To finish the ceremony, the dancers took up the branches from the lowered coffin and swept them across the ground in graceful arcs. They circled the funeral procession, stamping their feet in jagged motions and gripping the backs of their wallaby-skin cloaks with their spare hands.

The speakers then took their turns, each of them introduced by the enthusiastic MC. The first speaker was a shadow minister in the state opposition, who droned on about the failings of the current government and, in particular, their unwillingness to change the date of their Australia Day celebrations. The crowd cheered, and someone yelled, ‘Shame.’

Short memory, people, I thought to myself, clapping along with the rest of them. This woman headed the previous government. While in office, she too had refused to change the date.

The rest of the speakers blended into one, with the exception of stiff-legged Jack, who spoke last. He described the atrocities committed against our people, in the days of the Black War. He recounted massacres that occurred around our island. His attention to detail was fascinating and gory, but he spoke an undeniable truth that made even the yobbos and the rednecks at the fringes of the crowd stare at the ground.

He ended on a positive note: ‘There is, indeed, hope for the future,’ he said, and indicated, with a hand gesture, to the large crowd.

I thought about what stiff-legged Jack said to me earlier. Stand out, brother. I knew what he meant. I knew what I had to do. Sometimes, it’s your turn to stand out. And to stand up. Sometimes, it’s just your turn.

Like I knew he would, stiff-legged Jack opened the mic up to the crowd. I was already making my way to the stage as he said the words. He nodded, as he handed over the microphone. I turned from him to face the people. My people.

‘This is what I think of Australia Day,’ I said. My voice sounded tinny through the PA, but it was clear and loud. I was heard. I pulled the bunched-up flag from my pocket and shook it out with one hand. I squirted the contents of my water bottle on it and held it high for the crowd. Spirits burned my eyes. The only sound was the whir of the cameras — as they zoomed, and panned, and closed in around me — and my heart, pulsing in my ears.

Holding my lighter against the dripping rag of red, white and blue, I thought of the fat businessman who’d told us to get a job, and the car that honked at the lights. I thought of the angry bogans, and the police who looked at us as though we were ants and they were the boots of destiny. But most of all I thought of the old people. My old people.

I thumbed the flint.

JACK’S ISLAND