Moore River Settlement Monologue

At Moore River Settlement, the sun beats remorselessly down on the red earth beneath my feet, a harsh reminder of how far I am from home. It's been more than a year since they took me from my family. That day was really like an etching in my mind: the panic in my mother's voice, the men dragging me, and the burning feeling of confusion and anger as I drove further from everything I had known. They say it's for our own good, to teach us to live like white people and give us a better chance. But in all honesty, what they've shown me is how to survive in a prison camp.

The shrill whistle jerks us out of bed every morning. No matter how routine it becomes, it's a shock. We shuffle through half-asleep and line up for the daily routine. The toilets
I push the food around my plate, forcing it into me, and when we are finished, we go to the schoolroom. It is a plain room with hard wooden benches and a chalkboard. All the lessons are in English; the words are hard and foreign. We may learn to read, write, and do sums, but nobody may tell us the stories of our ancestors or what the knowledge passed down from generation to generation holds in store. They say it's for a better life, but how is that better if it means losing everything that makes us who we
Yet it is forbidden to speak it here. They punish us if they catch us. Beatings are severe, leaving welts that take days to heal. I've learned to be silent, to keep my language locked away in my mind. I see younger children struggling to remember words that once came easily. It breaks my heart, but I dare not show it. Weakness is dangerous here, too.

We've been taken away, taken from our families and our lives. Now we're family, to each other—tied by our sharing of sorrow and hope. We whisper about our homes, lands we long to see, though rivers and trees hold our stories. We dream of escape but, deep down, from all we know to be true, we doubt. It is a dream we hold tight to, even as reality crushes it. But how can I give it up? Without it, I'd lose a part of myself.

At night, after the lights are out, I lie on my bunk and think of my family. I wonder if they are searching for me, hoping to bring me home. I remember my mother's voice, the songs of our people, and my father teaching me to hunt and survive in the bush. All that is left are the memories. I hold on to them, but the days tick into weeks, then months. However, the memories fade, just as the last light of day slips through my fingers.

I am scared to forget. I can't let that happen. I won't. I