Jason Hunter

LM: Hi there. My name is Luisa Mitchell and I’m a Nyungar woman. Today we present to you Backyard Truthtelling: stories from Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians that were shared in local resident’s backyards all around Walyalup.  

Walyalup is the Nyungar name for Fremantle, located on the southern end of what is now called Western Australia. Just like the rest of Australia, Walyalup is an ancient country and belongs to one of the world’s oldest surviving cultures, the Whadjuk Nyungar people.  

In this collection, you’re about to hear live recordings from people who spoke about difficult truths, hidden histories and reimagined futures, all reflections of their lived experiences of colonisation in Walyalup and Australia.  

In partnership with the City of Fremantle and produced by Centre for Stories, these stories were captured on Whadjuk Nyungar boodjar. We pay our respect to Whadjuk Elders, and all Aboriginal people from the beginning, who are the knowledge-keepers and custodians of this place. 

And, before we get started, a brief disclaimer. This story may contain references to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander cultures, histories and practices. It may also include language that some individuals may find distressing or triggering. We acknowledge the ongoing impact of colonisation and the importance of truth telling and respecting Indigenous perspectives and experiences. We also know that these stories may be most triggering for mob, for Aboriginal and Torres strait islander people. So, if you’re struggling while listening to this story, please don’t hesitate to connect with 13 YARN on 13 92 76 and talk with an Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander crisis supporter. 

In this episode, you will hear Jason Hunter’s story. Jason was born on Yawuru Country in what is now called Broome. He belongs to the Nyikina and Nyul Nyul Nations and is completing his final semester at UWA majoring in Anthropology and Indigenous Knowledge, History and Heritage. This is Jason. 

JH: Everyone says I was born in Yawuru country. It’s now called Broome. I came to Perth when I was four years old, and I went back at 15 to the Kimberley. During the ten years of schooling, I did not hear one positive thing around the word ‘Aboriginal’. It was a process of cultural brainwashing. 

I was conditioned to think that Aboriginal people were stupid and their culture was primitive. I’ve brought in a grade-school book and I just like to read something from it. So, you open the book and on the cover the first sentence reads, and I quote: “The Australian Aborigines. Who are these strange, dusky, uncivilized people who roam aimlessly and continuously the deserts of the Down Under continent? 

Now my talk is going to be maybe… a little bit of a trigger warning. There’s some, yeah, traumatic stuff in it. So just a warning. 

L.P. Elkin, he served as the head of the anthropology department in Sydney, pondered this question in the early 1930s: “Are Aborigines the lowest race of mankind? Physically, they have primitive features. For example, the thickness of the skull bones, the shape of the face, the retreating nature of the forehead, and the comparatively small brain.” 

My mum lives in a beautiful house in Fremantle. I can go down the cafe strip and nobody can stop me. I have a grant to go to university. Yes. All this is true. However, the story about the history of the Aboriginal side of my family is not so pretty. I’d like to share a bit of that story tonight. 

In the old days, you would have called me a quadroon or a quarter-caste, that’s if your being polite. Not so politically correct these days though. But it’s true. I’m three-quarters Caucasian and a quarter Aboriginal. That’s what the government’s plan was, to reduce us to fractions. They said that was better for us. They seemed to say that a lot. 

My great-great grandmother Danbary was a tribal Nyikina woman. She belonged to the Martuwarra. What you might know as the Fitzroy River. The tribes along the river were called the Ye Martuwarra, or Guardians of the Martuwarra. They had a serene life living along their sacred river until the day the native police arrived with their guns. 

They included Aboriginal men from Queensland. They’d been killing tribal people for over 50 years. They were expert trackers. Nothing got away from them. They murdered over 100,000 in Queensland alone. The colonists sent them in first to clear the land, as it was easier to settle the cattle if there weren’t as many tribespeople around to bother the livestock. You can understand. The native place would surround the tribes on their horses and pick off all the adult men with their rifles. They’d use their knives to finish off all the old women and children. They’d bang the little ones up against a tree. It was called wanging. This you can understand. They would then chop up everyone and burn them in a big hole called a ground oven. It took about six days, then they would bury the evidence. The women were another story. They were watching all this chained to a nearby tree, they were the reward for the native police once they finished their hard work. When they were done, they’d let the young women run off into the bush. 

Danbary was one of those young girls. Somehow she found a way to Nookoonbah Station, probably a fate worse than death, because they believe the Aboriginal people had less value than the cattle. She was then shipped to Peppermint Grove to be bred by the Rose family. Then they had a half-caste child who would eventually rule over the Black slaves. 

That is how my great-grandfather William Watson got here. He was trained by a white stockman, and where he got his name. He did his job well. William married my great-great grandmother, Emily, another half caste. Pretty much the same story on her side too. They had 12 children, but the first two, Harry and William were stolen by the police. They said it was better for us. The Chief Public Protector reckoned Emily would soon forget about it. But you know what? She never did.  

My nan Dorothy was their fifth child. I don’t have time to tell you all the hardships she suffered growing up. Safe to say, she worked around the station as a slave from the age of five. Like all her brothers and sisters did. Then at 16, she was promised to my grandfather, Eugene Hunter, who was 48 at the time. Now, on this side of the family, the story is even darker. Eugene was the son of an Englishman named Harry Hunter, who was one of the most notorious blackbirders or slave traders in the Kimberley. 

He used to go out by himself and chain together whole families of blackfellas and drag them back to either work them to death on these pearling luggers, or he sold them to his mates for 5 pound each. Harry started a big community on the Dampier Peninsula, collected a whole harem of women, and had many children with him. 

My family on both sides lived under the exemption certificate for three generations. It meant we couldn’t practice our culture and speak our tribal language, or associate with those that did. They said it was better for us. Eugene, along with being the son of a blackbirder, was violent toward my grandmother. ‘Cause she was a slave and didn’t get welfare, she was trapped on the remote station with my violent grandfather for 11 years. Now, with my dad and another four children, she finally somehow managed to squirrel away enough money to escape. She went to Broome and met my wonderful pop, Simon Poelina. He was a hard-hat pearler off from Roti Island in West Timor. They brought a house together on the block where the Roebuck Hotel now sits. After they owned it for over 30 years, the Shire President stole it and sold it to the Publican. He said that was better for us.  

My nan had 12 kids, she was amazing. I never heard her complain once, so I didn’t know all this growing up. I just finished my Arts degree majoring in Anthropology and Indigenous Studies yesterday. After three and a half years studying this stuff, it kind of takes your breath away when you finally learn the extent of the evil that happened here. 

The talk was supposed to be about Fremantle, but I can’t talk for the Noongar people, because that wouldn’t be right, as they have their own stories to tell.  

In 1900, when they bothered to count the Aboriginal people, there was only 93,333 of us left, 5000 in the Kimberley and only 1500 in the whole of the South-West region. This country wasn’t settled, it was stolen.  

So what do you think? Was it really better for us?  

I thank you for listening to my story, but I guess if you call yourself a modern Australian, unfortunately, it means it is your story too. Your being here tonight, being open to learning this stuff, means there is a glimmer of hope left for all of us.