Words & Painting by Matt Hannon
Kangaroos were abundant in the hills behind the Point, even though most of the land was now fenced and ‘owned’.
The Whitefellahs didn’t understand kangaroos.
The Blackfellahs didn’t understand fences.
And so the story goes:
The Whitefellahs rounded up the all Blackfellahs, and showed them to the cliffs—to the jagged rocks below, and to the unrelenting force of the frigid Southern Ocean.
They took all the screaming Blackgirls, and all the crying Blackchildren down to the swamp—for mass rape, and for mass murder.
And so the story ends.
For there are no written accounts in history, in its books, or even in local museums…
Just uncomfortable murmurs, whispered by those who noticed—by those who cared for the Kirrae-Wurrong people.
Whispers now eternalised by a fickle, dark wave that only breaks when the storms are brewing and the swells march in.
A wave that that echoes and thunders across sorrowful depths.
A wave called Massacres.