On the banks of Birrarung
History all at once, the signing of the Treaty.
It is late afternoon, the sun leaning warm on my left shoulder. We’d gathered on the banks of Birrarung, beneath a small parade of She-oak trees, to witness something that had been imagined, fought for, and finally brought into being — the signing of Victoria’s first Treaty by members of the First Peoples’ Assembly.
This wasn’t Government House, nor did the Assembly or anyone present wish it to be. That formality would come tomorrow, with the Royal Assent. Here, there were no gilt frames or stiff collars — just a small circle of people, family, friends, colleagues, gathered in the open air where the light could do as it wanted and the river could listen in.
Before anything and in the midst of a scene no-one had seen or participated in before, Co‑Chair of the Assembly, Ngarra Murray, invited us to observe a minute’s silence. Sixty seconds that stretched and folded time. Pressing past and present together, granting space to gather in our thoughts all those not with us to see it through.
It was hard to gather the fullness of how far we have come, or reckon with those we lost along the way, so I let my eyes fall to the grass, let the sun press down on me, and listened to the moment engulfing us all — together and alone all at once.
The trees whispered in the light breeze, their fine needles catching the auburn light, their murmured tones drifting ahead of the city’s soft, shadowy pulse. A tram railing past in the distance, a building site clattered faintly — neither disturbing the memories evoked. The stillness rose above the city’s undertone, quiet as a prayer shared between old friends or a grandmother and her grandaughter, passing but never forgotten. A fairy‑wren flickered in and around; a grey currawong called from somewhere further away. These were the sounds of Birrarung at rest, the river of mists lending breath to the gathering and calm to the edge of the city.
The ground beneath us held its own quiet history, on the same patch where smoke soon curled upward, sharp and earthy, searching for contementment in the air. The scent, as it searched, clung to our clothes as we watched the movement of people and smoke together — part of the ceremony, part of the place.
It was impossible not to think of those who had stood here before, the elders and organisers who had pushed and argued and held on through long years of waiting.
Where and why we stood, felt practical as much as emotional, the outcome of years of meetings, drafts, setbacks, persistence and more persistence. What had resulted was ours — shaped by those who showed up, who stayed, who believed. Nervous anticipation settled into something steady and assured — a quiet composure that made space for what came next. Understanding exactly where we were, and why it mattered.
It is a strange, almost weightless thing to feel history gathering around you while you are still inside a moment where history itself is being made. In the smoke and the sun, I thought about how a mere two hundred metres upstream, in the shade of plain and oak trees at Yarra Bank, once known as Speaker’s Corner, members of the Australian Aborigines League stood in the 1930s, in front of masses that didn’t want to hear, and pleaded their case on behalf of their people. The small bluestone embodied mounds still there; several of their descendants now gathered in front ot me — myself among them, standing downstream in another moment entirely, carrying forward their work and their words. Decades between us and nothing between us, the same sky, the same river the same city.
A few kilometres further upriver was the site where John Batman met with Wurundjeri elders on the banks of Merri Creek. He laid out blankets and trinkets; in that brief exchange, two ideas of belonging met — for the Wurundjeri, a welcome; for Batman, a claim. That same river and valley carried whispers of his deceit downstream — deception followd by deceit, followed by action and then inaction.
Upstream further, near its birth and decades later, the river still bore witness to the weary steps of Barak walking the long track to Melbourne, determined that his people from Coranderrk be heard and respected.
As I stood, the realisation hit me: because of what was being signed today, those stories rushing through my soul — once tucked away, half‑told, half‑heard to the world — would become known to many. They would be taught to children across the state because of the deed I was about to witness. It would mean Ignorance would no longer be an excuse. History was all around in a million small synergies and new heroes were waiting to be discovered for generations barely born.
One by one, members of the Assembly stepped forward to the table set in the small circle of truth, where five copies of the Treaty waited to be brought to life through the ink laid down by particpants in history.
Each name spoken carried the weight of generations. Families moved together, children holding the hands of elders. When the first pen met paper, a murmur passed through the crowd — quiet pride, disbelief, release. Every signature was more than ink: it was a declaration of resistance and sovereignty, a visible bridge between those who fought, those who fell, and those who would carry this work into the future.
As the afternoon began to dwindle, the light stretched thin over the city skyline, children chased each other over the grass and the steep mound on the eastern side of the circle where the signing was taking place. Their laughter rising above the cheery conversations and reminisces taking place between families of every shape — siblings, cousins, aunties, uncles, and all kin — the scent of eucalypt laden smoke permeating the air.
Assembly members walked forward one by one, not alone but with the quiet company of those who had help carry them to this point. Partners, children, aunties, uncles, cousins — each group moving with reverence, others with dance, all with love.
Phones lifted, not out of vanity but out of a need to hold the moment still. Every click, a small act of preservation — a recognition that this was history, and also family; a record not just of signatures on paper, but of who stood beside them as they made their mark.
From Alice to Zoe, when the final name was called and the last signatures laid down, I’m sure there was a momentary pause, not of uncertainty but of absorption. Then applause erupted, not tentative or polite, but full‑throated and rolling, breaking with the bright rush of something long‑held finally released. It gathered pace and colour as it moved through the crowd, a joyous clamor from the couple of hundred present — threaded with relief and belief. and entombed in embraces. The sound and commotion a community makes when it finally sees its effort reflected back at itself, laughter rising between claps, voices joining without hesitation, the small park rising in one collective release.
I looked around at faces streaked with sunlight and shadow, elders standing beside teenagers, children leaning into their parents. A few people wiped their eyes, others smiled without speaking. A lightness in the air, as if the moment itself had eased something long carried from our shoulders. The city sounds returned — a car horn, the faint ring of a tram bell — and yet they felt distant, almost polite, unwilling to trespass.
Perhaps the dissonant feeling, the surrealness of being there, was the quiet realisation that time, the past and the present, can sometimes manifest together in a landscape and its people all at once. In that convergence comes what has been waiting for us: a new era unfolding in colours so vivid that make everything until now look like it had been drenched under sepia in our memories— the same sepia tint that wash over the faces in all the old photgraphs of loved ones we wished were standing beside us. In that sudden rush of colour, you see how long you’ve been living in that faded light, and how their remembered faces brighten in the mind as if stepping forward to witness the moment with us.
All the attempts to silence and remove us had failed, and feeling that truth in the moment was gentler than I expected — more like a whisper than a cry. A steady hum of endurance beneath the noise of the world. The warm glow within matched by the gentle warmth of the sun, a feeling of being centred and at peace in a world full of chaos, just for now. Defiance was in the air and still carried the day, and unlike what was unleashed upon us, what had been sealed on this November day, came through peaceful means, through understanding and generosit. That alone should stand as an example to the rest of the world.
Thank you for bearing witness to this momentous event and sharing it here for so many to read. ❤️💛🖤