the pain caused to the children and families of the ‘Stolen Generations’. Also, the ‘permit’ system for outsiders visiting remote communities is not to be abolished. The Howard government had proposed removal of permits. The poor health and high levels of substance abuse in many Indigenous communities remain crucial factors in determining educational outcomes. For example, Dennis Gray reports that since 1994 the level of substance use in the Indigenous population has increased relative to that in the nonIndigenous population. He states that despite long recognition of “the primary role that social factors play in poor health and substance misuse, Indigenous people experience absolute material deprivation on all key social indicators- post-secondary qualifications, employment status, and individual and family income” (2004: viii). In Australia, as education is primarily a state responsibility, Indigenous education is often the ‘meat in the sandwich’, a fraught area, suffering because of competing, stifling, often acrimonious, federalstate relations. Similarly, in Melanesia, provincial and national governments often argue over funding and priorities.

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Canoe Tree, Central Victoria, with Cultural Guide, Ricky Nelson. The author is the photographer.

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