Abstract
The depiction of Aboriginal people in Australian detective novels has always been problematic. In colonial crime stories, Aboriginal people were typically represented as dangerous brutes and noble savages. Today, overtly demeaning stereotypes are less common, but Aboriginal characters still tend to lack complexity and perform subservient roles. In recent decades, Aboriginal writers have chosen to reclaim the genre and transform it into a space of empowerment. Their primary tool is the trope of characters that bring Aboriginal voices to the centre of the narrative. This trope is evident in protagonists that are engaged with political issues that affect their communities, and who experience racism as pervasive. Aboriginal detectives often suffer from the legacies of the former child removal policy. The reconciliation of such individuals with their kin and ancestral homelands will often occur in tandem with the resolution of the crime.
Introduction
As a child I cherished school holidays, because they were the times when my brother, cousins, and I would gather around a fire to hear our elders tell stories. Our family’s storytellers were so compelling that we absorbed their every word and gesture in silence. Within those stories were histories of resistance, and glimpses of giants such as my great-grandfather, who saved his family from the grasp of the dreaded protectionist legislation. As I grew older, it dawned on me that the strong Black characters of my childhood had few parallels in genres such as crime fiction.
In early Australian crime stories, Aboriginal people are alternatively portrayed as members of a primitive, dying race or irascible beasts, who, like the land, are in need of settler control. One of the most renowned characters of the genre was the “half-Aboriginal” detective, Bony, who captured the imagination of Australian audiences from the 1930s to the 1960s. Bony, however, had little empathy with other Aboriginal people, and affirmed base stereotypes through his intrinsic connection to nature.
In spite of this bleak history, contemporary Aboriginal Australian writers are choosing to reclaim crime fiction. Through their characters, such writers are shattering demeaning stereotypes, privileging the experiential knowledge of Aboriginal communities, and celebrating our continuing survival as a people. It is through this trope of characters that bring Aboriginal voices to the centre of the narrative, that the creators of Aboriginal crime fiction are transforming the genre.
This article will be divided into three parts. Part one will discuss the depiction of Aboriginal characters in Australian detective novels. Overtly demeaning stereotypes are now less common, but Aboriginal characters still tend to lack complexity and perform subservient roles vis-a-vis the protagonist. Part two will examine the historical trajectory of Aboriginal Australian storytelling. English literacy was imposed on Aboriginal people as part of the colonising project. In spite of such oppression, Aboriginal people quickly claimed the written word as their own, and transformed it into a space of empowerment. Like their forebears, the creators of Aboriginal crime stories are speaking truth to power, but in more nuanced ways than ever before.
Part three will discuss the trope of characters that bring Aboriginal voices to the centre of the narrative. This trope is evident in protagonists that are engaged with political issues that affect their communities, and who experience racism as pervasive. Aboriginal detectives often suffer from the legacies of the former assimilation policy that gave rise to the Stolen Generations. The reconnection of such individuals with their kin and ancestral homelands will often occur in tandem with the resolution of the crime.
Part one: Aboriginal characters in Australian crime fiction
Noble savages and treacherous beasts
For much of our shared history, settler Australians have viewed Aboriginal people through the lenses of “Aboriginalism”. Aboriginalism can be defined as a system of ideas that generated the various “truths” through which settler Australians came to know Aboriginal people (Mishra, 1987). Among those “truths” are representations of the noble savage and the violent and uncontrollable Other. Aboriginalism exists in order to neutralise the “raw and buried” question of national legitimacy (Hodge & Mishra, 1990, p. 24). The belief that Australia was built through the ingenuity and grit of the settlers has always been threatened by the horrors of Aboriginal dispossession. The pioneer legend, which celebrates the courage and toil of the early squatters in overcoming the perils of the Australian bush (Curthoys, 1999), is similarly threatened by the cattle industry’s historical reliance upon the subordination of Aboriginal labour (May, 1994). Hence, dehumanising stereotypes arose, which filtered into Australian novels.
Aboriginal people often emerged in colonial crime stories as members of the “Black Police” (Knight, 1997, p. 120); troopers who were the underlings of European officers in the Native Police. In colonies such as Queensland, the Native Police was tasked with the brutal repression of Aboriginal resistance to dispossession (Bottoms, 2013). Aboriginal troopers were considered useful for their tracking skills, familiarity with harsh climates, and fluency in Aboriginal languages (Richards, 2008, p. 120). But little is known of their stories, and in particular, what motivated such individuals to be complicit in the slaughter of other Aboriginal people. Kidnapping was common, as were threats of violence to family members (Barker, Burke, Cole, & Wallis, 2018). Some troopers, however, freely chose to remain in the murderous force. For such men, entry into the Native Police would have surely offered an income and a degree of power. However, reports of troopers being beaten, whipped, and shot at by European officers (Richards, 2008, p. 122) suggest a complex picture, the true dimensions of which we may never know.
The complicated and tragic lives of Aboriginal people on the frontier find little reflection in colonial crime stories, as demonstrated in From Prison to Power: A Tale of Queensland (in two volumes), written by the grazier, A.H. Lambton (1893). The story is set in north Queensland; a place which is “by no means free of the dark and hostile race” (Lambton, 1893, p. 16). An Englishman, Ernest Malcolm, is wrongfully accused of murder. Malcolm’s brother-in-law, Jack Derwent, uncovers the real killer with the assistance of an Aboriginal tracker who is given the demeaning name, Snowball. While Snowball is apparently valued by the settler characters, other Aboriginal people are considered to be mere vermin. As such they are frequently eradicated by the process of “dispersal” (Lambton, 1893, p. 31). At the time, “dispersal” was a euphemism for the murder of Aboriginal people (Bottoms, 2013, p. 5).
It was not until the late 1920s that an Aboriginal protagonist emerged, who would gain the affection of Australian audiences. Detective Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, or Bony, was the creation of Arthur Upfield. Born of a White father and an Aboriginal mother, Bony has a natural affinity with nature, is an extraordinary tracker, and has a university degree (Knight, 1997, p. 158). Upfield published the first Bony novel, The Barrakee Mystery in 1929. Bony would go on to be the star of a further 28 novels, radio serials, and television productions (Hetherington, 2009, p. 2).
Upfield has been praised by some for being an advocate for Aboriginal people (Browne, 1988). However, such accolades overlook the prejudices that Bony espoused, such as his opposition to inter-racial unions. In The Barrakee Mystery, Bony even denounces his own parents, whom he describes as being “below the animals” (Upfield, 1929, p. 104, cited in Donaldson, 1991, p. 345). Bony was also a wholly unrealistic representation of Aboriginal people in the 1930s. Bony had a tertiary qualification 40 years before the first Aboriginal person graduated from a university (Donaldson, 1991, p. 345). Likewise, Bony was largely unencumbered by the racism that was the daily experience of Aboriginal people in the earlier part of the twentieth century. This was a time when Aboriginal people were prevented from accessing public hospitals, and their children could be removed from schools at the whim of White parents (Chesterman & Galligan, 1997, p. 53).
In Death of a Lake (Upfield, 1954), Bony investigates a suspected murder on the fictitious Porchester Station in western New South Wales. Bony sleeps in the men’s quarters without objection from his White co-workers, who not only treat Bony as an equal but openly admire his intelligence. The overseer, Martyr, describes Bony as a Queenslander who, “talks like a Uni professor” (Upfield, 1954, p. 6). The White characters are also sensitive to his imagined impulses. For example, when Martyr offers Bony the use of the Station’s utility to travel to a remote location, Bony declines so that he can do “the walkabout” (Upfield, 1954, p. 97). Martyr nods silently in “understanding of the urge which cannot be resisted by aborigines” (Upfield, 1954, p. 97).
The first television series to be based on the Bony novels was made in the early 1970s. The New Zealand actor, James Laurenson, was cast in the lead role. In order to look the part, Laurenson wore make-up on his face and hands, and on occasion, initiation marks were also painted on his chest (Storey, 2013). A second series was made 20 years later. Once again, a non-Indigenous actor, Cameron Daddo, was cast as the star (Storey, 2013).
Aboriginal characters in contemporary crime fiction
In recent years, overtly offensive caricatures of Aboriginal people have, for the most part, disappeared from Australian crime stories. White hegemony, however, remains the norm. In her critique of American detective fiction, Maureen Reddy (2003) argues that Whiteness is taken for granted in most crime fiction authored by Whites, and that implicitness is one of the ways in which Whiteness is reproduced and maintains its power. Consequently, White protagonists rarely consider questions of race, especially in relation to themselves (Reddy, 2003, p. 15). This argument is equally applicable to crime novels written by settler Australians.
Indigenous scholars such as Aileen Moreton-Robinson (1998, p. 11) claim that Whiteness remains so overwhelmingly dominant in Australia that the values of White culture alone define normalcy. Her argument finds resonance in Aboriginal characters in contemporary Australian detective novels. While their Aboriginal identity is blithely acknowledged, it is usually empty of meaning. Such characters are neither present in their communities, nor do they consider issues that are of concern to most Aboriginal people, such as debates over a possible treaty. In this sense, they are indistinguishable from the White protagonist, whose cultural values are seemingly neutral.
In Peter Temple’s (1998) novel, An Iron Rose, the story begins with the apparent suicide of Ned Lowey, the surrogate father of the protagonist, Mac Faraday. After enduring an unhappy life with his restless father, the young Mac Faraday found security in his father’s old friend, Ned. Years later, Mac returns to the country town of his childhood, and once again finds sanctuary with Ned and his grandson, Lew. In the aftermath of Ned’s death, Mac reflects on their first meeting and recalls his surprise at two revelations: One was that Ned was Aboriginal. My father had never mentioned it. The other was that Ned Lowey was not a giant. I remember that he took me by the shoulders, picked me up and held me to his chest. (Temple, 1998, p. 60)
This is the only time that Ned’s Aboriginal identity is mentioned in the story. Perhaps, through omitting any discussion of Ned’s identity, Temple was making a gesture of racial equality. But the implication that Ned’s values are interchangeable with those of Mac Faraday suggests that Aboriginal cultures, histories, and beliefs are of no real consequence.
Whiteness is also privileged through the subservient roles that Aboriginal characters play vis-a-vis White protagonists. Such characters tend to linger in the background, before conveniently dropping out of the story. For example, in Silent Kill (Corris, 2014) the legendary private inquiry agent, Cliff Hardy, is compelled to travel to Darwin while on a case. On arrival he is met by Dave Burns, a Tiwi Islander and apparently the first Indigenous person to hold a private inquiry agent’s licence (Corris, 2014, p. 84). Burns is a former AFL player who works out of an office that reeks of tobacco smoke (Corris, 2014, p. 86). Burns and his partner, Tania, use their knowledge of Darwin’s tourism industry to assist Hardy to find two fugitives. After one of the fugitives is located Hardy returns to his home in Sydney, and Burns disappears from the action.
Given the treatment of Aboriginal characters in crime fiction, it would be unsurprising if Aboriginal writers made a deliberate choice to avoid the genre. Some however, have chosen to transform the genre through the trope of characters that bring Aboriginal voices to the centre of the narrative. The subversive nature of Aboriginal crime fiction is consistent with a writing tradition that has always been closely aligned with activism.
Part two: the emergence of aboriginal crime fiction
Historical foundations
The Indigenous Canadian writer, Thomas King (2003), once wrote that the “truth about stories is that that’s all we are” (p. 2). King’s words are of universal application because it is impossible to conceive of any culture that does not have stories, but they have a particular significance for Aboriginal people in Australia. Stories are the capsules in which we store our understandings of how the world began, experiential knowledge of the environment, and rules that enable one to live a good life (Stasiuk & Kinnane, 2010, pp. 87–88). The nuances of Aboriginal storytelling traditions were invisible to the settlers. Literacy was considered as one of the markers of civilisation, and the lack of an obvious form of literacy proof of the inferiority of Aboriginal people (Kral, 2009, p. 41).
In 1789, the man who would become the earliest known Aboriginal writer, Bennelong, was kidnapped at the behest of Governor Phillip. Bennelong of the Wangal People is believed to have been 26 years of age (Clendinnen, 2003, p. 104) when he was taken in manacles to the Governor’s house. In spite of such coercion, Bennelong formed a close bond with Phillip, calling him “Beanga” or Father (van Toorn, 2006, p. 59). When Phillip sailed to England in 1792, Bennelong accompanied him (Heiss & Minter, 2008, p. 9). Bennelong’s time abroad was characterised by loneliness and frequent bouts of illness (Clendinnen, 2003, p. 264), and he returned home in 1795.
In August 1796, Bennelong dictated a letter to one Mr Philips, who had been responsible for his living arrangements in England (Wheeler, 2013, p. 3). In the letter, Bennelong informs Philips about developments such as the loss of his wife to another man, and his own spearing (Heiss & Minter, 2008, p. 9). Bennelong also expresses his gratitude to Mrs Philips, who cared for him when he was ill (Heiss & Minter, 2008, p. 9). He then seeks stockings, handkerchiefs, and shoes (Heiss & Minter, 2008, p. 9). Penny van Toorn argues that Bennelong’s letter should be viewed as a “product of intercultural engagement” (van Toorn, 2006, p. 54). When Bennelong dictated the letter, it is likely that he melded his observations of the settlers’ writing practices with the rules of his own society. The latter included kinship relationships that required the exchange of gifts (van Toorn, 2006, p. 62). Therefore, it is possible that the letter was an attempt by Bennelong to co-opt Mr and Mrs Philips into his familial network. It is also likely that Bennelong aspired to trade any items that he received, in order to restore his former position as a powerful intermediary (van Toorn, 2006, p. 66).
We will never know if Bennelong’s letter reached its intended recipients. But in composing the letter, Bennelong was unwittingly setting a precedent that has been followed by Aboriginal writers ever since. English literacy was introduced by the settlers in the exercise of their superior power. Aboriginal people, however, used their new skills in ways that had not been anticipated by the settlers, and most importantly, could not be controlled. These writers fused their own values and truths with the written word, and as a result, re-created it as a space of empowerment.
Over a century after Bennelong’s letter, David Unaipon of the Ngarrindjeri used the written word as a means of educating the broader Australian public about Aboriginal cultures (Heiss & Minter, 2008, p. 18). The next generation of Aboriginal writers to follow him would also use the written word as a space of empowerment. At the vanguard of this movement were writers such as Kath Walker, later known as Oodgeroo Noonuccal, and Kevin Gilbert. Noonuccal’s first book, a collection of poems, We are Going, was published by Jacaranda Press in 1964. Its lead poem, Aboriginal Charter of Rights demanded freedom from a “bureaucratic Protection,” and pleaded for Aboriginal people to become “mates, not poor relations” (Walker, 1964). Noonuccal’s contemporary, Kevin Gilbert, learnt how to read and write while serving a lengthy prison sentence for the homicide of his wife (Beston, 1977, p. 447). Gilbert was released from prison in 1971 (Foley, 2001) and published his volume of poetry, End of Dreamtime in the same year. Two years later Gilbert published, Because a White Man’ll Never do it (Gilbert, 2013, p. 198), in which he laid out a blueprint for Aboriginal people’s recovery, which included the creation of a land base, the payment of compensation, and self-determination.
In the 1980s, Aboriginal writing flourished in poetry, life stories, and song. This renaissance was given impetus by a new desire on the part of many settler Australians to hear Aboriginal voices. Belinda Wheeler argues that this desire can be explained, in part, by the extravagant bicentennial celebrations in 1988, which prompted many to consider Aboriginal perspectives of colonisation (Wheeler, 2013, p. 1). It can also be explained by the success of works such as Sally Morgan’s (1987) My Place. The book was Morgan’s story of discovering her Aboriginal heritage and also the story of generations of her family that had experienced the trauma of child removal. The commercial success of My Place was unprecedented; over 500,000 copies were sold in Australia alone (Morgan, 1987, Preface). It was followed by the life stories of other Aboriginal women, such as Ruby Langford Ginibi (1988) and Jackie and Rita Huggins (1991).
Creative hybrid text
Aboriginal writers of the twenty-first century are following in the footsteps of their forebears by speaking truth to power. But they are also carving a “decisive impression across the Australian literary landscape” (Wheeler, 2013, p. 1). Aboriginal literature has become a respected field of academic inquiry, and markets for such works now exist in Europe and North America (Wheeler, 2013, p. 2). We are also witnessing some profound changes within the genre itself, including a shift towards what Dee Horne calls “creative hybrid text” (Horne, 1995, p. 255).
According to Horne, colonisation gave rise to two forms of hybridity—colonial mimicry and creative hybridity. The former can be psychologically damaging for Aboriginal people, because in emulating settlers they are encouraged to deny their difference, and as a result, may experience self-hatred. The latter, however, is empowering, because it is a space from which Aboriginal people can deconstruct settler discourse, assert their difference, and offer pathways to a meaningful coexistence (Horne, 1995, p. 255).
Writers of creative hybrid text shatter stereotypes of Aboriginal inferiority through characters that have strength, intelligence, and emotional depth. Initially, the reader develops empathy for only those characters. But as the story unfolds the reader is exposed to Aboriginal perspectives of history, and the complexities of being an Aboriginal person in a nation that is yet to confront its colonial past. Such engagement leads to collaboration between the writer and the reader, in which both work to deprive settler discourse of its legitimacy and “map new terrains” (Horne, 1995) of coexistence. It is within this relatively new phenomenon that Aboriginal crime fiction sits.
Writers of Aboriginal crime fiction operate within the broad parameters of the genre. A reader of Aboriginal crime fiction will come into contact with brutal murders, corrupt politicians, and flawed detectives. Clues are also woven into the fabric of the novel, so that the reader can silently work alongside the protagonist to solve the crime. Simultaneously, however, the reader is exposed to Aboriginal perspectives of the frontier, deaths in custody, and the Stolen Generations.
One of the innovators of Aboriginal Australian crime fiction is the Kamilaroi writer, Philip McLaren. His debut novel, Sweet Water, Stolen Land (McLaren, 1993) revolves around a fictitious Lutheran mission in the Warrumbungle Range, in the earlier part of the nineteenth century. Pastor Karl Maresch is anxious to convert the local Kamilaroi people to Christianity, and attempts to manufacture a situation in which they will be forced to find sanctuary at the mission. However, his plan backfires, and many of the Kamilaroi lose their lives in one of the most shameful chapters of Australia’s history; the Myall Creek Massacre (McLaren, 1993, pp. 118–124). In June 1838, at least 28 unarmed Aboriginal people were murdered by a posse of settlers. In a rare occurrence of frontier justice, seven of the settlers were convicted of murder and sentenced to hang (Elder, 2003, p. 94).
McLaren’s subsequent novel, Scream Black Murder (McLaren, 2001) is set in Redfern in the aftermath of the real-life police shooting of Aboriginal man, David Gundy, in 1989. Under pressure from the Aboriginal Legal Service and Amnesty International, the New South Wales Government forms an Aboriginal Homicide Unit (McLaren, 1995, p. 5). The Unit’s two detectives, Lisa Fuller and Gary Leslie, are given their first case when the bodies of an Aboriginal woman and man are found beside the Redfern Train Station.
Aboriginal film-makers have also begun to turn to crime fiction. In Mystery Road, Ivan Sen (2013) created the detective, Jay Swan, who investigates the murders of Aboriginal girls in his home town. In the sequel, Goldstone (Sen, 2016), Swan is sent to a mining town to investigate the disappearance of a young Chinese woman. Aboriginal crime fiction has also made it to the small screen. The television series, The Circuit (Mackenize, 2007) revolved around the journey of Drew Ellis, a young Aboriginal lawyer from Perth, who relocates to Broome to work for the Aboriginal Legal Service. In common with their peers, Aboriginal crime writers are using the genre to tell rollicking stories, and to share their perspectives of what it means to live in Australia at this particular point in time. But, as discussed below, the protagonists are not simply Black versions of their White counterparts.
Part three: the trope of characters that bring Aboriginal voices to the centre of the narrative
When Aboriginal writers turn to crime fiction, they re-create the genre through the trope of characters that bring Aboriginal voices to the centre of the narrative. This trope is evident in characters that engage with political issues that affect their communities. They also understand that racism is omnipresent and is manifest in subtle and overt forms. Aboriginal protagonists also struggle with the legacies of earlier child removal polices. The journey home of such individuals is woven into the story, and may be tied to the resolution of the crime.
Aboriginal political debates
As distinct from the Black characters in Peter Temple’s novels, those in Aboriginal crime stories are engaged with issues of concern to their communities, such as the gulf between settler and Aboriginal perspectives of justice, and systemic racism in the criminal justice system. In The Circuit (Mackenize, 2007) the protagonist, Drew Ellis, is an ambitious city lawyer who is alienated from his family, and as a consequence, knows little about his Aboriginal heritage. Before embarking on a political career, he decides to work as a locum for the Aboriginal Legal Service (“ALS”) in the Kimberley region. Drew’s ignorance of Aboriginal perspectives of justice becomes apparent soon after he appears in a remote circuit court for his new client, Gavin.
Gavin was attacked by some relatives of his former partner, because the two were in a “wrong-skin” relationship. When Gavin recovered from his injuries, he assaulted one of his attackers. On the day of his hearing, Gavin receives only a suspended sentence for the assault. Drew believes that he performed his job effectively because he secured a non-custodial sentence for his client. Drew is unaware that the suspended sentence poses a serious threat to the community’s fragile peace. As Gavin would not spend any time in prison, the victim’s family was unlikely to be satisfied that justice had been delivered by the Court, and would be motivated to seek retribution. It is through such experiences that Drew learns about the gulf between the criminal law and Aboriginal perspectives on what is required to restore equilibrium after a wrong has been committed.
The protagonists of Scream Black Murder (McLaren, 2001), Lisa Fuller and Gary Leslie, have some commonalities with their peers in the New South Wales Police. Both are committed, independently minded, and have uneasy relationships with their superior officers. But Fuller and Leslie are also portals through which the reader gains access to the Aboriginal political debates of the 1990s. For example, the reader is confronted with the issue of Aboriginal deaths in custody when Leslie reflects on his motivation for joining the police force: He was furious that deaths of Aboriginal people were not investigated properly; also well-documented mistreatment and abuses by authorities were allowed to pass. The loss of black lives went largely unexplained. Gary told Lisa he could pinpoint the moment he decided to do something about it: 10.30 a.m. the day he first heard the name, David Gundy and his death from a police shooting. (McLaren, 2001, p. 14)
As distinct from Bony, the protagonists of Aboriginal crime stories usually suffer from some form of trauma as a result of the former assimilation policy. Detective Lisa Fuller is the medium through which Philip McLaren illuminates the psychological injuries carried by members of the Stolen Generations. Fuller often reflects on her removal from her mother at the age of 5 (McLaren, 2001, p. 11). She also remains affected by her experiences as a ward of the Bombala Home for Girls, where she was bullied by the Matron of the Home, Mrs Williams (McLaren, 2001, pp. 104–105). Although Fuller is fictitious, her experiences mirror those of thousands of former child wards (National Inquiry into the Separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from their Families, 1997, p. 137).
Fuller was also a victim of what is now known as “stolen wages” practices. Such practices arose out of government controls exercised over the personal incomes of Aboriginal wards during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries (Commonwealth Parliament, Senate Standing Committee on Legal and Constitutional Affairs, 2006, [1.13]). At the age of 15, Fuller was sent to work as a domestic servant for a White family, the Deans (McLaren, 2001, p. 103). Although the Deans diligently paid her wages into a government trust fund, Fuller never received her income. Like Fuller, many real-life Aboriginal wards gained their freedom only to find that their trust funds had been pilfered by unscrupulous public servants (Commonwealth Parliament, Senate Standing Committee on Legal and Constitutional Affairs, 2006, pp. 50–56).
Racism is omnipresent
Aboriginal writers have long understood that racism is ubiquitous. Living Black: Blacks Talk to Kevin Gilbert (1978), Kevin Gilbert attempted to capture the lived experience of Aboriginal people throughout Australia. Racism was a regular occurrence for the interviewees. Young women endured sexual harassment by their employers without recourse to legal remedies (Gilbert, 1978, p. 19), while men faced unofficial segregation in hotels (Gilbert, 1978, p. 29) and constant police intimidation (Gilbert, 1978, p. 99). Forty years after Gilbert published his important work, racism continues to impact upon the daily life of the vast majority of Aboriginal people. But much like the illusion of a “post-racial” America, Australians are often told by their leaders that racism is no longer a scourge on our society, and exists only in the arbitrary acts of flawed individuals.
When Black writers take on the genres, they often use their protagonists to shatter such myths and expose the pervasiveness of contemporary racism. For example, in the brilliant horror film, Get Out (Peele, 2017), Jordan Peele created the protagonist, Chris Washington, a young African American who is in a relationship with a beautiful White woman, Rose Armitage. At the beginning of the film, the couple is discussing an impending introduction to Rose’s parents, who are waiting at their country estate. From thereon, Chris is constantly subject to covert forms of racism. On the way to the Armitages’ estate, they crash into a deer. The attending police officer demands to see Chris’s licence, even though Rose was driving the car. Upon meeting the Armitages, Chris has to endure nauseating comments about Obama and stereotypes about Black bodies, and he is troubled by the unusual behaviour of the family’s Black servants. While Chris is patently aware that there is something sinister going on, those around him pretend to be oblivious.
The creators of Aboriginal detective fiction similarly portray racism as omnipresent. Racism is often manifest in subtle indifference to Aboriginal victims of crime; indifference that is patently obvious to the Black protagonist but typically ignored by everyone else. In the film Mystery Road (Sen, 2013), Aboriginal detective, Jay Swan, has recently returned to the country town of his birth. One evening he is called upon to investigate the violent murder of an Aboriginal teenager, Julie Mason. When he arrives at the crime scene, Jay is struck by the absence of tape or barriers to stop members of the public from contaminating the evidence. He is also stunned that his colleagues have allowed a journalist to interview their only witness; a truckie who discovered the body.
In a following scene, the police assemble at a going away party for one of their colleagues. Jay appears to be the only Aboriginal person in the restaurant. He sits silently and impassively as the Sergeant reflects on the drug fuelled crime that has apparently gripped their town, but makes no reference to the murder. Covert racism is also a common experience for the Aboriginal characters in The Circuit (Mackenize, 2007); which Drew learns on his first day. While trying to remove the keys from his car, that he has accidentally locked, Drew is arrested by a police officer. Although he is able to produce his licence, Drew has to endure the humiliation of being taken to the police station.
The journey home
The lives of the protagonists in Indigenous crime fiction are commonly shaped by histories of diaspora. The protagonist’s return to their ancestral home often coincides with the resolution of the crime. In Ivan Sen’s (2016) film, Goldstone, Jay Swan finds himself in a frontier town, Goldstone. He is there to investigate the disappearance of a young Chinese woman. Swan is grieving the recent death of his daughter. He is self-medicating with alcohol and appears to be rootless. As Swan works on his missing person case, there is another mystery unfolding, which is Swan’s discovery of his ancestral home.
During the investigation, Swan meets Jimmy, a local custodian, who is played by David Gulpilil. Jimmy recognises Swan’s physical resemblance to his father, who was a member of the Stolen Generations. Jimmy takes Swan to a sacred water hole. In one of the most moving scenes of the film, Gulpilil explains through song the stories of the ancient paintings on boulders that are immersed in the water. After he has restored order to Goldstone, Swan returns to this hallowed place. Although he is still deeply affected by his daughter’s death, it is implicit that connecting to this sacred area has provided a beginning point for Swan’s recovery.
Even when protagonists have been stripped of their identity by personal or familial histories of child removal, such attempts at assimilation are never entirely successful. While family bonds may never be restored completely, the protagonist usually gains confidence in his or her identity as the story evolves. In The Circuit (Mackenize, 2007), Drew Ellis knows little of his Aboriginal family because his father was a member of the Stolen Generations. When his new colleague, Sam Wallan locates some of Drew’s relatives, Drew is initially reluctant to meet with them. It is only after the intervention of an elderly uncle who silently waits outside his home that Drew relents, and begins to connect with his relatives. By the second season (Jodrell, 2009), Drew’s reconciliation with his family has been fraught with difficulties. But Drew has developed greater confidence in his Aboriginal identity.
Conclusion
Australian crime writers have a tradition of portraying Aboriginal people through the guise of demeaning stereotypes. This tradition reached its zenith with Arthur Upfield’s character, Bony. As the quintessential noble savage, Bony had an innate connection with the bush and a compulsion to go “walkabout.” Bony adored the White squatters whom he met in the course of his investigations, who not only returned his affection, but treated him as an equal. Although the noble savage has long since disappeared from Australian crime fiction, Aboriginal characters still tend to lack complexity, and are relegated to menial roles vis-a-vis the protagonist.
Such representations are now being challenged by Aboriginal writers who are increasingly turning to crime fiction. The creators of Aboriginal crime stories are subverting the genre through the trope of characters that bring Aboriginal voices to the centre of the narrative. It is through the eyes and emotions of a protagonist like Jay Swan that a light is cast on the myriad forms of racism in rural Australia. It is through the experiences of Detective Lisa Fuller that the multiple harms endured by the Stolen Generations are brought into stark relief. Finally, it is through Drew Ellis’ journey home that the resilience of Aboriginal people and the sanctity of our bonds with family and country are celebrated.
Footnotes
Declaration of conflicting interests
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.