Water Symbol Analysis

Poppy used to call the Murrumby River the Big Water, and it had once flowed through the country, from state to state, south to north. August’s memory of the river was faint since the water had ceased flowing since she was a girl, and not just because of the Dam Built but because of the Rain Gone. And some say because enough people cry water in this whole region, Murrumby thinks she’s not needed at all.

Worship came easy, so this news about a fella Jesus from the desert on the other side of the world who had all the instructions for heavenly ascent—well, that was alright with us. Problem is they didn’t let the Aborigine straddle the world he knew best—no more language or hunting or ceremonies. No more of our lore, only their law was forced. We were meant to be saved but we were still in bondage. We worshipped though, we bent low, dulbi-nya. We’d done it before in front of the giving honeybee, the generous possum, the loving sun, the plentiful waters—our lives were filled up with dulbi-nya long, long before.

“Joe mentioned Native Title. That he talked with Pop about claiming the land.”

“Couldn’t ever happen—I’ll tell you why—there’s no artifacts. No water in Murrumby, no fish—and fishing would mean Nana, or whoever’s living here, would have a cultural connection to the land to maintain, the…well, ‘resources’—okay? Another thing, there’s no language here. Our people’s language is extinct, no one speaks it any more so they can tick that box on their government form that says ‘loss of cultural connection.’ You see?”

“Poppy taught us some.”

“Heads, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes song? Yeah, he taught me that too. But I mean language that is connected to this place, this landscape.”

“Nana told me last night Poppy was writing a dictionary.”

Aunt Nicki shook her head before she answered. “Even if he was writing it, won’t change anything. They grew up on the Mish, remember, and language wasn’t allowed.”

A word came into her mind, fully-formed, she knew what it meant—burral-gang—the brolga. She didn’t know how she knew the word but she knew it. Burral-gang. The brolgas finished their dance. It was [Jedda], dancing. […]

She closed her eyes, a dam had broken, broken their little hearts, hearts born as fragile as clay. With her hands flat on the dry dirt and her eyes blinded with tears, she felt as if she were back home, back on the land she belonged to. At the same time, she thought that this was the saddest place on earth.

The three of them broke from a giggle to belly laughs. August felt there, felt effortlessly at home, felt as if a vibration were being shared between the three generations of women. Felt as if she might laugh that way, on Prosperous, after everything, after death and theft and secrets and lies and the muddied water, and the diesel and the blood—after all that—she felt as if she was home. Belonged.

Maybe you are looking for a statue, or a bench by the banks of the Murrumby to honor the people who have lived by the river. Better, there is water returning, nudging what was dead. Better the burral-gang congregate here often. Better these words and better we are still here and that we speak them.