The man standing behind the lectern clears his throat, but to no avail; the auditorium buzzes like a hive. He rearranges his papers, looks at his watch, peers at the gathered academics over his reading glasses. Then he clears his throat again, a little louder this time, and into the microphone.

The clamour dies down; a few stragglers find their seats. The man behind the lectern begins to speak.

“Welcome to the tenth Annual Convention of the Australian Lexicography Society,” he says, with a small quaver in his quiet voice. Then, after a pause that is slightly too long, he continues.

“Naa Manni,” he says with a little more strength, his gaze sweeping around the room. “That is the Kaurna way of saying hello to more than one person, and I’m glad to see there is more than one person here today.” There is the murmur of mild amusement. “For those of you who are visiting our city, and perhaps some of you who have lived here all your life, the Kaurna are the Aboriginal people who called this land home before this great hall was built, and before English was ever spoken in this country. We are on their land, yet we do not speak their language.

“I use Kaurna words this morning to make a point. Back in the 1830s and ’40s, they were used by Mullawirraburka, Kadlitpinna and Ityamaiitpinna, Kaurna Elders known more commonly by white settlers as King John, Captain Jack and King Rodney. These Aboriginal men sat with two German men who were interested in learning the indigenous language. The Germans wrote down what they heard and fashioned meanings that might be understood by others. They were doing the work of linguists and lexicographers, though these are not terms they would have used. They were missionaries, but any one of us would recognise their passion for language, their desire to record and understand the spoken word, not only so it might inform proper contemporary usage, but also so it might be preserved, and its historical context understood. If not for their efforts, the linguistic world of the Kaurna people would be lost to us, and so too our understanding of what was meaningful to them, what is meaningful to them. Few Kaurna people speak their language today, but because it has been written down, and the meanings of words recorded, it is possible that Kaurna people—and, dare I suggest, whitefellas such as myself—will speak it again.” His voice has risen to an excited pitch and his forehead shines under the harsh lights of the stage. He pauses to catch his breath.

“Nineteen eighty-nine is a significant year for the English language, though it is probably true to say that few outside this hall would know it.” There is a smattering of laughter, and he looks up, clearly pleased.