“I don’t want to go back there” – An account of an hour in Bre in honour of Maisy.
I wrote this reflection around 2017. I was staying overnight in Brewarina as part of a cultural immersion experience. Such programs do open eyes, and we glimpse into the reality of a world we do not know. The memory of Maisy is easy to recall. And it’s all too easy to let it just be that – recalled. My short stay in Bre struck me deeply. Maisy is at the centre. I don’t know what happened to her. I can only imagine that things have got a lot worse. Less likely, a miracle has happened or mercifully, she is no longer alive.
I am guilty of watching on. While it risks offering another privileged observation, I want to send out the profound grace, courage and humility of Maisy. In the wake of another death in custody, it’s a miniscule gesture of respect that embodies the power of a woman who has endured more than she should. She is a true bridge – her spirit a beacon for a more reconciled future #BridgingNowtoNext
Worn weary by isolation and weakened by the weight of survival, the vigour of the town resigned into a softened edginess. As I walked the blocked perimeter and its arterials, receiving ghosts and stories in a rust and copper hue, all that the buildings could muster was a limp ricochet as the footfall of rubber thong slapped a laugh against the walls.
All the locals were closeted up and peering out — the sudden shattering of glass from the bottle I dropped bringing the silent show at the council park to an end. This time a visitor. This time ginger beer. Now, bent down, shirt a-rising, strides a-drifting, I did the emu pick-up; the sun a spotlight fixing a fear of being seen.
With the pieces picked, I crossed the street to the brick library — closed for today that would roll into tomorrow. At the entrance, a bicentennial memorial told the story of the fish-traps (1) in two dimensions — the stones lay in situ just a kilometre away. The sun blurred the curves and lines of the etching, but you could still make out the bodies; bare and bent as they tended to the traps. Somehow, the know-how of these people spooked us and now they were trapped by another force.
With my stroll and lesson ending, I turned the final corner — at last some locals doing what they do. A classic bunch of giggly girls — three walking high behind a cyclist lazily circling. Across the street they saw me, my difference the day’s highlight. In playful tones they beckoned hello and cigarettes. I had not the heart or head to know how to reply — and on came a soggy frame and lowered eye — the lingua franca of these parts.
Then, I saw Maisy. Black, walking at angles and unkept. She trod the path with eyes closed, the same eyes that brought me into her orbit. In them I could read an unending heavy sorrow. Through them, she entered my heart. Her cry for smoke and money floated“ on — her sad refrain, “I don’t want to go back there” packed a punch. Seven simple words, uttered to an unknown mystery, a desperate plea weakened by defeat. Somehow, she lifted her head to ask my name, seeding her humourous farewell — ‘see you Skywalker’ — if only she could use the force. How often has she walked that beaten path- away from what she knew she had to leave — with no option but to return again and again?
1. https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/2015/jul/10/fish-traps-brewarrina-extraordinary-ancient-structures-protection
