THE AGE
A true Australian hero
By JOHN PILGER
2000-10-20 00:07:41

Charlie Perkins was, in many ways, Australia's Mandela. Indeed, had the 
Australian racial composition been reversed, as in South Africa, he would 
have surely fulfilled that role. Instead, he struggled until his death for 
justice and dignity for his people and to alert the white majority to the 
truth: that unless they gave back nationhood to the first Australians, they 
could never claim their own.

Charlie became my friend on a blistering hot day in 1969 when he took me 
home to Alice Springs. Having grown up on Bondi Beach, I was introduced to 
an Australia I barely knew existed.

We picked up Hetti, his mother, who was waiting at the roadside, beneath a 
magnificent black hat. A queen of the Arrente people, she had given birth 
to Charlie on a table top in the disused Alice Springs telegraph office in 
1936 or 1937; she was never sure which.

We drove out into the red desert, heading for the Aboriginal reserve at Jay 
Creek, run by the Federal Government, where 300 Aboriginal people were 
corralled in administered squalor, often in 40-degree heat and without 
water, proper food or housing. The children had distended bellies and 
suffered from trachoma, which leads to blindness. This was the Australian 
Gulag.

The barbed-wire gate was locked and declared "No Entry" by ministerial 
order. "What d'you reckon, Mum?" said Charlie. "Do it," said Hetti from the 
back seat. I reversed the car, revved it and smashed through the gate.

"G'day!" said Charlie to the white manager, whose ablutions we had interrupted.

"Where's your bloody permit?"

"Lost it, mate," said Charlie. "Now how come these children look so bloody 
sick ...?"

It was Charlie who did much to change the conditions at Jay Creek, and 
begin to right Australia's great wrong by bringing the most basic human 
rights to Aboriginal people. On behalf of the most discarded minority of 
any white colonial country, his trailblazing role was momentous, as was his 
courage.

Growing up, he was a mixed-race Aborigine who was "protected" so that he 
might be "assimilated": the bureaucratic language that masked the suffering 
of the "Stolen Generation", now recognised as a form of genocide in which 
children were taken from their mothers and sent to institutions as bonded 
labor.

Charlie remembered his grandmother as only a face behind barbed wire. One 
of his brothers killed himself, which was common and still is. Charlie 
himself was never stolen because Hetti never took her eyes off him.

"You learned from when you were a kid to stay out of the way of whites," he 
told me. "Our big treat was being taken to the pictures, sneaking in after 
the movie had started and leaving before it ended, so that no one would 
object to us black kids being there. I grew up never knowing if the goodies 
or baddies won. Very frustrating."

He was sent to mission school in Adelaide, where he discovered soccer and, 
at 16, was spotted by the English first division club Everton, which 
offered to pay his fare to England. Later Mat Busby invited him to a trial 
with Manchester United, and Charlie holds the distinction of turning the 
great man down. "You know, I found a kind of racial dignity in England," he 
told me. "But I was homesick."

He became only the second Aborigine to graduate from an Australian 
university. In the mid-1960s he led white students on "freedom rides" into 
the outback of New South Wales. Their objective was much the same as that 
of the freedom riders who began the desegregation of the Deep South in the 
United States.

Charlie and his white comrades stood at the turnstile of one public 
swimming pool and demanded that black children be allowed entry. Spat at 
and assaulted, they were menaced by a growing crowd.

"I thought we'd had it," he said. "Then this black woman stepped forward 
and made a courageous speech in which she pointed to a white man who had 
gone secretly with black women and fathered black children. `Tell your 
wives what you've been doing, you bludgers,' she said. `Go on, they're just 
over there: tell 'em!'

"That evening black kids were allowed into the pool for the first time. We 
had won the first battle."

Charlie went on to win and lose many battles. For a time, he served as head 
of the Department of Aboriginal Affairs in Canberra, but co-option never 
worked with him. He invariably spoke his mind, eloquently peppered with 
Aussie epithets, as he pointed a finger at a white society that could never 
patronise him.

Whenever he came to London, he would call me and say, "Get the media out, 
mate. There's a demo in The Strand outside Australia House that will tell 
the Poms about an Australia that's just like South Africa." Knowing his 
reply, I would ask how many were going. "Just me."

Even when Sydney University recently gave him an honorary doctorate, he 
used the occasion to attack the government of John Howard for effectively 
taking away the common-law rights that the High Court had said belonged to 
Aborigines: an action the United Nations has condemned as racist. He would 
have exploded had he heard Howard and Philip Ruddock paying their 
clenched-teeth tributes to him.

Like so many Aborigines, Charlie was burdened by ill health. Most 
Aborigines can expect to die in their 40s and 50s. "I beat that," he said 
when I last saw him. He drew lifelong strength from his wife Eileen, 
herself a remarkable person, and his children Hetti (named after his 
mother), Rachel and Adam, and his grandchildren.

I spoke to him in hospital the day after the Sydney Olympics ended and he 
was cursing, typically, the absence of a "shaming campaign" in which he had 
hoped to participate.

More than most I can think of, Charlie Perkins was a true Australian hero.

John Pilger is an Australian-born, London-based journalist, author and 
film-maker.
E-mail: [EMAIL PROTECTED]
This story was found at: 
http://www.theage.com.au/news/20001020/A61296-2000Oct19.html


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