The aboriginal spear looked unsettled in its pristine glass case. Visitors circled it like an enemy surrounding it’s prey. “Kangaroo skin” they murmured after reading the description, “seventeenth century… I wonder if they used it to kill emus” they continued before drifting away.
David stood nearby, rolling his eyes inwardly. As a security guard at the Museum of Ethnic Art it was easy for him to hide in plain sight. Not unlike his Aboriginal ancestors did in the scrub when hunting using a spear like the one displayed. David recognised this weapon, a woomera, as one used by his people for hunting, fishing, fighting, punishment and as a symbolic marker of masculinity.
It felt like the ultimate insult for it to be trapped in a glass case in a stuffy Sydney museum.
The collective sadness of his tribe, the Gulpili people of the Larrakia region in North West Queensland, thrummed in his body. Every night he heard their voices calling him to make amends.
As a light skinned man with an English name inherited from his grandfather’s owners, the museum staff did not recognise David’s Aboriginality. He presented as a reliable, somewhat introverted worker.
However, for David, performing this job was a radical act. Every day his blood boiled as he walked past the huge sign – Museum of Ethnic Art – in bold red letters. Huh! he thought, we are the original owners of this land and now we are ‘ethnic’?
The Aboriginal artefacts were lumped together with the East Asian collection, also victims of colonial-era looting. How were everyday functional objects like lamps and teapots considered art? fumed David. He empathised with the rightful owners of these items but needed to focus on his own mission.
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It was almost too easy. Signing up for the afternoon closing shift. Giving notice to his landlord before packing spray cans and his personal belongings into a canvas bag.
Before donning his uniform, David painted his chest with a mixture of charcoal, ochre and animal fat. The markings a symbol of kinship and ancestral authority.
At shift close he locked the doors, turned off the security cameras and unlocked the glass case using the security key. David held the spear, breathless, in a moment that felt both ancient and defiant.
But his work was not over. Taking the bag with his precious treasure, he climbed onto the museum roof. The lights of the Harbour Bridge twinkled across the inky sky, the creamy sails of the Opera House sails catching the moonlight.
David carried his spray cans, as he carefully trod the scaffolding bridge. His breathing heightened to warrior mode as he sprayed a black score through the letters E T H N I C. Switching to red paint can he sprayed the letters S T O L E N directly below them.
David stepped back, triumphant as the word STOLEN bled slowly down the white wall. Below him the harbour glittered, while ferries moved across the dark water like slow ghosts.
