It was a place built on dreams.
None of your soppy, if only it were so, aimlessly wandering shadows.
No fantasy fuelled hallucinations of the born to rule.
Neither the martyrdom inspired belief in the world beyond.
Hardnosed they were. Hardbitten, hardboiled, hardheaded dreams.
They were so because they were the dreams of people who were moulded in the difficult times of two world wars and the depression in between. You had to be practical to survive. You no longer believed in the airy-fairy promises of priests, politicians and patronising dogooders.
By the mid fifties these dreamers had built the trade union movement factory by factory, ship by ship, mine by mine, office by office. And in countless other places where men and women sold their labour power for the best price possible and fought for a greater share of their own efforts of mind and muscle.
They fought to make their places of work other than the cesspits that they were. For their own dignity and that of their fellow humans.
In doing these and a million other things these people had won the respect of the many who had stood still in awe of the power of the few to dictate the lives of the dispossessed. To such an extent the the ruling class refused the dreamers employment, jailed the most vociferous, banned their newspapers and illegally banned their organisation.
This place was built by those who had defeated such an enemy.
They were members of the Communist Party of Australia.
These Communists, along with their Comrades all over the world, had also learned hard lessons over the years. It was important, they said, to change the thinking of the oppressed who were kept in ignorance by the masters.
Who controls the propaganda organs? Who does the police and army serve in the final analysis? Who controls the elected representatives? Who's ideas are pumped into the minds of all of us from our first breath and through schooling?
So the Party always insisted on its members study of history, economics, philosophy and other subjects that sometimes frightened the wits out of those of us with limited understanding. But in time our own success made it necessary to create a place such as this. Where wokers could come for extended periods and study, free from the pressures of daily life, secure in the knowledge that their families were cared for.
What is here was built by the voluntary effort of the working class and often by the involuntary donations of the employing class. Untold and unrecognised numbers gave their time and labour, their nights, weekends and holidays, their hard learnt skills, their harder earnt money that meant sacrifices pursuing their ideal.
So while these practical dreamers found it easier discussing their job, home and economic problems than grappling with 'freedom being the recognition of necessity' they created a genuine tradition that truly belongs to 'true believers'.
The ghosts of the place would not like to be thought of as angelic paragons of virtue. God forbid! Marx too!
They were rambunctious, often bawdy and sometimes downright disgusting.
There were plots, punch ups and piss ups. Accompanied by counter plots, punch downs and throw ups. There were seductions, assignations, copulations and the occasional impregnation. Sweet Charity alone prevents naming names from these slices of life. Louts and larrikins, bitches and sheilas from places where life is large. Sometimes rules were drawn up to contain the most unruly. Even if the consensus would have it that rules are made to be broken. As they were. Often.
They generated a feeling of trust. Real trust. Like you knew that when you were in deep trouble, short of a quid or in the miseries over a busted romance you'd get good advice, something to keep you going and maybe told to sort yourself out. Introspection, let alone self pity, was not part of the philosophy.
Fresh from a tough ten rounder with the ruling class and its agencies over legal rights the Party wasn't keen for another stoush but the local rednecks and tin pot dictators with help of Special Branch and/or ASIO put signs all the way to the place saying 'TO THE COMMUNIST TRAINING CAMP'. The press publicity blew the lid on seclusion for a while.
But we got square.
ASIO shifted headquarters to their new building at Kirribilli. All the way from Milsons Point and North Sydney stations down to the hidey hole, attached to the poles with four inch nails appeared the legend 'TO THE SPIES' RATSNEST'.
And talking about low mongrels.
A certain Jeff(?) McDonald wrote a pamphlet 'RED OVER BLACK'. It told how the Communists planned to take over the Aboriginal struggle (sort of turning the flag up side down). McDonald claimed he learnt of this plot while painting a mural at the place, by overhearing some discussion he wasn't supposed to .
Over the years this document was flogged by the League of Rights and other grubby agencies. Bjelke Petersen loved it. N.T. pastoralists adopted it as the new testament and the fundamentalist churches said it proved how correct was the Bible.
As for us. We kept giving what support we could to the movement for self determination. Some years ago Yami Lester held a NAIDOC gathering in Alice Springs spell bound with a story his fathers and grandfathers had told him. About MUMOO(?) who dealt with kids who were naughty. This was this blind man's contemptuous dismissal of the Communist bogey.
Because of all this but mostly because these Communists did more to help indigenous struggle than all their critics combined it is fitting that the proposal outlined be made and agreed to.
BEYOND A THOUSAND GRAVES AND BEYOND A MILLION DREAMS, THERE'S A SIGH. AS A ZEPHYR THROUGH THE MOUNTAIN SHE OAKS, AS BREEZE THROUGH THE PLAINS EUCALYPTS, AS THE WHISPER OF A SINGLE MOVING GRAIN OF SAND IN THE DESERT, IT COMES.
LISTEN.
ARE YOU USING WISELY THAT WHICH WE HAVE LEFT BEHIND?
[On the proposal that the property at Minto, described above, formerly owned by the Communist Party of Australia and now by the Search Foundation be given free and unencumbered to the Aboriginal Co-operative which administers Tranby Aboriginal
College. To be used as an external campus by that body or for whatever purposes they desire].
None of your soppy, if only it were so, aimlessly wandering shadows.
No fantasy fuelled hallucinations of the born to rule.
Neither the martyrdom inspired belief in the world beyond.
Hardnosed they were. Hardbitten, hardboiled, hardheaded dreams.
They were so because they were the dreams of people who were moulded in the difficult times of two world wars and the depression in between. You had to be practical to survive. You no longer believed in the airy-fairy promises of priests, politicians and patronising dogooders.
By the mid fifties these dreamers had built the trade union movement factory by factory, ship by ship, mine by mine, office by office. And in countless other places where men and women sold their labour power for the best price possible and fought for a greater share of their own efforts of mind and muscle.
They fought to make their places of work other than the cesspits that they were. For their own dignity and that of their fellow humans.
In doing these and a million other things these people had won the respect of the many who had stood still in awe of the power of the few to dictate the lives of the dispossessed. To such an extent the the ruling class refused the dreamers employment, jailed the most vociferous, banned their newspapers and illegally banned their organisation.
This place was built by those who had defeated such an enemy.
They were members of the Communist Party of Australia.
These Communists, along with their Comrades all over the world, had also learned hard lessons over the years. It was important, they said, to change the thinking of the oppressed who were kept in ignorance by the masters.
Who controls the propaganda organs? Who does the police and army serve in the final analysis? Who controls the elected representatives? Who's ideas are pumped into the minds of all of us from our first breath and through schooling?
So the Party always insisted on its members study of history, economics, philosophy and other subjects that sometimes frightened the wits out of those of us with limited understanding. But in time our own success made it necessary to create a place such as this. Where wokers could come for extended periods and study, free from the pressures of daily life, secure in the knowledge that their families were cared for.
What is here was built by the voluntary effort of the working class and often by the involuntary donations of the employing class. Untold and unrecognised numbers gave their time and labour, their nights, weekends and holidays, their hard learnt skills, their harder earnt money that meant sacrifices pursuing their ideal.
So while these practical dreamers found it easier discussing their job, home and economic problems than grappling with 'freedom being the recognition of necessity' they created a genuine tradition that truly belongs to 'true believers'.
The ghosts of the place would not like to be thought of as angelic paragons of virtue. God forbid! Marx too!
They were rambunctious, often bawdy and sometimes downright disgusting.
There were plots, punch ups and piss ups. Accompanied by counter plots, punch downs and throw ups. There were seductions, assignations, copulations and the occasional impregnation. Sweet Charity alone prevents naming names from these slices of life. Louts and larrikins, bitches and sheilas from places where life is large. Sometimes rules were drawn up to contain the most unruly. Even if the consensus would have it that rules are made to be broken. As they were. Often.
They generated a feeling of trust. Real trust. Like you knew that when you were in deep trouble, short of a quid or in the miseries over a busted romance you'd get good advice, something to keep you going and maybe told to sort yourself out. Introspection, let alone self pity, was not part of the philosophy.
Fresh from a tough ten rounder with the ruling class and its agencies over legal rights the Party wasn't keen for another stoush but the local rednecks and tin pot dictators with help of Special Branch and/or ASIO put signs all the way to the place saying 'TO THE COMMUNIST TRAINING CAMP'. The press publicity blew the lid on seclusion for a while.
But we got square.
ASIO shifted headquarters to their new building at Kirribilli. All the way from Milsons Point and North Sydney stations down to the hidey hole, attached to the poles with four inch nails appeared the legend 'TO THE SPIES' RATSNEST'.
And talking about low mongrels.
A certain Jeff(?) McDonald wrote a pamphlet 'RED OVER BLACK'. It told how the Communists planned to take over the Aboriginal struggle (sort of turning the flag up side down). McDonald claimed he learnt of this plot while painting a mural at the place, by overhearing some discussion he wasn't supposed to .
Over the years this document was flogged by the League of Rights and other grubby agencies. Bjelke Petersen loved it. N.T. pastoralists adopted it as the new testament and the fundamentalist churches said it proved how correct was the Bible.
As for us. We kept giving what support we could to the movement for self determination. Some years ago Yami Lester held a NAIDOC gathering in Alice Springs spell bound with a story his fathers and grandfathers had told him. About MUMOO(?) who dealt with kids who were naughty. This was this blind man's contemptuous dismissal of the Communist bogey.
Because of all this but mostly because these Communists did more to help indigenous struggle than all their critics combined it is fitting that the proposal outlined be made and agreed to.
BEYOND A THOUSAND GRAVES AND BEYOND A MILLION DREAMS, THERE'S A SIGH. AS A ZEPHYR THROUGH THE MOUNTAIN SHE OAKS, AS BREEZE THROUGH THE PLAINS EUCALYPTS, AS THE WHISPER OF A SINGLE MOVING GRAIN OF SAND IN THE DESERT, IT COMES.
LISTEN.
ARE YOU USING WISELY THAT WHICH WE HAVE LEFT BEHIND?
[On the proposal that the property at Minto, described above, formerly owned by the Communist Party of Australia and now by the Search Foundation be given free and unencumbered to the Aboriginal Co-operative which administers Tranby Aboriginal
College. To be used as an external campus by that body or for whatever purposes they desire].
