Eddie
Mabo comes home
by Merrill Findlay,
first published in Good Weekend, June 1 1996
The
remains of the man whose name is synonymous with native
title in Australia, Eddie Mabo, are finally laid to rest on Mer (or Murray
Island.)
 Warriors
of Eddie Mabo's Piadram clan carry his casket through
the bamboo forest on Mer. Photo by Merrill Findlay.
It's
hot on the rim of this extinct volcano at the far northern
end of the Great Barrier Reef. Bonita Mabo has been waiting
in the shade of a battered fibro shed all morning. A small
crowd has gathered around her: children, grandchildren,
siblings, in-laws, cousins, aunts, uncles, members of
the Meriam Council of Elders, young warriors from her
late husband's Piadram clan, a documentary film crew,
plus this writer from Melbourne. And there it is, the
light aircraft descending from the sky to bring the exhumed
remains of Edward Koiki Mabo home to Mer, or Murray Island.
The
plane lands, taxies towards us, turns and stops. Bonita
rises from her improvised seat and joins her oldest natural
son, Eddie Junior, on the grass runway. The pilot opens
the freight door. The pall bearers drag the casket from
the hold and carefully drape it with a blue and green
Torres Strait flag. As the casket passes, the warriors
lower their bows and clubs, and kneel. Bonita weeps. And
slowly, chaotically, our small crowd becomes a straggling
procession down the eastern side of this volcano to Koiki
Mabo's ancestral village of Las.
 Bonita
Mabo (in sun hat) and her extended family wait on the
Murray Island runway. Photo by Merrill Findlay, 1995.
The
land we are crossing has, as the seven judges of Australia's
High Court formally acknowledged four years ago (June
3 1992), belonged to the Meriam people since 'time immemorial',
or at least since their Melanesian ancestors arrived from
New Guinea an estimated 6,500 years ago.
To
contemporary Meriams, the traditional boundaries between
the garden plots they inherited from their ancestors are
as obvious as barbed wire fences and stone walls to people
of European descent. And yet, for over a century after
their island was annexed by the colony of Queensland in
1879, they were told that Mer and the two tiny islands
off its coast, Dauar and Waier, belonged to 'the Crown'.
 The
procession follows the casket across the landing strip
towards Las. Photo by Merrill Findlay.
While
annexation changed many things on Mer, it did not destroy
the traditional land tenure system, nor the continuity
of Malo ra Gelar, or Malo's Law, the oral code
of traditional rights and obligations which remains central
to Meriam culture.
According
to elder Jack Wailu, Malo the law-giver was 'a real man
with a shark's head' who buried himself near Las 'when
his work on Mer was done'. The stories and moral code
associated with this ancestral deity were quoted repeatedly
by Eddie Mabo and his fellow plaintiffs in their High
Court challenge to the concept of terra nullius,
the legal fiction that Australia belonged to no-one before
it was claimed by Europeans. Explains elder Mr Bua Mabo,
(no direct relation of Eddie), '[Eddie's] father and his
mother, they always speak to him in the language and tell
him stories about Las, about his father's gardens, and
about Malo's laws. They tell him that Malo is his god,
and that Murray Island is his island, that it's been handed
down from his ancestors.' And this is what Eddie Mabo
always believed.
 Our
straggling procession continues down the eastern side
of the volcano. 'You can feel the zogo here,' another
elder tells me. He means the sacredness, the spirituality
of the place. The pall bearers rest the casket on a bier,
or takar that has been built in a small clearing
in the bamboo forest. Underneath it a symbolic fire has
been set. We are walking in the steps of our ancestors,
an elder says in the local blend of Meriam Mir, Torres Strait Creole and English. Before the missionaries
arrived our ancestors dried the bodies of their leaders
or Aets on a takar like this. They'd wait
for the head to fall from the spine and then they'd remove
the jaw and hang it on Malo's sacred mask. We can't do
these things now, but it's important that we remain as
close as we can to our old ways, he says. That's why we
bring Uncle Eddie Koiki Mabo here today. Because, by his
actions, he has shown us that he too was an Aet like his grandfathers before him. A great leader of his
people.
 The
warriors lift the casket and we move on. Soon another
dark and secret clearing, this one in a dense grove of
coconut palms. Dead trunks lie across the ground and young
ones are sprouting from last year's fruit. Again an elder
speaks. Malo was here he says. You can feel him, you can
see his Law. Malo wali aritarit, sem aritarit: Malo plants everywhere. Eburlem, esmaolem: Let
it drop and rot on the ground.
By
now you can hear the roar of the surf on the coral reef
-- which means we're close to Las. We enter the village
along a narrow path lined with yet more coconut palms.
The bamboo house Eddie and Bonita Mabo built has been
demolished, and in its place a large white tent has been
erected to accommodate family and friends. In front of
the tent an ancient and very gnarled Wongai plum tree
grows, and it is beneath this that the pall bearers now
rest the casket.
 The
long journey from the Townsville cemetery, where Eddie
was buried in January 1992, has been precipitated by an
act of vandalism after the very public traditional tombstone
unveiling last year on the third anniversary of the High
Court's Mabo decision. Eight red swastikas and the word
'Abo' were spray painted across the shining black granite
and a bronze bas-relief portrait of Koiki was removed.
Explains
Eddie Mabo Junior, '[Dad] was buried in Townsville because
of Mum's grieving, but after the desecration on the night
of June 3, it was easy for her to say OK we'll take him
home. Especially since we couldn't guarantee that it wouldn't
happen again, seeing he was such a high profile figure
and an indigenous person as well.'
 Jack
Wailu with a traditional Merian drum. Photo by Merrill
Findlay..
On
the first night of Koiki Mabo's return to Mer, Sager the south-east trade wind blows hard against the bamboo
windbreak, and heavy rain falls. For no apparent reason
the village dogs bark uncontrollably and children wake
and whimper. At least one person sees Eddie on the beach.
Another sees him walking along the track between the coconut
palms. No-one seems surprised by this.
At
dawn, Jack Wailu is waiting by the casket to perform a
sacred ritual: the giving of a song to his late friend
and neighbor's eldest son. 'My father learned me so I
have to do it,' Jack says. After breakfast, another ritual
of more recent derivation: an ecumenical memorial church
service. And another song. Mama namarida Mose mara
memegle e naosa gair mara omaskir Israil le, the combined
choirs of all the island churches sing in a capella harmony. You sent Moses your servant to lead the people
of the Israelites from Egypt. Ekuaida mama gurgab gur
damrikie mari adgirlam ko abele. By your blessing
the waters parted because you are the way. (As Bua Mabo
explains to me later when he translates the words of the
hymn, 'Koiki led the people of Murray Island from the
bondage of terra nullius. This is what it means,
that hymn.')
 Bonita
Mabo (centre) and community members at the grave site.
Photo by Merrill Findlay.
At
some invisible signal the pall bearers step forward, lift
the casket and carry it back up the hill to a place overlooking
the Coral sea. We gather around the freshly dug grave.
A large tropical butterfly flutters by, the island doves
coo, and in the background, the dull roar of waves crashing
onto the reef. Chairperson of the Council of Elders, Sam
Wailu speaks. 'It's a very historical case what Uncle
won,' he says. 'And we welcome him home.' He urges the
young people to 'follow Uncle's example'.
The
reading for this simple burial ceremony is Psalm 23: I
will walk through the valley of the shadow of death and
fear no evil. Sam Wailu gives the biblical metaphor
contemporary meaning: indigenous people all over the world
have to walk through the valley of the shadow of death
as they struggle for their rights, he says in Creole.
And again that liberation hymn: Mama namarida Mose .... You sent Moses your servant to lead the people ...
 Sam
Wailu beats a traditional Meriam drum at the ceremonies
commemorating the late Eddie Mabo at Las, on Mer or Murray
Island. Photo by Merrill Findlay.
As
the families disperse, a young reporter from the Australian
Broadcasting Corporation approaches Sam Wailu. This is
the opportunity he has been waiting for. By evening his
words are being heard throughout Australia: 'Secession',
'Interim government', 'Oil'.
Expatriate
landholder, Jim Ah Kee, has already faxed his own press
statement from Cairns proclaiming that he will soon be
returning to Mer to head an interim government, with,
he says, the full support of the Council of Elders. His
vision of the future is based on the exploitation of known
Torres Strait oil and gas reserves which, he claims (probably
spuriously), can be accessed from the small plot of tropical
forest he now holds native title to on the island. As
preposterous as Jim Ah Kee's ideas might seem, they have
at least forced landholders to consider a range of too-long
ignored issues about their island's future, including
local goverance, appropriate economic development and
environmental management.
 The
tombstone of Edward Koiki Mabo overlooking the Coral Sea.
Photo by Merrill Findlay.
At
present, however, the community remains deeply divided
and confused about what native title actually means for
them. As resident landholder and former chairperson of
the Murray Island Community Council, Ron Day, admits,
'We confused over understanding the implications of the
[Mabo] decisions. We confused of our own responsibilities,
our individual responsibilities in different areas of
concern. We confused of what the [future] government [might]
look like. We are not confused that Koiki is our champion.
We are not confused on that. But Koiki has done his part.'
And
now it is time to once more unveil his tombstone, the
same one that was so seriously defaced in Townsville.
Bonita leads us back up the hill to the grave site. Mama
namarida Mose mara memegle e naosa gair mara omaskir Israil
le the islanders sing. 'You sent Moses your servant
to lead the people of the Israelites from Egypt ...'
Slowly
the long, bright lengths of cloth which have covered the
now-repaired tombstone these past few days are unwound,
and at last the words engraved into the black granite
are revealed:
In
loving memory of Edward Koiki Mabo, born Murray Island
29.6.36 died 21.1 1992 aged 56 years. Loving husband
of Bonita, devoted father, father-in-law, grandfather,
brother, brother-in-law, uncle and friend.
A Meriam man of Piadram clan.
Always loved. R.I.P.
As the Meriam flag unfurls and flutters above the shining
tomb, the islanders sing their new national anthem: Mer
thy name for us is lovely / Diadem in translucent sea
...
 The
Malo cycle of dances being performed at Las to honour
Eddie Mabo. Photo by Merrill Findlay.
The
day passes and in the evening the final ceremonies. Jack
Wailu is sitting in a plastic chair at the edge of a large
pool of light. From somewhere deep within him, the words
of an ancient chant. He's beating the sacred drum of Malo
as he sings, and from between the coconut palms, strange
and marvelous figures in grass skirts emerge. Their bodies
are painted with ochre. Soft white feathers are sprouting
from their backs and abdomens, and from their forearms
pink and green and yellow croton grows. Elaborate woven
battle-guards protect their wrists, and around their waists
and legs hang strings of shells. They move soundlessly
from the darkness into the light with quirky bouncing
sidesteps followed by deep pauses as the past seeps through
them. They dance and then they disappear. Only to emerge
again from the darkness ...
Day
Day, the last man to have danced this Malo cycle, passed
away in Townsville two weeks before Eddie's re-burial.
But, before he died, he handed his knowledge on. One of
the dances is about this very issue: the responsibility
of each generation to ensure the continuity of the culture.
Again
the dancers emerge from the darkness. One of them holds seuriseuri, the sacred star-shaped club representing
the wisdom of a people. One by one the warriors reach
out to take seuriseuri, and one by one they pass
it on. As Jack Wailu explained to me later, 'Eddie Mabo,
he hold that club when he was dying, and somebody had
to pick it up and go on and make our culture live.'
 Mer,
or Murray Island, in the Torres Strait from the air.
Photo by Merrill Findlay.
Soon
that responsibility will pass to the next generation of
Piadram warriors, the boys who are lying on their bellies
at the edge of the dance ring. From out of the darkness,
a huge and gloriously masked figure. The boys are transfixed.
They will never forget this moment. And nor will we who
are watching too. Because this is Malo, the giver of the
laws. He is wearing a necklace of jawbones, one for each
of the great Meriam leaders of the past. And behind him,
his warriors move to that ancient beat ...
This
story is dedicated to the late Leah Andrews, a Yorta
Yorta community leader, who was my friend and a friend
of the Mabo family. Leah rang me after the desecration
of Koiki's grave site in Townsville and asked me to
accompany her to Mer for the re-burial. When the time
came she was too ill to travel herself and
urged me to make the trip alone. My thanks to her always.
And to the Mabo family with whom I camped on the beach on Mer.
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