Becca Oldmeadow

Elderly abuse affects 14% of Australians, and more than half a million reports reach authorities in the US alone every year. These figures exclude millions of unreported cases.

From neglect, physical and emotional abuse and abandonment to s*xual and financial/healthcare abuse.

Sadly, it’s common in private homes, particularly when close family and friends struggle to meet the challenging demands of care work, and it’s heartbreakingly familiar in aged care facilities. The abuse is most prevalent in cases where there is a disability, memory loss or dementia.

Judy Joukador is a volunteer and educator based in Western Australia who advocates for protecting rights in our older communities.

Purple Road (the colour of Age and Wisdom) was born in 2011 and is a collaborative art piece created by individuals throughout our communities. Judy describes the project as surprisingly successful, given society's reluctance to discuss such a sensitive issue.

The Purple Road developed into a 30-meter-symbolic journey—a collaborative tapestry and visual spectacle comprising thousands of hand-crafted purple flowers, as well as other creative contributions. A representation of every story and conversation around elderly abuse, and a hope that this will draw attention to the issue, raise awareness and encourage victims to speak up.

The displays are now surfacing in libraries and community spaces across the state.

I was honoured to join a creative circle at Broome Library last week. Freshly baked pies, hot tea and a small group of passionate creatives worked together on personal and community projects, including a soulful contribution to this year's Purple Road, which will be displayed in the coming months.

Resources:
- WA Elder Abuse Helpline and Information Service: 1300 724 679
- Older People's Rights Service: (08) 9440 1663
- Vulnerable Seniors Peak: (08) 9472 0104

220km East of Broome, Derby is a historic outback town (the first town to be settled) in the Kimberley, Western Australia.

A picturesque or 'paint worthy' depiction of the great Australian drought, although this sits in a part of the country where weather and tides naturally fluctuate, and 'the MARSH,' in the dry season, is something to behold. In the wet season, it floods.

We took the kids, good friends, a big rug, fish and chips, Cornetto ice-creams, and an esky full of expensive champagne.

We got drunk, played football, and made a bonfire that burnt red against the Kimberley sky. A sunset I'll never forget.

The space is so vast that you feel a freedom in your chest, which is hard to describe. There is nothing as far as the eye can see, yet there is so much.

These are the only images I've managed to salvage. Austin was three years old.

My mother went to a wedding when she was pregnant with me. Beautiful summer's day. She had to leave the reception and had me at the native hospital. There were three of us. Mary and Carmel went to the orphanage, but she kept me with her. By that time, she was renting her own place. I grew up in that house on Robinson St, and it's for sale now. If I won the lotto, I'd buy it. Good memories.

My Dad was a diver from Malaysia. He returned there before I was born. Before he left, he gave me the name Amina Binti Tyhir. He married a school teacher back home and became an Engineer.

Mum farmed me out a bit. She worked at the hospital, so I'd stay with Mr and Mrs Williams. Babysitting, but I virtually lived with them. Beautiful people. I also had my Grandparents. I'd spend time there with them. The TAXI would come about eight o'clock, beep beep, and Mum would pay the two shillings for me to go up to Kennedy Hill, where they lived. My Grandfather used to make his own throw nets, and we'd walk all that way (points to beach). No water, nothing to eat, so we'd clean the mullet down there, eat the gizzards and their blood was our fluid.

I lost my Grandmother. That was hard. Losing family affects you greatly. In 1957, they had a woman and her two small children visiting when a cyclone came through. My Uncle told everyone to lay on their backs. My Grandmother and the mother threw themselves over the children to protect them, and the house just caved in. The Japanese did wonderful buildings and architecture in Broome, but I'm not sure all of them were qualified.

My sister had two kids, and I had one, so Mum got another place. My Stepfather didn't want us in the house, so we continued with the lease at the family home. I wanted to stay there, but this horrible priest, some kind of child welfare idiot, said we couldn't stay because we'd have men walking in and out all night—what an awful bastard. He would have made us wards of state if we'd stayed there, so we had to look for accommodation.

Broome had two hospitals. One was a district hospital, and the other was a native hospital where I was born. They wouldn't take black fellas at the district hospital. I was on nursing duties, tending to the aged care. Back then, people had to be relayed messages when their family passed or were in hospital. We'd just inform the town, and it would get around. Then they transitioned or merged hospitals, and I sat on the District Hospital Advisory Council.

I resigned because I was pregnant. She was born in March, and I married her father, Arnold Dean, in Broome when I was seventeen. He was the lead guitarist in a local band. One of the women I was waitressing with made all her daughter's dresses. She asked me over, and I chose a lemon dress. She put lace around a piece of cardboard, found a yellow orchid and sewed it on with three layers of tulle. I wore white gloves and white stilettos.

We had three children. He took off in seventy-one. He had to follow his own journey. He mentioned leaving, but there was no plan or discussion. I remember one Shinju, all the Dean brothers were fighting, and they were locked up. People asked me if I was going with the in-laws to sort bail, and I said, 'he can rot in jail.' You know, I mean, he had a carefree life. He never helped with the kids. He'd come from wherever town he was living, pick them up and then drop them with family. God knows who was minding them or what was happening.

I put him up for maintenance, and I got $6.50 per child per week. He was working at the Shire, and I got one payment, then a half payment, then no more (laughs). I did it on my own. I was still getting food vouchers from welfare, and then I was eligible for the divorce and widow pension.

I told my kids never marry a musician, policeman or taxi driver. They're all fu**ed. All men are fu**ed (laughs).

One of the canteen workers at the kids' school had a bad reaction to the anaesthetic when they put her under, and I don't know what happened, but when she came back, she wasn't the same. She needed help, and I jumped on board. I'd help five days per week in exchange for the kid's lunches.

I had two more girls to another guy. Same thing, jealous and a little bit quick with the hand. I used to tell him, 'you put one mark on my body.' I wouldn't accept it. That's why I went to help at the refuge. I couldn't understand. I mean, what the hell is happening? You learn to use your woman wise, and you can get that bastard twisted around your finger too. But what an impossible man to live with, my God. He ended up leaving. He moved on, and I moved on.

I have five children. Sussan, Natalie, Janice Sharna-Marie, Karen and Anita. Around 2006, I had a hysterectomy. I told them I wanted to have a look at my womb and say goodbye. It was all very quick and easy. They came and showed it to me. I didn't know what to expect, but it was just a piece of membrane. I mean, my God, it held my kids.

I did teacher training in 1983 and worked in the kindergarten class at St Mary's. I was involved in different things. We started the drop-in centre, which was wonderful. We weren't having so many problems back then. Now when I look at it, if we had a youth worker at this family hub where they just concentrate on kids. I mean, what are they doing? Kids are suiciding and robbing cars. There is a lack of connection.

I was chairperson at the women's refuge. We had the women liaising out of town, and I can proudly say we were instrumental in helping Fitzroy Crossing refuge. They got up and running.

I was Deputy Chair of ATSIC, which stands for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission or Arseholes Talking S**t in Canberra (laughs). I had a stroke. I just woke up and noticed a droop. It was pretty harrowing. I was diagnosed with Bell's Palsy. I didn't get re-elected, but I'm just trying to help out where I can.

I joined this co-research program through Curtin Uni, which looks at youth mental health. We've been working with Headspace and CAMS. There's such a stigma with mental health, so when it comes time for professionals to be effective, there's a communication gap. We're trying to work on this together. We're not nurturing our children. Kids are missing out on love. All kids look for is love. They didn't ask to be born. So many people can't have babies, and others are dropping them left, right and centre to everybody.

Biggest struggle is being on the pension—cost of living. And you can't catch fish like you used to. Food used to be plentiful. This land used to be plentiful. Somebody comes in with a dugong or a turtle, and you'd all share, but you don't get that anymore. Fruit bat or flying fox used to be a delicacy but now rabies, you know. You'd go anywhere and get seafood, but next, we'll be battling to see the turtles on Cable Beach. They've gotta stop these cars going on there.

We get recycled after we die. Where would everyone go, for God's sake? We've gotta go somewhere. Us blackfellas know, we're on this land, we're here, but we've still got our Ancestors with us. We believe if anybody comes in and picks up a stone or rock or anything significant, that's the wrong thing to do. And they'll get signs, and they'll wonder what's going on until they realise and want to get it out of their house.

JILANDI DOLBY
25.11.50

Wet season came
In the cool of the night
And stole from the days
All the crowds and the hype

Leaving slivers of sunlight
For us to soak up
A must before dawn
When the mozzies wake up

Before heat burns your throat
And sweat starts to trickle
Crawls down your skin
With a warm salty tickle

I open my window
At night before sleep
Hear the deafening noise
As Cicadas creep

And the frogs come alive
In the pipes and the drains
Waiting like us
For relief from the rains

The aircons all groan
As they work overtime
They leak and complain
And cost a fair dime

There’s midges and monsoons
Fire red dirt
You’ll wear all the colours
Of Broome on your shirt

But as harsh as this season
Can be when you’re here
Raising children and living
From year to year

There’s a smell and a quiet
That’s hard to give up
The storms and the landscape
Get to your gut

They move through your soul
And into your heart
Where you can’t help but love
The hate it can spark

Car parks are empty
Coffee lines vanish
No more champagne
Or events that are lavish

Kids come to the markets
Straight from their beds
With hair that is messy
Dressed in old threads

There’s stingers and crocs
Swimming season is done
Not a soul to be seen
When I go for my run

The mangos they smell
Like a sweet syrup dream
Lining the footpaths
And bowls of ice cream

Broome’s not what you think
There are secrets that hide
In the mangroves and moonlight
And king ocean tides

The wet is the soul
Of this town, although brief
You can feel everyone breathe
A sigh of relief

After so many years
With your feet on this turf
It’s hard to deny
There’s no place on earth ...

Like Broome

BECCA OLDMEADOW
24

I had a fall when I was about six. I went through a glass house and fractured my skull. The Doctors say this is where the depression began, and it possibly was a trigger, but I've always had dark moments where I just want to be by myself, and of course, when the alcohol kicked off around 1981, it went from one extreme to the other.

Relationship with my parents. Hmmmmm, it's a very complex thing. My Mother became an alcoholic and developed schizophrenia. My Dad died when I was sixteen from a stroke. It was all too much. Just daily fights between them. He became an alcoholic cause he was staying at the pub to keep out of the drama, and then he'd come home, and it would just flare up again. It's just how it was. I never really had any friends in school because I was afraid to go to their house in case I'd have to invite them back to mine. I was a bit of a loner in my own way.

(Do you mind if I smoke?)

I was sent to a full-on Catholic boarding school. It was one of the most expensive private schools on two thousand acres. It had its own lake with a canoeing club, 18-hole golf course, hot air balloon, and equestrian club. It had everything. And, of course, it had priests. They were called the Holy Ghost Fathers. There was violence. They had a whole system. If you did something wrong, there were the slogs. A leather belt and it had a led strip in the centre. Stitched one way so it would flex slightly, but the other way was like a baton. You'd have to lay across a table, and if they disliked you, they'd get you on the kidneys. Kids had ruptured kidneys and spleens, and liver. But it would go out as a rugby accident cause you'd play rugby in the afternoon then go to the slogs.

The boys that were s*xually abused would get beaten by their parents because the priest was next to God, and how dare you say anything about them. You couldn't even go to the police. Politics and religion they're sort of intertwined—gun in one hand and a bloody bible in the other.

I never really excelled in school. It just didn't work for me. Eventually, I ended up on my Uncle's farm, where I learned to drive tractors, ploughs, do silage, animal husbandry and, of course, grow plants which is one of my loves. I met my first girlfriend, Ruth, and she had a friend named Margot. We went over to Margot's house for tea one afternoon, and I was sort of squatting at the time. I fell asleep during dinner, and Margot's Mum asked what was going on. She offered me a room upstairs and basically fostered me. Dr Nancy Dunne was the first female Doctor at the Mater Misericordiae Hospital in Dublin in 1948. She was a defiant woman back then. She wore trousers and cut her hair short, and she used to whistle, which used to p**s everyone right off. She became a surgeon, and I received love and encouragement and all of those things. Her husband Liam was a Scientist.

I won a Fulbright scholarship and went to ART school. Education followed by fine art.

It's abstract ART, but I studied Neolithic History in Ireland, so it's about Neolithic structures. The Neolithic art period in Ireland five thousand years ago was the same period as the Wandjina cave paintings in the Kimberly.

They had a concept of space, so I sort of view things or look at space and objects that have been spotted. Like in 2019, the first object was discovered that was intergalactic outside our galaxy. It came into our galaxy and went back out, and it's run on sound waves. Everything in the universe has a sound wave. So my work has these squiggly lines and usually contains the circle, prominent as in Aboriginal paintings. A meeting place or a group, and similarly in Ireland, these monoliths were meeting places and indeed 'large clocks.' There is order in it. There's chaos within order.

But you know, I've never reached the pinnacle of being this famous artist or whatever cause I sort of shy away. I'm quite amazed I'm openly talking to you (laughs). So the ART goes from painting to installations to sculpture to video performance ART. None of them really pay any money.

I went to San Francisco in 1985, then came to Australia on a one-year 'working holiday VISA' and started set-building on First State '88, the first exhibition in Darling Harbour in Sydney. I went back to Ireland, and they were having a referendum on condoms, and it was like, oh my God almighty. I won an Irish Arts Council grant to travel and returned to Australia, where I went into a partnership removing houses in Brisbane. They were all heritage houses, so we used to transport them onto five and ten-acre blocks on the Sunshine Coast and restore them to their former glory. I then stayed on illegally for nine years.

I met my X wife here in Broome, and we lived together. I told her I was not even supposed to be here, so she decided I should see Immigration. She was an independent Fashion Designer and book designer for Magabala Books. I was cutting up Cambodian refugee boats just here on the other side of the slipway and turning them into furniture. It was funny cause I was an illegal immigrant cutting up illegal immigrant boats.

Narelle and I rented the old pearling master's house. One of the most beautiful houses. The whole idea was to have a gallery. We put into Immigration, and it took ten months and then I got a letter saying I had forty days to leave the country. I'd already had part of a 60ft boat out the front to advertise the gallery. All of that had to go in two weeks, and I ended up back in Ireland.

About eight months later, Narelle came, and we got married, but it was awful for Narelle. The weather. Rains were coming in sideways, dull, and overcast. Not even I could stand it cause I'd experienced this. She was homesick, and we came back to Australia, lived in Perth for a short time, and then split. I hit the alcohol—long story and background of drama in my childhood. The whole thing kind of cascaded, and you know I'm at fault for the entire relationship breakup.
When she came to Ireland, I introduced her to my Mother, and she told us to stay the night. She asked Narelle if she wanted any washing done, and I thought Mum had really come through things. But the following day, she said, 'you black bitch, coming here and getting me to wash your fu***ng clothes.' That was on the very first morning, and it was absolutely devastating. So yeah, Narelle put up with a lot.

Narelle was everything that a man would want. Everything. It was like my own complete failure. Never once got angry with me about drinking. I've got great remorse. And oddly enough, you know, when I was in Cairns, I saw her in the shop one day. She lives there now. She was with a new man, so it sort of ... (hits heart with fist), but it's my fault. Nobody else to blame. I couldn't cope. I couldn't tell her about my childhood. I couldn't explain the complications of what was in my head.

She's now got a very successful business in Cairns. Most of the Aboriginal art that you see on the t-shirts? Yeah, that's Narelle. I couldn't face another relationship right now. I'm trying to deal with myself. So much going on and so much in the past, and I'm still processing and processing.

Some Aboriginal people I'd met when I was cutting the boats up invited me out to their community as a teacher. I was doing building upgrades, art, music and permaculture. We set up a garden, and that's how I did the math. You know, ten bok choys, ten dollars, whatever.

I lived in Cairns for a while and became a care worker with at-risk children. That's where I got the title, 'whistleblower.' I'll send you the article later. It was chronic. I mean, the system is broken. Children were being held in hotel rooms. The company was called 'Alternative Care.' They were getting two hundred dollars every twenty-four hours per child, and there were sixty-three in their care.

I had an eight-year-old who'd been split from his six-year-old sister. She was in another hotel, and I was in a room with this boy, sharing the same room—one bed. I'd sign him over to the school and, in the afternoon, sign him back into my name and do the food. I was like the pretend Dad. The company was getting information from the children and then utilizing it against the parents, like finding out who their friends were and who they were dealing and trading with. The head Psychiatrist was getting all this information and then passing it on to the police.

I got onto the Minister for family community services but never got a response, so I went to the local member for parliament, and you know he more or less said, 'I've heard this before, so what?' I mean, what are they even elected for? So I went to the Australian newspaper, and they ran an article the next day.

There were several clients I had. One was an Aboriginal boy, seventeen. He'd been in hotel rooms for two years, in this particular room for four months. It took me three weeks to encourage him to come out the door. They'd given him this X Box game. You go through this tunnel, and if you can't find your way out, there was a fire extinguisher inside a glass case, but it was a gun. You could smash the glass, get the gun, and you had a choice, put the bullet in your mouth or your stomach. He played it twenty-four seven.

His Father was Aboriginal, and, before coming into care, he was living with him in Canberra along with his brother and cousin, but the Father s*xually abused all three of them. This boy plucked up the courage to say something, so the Father threw a match into the house. That was the end of the brother and the cousin. This boy developed schizophrenia just from the trauma, and then they gave him this su***de game. That job certainly didn't do my own mental health any good.

I only have one child. While I was in college, I had a girlfriend who became pregnant. Her Father was an X priest who left the priesthood through ill health but had since married and had five children.

He wanted a shotgun marriage, and I said, 'no no no, just let the relationship go along at its own pace, not force it.' By this stage, I'd left my foster home with Nancy and Liam. I used to work in an amusement place. Pool tables, space invaders and poker machine things, so I was working from seven to sometimes three thirty in the morning and went to college at nine. I had a full-time job and full-time study, and I was buying the pram and the kid holder.

Two weeks before Claire gave birth, her Father rang and asked to meet me. He told me he was going to be the Father, and Claire was going to maintain schooling. He said I hadn't made any progress towards the marriage and basically told me to f**k off. That's really when the depression cut in. I couldn't sleep. I went fu***ng crazy, really, and I attempted su***de and ended up in a psych home. I had a full-on nervous breakdown. I've had a few since, and the alcohol hasn't helped. Just in a complete haze around the clock, it cost me a lot of money. I haven't touched it for two years now.

My daughter is now thirty-eight. I saw her when she was twenty minutes old for about five minutes, and then Claire's Mother came in and said, 'take the baby off them.' I sent letters, money, pleading—all that sort of stuff. Then I found out Claire had married within a year of giving birth. I think her Father pushed her.

About sixteen months ago, I got a call out of the blue from Emma. BANG! She wants to know the family's mental health and medical history. I was just upfront. My Mother had schizophrenia. I've suffered from depression and alcoholism, anxiety, and PTSD. She said she had an eight-year-old and a five-year-old with high anxiety and learning difficulties. History repeating itself. The genealogy or whatever. She slammed down the phone, and it almost killed me. I was devastated.

Four months later, she called and said she was sorry. She said she couldn't get back to her family in Ireland because of Covid, so maybe she should have a relationship with me. It was something of convenience rather than want. You know what I mean? She said she'd give me an email address, but then she couldn't find it, so I said mine was on the website and to send me an email. I haven't heard anything since.

She's my only child and lives here in Australia. So, I'm waiting, waiting. I've been waiting all my life. Waiting for something to happen. Same with the ART. Waiting for something to happen.

People have looked up to the stars, the sun, the moon and the amazement of nature, but it's sort of moved away from that into scripture, and I've got no time for any religion. To me, it's all just bu****it. I don't know what will happen to me after I die. I think we're already in paradise. We've lost our way. We're already here. We've complexified life to a point where anxiety has become an average thing. We've been removed from the land, the earth. We've lost our purpose. Hunting, the basic skills have been lost. All humans have become disenfranchised from life. It's a bu****it story.

I believe in that rock there. It's solid. None of this pretend s**t. Hollywood has been the biggest curse on earth. They've created this illusion, and everybody wants it.

During neolithic times, women had power. Women could be Queens, and they maintained their names. Even in the fifties and sixties, there could be one breadwinner, and they could afford a house and a car but now, f**k me, both parents are working flat out, and they don't have any time to be parents. They get home, flogged out, give the kid the idiot box and send the child away to a creche to be loved. The elderly go off to an old people's home, and all the information and love and knowledge are lost. We're totally on the wrong track, and it's sad.

Highlight of my day right now is going for my coffee (laughs). I've got a little bit of a routine, and I go down to Town Beach Cafe and the guy who's got the lease on it or whatever, Brian, he's always smiling, and it's just something that I look forward to.

My biggest struggle is waiting, waiting for my daughter and my ART.

Anyways, there you go Bec, that's me.

PETER JOHN COSGRAVE
21.02.61

I worked in just about every Hotel—the Conti, Mangrove, and Roebuck when it was being built.

The yardman Mouldoon and I were on a shift, collecting rubbish. I picked up this heavy garbage bag and took it to the back of the ute. I thought something was funny, so I opened it up, and there were all these plastic bags. It was G***a. I'm yelling to Mouldoon, 'is this the stuff they smoke?!' I'd seen it in the rooms we cleaned. He said, 'no, no, no someone's playing tricks on you. Just chuck it in the back of the ute!' When I did, he reversed and tried to drive off. I grabbed that bag and pulled it off. We were tug of warring for that bag on the lawn. This was at daybreak, and it burst open. There were ounces and sticks galore everywhere on the lawn. The Manager walks in, 'what the hell's happening?!'

I thought oh my God, I'm going to Jail. He told me to put it back exactly where I found it. He told me to shut my mouth and go back to work.

So while I'm working, I'm looking at that bag, and I thought, 'nah f**k these people.' I went to the Manager's office, and there were six of them in there. They tried to treat me like I had no rights, and I made it clear to everybody. I said, 'I've never smoked that s**t in my life, but I'll tell you this now, I'm gonna go back there and get what I want out of it. After all, I found it. And where are the Police anyway? We should all be in Jail.'

They told me to shut my mouth. All the builders were in on it.

Anyway, that's how I started smoking G***a. I was a drinker, not a smoker, and when I had my first smoke, I spewed my guts up. I chucked it out, but about two hours after, I'm lookin for that G***a. And I've never stopped. It's the only thing that won't put pressure on me or question me. It's a good friend for me. It keeps me stable.

I was born in Broome. My Mother died giving birth to my Sister when I was two, and I was sent to Beagle Bay. I spent three years with the old people at the camp. They took my Sister and me out fishing and camping. The bushtucker knowledge I carry today is from them.

I spent ten years there. It was cold. Ice would form over the taps, and I used to faint from hunger. We had no footwear unless it was a special occasion—the coming of Our Lady and holy communion and we worked hard. Only break was a couple of hours in the evening.

The teachers were good. That's the best part of my life-education. Sister Madeline taught us mothercraft. I wrote my Brother Vincent a letter telling him I needed a doll for my project. In the mail came my beautiful doll. The other course was first aid, and then I did domestic science. How to prepare food, cook, and make clothes. We made all our clothes because the second-hand ones that were sent to Beagle Bay were sold out to the colony people. We also had about three vege gardens on the mission, but they were sold out of town. We had crappy food, but we'd still look forward to it. Our favourite was bubble bubble. Flour, sugar and water. And it was sticky, but there was never enough food, so we had to steal.

All we had was ABC radio to keep us occupied, and we'd send in song requests. We had to make our own fun.

I first came back to Broome in 1963 to see the Queen. We were sent on the back of a cattle truck, and it was just a dirt road. We came to Broome to see Mary Poppins and a play called The Ship of Dreams. Growing up in Beagle Bay, we thought there was no other world. In 1968, my eight year old Nephew was burnt with petrol, and he was screaming in pain. Being on that truck from Beagle Bay to Broome affected me so badly that I never went back.

When I was fourteen, I was taken out of school to look after my Great Grandfather, who was dying. I had to clean him every day. It was my first experience of the smell of death. He told me he'd never leave me, and he didn't lie. When I need him, or I'm in trouble, I pray to him. I still feel him around me. My Ancestors have guided me through life.

In the early years, Broome was a very pleasant community. Everybody was one. Nobody talked about black and white. Nobody spoke of country. Everybody respected each other and knew where other families came from, and they left it at that. It was nobody's place. I never even heard the word Yawuru. The only place was Jugin Jugin Creek between here and Beagle Bay.

The town was beautiful and clean. Brother Bob had a vegetable market in Forrest St. I tell you, it was beautiful. Smelt so good. It would take your breath away.

In the early eighties, people from all over started coming. A big black cloud came over Broome. I could feel the politics moving in. The word 'Aboriginal' started. Before the cloud, strong men were running the Kimberley Land Council. Everyone was happy. We knew where people came from, and everybody was content. When the Nookenbah protest came, they put those men in Jail and hijacked their positions. They were good leaders. And since then, it's all this, 'my country,' and 'I'm black, and you're white,' crap. That big black cloud remains with us today. They were the three P's—the leaders of the black empire. They can do everything, and we can do nothing. Justice cannot be carried out.

My Aunty worked at the Meatworks. She used to do the laundry for forty years. My other Aunty was a cook at the Hospital and the Conti. She was a top cook. I learned a lot from her. She taught me to make swiss rolls, doughnuts, spring rolls, and lamingtons. All from scratch. She did a lot for the Broome community. When the parish had an event, we'd do a lot of cooking, but I got sick of it one day, and I told Father McMahon, 'you need to start buying food. You're just using my Aunty and Uncle.' So he started buying food. My Aunties did a lot for the Broome community.

I fell pregnant and had my Son Dwayne in Port Hedland. I stayed a while and then came back to Broome, where I fell pregnant with my Daughter Yvette. Before I gave birth, my Aunty kicked me out. I was still working for Kim Male, and we were really good friends. I had nowhere to go, so I rang him. He had a single men's quarters, and I asked if me and Dwayne could stay there a couple of nights. I was homeless, and welfare had their eyes on me. I gave birth to Yvette, and she was taken off me (starts crying). I had no stable home to bring her back to. I went home with no baby.

Kim Male and I had a really good working relationship. He came home one day, and I was crying. I was missing my baby. He put his arms around me and cuddled me, and it made me feel good to have someone care for me and hold me. He was good to me. We had a fling. We had a relationship but weren't living in each other's pockets. By this stage, I had my own house. There was a lovely lady in charge of housing in Broome, and she was a very hard, firm old lady. She taught me how to look after a house. She taught me a lot. Other people found her grumpy, but I liked her. I don't mind if you're grumpy with me as long we understand each other.

We'd never go out in public together. I used to go out drinking, run a muck, and go with other men, but Kim was so much in love with me. He used to wait for me. He was so good to me. He asked me to marry him twice, and I said no because I was young and his Mother didn't like black people.

One day, Kim was at the office. We had that flat at the back of Streeters. Dwayne was only one year old and had a bed at the bottom of ours. I heard my Son screaming, and when I rushed into the bedroom, there was blood running out of his eyes. There was no one around. When I picked him up, I heard a scuffle down the stairs, and when I went out, Kim was pushing his Mum out. She used a razor blade. I rushed my Son to the Hospital. Luckily, it was only that first little bit and wasn't deep. People talk about racism. That's racism. And that's why I couldn't marry Kim.

But we used to do everything together. One time we went fishing at Pender Bay. We were catching Blue Bones, and while I'm catching them, I'm looking at a bloody mud crab. It was a good spot, but a crow came into the tree near me. I was telling him to go, but he wouldn't leave. I said, 'Kim, something's wrong. We gotta get out of here.' So we slept at Lake Louisa up the Peninsular. I fell pregnant with my third child, Taralee.

I had a hard time giving birth. I was twenty-six, and I went to see my Doctor. I told him I didn't want any more babies and I wanna get fixed up. He thought I was mad. I told him, 'I've got kids to different Fathers, and I don't know what the world holds for us up ahead.' So I had my operation. I had to go to Hedland, but he looked after me.

I lived in the Territory for a bit but always came back to Broome. I had to find Yvette. I left my husband in 1992. I found her in 1994. She was still under age so they wouldn't give me any information. I got a big nowel (stick) and went to the church to see McMahon. I said, 'okay, you church mob, you're responsible for my Daughter. I wanna know exactly where she is now, and if I don't, I'm gonna start smashing windows.' He begged me to slow up and go back home. Within two hours, I had her address. I had to smash one window.

When I found her, I had to go to Port Hedland to meet her. I drove there and picked her up. She was exactly like me. She went to a bloody good home. I still keep in touch with her Mother. We have a good relationship. They taught her well.

I'm a Mother of three and a Grandmother of nine. My Granddaughters are all grown up now, and I've got Great Grandchildren too, so I come from a big family. I didn't know my Dad. Five generations of my family went without a father figure. We've got this generational suffering. About four generations before me had their children taken.

My Daughter also had her kids taken off her. They took her four-year-old Daughter. They had guns and batons hanging off them. Everyone was crying. They came back two weeks later and took the rest of my Grandchildren. Father of the kids was involved with the Land Council. It was all politics. She'll never come back to Broome again.

Broome and the Kimberley is a nest for pedophiles, and back then, a lot of them were coming into power and securing jobs in Broome. The wives would complain to Father McMahon about their husbands touching their children. He would say, 'you don't want to see your Husband in Jail. God will forgive him.' So between the church and the Government, they are protected. They have harboured them.

I believe it goes back to cultural law because in Aboriginal law, if I marry a man, my Sister can have s*x with him, and they can have babies. No one can do or say anything. And it's the same with all my cousins. And we know that's alright. That's what we know. But it kicked off from there. They went beyond those people. It came from culture and the church.

I've been touched by the church. I'd have to bend over to get a lolly off the floor, and the Priest would say, 'not there, over there, no, not there.' I know men who are tampering with four generations of their family. And it's okay.

The women would say when their three-year-olds were acting up, smashing and throwing everything, they'd be sent to the Bishop, and they'd come back quiet as a mouse, happy and smiling. I'm telling you, there are so many stories. We've got kids being r***d as we speak by family members, and nobody's doing anything.

These pedophiles all have good jobs. They're all sitting on committees, and they collect sitting fees. Five hundred dollars a day. So if you want to come back and discuss something tomorrow, they'll get paid another five hundred dollars.

I live in the Bronx of Broome. Last week, these blokes were fighting down the street. One was threatening to r**e the other family's kids and said he'd come back with a gun. And he did come back with a gun. I saw it. And the Police said, 'sorry Cynthia, we can't do anything.

I'm getting a bit cold in here. My arthritis is starting to hurt (we turn the air-con down).

There was a peninsular women's group, and we did well. We started getting the Government's attention. These were women abused getting together and getting back to their bushtucker. We got incorporated, and then as soon as the Government put money in, they hijacked it and brought it into Broome. A lot of money was put into it, and then it went bankrupt.

I was part of the Homeswest Tenant Action Group. We were the ones helping families who were waiting for houses. Then they started SHAP (Special Housing Assistance Program), and I sat on the selection panel to find someone who could start working with our people. They didn't stay long, so I jumped in as relief. I applied for it full-time, and once I was supervisor, I had my workers, and I had to sign for them. It was funded by the Government. I noticed my name was being used on time sheets, and I questioned it. They were using my name to get money, and all the managers and CEOs were running a muck with it.
They sacked me.

With Aboriginal organisations, it's TAX exempt. Something like that. They don't have to pay TAX on the Government money, so can you imagine these people with their foot in the door? Using it for their money laundering. That's why I'd go back to mainstream. Back to the old days before ASIC was established. Black and white was one. I wanna go back to those days see.

They use the word 'Aboriginal' now. It was only ever 'Natives.' As a local woman of Broome, I sit back, and I look at that word and all the aboriginal organisations throughout the Kimberley, and I say, which one of them is helping our people? They're all lining their own pockets. We knew who came from this country, but today is all different faces.

I'm over life. Believe me. I'm ready to die, but no one will take me (laughs). My biggest struggle in life is my people. I didn't grow up with a family. I grew up with myself. I've asked a couple of elderlies if we can get together, call a meeting and discuss how to talk to our kids. Our people. And try and bring them back to the family lifestyle. Concentrating on someone when they're born. This is where things start. But they think it's up to our kids to fix it. And I'm like, 'they can't even work. We have to do it, and if we don't, our Grandies have no future.' But they won't, and I find it frustrating. That's my biggest struggle. My people won't join in that sort of thinking.

I'd build a big home if I had the opportunity and the money. Somewhere kids could come, and I'd look after them. But that's a bandaid fix. We need to get parents on board. They need to be re-educated. Go back to school. A little bit of health and hygiene wouldn't go astray. You teach your kids discipline and respect. To respect themselves and not disrupt other people's lives.

Start with kids when they're small. Talk to them about everything they consume. Sugar is not good for you. Neither is wheat and flour. All these things that they shouldn't eat. If you teach a kid the works from baby, you haven't got a problem. Get back to the table and start having dinner like a family. That all needs to come back into play, and if it doesn't, forget it.

I'm not looking for a name. I just wanna do something. I dunno. Maybe I do shine when I shouldn't shine. But that's their problem. They just need to believe in themselves and think their mind. Not listen to other people. We've lost our independence. I strongly know that we have lost it. I'd love to do courses with young kids. Run a catering and domestic course. How to make a bed. I'd love to do it.

You gotta buy this from Wing Store. It's White Flower. Whenever your baby has a cold. It's good for headaches and backaches. Just don't put it in sensitive places. When my kids were small or babies, I put it on their shirts, and they come good. Not on their skin though it's too powerful. When you go into Wings, as soon as you head in the door, it's on the right-hand side where the till is—Chinese medicine. Very powerful.

Have a look at these photos. I'm in them. They're my photos, and I had to pay for them. I took that one with my own camera.

I wanna tell the real story. Do it once, and do it good. I'm the whistleblower, you know. I tell it how it is.

CYNTHIA WINAWARL (BINTY)