Yesterday, January 26, was the national day of Uganda, India, and Australia.
Like all our national symbols, Australia Day bitterly divides this country, marking as it does the day on which the British first seized possession of this wide brown land from its original inhabitants in 1788, turning it into a dumping ground for thieves, dissidents, low-lifes and other undesirables – the Guantanamo Bay of its time. Commemorating as it does an act of colonisation rather than of real nationhood, it’s a troublesome anniversary for many. On the left it is widely referred to, perhaps unhelpfully, as “Invasion Day”, but even the aborigines have moved on from that position: “Survival Day” is the preferred moniker these days.
Back in 1788, Captain Philip read a proclamation, the British flag was hoisted, a toast was made to king George, and a volley of shots fired. Then the male convicts were unloaded and ordered, despite the fact that many of them could not walk after being on a ship for the previous eight months, to put up tents. The women were unloaded a few days later, an event that was followed by a violent storm and, in the ensuing confusion, Australia’s first orgy. I can’t help but wonder how many Australians are descended from the bastard children conceived that night.
My own antecedents arrived in the colony a few years later, he in 1803 (my great, great, great grandfather John Sherwood, convicted for sheep stealing; sentenced to hang but later commuted to life transportation) and she in 1807 (Ann Lane, convicted for stealing a child’s dress, sentence: seven years’ transportation).
These days, January 26 is mostly observed by the flag-waving, anthem-singing, Queen-toasting classes, who see it as symbolic of their continued dominion over property, nature and savagery, and the cranky left, who use it as an occasion to question historical orthodoxy and remind those who will listen that Australia’s story, then as now, is a troubled tale. Most people fall somewhere between these two extremes, appreciative of the day off work but not driven to any sort of patriotic fervour by the occasion.
Brent and I packed a picnic basket and took the dogs to Yarra Bend Park, where we lasted less than an hour in the stifling heat before coming home and cooling off as best we could.