Alexis Wright, The Guardian, 26th January 2018
I am talking about time immemorial experience – how to grow roots like that. Not like scrap of paper made yesterday – a second ago, flimsy, impermanence, that type of thing saying you got the title over blackfella country, you are on top. That’s nothing. You are not owner. Scrap of paper only painful in the heart, only cover the surface with poison. It can’t get inside proper deep law in my head. Lies type of thing like that fall apart eventually, eroding unfortunately, like sickly wind vaporing out of any little whitefella powerhouse thing called government. That’s only tiny. Big deal. Paper gets blown away. Paper only good for that.
Read more from Alexis Wright at Alexis Wright’s poem Hey, Ancestor! ‘It’s the 26th of January again, old Whitefella Day’