Damned if I Do by Philip Nitschke

construction on the letters, giving them my own nuances and spin. The people would ask my opinion on the matters that came up and I’d say, ‘Oh, I think we should just ignore this, and we should go ahead with that.’ It gave me a lot of influence and I liked the feeling that I was doing something worthwhile. I don’t know how long I would’ve lasted as a gardener.
    I realise now that I was very arrogant at times; I was sure I could cope with whatever came up. The other side of this was that I became intolerant of whites who came in simply to observe or study what was happening, without (as I saw it) putting anything back in. Racists targeted me because of my identification with the Gurindji. I wrote letters that were published in the local Katherine paper, The Informer , and had to watch my step when in town. White people were worried: what would happen to the cattle industry if the big ­operators, such as Vestey, pulled out? If theGurindji got their land, what claims might follow? I was challenged in pubs. I tried to talk my way out of these situations, but sometimes there were fights.
    Opposition to the Gurindji and their supporters took various forms. Attempts were made to sow dissent within the camp. Not long after my arrival, my father came up to Wattie Creek to visit. He’d always been interested in Aboriginal arts and crafts, and also wanted to see how his errant son was doing. One night, as dusk settled over the camp, a Toyota loaded with beer rolled in. It was driven byVan Der Build, the local Wave Hill policeman, accompanied byLen Hayes, the brother of the Wave Hill station manager, andSabu Singh, a contract cattle musterer of Aboriginal and Indian descent.
    Gurindji elderPincher Numiari took me aside. ‘Going to be trouble,’ he said. ‘Best you get out of the camp for the night.’
    We took his advice and retreated to the edge of the camp but my father, stubborn man that he was, stayed. Before long I saw the three men who’d brought the beer shoving myfather around, pushing him and shouting, ‘Your son’s a bloody southern shit-stirrer and you both should get out of the Territory!’ There were no weapons involved and they weren’t actually hitting him. My father wasn’t hurt but he was very frightened, distressed and humiliated, and left the camp soon after. Those three wanted to drive a wedge between the Gurindji and whites like me. They were saying, ‘We’re your real mates and here’s the beer to prove it.’
    There were other incidents—provocations and threats—all motivated by racism and fear of change. We were branded as ‘do-gooders’, ‘southern troublemakers’ and ‘nigger-lovers’. A common accusation was that we were communists. It was a long way from the quiet of the university lecture room and laboratory. I was reminded of that world, though, when my PhD certificate, neatly rolled up in its cardboard tube, arrived by post. It was an incongruous object in that desolate place.
    There were problems with funding and directing the money to the right ends. Territory laws operated in favour of whites rather than blacks. For example, only pastoralists were permitted to own high-calibre rifles. To kill cattle for beef, the Aborigines had to use .22 rifles, which was a messy and cruel business. I tried to send them my cut-down .303 hunting rifle (which would have been illegal) but it mysteriously disappeared in the post somewhere between Katherine and Wave Hill.
    Many years later, I was amazed to see, in Katherine, at the main southern intersection of the Stuart Highway, a larger-than-life statue ofSabu Singh that the Northern Territory Cattleman’s Association had sponsored, on the basis he was a renowned stockman and pioneer. I thought him a poor choice for recognition as part of an industry built on honest Aboriginal labour. It seemed to me yet another example of the facts of Aboriginal