i

Indigenous internal self­determination in Australia and Norway

by

Pia Solberg

A thesis in fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy

School of Humanities & Languages Faculty of Arts & Social Sciences The University of New South Wales

October 2016 iv

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments...... vii Language and terminology...... ix Abstract...... x Introduction...... 11 Approaches to the problem...... 13 Why compare with Norway and the Sami?...... 17 My approach...... 20 The structure of this thesis...... 24 PART ONE: HISTORY MATTERS...... 26 Chapter One. Early Colonisation...... 27 Introduction...... 27 Sapmi: co­existence and gradual colonisation...... 27 The origins of Sami society...... 27 Co­existence with the neighbours...... 29 Gradual colonisation...... 31 From hunting to herding...... 32 Dispossession and adaptation...... 33 Recognition...... 36 Australia: destructive invasion...... 39 Pre­colonial Aboriginal society...... 39 Relations with the outside world...... 41 Invasion, diseases and warfare...... 42 Dispossession and adaptation...... 44 Recognition...... 47 Summary...... 48 Chapter Two. The Second Phase of Colonisation...... 50 Introduction...... 50 Sami inclusion and attempted assimilation...... 50 Geopolitics and the Nordic colonial project...... 50 The partition of Sapmi...... 54 Attempted assimilation...... 59 v

Australia: exclusion and attempted assimilation...... 64 The British­Australian colonial project and land...... 64 Conservation and destruction of Aboriginal society...... 69 Discrimination and attempted assimilation...... 73 Summary...... 77 PART TWO: POLITICS MATTERS...... 79 Chapter Three. Early Indigenous Resistance...... 80 Introduction...... 80 Historical origins of “self­determination”...... 80 Norway...... 82 North Sami Resistance: class and Indigeneity...... 82 South Sami resistance: the idea of separate development...... 89 Australia...... 91 Aboriginal resistance in the south: land and equality...... 91 Aboriginal north: the idea of a separate state...... 100 Summary...... 102 Chapter Four. The Post­war Decades...... 104 Introduction...... 104 Norway: back to country, regional development and recognition...... 105 Back to country...... 105 Cultural­linguistic recognition, poverty and discrimination...... 109 The idea of a Sami core area...... 113 Australia: assimilation, equal rights and government neglect...... 117 The policy of assimilation...... 117 Equal wages and land rights...... 121 Invisibilisation, Freedom Rides and the 1967 Referendum...... 125 Summary...... 129 Chapter Five. Into the Political Mainstream...... 131 Introduction...... 131 Indigenous "self­determination"...... 133 Australia: the Whitlam to Keating era...... 137 Aboriginal activism and the policy of "self­determination"...... 137 Aboriginal Australia and the rural crisis...... 146 vi

Labor's unfulfilled promises...... 150 Norway: the emergence of Sami politics...... 156 The Sami as a regional minority...... 156 Two factions of Sami activism...... 163 The Alta Affair as a turning point...... 169 Summary...... 174 Chapter Six. Divergent Paths in the Era of Neoliberalism...... 176 Introduction...... 176 Norway: the “two peoples” approach...... 176 The Sami Parliament...... 176 The Finnmark Act...... 183 Regional dimensions of the Sami question...... 189 Australia: conservative backlash against “self­determination”...... 195 The abolition of ATSIC...... 195 Neoliberalism and the conservative backlash...... 200 Regional dimensions of the Aboriginal question...... 207 Summary...... 215 Conclusion...... 217 The role of the state...... 217 The need for alliances...... 220 Equality and political representation...... 222 BIBLIOGRAPHY...... 225 Appendix...... 268 vii

Acknowledgments

First of all I would like to thank my supervisor, Dr Peter Ross, and co­supervisor, Dr Jim Levy, for comments and feedback on this thesis. Jim also provided invaluable editorial assistance in the months before submission. I would also like to thank Dr Mark T. Berger who supervised me very briefly before he left UNSW. All three influenced, challenged and provoked my thinking from when I was an undergraduate and honours student in Latin American Studies and Comparative Development Studies. The course Making and Unmaking the Third World triggered my political and historical curiosity which led to this thesis. My undergraduate studies helped me maintain a broad view and understand the colonisation of Sapmi and Australia in the wider context of world history and capitalist development. I am grateful to those before me who, through their detailed historical and empirical research, provided me with the raw material that made my sweeping comparative approach possible. I would also like to thank the University of New South Wales for supporting my candidature with a University Postgraduate Award. I owe a considerable debt of gratitude to the people of the Aboriginal community of Murrin Bridge in New South Wales whom I photographed regularly for four years from their first wine harvest in 2004. Their experience and daily struggles have shaped much of the thinking behind this thesis. A special thanks goes to Craig Cromelin, former wine salesman and the current Chairman of the New South Wales Land Council. At the other end of the world, editor Nils Henrik Måsø and his colleagues of the Sami newspaper Min Áigi (now Ávvir) introduced me to Sapmi and welcomed me to work for them as a photographer in Finnmark (and Troms) for four weeks in 2005. That stay, too, was invaluable. Many others have contributed to this project in different ways by providing materials, insights and comments. I would like to thank Peter Jull, Eva Josefsen, Marit Myrvoll, Steinar Pedersen and Majken Solberg. Johanna Perheentupa has been important for numerous discussions about Aboriginal affairs which undoubtedly will continue. I would also like to thank Blanca Tovias and the Indigenous Study Group at UNSW. Frances Flanagan came in with fresh eyes in the later stages of this thesis and provided invaluable comments, particularly on the conclusion. My final and greatest thanks goes to my partner and harshest but sympathetic critic, Günter Minnerup, for ongoing discussions and arguments, endless provocations, honest but necessary and constructive criticism, and invaluable support. Thank you for trying to shake off my worst (Norwegian) nationalist tendencies, and for editing my work at the end, making this thesis more readable. I am very much aware that your life would have viii been easier and our relationship more peaceful had you not taken an interest in this project, but also less interesting, I am sure. This thesis would not have been written without you. Finally, to the boys, who in all of this had a pretty good deal, thanks for being yourselves: wild and wonderful. ix

Language and terminology

There are many ways to spell Sami: Saami, Sámi and Sames. I have chosen to use “Sami”. The Norwegian names are used for towns and places which are officially bilingual (or trilingual in the case of Porsanger – Porsángu – Porsanki, the third language being Kven): Áltá – Alta Deatnu – Tana Finnmárku – Finnmark Gáivuotna – Kåfjord Guovdageaidnu – Kautokeino Kárášjohka – Karasjok Unjárga – Nesseby Nordic countries: Norway, Sweden, Finland, Denmark and Iceland. Fennoscandia: Norway, Sweden, Finland and parts of Russia. Sapmi: the Sami homeland in Norway, Sweden, Finland and the Kola Peninsula in Russia. Names of organisations and institutions are translated from Sami or Norwegian to English. The “Sami Parliament”, for example, is Samediggi in Northern Sami, in Lule Sami it is Samedigge, in South Sami Saemiedigkie and in Norwegian Sametinget. This thesis is mainly concerned with Aboriginal peoples, but the term Indigenous Australians includes Aboriginals and Torres Strait Islander peoples. I use Indigenous with a capital I to make a distinction between the Sami and others who are “indigenous” to Fennoscandia (Norwegians, Finns, Swedes etc), except in quotes where the original capitalisation is kept. x

Abstract This thesis compares the history and politics of the “Indigenous question” in Norway and Australia, using the Norwegian experience as a point of reference for a critical examination of the prevailing discourse and policies in Australia. Although the territory inhabited by the Sami extends into four states – Norway, Sweden, Finland and Russia – the Norwegian Sami have been the most active in global campaigns for Indigenous rights, and the Norwegian state has adopted the most developed policies designed to implement such rights. At the same time, the Norwegian Sami – in sharp contrast to the shocking poverty and social disadvantage of Aboriginal Australians – enjoy a relatively high standard of living. The relationship between Indigenous rights and socio­economic development is at the heart of the thesis. Its distinctive approach is to eschew theoretical and philosophical abstractions and focus on an exploration of the historical and political circumstances that shaped the nature and the range of possible solutions, of the problem: the very different pace and nature of colonisation, in Australia rapid and driven by the rapacious appetite of British capitalism for global expansion which had little use for the Indigenous peoples it encountered and dispossessed, in Norway/Fennoscandia a much more protracted process which allowed for some coexistence and cooperation (and mutual adaptation) between Indigenous and non­Indigenous societies over several centuries; the strategic importance of the Sami in their geopolitically contested region; the very different (and historically changing) possibilities for economic relations and political alliances between Indigenous and non­Indigenous interests and movements. As the first ever systematic comparison between the Sami and Aboriginal Australia (which is more commonly compared with the Maori or Native Americans), the choice of a comparative reference point outside the historical context of the British Empire and Anglo­American political culture is in itself an original contribution. The results of the comparison and the conclusion demonstrate the crucial importance of the role of the state (rather than “market forces” or the judiciary process) in righting historical wrongs, particularly through a systematic policy of regional socio­economic development and the fostering of autonomous Indigenous political representation at both national and regional level. 11

Introduction In 2005 the Queensland Parliament passed the Wild Rivers Act to protect the pristine water systems of the Cape York peninsula, some of which flow through Indigenous owned land in a region where Indigenous people make up 60% of the population. One of the last parts of Australia to be colonised, geographically located at the top end of the sparsely settled and tropical north east, 150 kilometres across the Torres Strait from neighbouring Papua New Guinea, Cape York makes up only three percent of the continent but nearly twenty percent of plant species are found there. It is a wilderness of savannah and rainforests, unique waterways, wetlands and aquatic ecosystems, that supports a wide range of wildlife. If plans to nominate parts of the peninsula for the World Heritage List materialise, it would be listed alongside such sites as the Great Barrier Reef, Uluru­Kata Tjuta National Park (with its famous 348 meters high red sandstone monolith, Uluru) and the Sydney Opera House. It “has long been recognised as one of Australia's most important heritage places – a place with a rich and diverse Indigenous story, where culture remains strong and communities have cared for their country since time immemorial”.1 But there is another side to Cape York's uniquely picturesque rainforests and white sand dunes, which is communities that struggle with endemic poverty and high unemployment and look for ways to make a living on lands that they used to have to themselves. As in many other parts of Australia, it is the mineral resources hidden away underneath the surface of that land – in the case of Cape York, primarily bauxite – which hold out the promise of attracting outside investment and thus generating economic activity and employment opportunities. It is against this background that a section of the local Indigenous population, led most prominently by the Aboriginal lawyer, land rights activist and founder of the Cape York Institute for Policy and Leadership, Noel Pearson, embarked on a vociferous campaign against the Wild Rivers Act which Pearson dubbed a “new wave of colonialism”.2 Pearson's campaign to address Aboriginal socio­economic deprivation and the government neglect of remote communities by means of removing a legislative obstacle to the free operation of market forces soon attracted the support of the Liberal Party,

1 Australian Government, Department of Sustainability, Environment, Water, Population and Communities, A World Heritage Nomination for Cape York Peninsula, Canberra, 2012, p. 4. 2 J. Owens and L. Wilson, 'Noel Pearson brands Wild Rivers law 'colonialism'', The Australian, September 30, 2010, viewed on 20 February 2016, 12 then in opposition in Queensland as well as (from 2007) in Canberra, whose leader, Tony Abbott, introduced a Private Member's Bill in Parliament in 2010 that would allow some Indigenous owned land to be exempt from the Wild Rivers Act by means of requiring “the absolute necessity of consent by Aboriginal people”.3 Given the long Australian record of unilaterally imposing government policies and laws on the Indigenous minority, the sudden enthusiasm for “consent” was clearly designed to exploit the divisions generated within Cape York communities by the Wild Rivers Act. John Holmes writes: “Increasingly potent is the schism between modernist, reformist, region­focused visions of Indigenous futures, forcefully presented by Noel Pearson against more traditionalist, local­focused visions held by many community leaderships.”4 For example, when David Claudie, chairman of the Chuulangun Aboriginal Corporation, and a group of Aboriginal supporters of the Wild Rivers Act travelled to Parliament in Canberra, they insisted that Pearson is not their leader and does not speak for them. They want development that combines tourism and the new carbon trading economy with traditional Indigenous interests such as management of country.5 The Wild Rivers controversy can serve as an example of many of the unresolved issues in the relationship between Australia's majority and its Indigenous minority and in the Indigenous policies of both Federal and State governments since the Gough Whitlam Labor government inaugurated the policy era of “self­determination” in the early 1970s. What powers do these rights actually confer, and how are they to be exercised, and by whom? Given that absolute “land rights” and “self­determination” would amount to sovereignty, how can their relative, partial, circumscribed versions fit into, and remain compatible with, a cohesive nation state and broader general interests such as environmental protection, economic development and erasing poverty? And, what is the role of the state? In the name of economic individualism and free market economics the debate was framed by Pearson, with the support of the conservative press, as a choice for Indigenous people between market­driven economic development or unemployment and

3 Parliament of Australia, 'Wild Rivers (Environmental Management) Bill 2010', House of Representatives, Parliamentary Debates (Hansard), 15 November 2010, p. 2148; For a discussion of the Abbott Bill see J. C. Altman, Wild Rivers and Indigenous Economic Development in Queensland, Topical Issue no. 6, Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research (CAEPR), Australian National University, Canberra, 2011. 4 J. Holmes, 'Contesting the Future of Cape York Peninsula', Australian Geographer, vol. 42, no. 1, 2011, p. 54. 5 Quoted in M. Gordon, 'Noel Pearson not our leader, say wild river men', The Sydney Morning Herald, 30 September 2010, viewed on 16 February 2016, See also The Wilderness Society, Protecting Rivers, Supporting Communities: Summary Report and Recommendations, Report 1 of 6, February 2011. 13 poverty. What was notably absent from the Wild Rivers debate was any notion that the state could play an active role in both facilitating Indigeneity and development in rural and remote areas, and be a binding agent between Indigenous and non­Indigenous people. For those who remain committed to the principles of Indigenous land rights and self­determination, a critique of the shortcomings of the policies in the Whitlam­Hawke­ Keating era is a necessary precondition for any resumption of the emancipatory impulses of the 1970s.6 As a contribution to that critique, this thesis compares and contrasts the Indigenous case of Australia with that of Norway (with references to Sami minorities in Sweden, Finland and Russia): not to hold up a Norwegian or Scandinavian “model” for emulation by Australia – indeed, the Nordic experience will be examined critically, too – but to use the comparative method to extract from two very different historical and political experiences some lessons and concepts which may clarify the key issues in both case studies. What explains the differences between the situation of the Sami and the Aboriginal peoples today, and what, if anything, can be learned in Australia from the policies adopted by Norwegian governments? Northern Europe may be a somewhat surprising choice of comparison when New Zealand or North America offer more obvious similarities and historical parallels. Yet in many ways they are too similar for fruitful comparison, given that Australia, New Zealand, the United States and Canada all have their origins in the British Empire, as British settler colonies which swamped their original Indigenous inhabitants with millions of European settlers, are all Anglophone (with the exception of the Canadian province of Quebec), and share a similar political culture and typically Anglo­Saxon liberal­individualist values and social and economic practices. Before discussing in more detail the justification of the comparison with northern Europe, however, it will be helpful to review some aspects of the main political approaches in Australia to the Indigenous “problem”.

Approaches to the problem For states, Indigenous peoples are usually a problem. They are a reminder of the pre­ colonial past. As descendants of the original inhabitants who have refused to disappear, they bear witness to the historic theft of the land that once belonged to them. For the wealthy elites of these states, Indigenous poverty is also a source of international embarrassment. For example, when the UN Special Rapporteur on Adequate Housing, Miloon Kothari, visited remote communities in Central Australia in 2006, he observed

6 Labor governments of Gough Whitlam (1972­1975), Bob Hawke (1983­1991) and Paul Keating (1991­1996). 14 that “some of the conditions that I've seen are amongst the worst in the world both in terms of overcrowding, severe overcrowding, and in terms of lack of access to civic services.”7 Three years later, the Secretary General of Amnesty International, Irene Khan from Bangladesh, made a similar statement: “It is very shocking to see this kind of abject poverty in the heart of a country that is very high on the chart of human development indicators.”8 While Aboriginal peoples live the problem, they are blamed for the successive failures of all the many attempts to manage or tackle it – protectionism, assimilation, integration, self­determination, self­management, reconciliation, “practical reconciliation” and the recent policy of “closing the gap”, the aim of which is to reduce socio­economic inequality in areas of health, education, employment and housing, and which has been described by former Labor Prime Minister Julia Gillard “as a call for changes in behaviour.”9 But the debate is also characterised by a historical awareness of white guilt. Then prime minister Abbott held up Australia as “a blessed country (…) except for one thing – we have never fully made peace with the First Australians.”10 Other politicians acknowledge that it has been too easy to ignore Aboriginal communities because they are out of sight and out of mind. Adrian Piccoli, New South Wales (NSW) Education Minister and deputy leader of the National Party, put it bluntly in State Parliament: “I think it is fair to say we have treated Aboriginal people like rubbish.”11 While it is agreed that there is a problem, there is disagreement over the problem's root cause and how it should be tackled. Broadly speaking, there are two main strands of thought in mainstream Australian discourse on the “Indigenous question”: those who see it as a welfare problem of socio­economic inequality, to be addressed by enabling Aboriginal individuals to “close the gap” with majority society,12 and those who see it as

7 BBC News, 'UN condemns Aborigines' housing', 15 August 2006, viewed on 16 February 2016, 8 C. Graham, 'Intervention Tales: Amnesty head shocked by conditions in Central Australia', National Indigenous Times, vol. 8, no. 191, 26 November 2009. 9 J. Gillard, This work will go on, speech to the House of Representatives, Commonwealth Government, Canberra, 9 February 2011, viewed on 16 February 2016, 10 Parliament of Australia, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Recognition Bill 2012, House of Representatives, Parliamentary Debates (Hansard), 13 February 2013, p. 1123. 11 R. Morton, and J. Ferrari, 'Children 'out of sight and out of mind'', The Australian, 28 September 2013, viewed on 16 February 2016, 12 See critics of “self­determination”, such as H. Hughes, Lands of Shame: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander 'Homelands' in Transition, Centre for Independent Studies, St. Leonards, 2007; G. Johns, Aboriginal Self­determination: The Whiteman's Dream, Connor 15 the legacy of colonisation, and the loss of self­determination and thus a question of enabling Aboriginal society to find its own, culturally appropriate solutions. 13 Although the terms “assimilation” and “separate development”, the two extreme poles of this spectrum, are rarely used these days because the former suggests the disappearance of Aboriginal peoples as a distinct group and the latter a return to a hunter and gatherer past. Of course, the mainstream liberal view and the current government approach concedes some room for Aboriginal culture, but only to the extent that it does not impede “progress”. Thus culture is detached from socio­economic practices and reduced to the aesthetic and the symbolic: painting, music, theatre, dance, and languages (so long as they do not interfere with fluency in English). This approach assumes, with Francis Fukuyama, that liberal modernity represents “the end of history”.14 Traditional Indigenous practices are essentially but remnants of a primitive past. Aboriginals must change their behaviour, which governments seek to encourage or impose by such measures as unlocking communally owned land for long­term leases, private home ownership and capital investment so that market forces themselves will propel change. On the opposite side of the argument, those who take Aboriginal society as a whole

Court Publishing, Ballan, 2011; and P. Sutton, The Politics of Suffering: Indigenous Australia and the end of the Liberal Consensus, Melbourne University Press, Carlton, 2009. The liberal think tanks The Centre for Independent Studies (1976­) and The Bennelong Society (2001­2011), magazine Quadrant and newspaper The Australian, have been important outlets for criticism of the policy era of “self­determination”. 13 A number of Indigenous and non­Indigenous scholars have engaged with this approach. See Charles Rowley's three volumes on Aboriginal Policy and Practice (1964­1967), which was the first major political and economic work written by a non­anthropologist (full details in the bibliography). Henry Reynolds (among others) contributed to the “Aboriginal turn” in history, which took colonisation as a starting point and attempted to include the Aboriginal side of the national narrative, see The Other Side of the Frontier: Aboriginal Resistance to the European Invasion of Australia (second edition), Penguin Books, Ringwood and Harmondsworth, 1995. Jon Altman and Melinda Hinkson (and others) challenge government policies in Coercive Reconciliation: Stabilise, Normalise, Exit Aboriginal Australia, Arena Publications, North Carlton, 2007. Altman was the founding Director of The Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research (CAEPR) at the Australian National University which is concerned with Indigenous policy issues. Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission (ATSIC) and others have advocated for a treaty, see for example L. Behrendt, Achieving Social Justice: Indigenous Rights and Australia's Future, The Federation Press, Annandale, 2003. Two major government reports stress in their recommendations the importance of equality for Indigenes as peoples: Australian Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission (HREOC), Bringing Them Home: Report of the National Inquiry into the Separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from their Families, Commonwealth Government, Canberra, April 1997; Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody (RCIADIC). National Report (by Commissioner Elliott Johnston), 5 volumes, The Australian Government Publishing Service, Canberra, 1991. 14 F. Fukuyama, The End of History and the Last Man, Penguin, London, 1992. 16 as their starting point and emphasise the centrality of Indigenous culture – understood very broadly as a way of life rather than just certain aesthetic and symbolic practices – acknowledge that there is no return to a pre­colonial past. Jon Altman, for example, has for many years promoted a policy model which allows for flexible and overlapping solutions in a “hybrid economy” involving the market, government transfers and the informal sector (hunting and gathering).15 By defining the problem as a legacy of colonisation there is an emphasis on the need to recover Indigenous self­determination in order to enable Indigenous society to tackle its many challenges. However, the policy of “self­determination” which initially promised political recognition in the form of a treaty, the partial restoration of land rights, and Indigenous representative bodies, gradually degenerated into an ever more narrowly circumscribed juridical practice of “native title” and the provision of culturally appropriate welfare programs and services (in health, education, employment and housing). Thus what was initially a political project to achieve equality for Indigenous Australia in the early 1970s became fragmented and increasingly depoliticised. A more general shift of mainstream Australian politics to the right after the 1980s was complemented by an intellectual and academic shift towards “postmodern” identity politics (stressing difference) and the “cultural turn”. While the radicalism of the 1960s and 70s increased educational and employment opportunities, which saw the beginning of an Aboriginal elite, nearly half a century later some of its most prominent members, such as Noel Pearson, Warren Mundine (once a Labor Party president and later key adviser to Prime Minister Abbott) and Professor Marcia Langton, began to use the land rights agenda to promote economic development in remote areas by unlocking communally owned land for private ownership and outside investment.16 Yet there have been recent attempts to reconcile the two approaches, which have influenced the thinking behind and the direction of this thesis. As a contribution to the policy debate about remote communities in particular, in A Different Inequality, Diane Austin­Broos discusses how to square the politics of equality with the politics of

15 J. C. Altman, Sustainable development options on Aboriginal land: The hybrid economy in the twenty­first century, Discussion Paper no. 226, Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy (CAEPR), Australian National University, Canberra, 2001. 16 N. Pearson, Up From the Mission, Black Inc., Carlton, 2009; M. Langton, The Quiet Revolution: Indigenous People and the Resources Boom, Boyer Lectures 2012, HarperCollins, Sydney, 2013; W. Mundine, Shooting an Elephant: Four Giant Steps, Address to the Garma Festival Corporate Dinner, Australian Indigenous Chamber of Commerce, 10 August 2013, viewed 20 February 2016, 17 difference. While supporting “land rights, human rights and appropriate development”, she argues that “mainstream primary education” is the key for Indigenous peoples to take control of their own affairs.17 Tim Rowse also addresses both problems (socio­ economic inequality and loss of self­determination) in Rethinking Social Justice, but puts greater emphasis than Austin­Broos on politics and engages with two notions of social justice – for Indigenes as individuals and as peoples.18 This follows from his earlier book Indigenous Futures in which he argues for Indigenous choices to be made at all levels (individual, family and group).19 Anthropologists and historians increasingly acknowledge that Aboriginal peoples are bound up in a larger regional and historical context, which points towards Indigenous inclusion based on a shared history. Henry Reynolds stresses that point in Forgotten War in which argues that Australia must commemorate frontier violence at home, as it does with soldiers who died in wars overseas, by acknowledging that Aboriginals fought against European colonists and defended Australian land against a foreign overseas power.20 Along similar lines, Patrick Sullivan argues in Belonging Together that “consolidation” is a two­way process which “requires an effort on the part of non­Aboriginal people in Australia to embrace their identity in an Aboriginal land.”21 He points at the need to recognise difference in a way that includes Indigenous peoples on a needs­based approach:

One way to recognise the distinct needs of Aboriginal Australia, while also dealing with the fact that the futures of Aboriginal people and settler stock are bound up with each other, is to move towards a needs­based policy approach rather than policy based on the understanding of essential cultural identity, or one that erases difference.22

Why compare with Norway and the Sami? On 3 November 2011, a headline in the Sydney Morning Herald read: “Not quite

17 D. Austin­Broos, A Different Inequality: The Politics of Debate about Remote Aboriginal Australia, Allen & Unwin, Crows Nest, 2011, p. 159. 18 T. Rowse, Rethinking Social Justice: From 'Peoples' to 'Populations', Aboriginal Studies Press, Canberra, 2012. 19 T. Rowse, Indigenous Futures: Choice and Development for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Australia, University of New South Wales Press, Sydney, 2002. 20 H. Reynolds, Forgotten War, NewSouth Publishing, University of New South Wales, Sydney, 2013. pp. 228­256. 21 P. Sullivan, Belonging Together: Dealing with the Politics of Disenchantment in Australian Indigenous Policy, Aboriginal Studies Press, Canberra, 2011. p. vii. 22 Ibid., p. 16. 18

Norway, but still a great place to call home”.23 The article referred to the annual United Nations Human Development Index (HDI) which is based on income, health and education, and which Norway and Australia have dominated since 2009. Out of a total of 187 countries, Norway ranked marginally ahead of Australia, mainly because of its higher average income per head (47,557 USD against 34,431 USD). The average life expectancy in each country is over 80 years, but Norway scored higher on gender and income equality and public expenditure on health and education.24 Both Sami and Aboriginal peoples have been colonised by wealthy democratic states with economies that rely on the extraction of natural resources, mainly offshore oil, gas and fish in Norway, and in Australia minerals such as coal, gold, uranium and iron ore. Net exports from Australia and Norway quadrupled between 1980 and 2008.25 In 2012 Norway was the world's third largest gas exporter and the tenth largest oil exporter.26 The petroleum sector's share of total export revenues is 45%. It is the largest industry and makes up 20% of GDP.27 Australia is the world's largest exporter of iron ore and of the leading exporters of coal. Minerals make up 35% of all exports from Australia and 8.5% of GDP (gross domestic product).28 However, despite being ranked as the two of the most “developed” countries in the world, there are substantial differences in how their Indigenous minorities have been able to share in that prosperity. The differences are equally striking with regards to their political representation. Indigenous Australians today have no democratically elected, national representative body and communities struggle with socio­economic problems that resemble third world

23 P. Martin, 'Not quite Norway, but still a great place to call home', The Sydney Morning Herald, 3 November 2011, viewed 16 February 2016, 24 United Nations Human Development Programme (UNDP), Human Development Report 2011: Sustainability and Equity: A Better Future for All, Palgrave Macmillan, Houndmills and New York, 2011, p. 127, viewed 26 February 2016, 25 Organisation for Economic Co­operation and Development (OECD), Material Resources, Productivity and the Environment, OECD Green Growth Studies, OECD Publishing, Paris, 2015, p. 94. 26 Y. Tormodsgard. Facts 2014: The Norwegian Petroleum Sector, Norwegian Ministry of Petroleum and Energy, Oslo, 5 May 2014, p. 13, viewed on 20 February 2016, 27 J. E. Kristiansen, This is Norway 2015: What the Figures say, Statistics Norway, Kongsvinger, 24 August 2015, p. 38. 28 Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS), Australian National Accounts: National Income, Expenditure and Product, December Quarter 2014, Canberra; D. Anderson, Fifty Years of Australia's trade, Australian Government, Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade, Canberra, December 2014, viewed 20 February 2016, Australias­trade.pdf> 19 conditions. By contrast, the Norwegian Sami enjoy of the world's highest living standards, even in core areas where they make up the majority, and the Sami have their own parliaments not only in Norway, but also in Sweden and Finland although not in Russia. Yet there are also significant similarities. While geographically located at opposite ends of the world, both have been dispossessed, marginalised and pressured to assimilate on land that they used to call their own. They are both internally colonised minorities that never signed treaties with the colonisers and, although neither pusues secession, claim “self­determination” and collective recognition. Whereas the British colonisers took over the entire continent, the Sami historic homeland of Sapmi has no sharply delineated borders and stretches across four states in Fennoscandia, today covering roughly the area where reindeer husbandry is widely practised, about 60,000 square kilometres, about half the size of the Northern Territory in Australia. But the underlying processes of colonisation have been similar. In the nineteenth century both minorities came under pressure to assimilate, although theories of racial superiority played a greater part in Australia than in Sapmi where the success of assimilation was measured not in lighter shades of skin colour but mainly in the suppression of the Sami language. In terms of numbers, there are many more Indigenous Australians than Norwegian Sami, but in proportion to overall national populations they make up about 3 and 2% respectively: in Australia 670,000 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders of a total population of 23 million, and in Norway 40,000­50,000 Sami of a total Norwegian population of 5.1 million. There are also up to 20,000 Sami in Sweden, 8,000 in Finland and 2,000 on the Kola Peninsula in Russia. There is no agreed definition of Indigenous. The words “aboriginal” and “indigenous” both mean “original”. According to one dictionary it means “belonging to a particular place rather than coming to it from somewhere else”.29 In Fennoscandia that applies to the Sami as well as Norwegians, Swedes, Finns and Russians, who are all “indigenous” to northern Europe, though not of course to Sapmi, the Sami homeland. But there is more to Indigeneity than who came first and this is often marked by the capitalisation of the word. The UN Special Rapporteur José R. Martínez­Cobo put forward the following working definition of Indigenous peoples in 1986:

Indigenous communities, peoples and nations are those which, having a historical continuity with pre­invasion and pre­colonial societies that

29 S. Wehmeier (ed.), Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary (sixth edition), Oxford University Press, Oxford and New York, 2000. 20

developed on their territories, consider themselves distinct from other sectors of the societies now prevailing in those territories, or parts of them. They form at present non­dominant sectors of society and are determined to preserve, develop and transmit to future generations their ancestral territories, and their ethnic identity, as the basis of their continued existence as peoples, in accordance with their own cultural patterns, social institutions and legal systems.30

The history of Aboriginal and Sami peoples therefore lends itself well to comparison because while they share a number of characteristics as colonised minorities in wealthy democratic states, their experiences are sufficiently different. Comparison “presupposes similarities as well as differences: to compare that which is absolutely equal or different would make no sense.”31

My approach This thesis is the first major comparative study of the “Indigenous question” in Australia and Norway.32 A comparison of two so widely different minorities does, of course,

30 J. R. Martinez Cobo, Study of the problem of discrimination against indigenous populations, United Nations Sub­commission on Prevention of Discrimination and Protection of Minorities, New York, 1987. 31 Magnus Morner, Julia Fawaz de Vinuela and John D. French, 'Comparative Approaches to Latin American History'. Latin American Research Review, vol. 17, no. 3, 1982, p. 57. 32 While there are no major comparative studies of the Aboriginals and the Sami in Norway, there is work that addresses specific legal, cultural, political and social aspects of their experiences. See for example B. A. Hocking and B. J. Hocking, 'Colonialism, Constitutionalism, Costs and Compensation: A Contemporary Comparison of the Legal Rights and Obligations of and towards the Scandinavian Sami and Indigenous Australians', Nordic Journal of International Law, vol. 68, no. 1, 1999, pp. 31­52; Michael Stephen Koskey's PhD Cultural Activity and Market Enterprise: A Circumpolar Comparison of Reindeer Herding Communities at the End of the Twentieth Century (University of Alaska Fairbanks, 2003) compares the incorporation of reindeer herding into the capitalist economy in Alaska, Norway and Russia. Articles by Jane Robbins, Margaret Anne Stephenson and Gro Ween make comparisons of Indigenous representative bodies, land rights legislation and cultural heritage legislation respectively, in Norway and Australia, in the edited volume by Gunter Minnerup and Pia Solberg (eds.), First World, First Nations: Internal Colonialism and Indigenous Self­Determination in Northern Europe and Australia, Sussex Academic Press, Brighton & Portland, 2011; There are also comparative studies between the Sami of Sweden and Native Americans and Inuit. For example, Gunlög Maria Fur has compared the seventeenth century “middle ground” in North America (Swedish colonisers and Lenapes) with that of Sweden (Sami and Swedish colonisers). G. M. Fur, Cultural confrontation on two fronts: Swedes meet Lenapes and Saamis in the seventeenth century, PhD, The University of Oklahoma, 1993; See also M. Adams, 'Beyond Yellowstone? Conservation and Indigenous rights in Australia and Sweden', in Discourses and Silences: Indigenous Peoples, Risks and Resistance, G. Cant and A. Goodall et. al. (eds.), Department of Geography, University of Canterbury, Christchurch, 2005. 21 stretch the explanatory power of the concept of “Indigeneity” to its limits, even if the international Indigenous movement formed in the 1970s, the World Council of Indigenous Peoples (WCIP), international legislation such as the ILO Convention (signed by Norway, but not Australia) and more recently the UN Indigenous Convention (endorsed by Norway and Australia) have all relied on a globally valid notion of “Indigeneity” for the purposes of pressing for global Indigenous rights. Useful as this may be for specific purposes, this thesis – while not questioning such notions of Indigeneity and globally applicable Indigenous rights – suggests that the similarities and differences between the situation of the Sami and the Aboriginals today must be explained in terms of their distinct historical experiences, their local conditions and their specific relationship with the states of Norway and Australia. It highlights the importance of majority politics and interests in shaping the Indigenous question. “Think globally, act locally” is a popular slogan today but the fact remains that the most significant conflicts, alliances, and decisions are to be found at the national level. This thesis is based on secondary sources and offers a historical outline that goes back to the beginning of colonisation. This “broad sweep” approach which involves high level of generalisation poses challenges because it inevitably flattens out the great variety of local Sami and Aboriginal responses and experiences, but the broad historical outline is necessary to bring out the main differences (and similarities) over time in two very different parts of the world. In response to the “Aboriginal turn” in Australian history writing in the late 1970s and early 1980s, which enriched Australian history by bringing in the Aboriginal side of the national narrative,33 anthropologist Jon Christopher Anderson wrote that there was a “tendency to portrait, for ideological reasons, Aborigines as either ‘heroes or victims’” and that “before we can begin making generalizations about what happened between Europeans and Aborigines on the Australian frontier we need more data on specific cases.”34 Without the wide range of locally specific, “micro­historical” accounts that have been written since then, during the last three or four decades, our understanding of the larger picture would be much poorer. There is also a danger that an excessive stress on diversity and particularity feeds into a political agenda that dismisses the possibility of unity and thereby locks Indigenous peoples into an endless state of fragmentation. Sidney Mintz has pointed out:

33 For a discussion about the "Aboriginal turn" see B. Attwood, 'The founding of Aboriginal History and the forming of Aboriginal history', Aboriginal History, vol. 36, 2012, pp. 119­ 171. 34 J. C. Anderson, 'Aborigines and Tin Mining in North Queensland: A Case Study in the Anthropology of Contact History', Mankind, vol. 13, no. 6, April 1983. p. 474. 22

History never repeats itself exactly, and every event is, of course, unique; but historical forces surely may move in parallel paths at the same or at different times. The comparisons of such parallels may reveal regularities of potential scientific value.35

While the inspiration for this thesis came from previous studies of development theories and decolonisation, the purpose of the comparison is not on theoretical models but on empirical reconstruction. Indigenous minorities have not figured very much in Development Studies as it emerged in the post­war period of decolonisation as it was principally concerned with how poor, newly independent states in Africa and Asia as well as older, “underdeveloped” Latin American countries could catch up with the “developed” Western Europe and North America. Because Indigenous minorities did not have, or even demand, their own states, Development Studies tended to lump them with the poor, the peasants and the workers, as part of the general population on a common road from “backwardness” to “modernity”. Thus mainstream liberal development theories are not very useful for explaining the colonial trajectories of Indigenous minorities because they assume either their assimilation or their disappearance and thereby underestimate Indigenous resistance. For example, the economic historian and modernisation theorist, Walt W. Rostow, who in 1960 put forward a theory that all societies develop through five stages (traditional society, preconditions for take­off, take­ off, drive to maturity and the age of high mass­consumption), wrote that the settler colonies of Canada, USA, Australia and New Zealand were “born free” and “created” by Britain, and that large tracts of land and natural resources made the transition to modernity “mainly economic and technical”.36 This was a decade before the Indigenous revival when increasing number of people of Indigenous descent returned to the roots of their identity and insisted that they had not disappeared after all. Once Indigenes are seen not merely as individuals of a certain descent but as a collectivity, as peoples or societies, as this thesis does, questions of self­determination and their right to make their own history inevitably arise. Theories of internal colonialism are more useful than the theory that they set out to challenge in the 1960s, modernisation theory, because they identify forms of colonial exploitation of minorities and peripheries

35 Sidney Mintz, 'Labor and Sugar in Puerto Rico and in Jamaica, 1800­1850', Comparative Studies in Society and History, vol. 1, no. 3, 1959, p. 280, quoted in M. Mörner and J. Fawaz de Vinuela et. al., 'Comparative Approaches to Latin American History', Latin American Research Review, vol. 17, no. 3, 1982, p. 57. 36 W. W. Rostow, The Stages of Economic Growth: A Non­Communist Manifesto (second edition), Cambridge University Press, London & New York, 1971, p. 17. 23 within states, and have been applied to explain the situation of a wide range of internally colonised peoples across the world who otherwise have little in common. 37 Central to theories of internal colonialism is the structural inequality between peripheral and core regions, and colonised and coloniser populations, within a state, with the exploitation of the former by the latter often providing, in the case of Indigenous minorities, certain niches enabling Indigenous ways of life to survive within the internal colonial relationship rather than simply disappear in the course of “modernisation” (cf. Indigenous stockmen and “station blacks” in rural and remote Australia, at least until the introduction of equal wages, or the survival of the Indigenous reindeer herding culture in Sapmi). By contrast, historians such as Patrick Wolfe emphasise the underlying logic of elimination of the Indigenous in settler colonies, while at the same time – on a symbolic level and in a contradictory fashion – he argues that governments will “recuperate indigeneity in order to express its difference – and, accordingly, its independence – from the mother country.”38 Examples of this are the uses of Aboriginal painting, artifacts such as boomerangs, and place names, or the symbolic appropriation of Native American culture in “Tomahawk missiles” and football teams named Redskins. My comparative study shows that both the preservative and the eliminationist effects were at work in different ways and at different time in Norway and Australia but the different driving forces behind the Nordic colonial project (geopolitics) and that of Britain and Australia (land) resulted in what can be described as two distinct colonial trajectories of Sami inclusion and Aboriginal exclusion. The Indigenous resistance against assimilationist policies from as early as the nineteenth century reveals a drive for self­determination in Indigenous society but the precise meaning and extent of that self­determination is difficult to define because the demands put forward usually reflected what seemed achievable in particular political 37 M. Hartwig, 'Capitalism and Aborigines: The Theory of Internal Colonialism and its Rivals', in Essays in the Political Economy of Australian Capitalism: Volume 3, E. L. Wheelwright and K. Buckley (eds.), Australia & New Zealand Book Company, Sydney, 1978, pp. 119­ 141; D. Drakakis­Smith, 'Advance Australia Fair: internal colonialism in the Antipodes', in Internal Colonialism: Essays around a Theme. Drakakis­Smith and S. W. Williams (eds.), University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh, 1983; J. Beckett, Torres Strait Islanders: Custom and Colonialism, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge and New York, 1989; P. Otnes, Den samiske nasjon: Interesseorganisasjoner i samenes politiske historie, Pax Forlag, Oslo, 1970. For a good overview of the literature see J. Hicks, On the Application of Theories of ‘Internal Colonialism’ to Inuit Societies, Presentation for the Annual Conference of the Canadian Political Science Association, Winnipeg, June 5, 2004, viewed on 1 March 2016, 38 P. Wolfe, 'Settler colonialism and the elimination of the native', Journal of Genocide Research, vol. 8, no. 4, 2006, p. 389. 24 constellations and at different times, and what particular method of assimilation were pursued by governments and with what overall purpose. A comparison between the cases of the Sami and Aboriginal Australians is therefore always substantially and primarily about the similarities and differences between the political cultures of the majority regimes in Norway and Australia – the former a Nordic social democracy, the latter an Anglo­Saxon liberal democracy – and the evolution of their policies, institutions, and internal political conflicts, and how all these impacted the Indigenous minorities, what opportunities they offered them for resistance and for articulating demands for “self­ determination”. In the intersection of black and white politics, the white element has always been by far the dominant one, and it could hardly be otherwise given the status of Indigenous peoples as small, marginalised minorities and the realities of majority electoral politics. It is not at all a denigration of the crucial importance of Indigenous resistance movements – and scholarly work since the 1970s has rightly emphasised that Indigenous people were not simply passive victims – to state that their success or failure depends, above all, on their ability to harness support in mainstream politics. But they themselves cannot generate that support if the prevailing dynamic of mainstream politics is controlled by ideologies and interests hostile to Indigenous emancipation. Nothing has shown this more clearly than the last half century. In the 1960s and 1970s the political climate in the Western world was broadly favourable to the rise of an Indigenous rights movement, with leftist governments emerging in many countries after decades of a dominant conservatism (the Whitlam government in Australia) and active student, “New Left”, civil rights, national liberation and ecology movements making effective allies. For a decade or three, it seemed that many of the wrongs of the past would be righted in the heady atmosphere of those decades. By the same token, however, the sharp swing to the right that followed in the 1990s, and especially the rise of neoliberalism with its hostility to expensive welfare, its hostility towards active state intervention, and its cult of the market, quickly reversed many of the gains made previously.

The structure of this thesis The overall approach to the comparison is chronological, with six chapters taking the narrative from the beginnings of colonisation to the present day, and each chapter in turn divided into sections on both Norway and Australia. It is important to emphasise, however, that “chronological” does in this case not simply denote the mere passage of time, chopped into convenient chunks of decades but also has a crucial thematic 25 dimension. It is one of the key arguments of this thesis that a timeless, abstract, binary opposition of “Indigenous” and “non­Indigenous” is of only limited explanatory value, and that neither the problems in that relationship nor the range of possible solutions have remained static. If it was once believed, for example, that “land rights” were the key to to Indigenous advancement in Australia, the example of the Wild Rivers controversy cited at the beginning of this Introduction showed that, important as land rights undoubtedly are, they need to be embedded in a broader strategic perspective involving systematic economic development and proper political representation if they are not to become the plaything of outside (be they mining companies or, as Pearson alleges, urban environmentalists) economic and political interests. Every historical periodisation will also reflect certain assumptions about the nature of a particular period, and the six chapters of this thesis are no exception to that. As each chapter covers events and developments in both Norway and Australia for each period, it also quite obviously implies the assumption that the nature of these periods was comparable in both cases. The six chapters relate to successive stages in the historical evolution of the “Indigenous issue” which, although not perfectly synchronised in every respect, nevertheless have been broadly synchronous in both Norway and Australia: “first contact”, that is, the early phase of colonisation (Chapter 1), the consolidation and geographical extension of the colonial regime (Chapter 2), the age of nationalism (both the Norwegian and the Australian states in their contemporary form date back to the early twentiethy century) and its aggressive assimilatory drive (Chapter 3), the post­war decades of economic dynamism and socio­political stagnation (Chapter 4), the post­ 1960s decades of activism, Indigenous and non­Indigenous, and reformist governments (Chapter 5), and finally the period of neoliberal and conservative reaction which persists to the present (Chapter 6). 26

PART ONE: HISTORY MATTERS 27

CHAPTER ONE. EARLY COLONISATION

Introduction

The course of colonisation was shaped by the distinct natural environments which provided the material foundation for a dialectical relationship between colonisers and colonised, by the military and economic strength of the former to achieve what they wanted on the new land, and the original inhabitants' ability to, and interest in, resisting those plans. There was nothing automatic in how the two colonial trajectories evolved. This chapter provides an historical overview which shows how today's state of affairs can be traced back to the beginnings of colonisation and each group's different incorporation into two distinct colonial projects. It demonstrates that the main difference between the fate of the Sami and Aboriginal peoples was the much more gradual colonisation of Sapmi as against the destructive impact of British colonialism on the Indigenous population of Australia's south. While Aboriginal peoples faced a bundle of challenges all at once when the British invaded in the late eighteenth century (diseases, dispossession and the culture clash), Sami peoples had centuries to adjust to the Nordic and Russian takeovers of their historic homeland.

Sapmi: co­existence and gradual colonisation

The origins of Sami society When visiting Alta Museum and gazing at the Alta fjord in Finnmark one is introduced to rock art betweenh 7,000 to 2,000 years old and made by the Komsa people, the first hunters and gatherers in the area who migrated north alongside wild reindeer when Fennoscandia emerged from layers of melting ice at the end of the last Ice Age about 10,000 years B.C. Christian Carpelan traces the origin of the Sami back to several migrations in the centuries that followed the last Ice Age when peoples from Western and Eastern Europe wandered north and met in the North Calotte. Nothing is known about their meetings, interactions and the languages they spoke, but a cultural and linguistic border was created between two societies which, respectively, came to adopt Indo­ European languages in Fennoscandia's south­west (today's Norway and Sweden) and Uralic languages in the north and east (Sapmi and Finland).39 It is estimated that Proto­

39 C. Carpelan, 'Origin', in The Saami: A Cultural Encyclopaedia, U. Kulonen and I. 28

Uralic came into being 8,000 to 6,000 years ago, and that Proto­Sami and Proto­Finnic developed from a Finno­Ugric language in the Gulf of Finland in the last millenium before the common era. From around 4,000 B.C., agriculture developed in Sweden and thus marked the early establishment of a border between a hunter and gatherer society in the north and a farming society in the south. Knut Odner argues that a distinct Sami identity grew out of linguistic and cultural differentiation that emerged from trade and closer interaction between hunters and settlers in southern Finland from the last millenium B.C.40 In order to trade pelts and gain access to iron and iron tools from farmers who had migrated from Estonia to southern Finland, hunters in the north (who already spoke a related language) adopted parts of the Finnish language. As their relationship evolved, and others in the north followed for economic reasons, an identifiable Sami identity emerged. Odner's theory challenges the idea that Sami peoples were left behind when others began to practise agriculture. Instead, by specialising as hunters they found an economic niche in the European economy. It also challenges the early migration theory which assumes that Sapmi was colonised by agricultural settlers from the south.41 While some people chose to specialise as hunters and fishers, others along the Norwegian coast and in the southern, more fertile areas of Sapmi chose to practise agriculture. They turned southwards in search of cultural affinity and adopted Germanic identities. Following that historical interpretation, Sami and non­Sami peoples are both descendants of the Komsa and have a common ancestry in the first people in the north. In that sense, the 7,000 years old Komsa rock art represents a link between the first hunter and gatherer peoples and Norway's two peoples. Whether one traces Saminess back to migration patterns, different languages and genetics, or archaeological findings that indicate signs of distinct cultures, it is commonly agreed among archaeologists, historians and anthropologists that during the last 2,000 years a combination of language, culture and economics has marked the Sami peoples as distinct from their southern and eastern neighbours. As the two societies interacted and people migrated and intermarried, the Sami were partially assimilated into non­Sami society and vice versa. But a cultural, economic and linguistic border between the two remained. It was not biologically determined or geographically fixed but Sami society was gradually pushed north and inland as the Sami were forced to share territory that

Seurujärvi­Kari et. al (eds.), Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, Vammala, 2005, pp. 252­258. 40 K. Odner, Saamis (Lapps), 'Finns and Scandinavians in history and prehistory: Ethnic origins and ethnic processes in Fenno­Scandinavia', Norwegian Archaeological Review, vol. 18, issue 1­2, 1985, pp. 1­12. 41 G. Gjessing, Norge i Sameland, Gyldendal Norsk Forlag, Oslo, 1973, pp. 34­56. 29 they previously occupied as the sole users. The key to understanding the Sami survival is how they adapted in different phases of colonisation.

Co­existence with the neighbours Until the thirteenth century, the relationship between the Sami peoples and their neighbours to the west, south and east is likely to have been characterised by cooperation rather than exploitation.42 Sami and Nordic people knew each other well because they “met along a very long borderline”43 stretching from Norway's south­east to the north. According to Noel D. Broadbent, initially the Sami occupied the whole of Finland and might have lived as far south as Oslo, Stockholm and the Baltic States.44 The Sami, or “Fenni” or “Finnar” as they were called, are mentioned in written sources as early as the year 98 A.D. by the Roman historian Cornelius Tacitus in Germania, and later in Viking narrratives. The first written record by someone who claimed to have been in contact with the Sami was by the Viking chieftain Ottar who claimed to live northernmost of all Norsemen, which at that time is estimated to be Malangen in Troms.45 Reporting to King Alfred of Wessex in 890 on his travels in northern Europe, he presented himself as a wealthy man with 600 reindeer and good hunting skills. According to Ottar, his wealth and that of other chieftains derived partly from the tribute paid by the Sami, the so­called “Finn tax” which consisted of animal pelts from reindeer and bears, bird feathers and ropes made of seal and whale skins. Viking narratives were written down several hundred years after the events they described had taken place and they show how the Nordic elites regarded the Sami at the time of writing. Else Mundal shows that, according to Old Norse sources, the chieftains admired the Sami for their boat­building skills, their magic and supernatural powers which they feared and used in cooperation with the Sami to resist conversion to Christianity.46 The Nordic elites proudly traced back their Sami ancestry and 42 The historical overview in this thesis relies heavily on L. I. Hansen and B. Olsen, Samenes historie fram til 1750, Cappelen Akademisk Forlag, Oslo, 2004. 43 Else Mundal, 'Coexistence of Saami and Norse Culture – reflected in and interpreted by Old Norse myths', in Old Norse Myths, Literature and Society: Proceedings of the 11th International Saga Conference, Geraldine Barnes and Margaret Clunies Ross (eds.), Centre for Medieval Studies, University of Sydney, July 2000, p. 347, viewed on 1 March 2016, 44 N. D. Broadbent, Lapps and Labyrinths: Saami Prehistory, Colonization, and Cultural Resilience, Smithsonian Institution Scholarly Press, Washington, 2010, p. 42. 45 Found in J. Bately, The English Orosius, Oxford University Press, London and New York, 1980, pp. 13­16, cited in Hansen and Olsen, op. cit., 2004, pp. 67­69. 46 E. Mundal, 'The perception of the Saamis and their religion in Old Norse sources', in Shamanism and Northern Ecology, Religion and Society vol. 36, J. Pentikäinen (ed.), Mouton de Gruyter, Berlin and New York, 1996, pp. 97­115. 30 intermarried with Sami from prominent Sami families. According to Heimskringla, the Chronicle of the Kings of Norway written about 1225 by the Icelandic narrator and poet Snorri Sturluson, King Harald Fairhair, who united Norway in the 800s and 900s, claimed to be married to Snowfrid, the daughter of the Sami King at Dovre (only 340 kilometres north of Oslo). Mundal argues that the chieftains' reference to Sami and Finn Kings shows that they recognised the Sami as a separate people to be included in the project of Norwegian unification. As the Nordic chiefdoms grew stronger militarily, the Sami paid tribute and in return they received iron and other goods and probably also enjoyed protection from foreign intruders. “Trading with the Saamis was a gold mine for the traders. The Saamis probably sold cheap and bought dear.”47 Unfair trade agreements might have existed, but it is unlikely that chieftains in the south and east had an interest in using force against Sami people in a territory which the latter knew much better. As Lars Ivar Hansen and Bjørnar Olsen point out, their location in the far north gave the Sami options for different trading partners which made them less vulnerable to structural changes in the European economy.48 For example, when the Norwegian chiefdoms went into decline in the 900s, Sami peoples who had supplied the south with whale and seal oil turned eastwards to trade inland products such as pelts. Along Sapmi's west coast the Nordic chiefdoms did not expand north of South Troms, which remained the unofficial border until the 1200s. As there was fertile land suited for agriculture north of the border, Audhild Schanche argues that the border was also a cultural and ethnic divide between two societies, not only an economic border between the agricultural south and hunter and gatherer north.49 Whatever the reasons for the Nordic Kingdoms not expanding into and settling the fertile land north of South Troms, it is likely that maintaining a Sami hunting economy was in the interest of the southern elites and that there was not sufficient population pressure in the south to challenge the existing arrangement. However, there were also Sami in the interior of southern Norway and Sweden. An early presence of South Sami people who had not converted is evident in the period after Norway was Christianised. Christian laws from the twelfth century in the south east declared it illegal to have contact with “finnar” (Sami), to go to them to ask for prophecies or for medical help.50

47 Ibid., p. 100. 48 Hansen and Olsen, op. cit., 2004, p. 254. 49 A. Schanche, Nordnorsk jernalderarkeologi. Et sosialgeografisk perspektiv, Magistergradsavhandling, University of Tromsø, Tromsø, 1986, cited in Hansen and Olsen, op. cit., 2004, pp. 78­80. 50 Mundal, op. cit., 2000, p. 347. 31

Gradual colonisation Sapmi was colonised gradually from the thirteenth century. The North European Kingdoms expanded to secure military and economic control in the contested north. They made their presence felt in Sapmi by building churches and fortresses along the west coast and pushing north and inland from the Gulf of Bothnia which until then had been “a virtual mixing bowl of southern, northern and eastern influences”.51 By the late thirteenth century, the Sami had abandoned their coastal sealing sites in the Gulf, as evidenced by the fact that there are “almost no coastal Saami in the census and tax records, only Christian souls with Swedish surnames.”52 Agriculturalists from the south settled in the most fertile areas in Sapmi's south and north of the unofficial border in South Troms, along the coast and in fjords that the Sami had until then had to themselves. In the east, orthodox cloisters were established from the fifteenth century. In contrast to surrounding Kingdoms, Sami society was egalitarian insofar as land was owned collectively and used according to rules and agreements between extended families, which from the 800s, when the fur trade expanded, were organised into siidas. The siida system among the Skolt (East) Sami lasted until the Second World War, and is considered the distinct Sami social organisation which most likely operated similarly across Sapmi but possessed distinct local characteristics as it was influenced and shaped by relations with different Kingdoms. The siida was run by a council, a so­called norraz (also known as sobbar), of mostly male representatives from families who elected a leader. As the main cultural, political, legal and economic body, the norraz was responsible for internal affairs such as the use of natural resources and their distribution, and foreign affairs such as negotiating with other siidas and non­Sami. In the East all siidas were represented by their norraz in a Kola council.53 The Sami peoples' relationship with the Kingdoms was unequal but based on trade and taxes, which enabled them to survive as hunters, gatherers and fishers on their land. Further east, Sami peoples were incorporated into the trading sphere of Novgorod (the medieval Russian state) and subject to taxation by the Karelians, a Baltic­Finnish ethnic group who operated as tradesmen and collected taxes on behalf of Novgorod. Along the Norwegian coast the Sami were drawn into the fish trade network controlled by the Bergen Hanseatic League. In the area around the Gulf of Bothnia, the Sami were taxed

51 Broadbent, op. cit., 2010, p. 218. 52 Ibid., p. 208. 53 Ethnographic work by Väinö Tanner from the first half of the twentieth century, cited in NOU (Norges offentlige utredninger) 1997:4 Naturgrunnlaget for samisk kultur, Statens forvaltningstjeneste, Statens trykking, Oslo, pp. 521­525; Hansen and Olsen, op. cit., 2004, pp. 178­185. 32 by Kven/Bircals, Finnish tradespeople who enjoyed protection from the Swedish King until he ended their tax and trade monopoly in the 1600s.54 There were few seasonal markets, but those in Finnmark's far north and the Kola Peninsula were visited by traders from as far south as Holland and Germany and Russia in the east. The Sami offered a variety of animal pelts – bears, beavers, otters, wolverines and wolves, foxes and squirrels – and also fish and reindeer products. In return they received silver, coins, flour, bread, salt and butter, copper and iron products such as hammers, knives and other tools for fishing and hunting, and wool which originally came from Holland and Germany. The Russians supplied them with leather, hemp, wax and soap, among other products. From the seventeenth century coins were used as payment and fixed markets at Sami winter settlements turned into small towns with churches and permanent settlements.55 The Sami peoples found themselves in the middle of a geopolitical rivalry between the Kingdoms but rather than drive them off the land the Kingdoms sought to incorporate them for strategic, tax and trade purposes. The rivalry resulted in attacks on colonial installations such as churches, and violent raids against and forced evacuation of the Sami from some areas. But the major wars that divided Sapmi by imposing state borders in the seventeenth and eigteenth centuries took place mainly south of their homeland. The Kalmar War (1611­1613) between Sweden and Denmark/Norway broke out after King Charles IX of Sweden had declared himself “King of the Lapps in Nordland” and began to collect taxes in Norway. It was Sweden's attempt to secure alternative trading routes and sea access in the north, but the fighting was carried out by 6,000 soldiers mainly in southern Sweden. Likewise, the battles of the Great Northern War (1709­1720) which ended the supremacy of the Swedish Empire and eventually resulted in the establishment of the 1751 border between Sweden and Norway, took place mainly south of Sapmi.56

From hunting to herding As Sami society was pushed northwards and land and people came under increased external and internal pressure between 1500 and 1700, it changed from hunting, fishing and gathering to reindeer herding in the highlands and animal husbandry and small­scale farming and fishing in the lowlands. In contrast to Australia, where there were no large

54 Hansen and Olsen, op. cit., 2004, pp. 150­233. 55 Ibid., pp. 246­253. 56 Hansen and Olsen, op. cit., 2004, pp. 265­273; Dream of the North p. 83; P. Fjågesund, The Dream of the North: A Cultural History to 1920, Rodopi, Amsterdam and New York, 2014, p. 83. 33 animals that could be domesticated, Sapmi had wild reindeer. The development of reindeer herding resulted in a more diverse and stratified Sami society because the protection and domestication of animals led some to develop large herds while others who only kept a few tame reindeer turned to alternative means of survival. Inger Storli argues that the herding of reindeer could have developed among Swedish Forest Sami as early as in the 800s. They had a long tradition of keeping tame reindeer for milk and meat, and used them as draft animals and decoys. 57 However, they continued to rely on hunting and gathering. According to Filip Hultblad, pastoralism was fully developed in the southern areas of Sapmi by the seventeenth century, when groups of Sami in the highlands became fully nomadic and traveled long distances between grazing lands along the coast, forests and mountains.58 The discovery of silver in Sami graves from the Viking era and accounts of Sami Kings might indicate that private property was introduced earlier. Ørnulv Vorren argues that the Sami were forced to take up herding because new settlements, expanding trade, and higher taxes upset the environment and reduced the wild reindeer population so important to the Sami economy.59 Greater external demands between 1500 and 1700 contributed to the transition to herding for some and a more settled lifestyle for others but it is likely that it was accompanied by growing tensions from within Sami society. As is usually the case in history, it is the combination of several causes that propels change. Hansen and Olsen argue that external pressures and internal contradictions triggered a transition which spread from south to north and north­east. As hunting methods and trapping pits became more sophisticated, which enabled them to catch reindeer alive, tame them and develop herds, the best hunters might have turned into an elite.60

Dispossession and adaptation As the north remained a sparsely populated periphery, there was room for the Sami to settle on the land alongside fishers and farmers from the south. Those who did not become pastoralists relied on fishing, small­scale farming, and crafts such as boat building, or they did casual work for pastoralists and settlers, and in the mining industry from the seventeenth century. The introduction of cows, in contrast to sheep and goats,

57 I. Storli, 'On the Historiography on Sami Reindeer Pastoralism', Acta Borealia: A Nordic Journal of Circumpolar Societies, vol. 13, no. 1, 1996, pp. 110­112. 58 F. Hultblad, 'Övergång från nomadism till agrar bosätting i Jokkmokks socken', Acta Lapponica, vol. 14, cited in Hansen and Olsen, op. cit., 2004, pp. 206­208. 59 Cited in I. Storli, op. cit., 1996, pp. 93­95. 60 Hansen and Olsen, op. cit., 2004, pp. 211­214. See also D. A. Muga, 'A Commentary on the Historical Transformation of the Sami Communal Mode of Production', Journal of Ethnic Studies, vol. 14, no. 1, 1986, pp. 114­115. 34 suited a more settled lifestyle and was crucial for people to settle down more permanently. In Varanger non­Sami, too, kept tame reindeer alongside cows, which indicates that cultural exchange and influence was not a one­way process. By the 1700s, the Sami along the coast of Finnmark had fully integrated animal husbandry into their economy.61 The Swedish Crown's 1673 Lapland Bill promoted new settlements and in a neighbourly rivalry both the Swedish and Danish Kingdoms expanded their state administrations and tightened control over trade and tax collection. Daniel Lindmark writes: “The purpose of 'colonisation' was twofold: to get access and exploit the natural riches of Sapmi and to establish visible presence by populating an area, to which several nations still laid claim...”.62 The Danish and Swedish Crowns began to encourage new settlements in the north by using incentives such as tax relief and military exemption for new settlers. Indebted persons enjoyed amnesty, and from 1681 to the 1780s (officially 1842) Finnmark served as a penal colony for Danish and Norwegian criminals, beggars and vagrants.63 The failure to christianise the Sami resulted in a more intense missionary effort in the late seventeenth century when it became clear that they would not easily relinquish their old beliefs but had rather incorporated them into the new Christian rituals and practices. To clamp down on sorcery was one reason the Danish King demanded that the provincial administrator take up residence in Finnmark.64 As the Sami religion involved elements of magic, superstitions, ecstasy and out­of­body experiences, Sami drums were confiscated and Sami women and men were prosecuted and executed, along with non­ Sami, for performing witchcraft.65 Missionary activity was closely linked to education. In 1685, the Sami religion was outlawed in Sweden and in 1723 the Swedish parliament decided to set up boarding schools and develop a Sami curriculum. In Norway, the elementary school system was established in 1739 to convert the Sami before the general

61 See A. R. Nielssen, 'Economic Adaptation among the Coast Sami population in Finnmark c. 1700: a study based on the probate records 1686­1705', Acta Borealia, vol. 3, no. 1, 1986, pp. 28­30. 62 D. Lindmark, 'Colonial Encounter in Early Modern Sapmi', in Scandinavian Colonialism and the Rise of Modernity: Small Time Agents in a Global Arena, M. Naum & J. M. Nordin (eds.), Springer, Dordrecht, 2013, p. 131. 63 NOU (Norges offentlige utredninger) 1994:21 Bruk av land og vann i Finnmark i historisk perspektiv – bakgrunnsmateriale for Samerettsutvalget, Statens forvaltningstjeneste, Statens trykking, Oslo, pp. 40­42. 64 N. Kent, The Sami Peoples of the North: A Social and Cultural History, Hurts & Company, London, 2014, p. 106. 65 R. Hagen, 'The witch­hunt in early modern Finnmark', Acta Borealia, vol. 16, no. 1, 1999, pp. 43­62. 35 population had access to education.66 The language of instruction was Sami. Magnus Mörner argues that Norrland in Sweden was a “frontier of inclusion” rather than a “frontier of exclusion”, as evident in the fact that 32% of 246 new settlements in the Swedish parishes of Arvidsjaur and Arjeplog between 1776 and 1867 were established by Sami.67 Conflicts over land turned violent where interests clashed. For example, Sverre Fjellheim reveals that the South Sami reindeer herders who refused to leave Riasten, in central Norway, at the turn of the eighteenth century were hunted down by armed settlers. The Sami claimed that the district sheriff burnt their turf huts. Those who moved on to a new location nearby were targeted again in 1810 when 40­50 armed farmers slaughtered two hundred reindeer. While they were sentenced to pay the Sami compensation, it was only on condition that the Sami left the area.68 However, at times the Sami reclaimed colonised land from Nordic settlers who migrated south when fisheries went into decline. The Sami, who were less specialised and combined several industries, were more resistant to the ups and downs in the European economy than Norwegian fishers and would stay behind when others left. For example, the Norwegian population in Finnmark was halved from 3,070 inhabitants in the year 1567 to a low of only 1,590 persons in 1805. In the same period the number of Sami (and Kven) increased from 840 to 4,930 persons.69 In Sapmi's southern areas, Sami who lost out in the competition for land were marginalised and survived only by doing casual work. Some were left to wander the land and settlements begging. Between the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries there are frequent reports in Sweden of the problem of “poor Sami/Lapp” (fattiglapp) who had fled their homeland because they had lost their livelihood or tried to escape forced labour in the mines.70 In the mid­seventeenth century a Swedish court declared that begging would be punished by sending women to the mines and men would have to serve as

66 E. Bråstad Jensen, Skoleverket og de tre stammers møte, Eureka Forlag, Høgskolen i Tromsø, Tromsø, 2005, p. 19. 67 Magnus Mörner, 'The colonization of Norrland by settlers during the nineteenth century in a broader perspective', Scandinavian Journal of History, vol. 7, no. 1­4, 1982, p. 325. 68 NOU (Norges offentlige utredninger) 2007:14 Samisk naturbruk og rettssituasjon fra Hedmark til Troms – bakgrunnsmateriale for Samerettsutvalget, Statens forvaltningstjeneste, Statens trykking, Oslo, pp. 57­62. 69 NOU (Norges offentlige utredninger) 1984:18 Om samenes rettsstilling, Statens forvaltningstjeneste, Statens trykking, Oslo, p. 83. 70 S. Ericksen, Ethnic identity in a Forest Sami Community, PhD, University of Wisconsin­ Madison, 1992, pp. 253­256. See also B. Marklund, 'Från fattiglapp till lapphjon: Fattigdom och utflytting från Pite och Ume lappmarker 1650­1760 i ljuset av 1748 års "lappförordning"', in Stat, Religion, Etnisitet, B. Finstad and L. I. Hansen et al (eds.), Rapport fra Skibotn konferansen 27.­29. Mai 1996, Skriftserie 4, Centre for Sami Studies, University of Tromsø, Tromsø, 1997, pp. 7­33. 36 soldiers. While the Poor Sami struggled as land and resources became scarce, a group of so­called “Perish Sami” took up work castrating horses, cats and dogs, and slaughtering horses, until settlers in the nineteenth century began to castrate and slaughter their own animals or send them to slaughterhouses.71 Those who were nomads and self­sufficient had certain advantages over settlers. According to Peter Sköld, in his analysis of small­pox in Sweden from 1750 to 1820, the Swedish Sami had a lower mortality rate than the rest of the population. This can be explained partly by their remoteness and religious beliefs, which made many flee when epidemics struck during and after winter market gatherings. While the Swedes tended to leave their destiny in the hands of God, the Sami saw smallpox as a disease spirit which had to be avoided. Their nomadic lifestyle and their reindeer made it possible to leave everything, including infected people, and stay away from settled areas for long periods.72 While conflicts over land increased also within Sami society, the more specialised economy brought about new forms of co­operation. This is evident in the “verdde system” which was a “guest relationship” between reindeer herders from the inland and families along the coast. When reindeer herders from the highlands traveled to the coast, they depended on assistance to keep the herd together when crossing the water to islands where they grazed in summer. In return, generations of families along the coast received reindeer meat and clothing. According to Harald Eidheim, who studied the dissolution of the system in the 1950s, the relationship between nomads and settlers was “once of a 'harmonious kind' and part of a larger social pattern”, but at the time “chaotic and conflict loaded”.73

Recognition The Sami could not continue as before because of the greater pressure on land and resources but they were valued for their goods, taxes and presence in contested border regions and they enjoyed protection as one of several minorities in the North European Kingdoms:74 Norway was under Danish rule for four hundred years until 1814 (when it

71 Ibid., pp. 256­259. 72 P. Sköld, 'Escape from Catastrophe: The Saami's Experience with Smallpox in Eighteenth­ and Early­Nineteenth­Century Sweden', Social Science History, vol. 21, no. 1, Spring 1997, pp. 1­25. 73 H. Eidheim, Aspects of the Lappish Minority Situation, Occasional Papers in Social Anthropology, no. 14, Department of Social Anthroplogy, University of Oslo, Oslo, 1990, p. 25. 74 S. Pedersen, 'Norwegian nationalism and Saami areas as no­man's land', in Conflict and Cooperation in the North, J. Eriksson and K. Karppi (eds.), Norrlands Universitetsförlag, Umeå, 2002. 37 entered a union with Sweden until 1905), Finland was under Swedish control, and Kven people (Finnish immigrants) settled alongside Sami in Finnmark. Moreover, Iceland, Greenland and Faeroyene were subject to Denmark, and Sweden also possessed a short­ lived colony in America. For the Kingdoms exercising sovereignty was, until the mid­ nineteenth century, primarily about incorporating different ethnicities rather than assimilating them. Geographical remoteness and geopolitical rivalry imposed limits to how much the Kingdoms could exercise their power. From when Norway and Novgorod signed the first common tax agreement in 1251 until the termination of the last common tax area when the border between Russia and Norway was agreed on in 1826, the Sami were taxed by several Kingdoms. Johan Eriksson writes: “If the partitioning powers are unable to exclude each other from the contested area, they are also unlikely to be able to tear apart local communities.”75 Although there were no treaties between Sami peoples and neighbouring states, they were recognised as peoples when it suited the authorities. For example, when the Kingdoms negotiated the border between Sweden/Finland and Denmark/Norway in the mid­eighteenth century, it was drawn according to the siida system. By including reindeer grazing land to create a buffer zone to the east, the Danish Crown effectively expanded its territory as far inland as possible.76 Annexed to the Stromstad Treaty of 1751 between the two Crowns was the Lapp Codicil of 1751 the purpose of which was the “conservation of the Lappish Nation”. There is some uncertainty as to whom the “Lappish Nation” referred to, but the Codicil set out to regulate the relationship between the Kingdoms and the Sami. Sami people were permitted to freely cross the Norwegian­ Swedish border to continue their economic and cultural practices on both sides. They were exempted from military service and, when crossing the border during war time, were defined as neutral and to be treated as locals on both sides. A transnational local administration was to overlook the crossings and a court system to deal with cases of loss and theft of reindeer, inheritance, debt, division of grazing areas and other disagreements. The Codicil was primarily aimed at reindeer herders but, as Steinar Pedersen argues in his examination of its first hundred years, it applied also to those involved in other practices, such as fishing, trade, hunting and wood collecting. 77 When

75 J. Eriksson, Partition and Redemption: A Machiavellian Analysis of Sami and Basque Patriotism, PhD thesis, Department of Political Science, Umeå University, Sweden, 1997, p. 84. 76 NOU 1994:21, p. 28. 77 S. Pedersen, Lappekodisillen i nord 1751­1859: Fra grenseavtale og sikring av samenes rettigheter til grensesperring og samisk ulykke, PhD thesis, University of Tromsø, 2006. 38 visiting Norway in 1788, the Crown Prince of Denmark/Norway was informed of violent clashes between settlers and nomads in the South Sami area and, referring to the Lapp Codicil, made it clear that driving Sami off the land would be punished.78 There were also other rights that applied exclusively to the Sami such as the Finneodel (Sami/Finn ancestral land) that exempted Sami in some areas of Troms and Nordland from land rent (but not from other taxes). They were in charge of how, when and by whom the land was used. It could be left and re­settled, let out to Norwegian settlers, and re­claimed. It could not be confiscated in case of debt. According to Hansen and Olsen, it was tied to the siida and often used in a semi­nomadic way by extended families. The Finneodel was a privilege that might have existed in the early fourteenth century, but by the mid­eighteenth century the Sami had left, sold up, or been forced to leave these areas by settlers, and it was finally abolished everywhere.79 No such Finneodel existed in Finnmark where private property was, with a few exceptions, introduced in 1775. The late seventeenth­century Swedish “parallel theory” was based on the idea that reindeer herding would take place in the highlands and animal husbandry, fishing and hunting in the lowlands. It was a continuation of the 1602 tax reform which was to protect Sami industries in the north, but the new policy allowed for new settlements in the lowlands and north of the dividing line. Sami identity was linked with reindeer husbandry.80 For the Crown, there were good reasons for conserving reindeer herding in the contested mountain region bordering Norway and to attempt to turn the Sami into loyal subjects. When Peder Olofsson, a Sami, announced that he found silver in Nasafjäll in 1635 the Crown organised a meeting and supplied the local Sami with wine, liquor and tobacco to maintain good relations.81 Gunlög Maria Fur has demonstrated in her comparison of the seventeenth century colonisation of the Lenapes in New Sweden, the short lived Swedish colony in North America, and the Sami, how the latter could, not unlike the Native Americans, play off one Nordic power against the other and use the border conflicts between them for their own advantage. In contrast to the Lenapes, the Sami could negotiate taxes by threatening to migrate to Norway.82 Until the Swedish Crown claimed ownership of their land from the 1760s onwards, Sami herders were treated similar to settlers with freehold title and

78 NOU 2007:14, p. 58. 79 Hansen and Olsen, op. cit., 2004, pp. 298­305. 80 Ibid., p. 292­297. 81 G. M. Fur, Cultural Confrontation on Two Fronts: Swedes meet Lenapes and Saamis in the Seventeenth Century, PhD thesis, The University of Oklahoma, 1993, p. 65. 82 Ibid., pp. 49­91. 39 regularly won court cases when their interests clashed.83 As Swedish and Danish subjects of the Crown, the Sami enjoyed protection as individuals and turned to authorities in Copenhagen and Stockholm as well as local courts to solve internal disputes among themselves.84 For example, the Coastal Sami who until the nineteenth century kept small reindeer herds, complained to the Danish King that reindeer from the highlands ate their grasses and mosses, trampled grazing land, and interferred with hunting by frightening and incorporating wild reindeer into their herds.85 The missionary Thomas von Westen describes how the Danish King intervened in favour of the Sami when they were being harassed by non­Sami.86 However, the Sami were less fortunate when national geopolitical and economic interests were at stake. The Sami around the Alta fjord lost their court cases against Norwegian settlers during the second wave of colonisation in the seventeenth century. This was in the contexts of the Kalmar War and Swedish attempts to expand north and break through to the Atlantic Sea, and of a declining fishing industry along the coast. A fortress was built, most likely to deter Swedish claims to the area, and a growing number of Norwegian settlers arrived in the fjords.87

Australia: destructive invasion

Pre­colonial Aboriginal society Lake Mungo, once an important source of water, rich in wildlife, and today an arid desert with large sand dunes about 1,000 kilometres inland of Sydney, has a special place in world history. Two of the world's oldest known ritual burials, of “Mungo Woman” and “Mungo Man”, took place here about 40,000 years ago. In 1992, the bones of Mungo Woman were returned to descendants of the original occupants of the land, the Paakantji, Mathi Mathi and Ngiyampaa, to be kept in a vault with a double lock that requires two keys to be opened. Archaeologists have one and local Aboriginals the

83 R. Kvist, 'The racist legacy in modern Swedish Saami policy', Canadian Journal of Native Studies, 1994, p. 207. 84 K. Granqvist, 'Thou shalt have no other Gods before me (Exodus 20:3): Witchcraft and Superstition trials in 17th­ 18th­century Swedish Lapland', in Kulturfrontation i Lappmarken: Sex essäer om mötet mellan samer och svenskar, P. Sköld and K. Kram (eds.). Kulturgräns Norr no. 13, University of Umeå, Umeå, 1998, pp. 13­29. 85 R. Paine, 'Changes in the Ecological and Economic Bases in a Coast Lappish District', Southwestern Journal of Anthropology, vol. 14, no. 2, Summer 1958, pp pp. 172­173. 86 S. Pedersen, op. cit., 2006, p. 368. 87 A. R. Nielssen, 'Den norske koloniseringen av Altafjorden på 1600­tallet, i Altaboken 1984, Alta, 1984, cited in NOU 1994:21, p. 38. 40 other.88 Australia had been populated for at least 30,000 years by the time Fennoscandia emerged from layers of ice. It is assumed that the first groups of humans arrived in Australia by sea from Asia between 120,000 and 60,000 years ago, followed by several other migrations when sea levels were low. For thousands of years, Australia developed as a hunter and gatherer society producing mainly for subsistence. Its inhabitants coped with extreme environmental and climate changes, such as extinction of the Australian mega fauna, droughts and floods. As “hunter­gatherer­cultivators”, they improved tools and hunting methods and found new ways of transforming the environment.89 They built canoes to catch fish. Along the Hawkesbury River they planted yam. The fish traps in Brewarrina, New South Wales date back 40,000 years. In Victoria they farmed, smoked and stored eels, and the eel farm canals might also have been used as an irrigation system for plants.90 The arrival of the dingo 4,000 years ago made it easier to hunt down kangaroos and emus, but there were no large animals that could be domesticated. However, Noel George Butlin argues that “fire­stick­farming”, which began 5,000 to 8,000 years ago and was used to produce grasslands for kangaroos and control and prevent large­scale fires, was an indirect manipulation of animal movement and “a prominent element in controlled pastoralism”.91 The family was the main unit of social organisation, and water and natural resources were owned, shared and cared for in various collective and overlapping, often flexible and changing arrangements (to adjust to environmental changes) between families, local descent groups, clans and larger so­called “hordes” or “bands”. Land was the foundation of a holistic hunter and gatherer culture which did not distinguish between economics, religion, politics and law. Their world was one and indivisible. By the time of the British invasion, the population in Australia has been estimated to have been between 250,000 to 1.5 million people speaking 250 different languages, some of them mutually incomprehensible.92 A social hierarchy assigned people to different roles and obligations according mainly to age and gender, but there was no economic surplus from which significant differences in individual wealth could be generated.

88 K. Gelder and J. M. Jacobs, Uncanny Australia: Sacredness and Identity in a Postcolonial Nation, Melbourne University Press, Carlton South, 1998, p. 86. 89 I. Keen, Aboriginal Economy and Society: Australia at the Threshold of Colonisation, Oxford University Press, South Melbourne & Oxford, 2004, p. 96. 90 A. Campbell, 'Elementary food production by the Australian Aborigines', Mankind, vol. 6, no. 5, 1996, pp. 206­11, cited in ibid., p. 96. 91 N. G. Butlin, Economics and the Dreamtime: A Hypothetical History, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge & New York, 1993, pp. 94­95. 92 Ibid., p. 99. 41

Relations with the outside world The island continent was not completely isolated from the outside world but a society producing mainly for self­subsistence had only limited contact with the peoples on nearby islands. However, the Yolngu of Arnhem Land had a well established exchange relationship with the Macassan fishers from Southern Sulawesi. Sailing with the monsoon, the Macassan came every wet season to harvest the local trepang (sea slugs), which they dried and sold to the Chinese. In return for pearls, which they had prepared and harvested from their oyster and clamshell beds during the dry season, the Yolngu received iron which replaced wooden and stone tools, and goods such as rice, alcohol, tobacco and pottery. Through their contact with the Macassans, the local Aboriginals adopted the dugout canoe and some also worked casually as crew on Macassan boats. There was some intermarriage and Aboriginals migrated to Sulawesi either permanently or temporarily before returning the following wet season.93 The relationship between the Yolngu and Macassans was at times conflict­ridden, but the Macassans did not threaten the existence of the Yolngu. They settled in camps for only a few months at a time and brought with them useful goods and improved hunting methods. The relationship was based on cooperation in what “was said to be the largest Indonesian export to China” in the 1820s.94 It involved up to 70 boats and 1,500 crew members who caught and processed an estimated six million animals. Aboriginals played a key part in the industry as casual labour and as suppliers of goods and services, but they did not adopt the industry. Nevertheless, the Macassans recognised that the waters belonged to the Yolngu and paid tribute for fishing trepang and pearls.95 Agriculture did not spread to or develop within Australia. In Arnhem Land and Cape York people knew about horticultural practices in Indonesia and in the Torres Strait Islands but it is likely that they decided not to follow the example.96 It could have been a rational choice as early farming villages were rife with disease and subject to food shortages. Aboriginals used the land in a way that enabled them to settle temporarily,

93 R. Trudgen, Why Warriors Lie Down and Die (sixth edition), Aboriginal Resource and Development Services Inc., Darwin, 2000, pp. 14­16; J. Mulvaney, J. Kamminga, Prehistory of Australia, Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington & London, 1999., 1999, pp. 410­ 418. 94 Mulvaney & Kamminga, op.cit., 1999, p. 412. 95 D. Thomson, Economic Structure and the Ceremonial Exchange Cycle in Arnhem Land, Macmillan, Melbourne, 1949, p. 51. 96 R. M. Berndt and C. H. Berndt, The World of the First Australians: Aboriginal Traditional Life: Past and Present (fifth edition), Aboriginal Studies Press, Canberra, 1999, p. 108; Mulvaney & Kamminga, op. cit., pp. 85­87; D. Christian, Maps of Time: An Introduction to Big History, University of California Press, Berkeley and London, 2004, p. 224. 42 follow seasons and return to sites, but hunting, gathering and fishing yielded a great variety of foods which enabled them to avoid famine in bad seasons. Mobility and specialisation were limited, people seldom traveled more than a few hundred kilometres from their local area.97 There were no markets, although some goods, diseases and information travelled along established exchange routes across the continent. For example, pearls from the Dampier Peninsula in the north west ended up 3,200 kilometres further south in Adelaide. Likewise, red ochre collected in Parachilna in South Australia was widely used for ceremonial purposes in the south as well as the north.98 But Aboriginals generally produced for their own subsistence.

Invasion, diseases and warfare Dutch and French explorers had visited Australia from the seventeenth century onwards but did not settle. While there were geopolitical and economic reasons for Britain to settle Australia as its empire expanded east into Asia and the Pacific, it would serve primarily as a penal colony, as an alternative outlet for the British government which could no longer ship convicts to North America after the USA had gained independence in 1776.99 Grace Karskens writes: “The arrival of the 'First Fleet' in Botany Bay in 1788 marked the birth of modern Australia.” It was “the starting point for early colonial expansion, and ultimately created the social and economic foundation of the nation.”100 For Aboriginal Australians the British invasion came as a shock. The initial cause of distress and of the weakening of Aboriginal society in the south­east of Australia was the lack of immunity against newly introduced diseases: “It was not possible to prevent or cure tuberculosis, and it was the main reason, apart from smallpox, why Aboriginals were thought to be a 'Dying Race', an image that persisted into the twentieth century.”101 There is conflicting evidence whether smallpox epidemics spread from Indonesia in the north or whether the disease was introduced by British ships and spread by colonial officials as a means to defend the colony. However, settlers and locals believed that smallpox reached Australia with British ships, and together with tuberculosis, which was

97 Berndt and Berndt, op. cit., pp. 92, 138­143. 98 D. Kerwin, Aboriginal Dreaming Paths and Trading Routes: The Colonisation of the Economic Landscape, Sussex Academic Press, Brighton and Portland, 2012. 99 S. Macintyre, A Concise History of Australia, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge and New York, 2000, pp. 30­31. 100 G. Karskens, 'The early colonial presence, 1788­1822', in The Cambridge History of Australia: Volume 1: Indigenous and Colonial Australia. A. Bashford and S. Macintyre (eds.), Cambridge University Press, Port Melbourne and New York, 2013, p. 91. 101 J. Campbell, Invisible Invaders: Smallpox and Other Diseases in Aboriginal Australia, 1780­ 1880, Melbourne University Press, South Carlton, 2002., p. xii. 43 already present among passengers on the first fleet, it contributed to the decline of, and distress among the survivors of, the original population.102 While the local Aboriginals in the Sydney area were quickly outnumbered by the settler population, the colonisation of the entire continent took well over a century – beginning in 1788 in Sydney and reaching Darwin in the north in 1869. The continent remained sparsely settled and British control was limited, but the impact of the first settlements was felt far beyond as diseases, goods made of iron and steel, and imported animals such as pigs and cattle, spread to people who in their lifetime would never meet, only hear rumours about, white people. In south­west Queensland, for example, Aboriginals had been using iron tomahawks for thirty years when the first white squatters appeared.103 The introduction of new products and foodstuffs would have been welcomed but it also challenged the old order as elders could no longer control access to tools, for example. Aboriginal society was ill­equipped for the change that confronted it with the British invasion and the introduction of new diseases. Its decentralised, tribal organisation prevented unity against the British. Agricultural societies can be more difficult to conquer than hunter and gatherer societies because of their military strength and social organisation, but once physical conquest is achieved they are easier to rule and exploit because hierarchical structures and labour practices are already in place. Because the Aboriginals were unable to mobilise a large­scale military defence against the settlers, there were no major battles on the east coast that could have settled matters once and for all across the continent. Instead, Aboriginals engaged in small­scale guerilla resistance against settlers well into the twentieth century. As squatters made their way inland, they encountered Aboriginal groups who knew their territory well and made settler life on the frontier unpredictable and dangerous. Colonists did not know what to expect and did not understand the new land, its people and culture. Aboriginals played by different rules and, as Henry Reynolds points out, when they did not rise up in arms immediately it was because they probably did not know that an invasion had taken place: “They certainly did not believe their land had suddenly ceased to belong to them and they to their land.”104 Instead they would often watch the squatters settle down and only counter­ attack when their livelihood was directly threatened.

102 Ibid., pp. 83­104; C. Warren, 'Smallpox at Sydney Cove – who, when, why?', Journal of Australian Studies, vol. 38, no. 1, 2014, pp. 68­86. 103 H. Reynolds, The Other Side of the Frontier: Aboriginal Resistance to the European Invasion of Australia (second edition), Penguin Books, Ringwood and Harmondsworth, 1995, p. 8. 104 Ibid., p. 65. 44

However, while Aboriginal peoples knew their physical environment they were militarily inferior in terms of technology. Lyndall Ryan argues that Aboriginal resistance and settler massacres were mutually reinforcing. Aboriginals fought back and were “killed at ten times the rate of settlers”.105 From the beginning of colonisation there were conflicts over land, for example along the Hawksbury River where the Bedigal clan of the Darung nation and British settlers both needed access to the river bank from 1794. At times Aboriginals could live alongside settlers, but the colonial response to Aboriginal resistance when resources became scarce was usually punitive expeditions rather than tracking down the individuals responsible for attacks on people and animals. In the Hawksbury, soldiers were stationed to protect settlers and crops with orders from lieutnant­governor William Paterson to “kill any [Bediagal] they found and hang their bodies from gibbets as a warning to the rest.”106 The so­called Black War in Tasmania from 1824 to 1831 claimed the lives of up to 1,000 Aboriginals, “produced at least 450 colonial casualties and all but wiped out the Aborigines.”107

Dispossession and adaptation Co­existence and co­operation also occurred. Two different societies both depended on land for their survival and would soon clash, but initially curiosity and confusion existed as colonists were few in numbers and it was unclear to Aboriginals what they wanted from the land. Because they depended on Aboriginals to find their way on the new continent, the settlers tried to make contact and ensure peace by offering handouts and the exchange of goods and services. Aboriginals proved useful as trackers, guides, informants, sexual partners and casual labourers, but as the hunter and gatherer economy did not generate an economic surplus or tradeable goods they were unable to establish with the British something like what Richard White, in his study of the relationship between Native Americans and Europeans in the Great Lakes region in the USA from 1650 to 1815, has called a “middle ground”.108 The “middle ground” was an arena for negotiations and compromise

105 L. Ryan, 'Untangling Aboriginal resistance and the settler punitive expedition: the Hawkesbury River frontier in New South Wales, 1794­1810', Journal of Genocide Research, vol. 15, no. 2, 2013, pp. 219­232. 106 Ryan, ibid., p. 226. 107 N. P. Clements, Frontier Conflict in Van Diemen's Land, PhD thesis, University of Tasmania, 2013, pp. Xiii, 330. The PhD is published as a book, The Black War: Fear, Sex and Resistance in Tasmania, University of Queensland Press, Brisbane, 2014. 108 R. White, The Middle Ground: Indians, Empires, and Republics in the Great Lakes Region, 1650­1815, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge and New York, 1991. 45 between both sides, and it could exist temporarily because the Europeans depended on the Native Americans as military allies, trading, and sexual partners. According to White:

The middle ground depended on the inability of both sides to gain their ends through force. The middle ground grew according to the need of people to find a means, other than force, to gain cooperation or consent of foreigners.109

In the Great Lakes region the middle ground disappeared after the American Revolution when the imperial contest was over with the War of 1812 and the original inhabitants “could no longer pose a major threat or be a major asset to an empire or republic”.110 Although Aboriginal peoples were never a major threat or a major asset to the British colonial project in Australia, they were superior to the British in their understanding of the local environment, something acknowledged by their use as guides and trackers and by the formation of a native police force. Thus some opportunities opened up for some Aboriginal groups and and individuals as the old pre­colonial order unravelled and new relationships and alliances emerged. The relationship between Governor Philip and Bennelong, a Whangal man of the Eora, is often held up as a symbol of reconciliation and cooperation even though it began with the kidnapping of Bennelong and ended with his death as an alcoholic. Governor Philip relied on Bennelong for coming to grips with the new environment and to gain control in the colony, and Bennelong in turn attempted to incorporate Philip into his kinship system and use him in in quarrels with others, such as when he tried to persuade him to send soldiers to kill the Camaragal people.111. Some alliances came at a cost as new communities emerged and others went into decline. In the Bass Strait in Tasmania, for example, when the seal population declined in the 1820s the local Aboriginal women involved European seal hunters as partners in the old Aboriginal tradition of mutton birding and an exchange relationship between local Aboriginals and sealers emerged. The latter provided goods such as tobacco, flour, tea, and dogs, and in return they received kangaroo and seal skins, and women for labour, company and sexual pleasure. Lyndall Ryan points out that, although the exchange of women upset Aboriginal society on the north coast, the establishment and incorporation of the mutton bird industry into the wider economy “saved Aboriginal Tasmanian

109 Ibid., p. 52. 110 Ibid., p. 517. 111 I. Clendinnen, Dancing With Strangers, The Text Publishing Company, Melbourne, 2005, p. 168. 46 society from extinction because their economic activity enabled some of its traditions to continue.”112 The sealers’ entrepreneurial skills only became a necessity when the seal population was decimated by large hunting by ships from Sydney, Britain and the USA. Back home in Britain, colonisation was justified by a supposed duty to civilise and Christianise the original inhabitants. Thus from the very beginning, missionaries set out to convert Aboriginals to Christianity and settled lives. Missionaries complained that the lack of political organisation among Aboriginals made it more difficult to convert them to Christianity because, instead of converting a chief who would pass on the message, as they were able to do in the Pacific Islands, in Australia they had to do the hard work and convince every individual themselves.113 As long as Aboriginals had alternative means of survival and did not depend on missions for protection or food, they would use the latter temporarily at their own convenience. The missionary school in Parramatta, for example, set up in 1814 as part of the “civilisation experiment” which I describe further below, faced a troublesome start because parents, who had received rations and food in return for handing over their children, treated it as temporary childcare and removed six of the twelve children from the school in the first few weeks.114 The Wiradjuri, too, used the Wellington mission only when it suited them, to protect themselves against violent settlers, to prevent sexual intercourse between white men and black women, and to gain access to food and tobacco. The missionaries relied on local labour to maintain the mission but were unable to exploit labour systematically because they knew that the Aboriginals would no longer turn up if forced. When one of the missionaries, known as “Eaglehawk”, began to remove children from families, the relationship rapidly declined and in the end the mission closed down.115 When Governor Macquarie proposed an “Experiment towards the Civilization of these natives” in 1814, there were high hopes that Aboriginals would take up casual work and become part of colonial society:

Scarcely emerged from the remotest State of rude and Uncivilized Nature, these People appear to possess some Qualities, which, if properly Cultivated

112 L. Ryan, The Aboriginal Tasmanians, University of Queensland Press, St. Lucia and London, 1981.pp. 61­77. 113 R. Broome, Aboriginal Australians: Black Responses to White Dominance 1788­2001 (third edition), Allen & Unwin, Crows Nest, 2002, p. 37. 114 K. V. Smith, King Bungaree: A Sydney Aborigine Meets the Great South Pacific Explorers, 1799­1830, Kangaroo Press, Kenthurst, 1992, pp. 75­77. 115 P. Read, A Hundred Years War: The Wiradjuri People and the State, Australian National University Press, Rushcutters Bay, 1988, pp. 12­21. 47

and Encouraged, Might render them not only less wretched and destitute by Reason of their Wild wanderings and Unsettled Habits, but progressively Useful to the Country According to their Capabilities either as Labourers in Agricultural Employ or among the lower Class of Mechanics.116

Aboriginals were dispossessed of land but some land was set aside for them to settle as farmers and fishers. Bungaree, for example, the first Aboriginal man to be declared a chief (of “Broken Bay Tribe”) by the Governor in 1815, and fifteen men and their families were provided with huts, clothing, seeds, tools and a fishing boat at George's Head on Sydney harbour. Bungaree was later further given seven pigs, a breeding sow, ducks and more clothes for his family, but the only item deemed worth keeping was the boat.117

Recognition Unlike in North America and New Zealand, the British government did not sign treaties with the original inhabitants of Australia because they did not have to. They were militarily and economically so superior that Aboriginal peoples could not force the issue. No other foreign powers challenged the British in Australia and there was no need for military allies as there had been in the Americas. The legal term terra nullius was not officially used to justify British claims to sovereignty because, as David Ritter writes:

Such a doctrinal denial would not have appeared necessary to the colonists, because the indigenous inhabitants of the colony were seen and defined by the colonists as intrinsically barbarous and without any interest in land.118

The Aboriginals had no say when dispossessed of their land, but Lisa Ford reveals that, while regarded as British subjects, they were also sometimes recognised as peoples with their own legal and cultural practices. For example, their “crimes were not punished by settler courts in the early 19th century – no matter whether their crimes were committed on the fringes or in the centres of the colony.” 119 When Aboriginals were taken to court for murdering settlers in 1823 and 1826, there was a debate as to whether they could be tried in colonial courts. However, once martial law was deployed in

116 Smith, op. cit., 1992, p. 75. 117 Ibid., pp. 77­80. 118 D. Ritter, 'The "rejection of terra nullius" in Mabo: a critical analysis', Sydney Law Review, vol. 18, no. 1, March 1996, p. 6. 119 L. Ford, 'Indigenous Policy and its Historical Occlusions: The North American and Global Contexts of Australian Settlement', Australian Indigenous Law Review, vol. 12, no. 1, 2008, p. 73. 48

Tasmania between 1828 and 1831, Aboriginals were subject to British law. Ford argues that the relations between Aboriginals and colonists was defined by war and diplomacy rather than understood as conflicts to be regulated within the colonial legal system. British territorial sovereignty only fully asserted itself when Australia’s economic role as a provider of raw material became increasingly important. Ford writes:

Its implementation through the denial of Indigenous rights in New South Wales did not follow from the failure to sign treaties; it followed from the progressive extension of jurisdiction between 1816 and 1840 in Australasia and North America. From this period onwards, politicians, lawyers and settlers all began to claim new powers to punish and control Indigenous people’s crimes, especially those committed close to major settlements. They did so on the basis that settler sovereignty could not coexist with Indigenous self­government.120

Bain Attwood points out that British sovereignty was also challenged from within by settlers, as evident in the case of the 1835 treaty between John Batman from the Port Phillip Association and the original inhabitants of Port Phillip in Tasmania (Batman's Treaty). In return for goods and annual payments, the local Aboriginals sold two blocks of 600,000 acres of land to the Association. By turning to the original owners to purchase land when New South Wales had denied them permission to colonise Port Phillip, the Association “suggested that the Aboriginal headmen, not the British Government, were actually sovereign and the owners of the land.”121 At the same time, the colonial administration came under increased pressure from the growing anti­slavery movement in England which turned its attentions to the fate of the original inhabitants of the newly established settler colonies in Australia and South Africa and began to demand a recognition of land rights. After the Black Wars in Tasmania in the 1820s, Australia was becoming an embarrassment to the British.122

Summary

During the early period of colonisation, the main differences between the two cases compared here were in the timing – historically speaking – as well as the different

120 Ibid., p. 74. 121 B. Attwood, 'Thieves Like Us', Meanjin, vol. 66, no. 3, 2007, p. 99. 122 H. Reynolds, The Law of the Land (third edition), Penguin Books, Camberwell & London, 2003, pp. 99­125. 49 geographies and natural environments involved. While Sami society was under pressure from different neighbouring Kingdoms from the thirteenth century onwards, the fact that the Sami lived in contested border regions gave them the advantage at times of being able to play off one power against another. Australian Aboriginals were under no such external pressure until the late eighteenth century when the British began to colonise the continent without competition from other foreign intruders, and therefore did not need the Aboriginals as allies. The timing of colonisation was important because in Fennoscandia the process extended over such a long period of time that, although Sami peoples were forced to share land that they had previously had to themselves, they could also gradually adapt to the changes as well as adopt farming and animal husbandry. Some Sami were assimilated but others were and maintained a distinct identity. The long and well­established tax and trade relationships between the Sami and neighboring states meant that the Sami knew their colonisers well and could to some extent “work the system” from within. Colonisation contributed to a changing Sami society finding its ecological niche based on reindeer herding in the highlands and fishing and farming in the fjords. When private property was introduced, Sami society reproduced the socio­economic inequality found in neighbouring states and, with increased pressure on land and animals, some Sami increased their wealth with larger herds and others struggled, as evident in the widepread poverty in Sapmi's south. By contrast, Indigenous Australia remained an egalitarian society until the entirely unheralded and very sudden British invasion. Rather than adapt gradually to the colonisers as other Indigenous peoples elsewhere had been able to do – and none more so than the Sami – the Aboriginals had to cope simultaneously with newly introduced Eurasian diseases, dispossession, and an aggressively expansionist British capitalism, then the most advanced in the world, with which no coexistence on the same land was possible. 50

CHAPTER TWO. THE SECOND PHASE OF COLONISATION

Introduction

This chapter discusses the later, second phase of colonisation in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries until the Second World War. It shows how the Sami were included in the Nordic/Norwegian colonial project and how Australian Aboriginals were excluded from that of Britain/Australia. They both shared the experience of being marginalised on their land and being subjected to assimilationist government policies. The chapter considers the differences and similarities behind Nordic and British colonialism, how these led to different Indigenous outcomes (inclusion and self­sufficiency versus exclusion and dependency).

Sami inclusion and attempted assimilation

Geopolitics and the Nordic colonial project The geopolitical rivalry over Sapmi intensified during the nineteenth century. “For the Sami the 19th century was the century of partition. Two new borders were fixed, and there were seven major border changes.”123 The Nordic states were relatively weak militarily and economically but because Sapmi was situated between the two great powers of the time, Russia and Britain, it was drawn into their strategic competition in Europe's north. After the Napoleonic Wars the fear of Russia increased in Western Europe. Russia conquered Finland in 1809 (which until then was ruled by Sweden) and it was commonly believed that it would try to assert its power and expand north­ west into Norwegian territory to gain direct access to the Atlantic Ocean and ice­free harbours in Finnmark. Russian traders already had a well established commercial relationship with Sami and non­Sami fishers who found the Pomor trade lucrative because the Russians paid up to twice as much for fish and other products and could provide the region with much­needed flour and grain. By 1875, 97% of all flour in Finnmark and Troms was imported from Russia, and at the turn of the twentieth century this trade provided each person with an average of 40 kilos of flour.124 However, Jens Petter Nielsen argues that the fear of Russia was “completely

123 J. Eriksson, op. cit., 1997, p. 86. 124 B. A. Berg, Samisk kulturkunnskap, Vett & Viten AS, Nesbru, 2003, pp. 87­102. 51 unfounded” at the time.125 There is no evidence that Russia planned to expand into the north­west. The Baltic was more important and there was little infrastructure and few settlements in the far north – Russia had no railways before the late nineteenth century and the port of Murmansk was established only in 1915.126 Nonetheless, the fear was real, and the far north of Europe was considered too important to be left to the Nordic states alone. Thus Sami policy was closely linked to international politics at the time. In the 1855 November Treaty after the Crimean War, for example, Britain and France agreed with Sweden/Norway that if Russia expanded westwards they would provide military protection on condition that no grazing or fishing rights were to be granted and no territory ceded to Russia without their approval.127 But North Norway was also, as Ottar Brox has described it, a “region of opportunities” and for the south an outlet for population growth and an internal frontier.128 Finnmark was sparsely populated because the land was unsuitable for large­ scale farming. By the mid­nineteenth century, the Sami were outnumbered by non­Sami: in 1855 there were nearly 7,000 Norwegians, 7,100 Sami and 2,300 Kven resident in Finnmark. By the turn of the twentieth century, the Norwegian population had more than doubled, to 18,000 persons, against 10,000 Sami and 5,000 Kven.129 Between 1835 and 1900, the whole population of Finnmark tripled from 11,000 to 33,000. However, Steinar Aas points out that it was a colonial frontier only until the 1860s and from then on many left for the promise of more fertile land and better opportunities in North America.130 About 750,000 Norwegians (including a few Sami) migrated to North America between 1836 and 1915, a number equalling almost the entire Norwegian population in 1801. Only Ireland had a higher percentage of its inhabitants leaving for the Americas during this period.131 The land in Finnmark could sustain only a limited population but the fisher­farmer economy was doing well enough for the mining industry to find it difficult to recruit

125 J. P. Nielsen, 'The Russia of the Tsar and North Norway. "The Russian Danger" Revisited', Acta Borealia, vol. 19, no. 1, 2002, p. 80. 126 Ibid., pp. 80­92. 127 A. Söderhjelm & C. F. Palmstierna, Oscar I, Bonnier, Stockholm, 1944, pp. 386­389, cited in O. Elgström & M. Jerneck, 'Activism and adaptation: Swedish security strategies, 1814­ 85', Diplomacy & Statecraft, vol. 8, no. 3, 1997, p. 223. 128 O. Brox, Hva skjer i Nord­Norge? En studie i norsk utkantspolitikk (fourth edition), Pax Forlag, Oslo, 1972. 129 NOU 1984:18, p. 83. 130 S. Aas, 'North­Norway – the frontier of the north?', Acta Borealia, vol. 15, no. 1, 1998, pp. 27­41. 131 J. Nerbøvik, Norsk historie 1860­1914: Eit bondesamfunn i oppbrot (second edition), Det Norske Samlaget, Oslo, 2000, p. 22. 52 local labour. Only with greater population pressure and the worldwide economic recession in the late nineteenth century did more local fisher­farmer families send their sons to work in the mines to contribute to the family budget.132 Few Sami were involved in mining, but it did provide opportunities for families and individuals from further afield and was the main reason for an increasingly multicultural north: of 1,098 workers at Kåfjord Copper Works in 1860, for example, there were 31 Sami, 556 Finns, 383 Norwegians, 108 Swedes, 17 British workers and 3 Russians.133 Governments had encouraged Kven farmers to settle in North Norway in the eighteenth century but when the geopolitical climate changed in the mid­nineteenth century they became increasingly worried that Russia would use Finland and the growing Kven minority in Finnmark to gain influence in the border region. Knut Erik Eriksen and Einar Niemi argue in Den finske fare (The Finnish Menace) that while the fear of Finland, a Grand Duchy of Russia until 1917, was linked to the fear of Russia, Finnish nationalism and the local Kven minority presented threats of their own. 134 There were also the so­called “Forest Finns”, who had settled further south at Finnskogen on the Swedish border as slash­and­burn agriculturalists in the seventeenth century: in the 1820s they had their cultural, economic, religious and educational demands rejected because the authorities feared Finnish separatism in the area.135 Thus the assimilationist and nationalist policy of Norwegianisation was aimed primarily at the Kven minority in the border region of East Finnmark, yet it also came to define Sami policy from the mid to late nineteenth century. According to Eriksen and Niemi,

without the “Finnish menace” in domestic and foreign policy the policy of Norwegianization vis­à­vis the Sames would not have been pursued so rigorously and over such a long period.136

Because none of the Nordic nations “were strong enough to orchestrate unification”of the region, they all embarked on different nation­state building projects in

132 E. A. Drivenes, 'Gruvearbeideren – rallar eller fiskarbonde', Ottar, no. 160, University of Tromsø and Tromsø Museum, 1986, pp. 32­44.pp. 32­44. 133 Ø. Bottolfson 1990, p. 152, Finnmark fylkeskommunes historie 1840­1990, Finnmark Fylkeskommune, Vadsø, quoted in M. Lähteenmäki, The Peoples of Lapland: Boundary Demarcations and Interaction in the North Calotte from 1808 to 1889, Academia Scientiarum Fennica, Helsinki, 2006, p. 108. 134 K. E. Eriksen and E. Niemi, Den finske fare: Sikkerhetsproblemer og minoritetspolitikk i nord 1860­1940, Universitetsforlaget, Oslo & Bergen, 1981. 135 Stortingmelding nr. 15 (2000­2001), Nasjonale minoritetar i Noreg – Om statleg politikk overfor jødar, kvener, rom, romanifolket og skogfinnar, Kommunal­ og regionaldepartementet, Oslo, p. 32. 136 Eriksen and Niemi, op. cit., 1981, p. 360. 53 the nineteenth century and the Sami ended up as a minority in four separate states. 137 Knut Heidar writes that “national mobilisation in Norway, Finland and Iceland” against the dominant Kingdoms of Denmark and Sweden “was fuelled by the politics of independence”.138 Norway had been ruled from Denmark since 1563 and “for several centuries 50 to 66 percent of the Norwegian state revenues were transferred out of the country to the state centre in Copenhagen”.139 After the Napoleonic wars, Norway was detached from Denmark and forced into a union with Sweden which lasted until independence in 1905. While governed by Sweden, the Norwegian elites tried to instil national consciousness among the peasants and fishers in the many valleys, along the coast and in the fjords.140 While the colonisation of the north was primarily about securing territory and borders, it was also about natural resources such as fish, forest and minerals which attracted immigrants and foreign capital from the European continent and Britain.141 On the periphery of Europe, Norway and Sweden remained largely agricultural, with little industrialisation and urbanisation until the late nineteenth century, and the Scandinavian banking system “a relatively late development”.142 Until the turn of the century, the economy relied on capital from abroad – in 1880, foreign investment made up 45% of domestic capital accumulation in Sweden and in Norway 50% of investments in the electric industry, 80% in the mining and chemical industries (39% of all industrial investment).143 In 1875, there were only ten cities in Norway with populations of more than 10,000 and about thirty towns of more than 2,000 residents. At the turn of the twentieth century about thirty five percent of the population lived in cities. 144 The political importance of regional districts for such a decentralised, mountainous, and rural country came to shape Sami policy too, for better and for worse. As a late economic developer and a seafaring nation that relied on shipping and fisheries, Norway had every reason to maintain good relations with Britain which 137 K. Heidar, 'State and Nation­building in the Nordic Area', in Nordic Politics: Comparative Perspectives, K. Heidar (ed.). Universitetsforlaget, Oslo, 2004, p. 9. 138 Ibid. 139 K. Lunden, 'Recession and new Expansion 1350­1814', in Norwegian Agricultural History, R. Almås, Tapir Academic Press, Trondheim, 2004, p. 216. 140 Ø. Sørensen (ed.), Jakten på det norske: Perspektiver på utviklingen av en norsk nasjonal identitet på 1800­tallet, Gyldendal Akademisk, Oslo, 2007. 141 P. Bøe, 'Nord­norsk gruvehistorie – en oversikt', Ottar, no. 160, University of Tromsø and Tromsø Museum, 1986, pp. 3­11. 142 I. T. Berend, An Economic History of Nineteenth­Century Europe: Diversity and Industrialization, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge & New York, 2013, p. 251. 143 Ibid. 144 J. Nerbøvik, Norsk historie 1860­1914: Eit bondesamfunn i oppbrot (second edition), Det Norske Samlaget, Oslo, 2000, pp. 35­36. 54 controlled the world's oceans. But it faced the dilemma of protecting small­scale fisheries at home, which were crucial for maintaining settlements in North Norway, while promoting liberal trade policies internationally. Its Sami and non­Sami fishers could not compete with the modern steam­powered trawlers that entered the coastal waters off Finnmark in the late nineteenth century. However, if Norwegian authorities excluded foreign trawlers from its traditional fishing grounds along the coast and in the vast Norwegian fjords, it could have had consequences for Norwegian shipping and whalers in British­controlled territories.145 When the Norwegian coastguard seized a British trawler in contested waters off Finnmark in 1911 and the government came under British pressure to agree to abandon its refusal to sign the North Sea Convention of 1882, its advisors warned that giving up national control of coastal waters would be “a national disaster” because:

It is the fisheries and the fisheries alone that have made it possible to populate the severe and bare coasts off Finnmark; and it is through the fisheries that the population all along the coast is able to fight its daily struggle for life ... in this extreme North and with stormy seasons.146

According to Roald Berg, the “coastal fisheries usually were the political winners in disputes that grew out of such conflicting interests”.147 As military allies, Britain and Norway agreed on the importance of populating the north to create a buffer zone to Russia. Britain would rattle sabres on issues such as fishing rights but it too had an interest in the political stability of Europe's multicultural north where Sami and non­ Sami fishers had close relations with Russian traders.

The partition of Sapmi Nineteenth­century colonisation divided the Sami peoples by turning them into minorities in four different countries. After the 1917 Russian Revolution, they were also divided between two ideologically different political systems, with the Kola Sami now a minority within Russia which was to remain cut off from the Nordic Sami until 1989. 148 Although the Sami had been classified as a “nation” in the Lapp Codicil of 1751, their consciousness as a unified people was weak or non­existent. They spoke ten different

145 R. Berg, 'A Norwegian policy for the north before World War I', Acta Borealia, vol. 11, no. 1, 1994, p. 5. 146 Quoted in ibid., p. 8. 147 Ibid., p. 5. 148 P. Lantto, 'Borders, citizenship and change: the case of the Sami people, 1751­2008', Citizenship Studies, vol. 14, no. 5, 2010, pp. 543­556. 55

Sami languages or dialects, only some of them mutually intelligible, and lived across a vast territory. However, state borders cut across siida structures and reindeer migration routes, and blocked access to grazing areas and hunting grounds for some and to the coast for others:

... it is questionable whether the Sami have always shared a sense of being a single people. Nevertheless, there was undoubtedly a contiguous pattern of small Sami communities and polities which existed as coherent entities before the establishment of separate states and citizenships. Therefore, it is relevant to talk about the Sami as a partitioned group.149

In 1848 the Norwegian government officially declared Finnmark a colony that had belonged to the King or state since time immemorial (gammel tid). The Sami had no ownership rights to land because they were regarded as nomads. 150 The colonisation of Finnmark and denial of collective Sami ownership of the land were justified by the principle that only agricultural cultivation established property rights.151 The Lapp Codicil of 1751 was not officially revoked but Sami rights were increasingly difficult to uphold when new borders between east and west (Russia/Finland and Sweden/Norway) were established in 1809 and 1826, and then closed in 1852 and 1889. One complication for the Sami was that, as from 1809, Finland was no longer part of Sweden but of Russia which had not been a party to the Codicil. The Skolt Sami who lived in the border region between Norway, Finland and Russia saw their territory and families divided repeatedly by redrawn borders in 1826, 1920 and 1944.152 Border changes and closures not only served to dispossess Sami groups of land but also forced them to turn to other means of survival or move elsewhere where they took up different citizenships. For example, when the border between Norway and Finland was closed in 1852, people on both sides of it were cut off from grazing fields and hunting grounds that they had previously used. In Norway, 50,000 reindeer could no longer legally access previously held grazing land in Finland, and in Finland 15,000 reindeer were excluded from summer pastures on the Norwegian coast. The Norwegian Parliament decided against compensating herders who were forced to change occupation

149 Eriksson, op. cit., 1997, p. 81. 150 S. Pedersen, 'Samenes rettigheter i lys av norsk nasjonalisme på 1800­tallet', in Fortidsforestillinger: Bruk og misbruk av nordnorsk historie, B. A. Berg and E. Niemi (eds.). Skriftserie fra Instituttt for historie, no. 4, University of Tromsø, 2002 p. 86. 151 Ibid. 152 Eriksson, op. cit., 1997, pp. 88­90. 56 after the border closure.153 Instead Parliament agreed with the Sami an increase in the price they could charge for transporting goods and people, hoping that it would encourage more Sami to abandon herding. Over the next thirty years, 72 families from Kautokeino moved to Karesuando and became Swedish citizens to have access to Finnish grazing areas (the border between Sweden and Finland was yet to close). After the eventual border closure between Sweden and Finland, pressure on grazing land worsened and half of the families who had migrated to Karesuando moved back to Kautokeino.154 There are also examples of the authorities forcefully relocating Sami families elsewhere to ease pressure on land, such as in Sweden in the 1920s when about 50 families and about 8,300 reindeer from Karesuando moved south to Jokkmokk and Arjeplog when Norway denied them access to their summer pastures on the coast. However, the forced move created new problems because pressure on grazing land increased and tensions developed between newcomers and old residents whose reindeer husbandry differed.155 When Finland lost Pechenga to the Soviet Union in 1944, the Skolt Sami were forced to choose whether to stay on their homeland or leave to retain Finnish citizenship, which most of them did and relocated to new settlements at Lake Inari. 35 families with kin on Russian side decided to stay, which cut them off from relatives for 70 years.156 After Norwegian independence in 1905, the authorities clamped down on reindeer husbandry in some localities, encouraged new settlements and built roads and military installations in Nordland, south of Finnmark, to make it difficult for Swedish herders to cross the border and to access the coast. For the same geopolitical reasons Swedish authorities had an interest in maintaining reindeer husbandry in the Swedish highlands because the migration route to summer pastures on the coast gave them access to Norwegian territory, which could be useful in case of border conflicts.157 In Finnmark itself, there were good reasons for facilitating reindeer husbandry. In 153 NOU (Norges offentlige utredninger) 2001:34 Samiske sedvaner og rettsoppfatninger – bakgrunnsmateriale for Samerettsutvalget, Statens forvaltningstjeneste, Statens trykking, Oslo, pp. 321­322. 154 Ibid., pp. 111­114. 155 P. Lantto, Tiden börjar på nytt: En analys av samernas etnopolitiska mobilisering i Sverige 1900­1950, Kulturgräns Norr, no. 32, University of Umeå, Umeå, 2000, p. 134. 156 J. Nyyssönen, 'The Finnish Presence on the Murman Coast – the Era of Petsamo 1920­1944' in In the North My Nest is Made: Studies in the History of the Murman Colonization 1860­ 1940, A. Yurchenko & J. P. Nielsen (eds.), University of Tromsø & European University at St. Petersburg, St. Petersburg, 2005, p. 201. 157 B. A. Berg, '“Den svenske fare.” Norske holdninger til svensk reindrift etter unionsoppløsningen', in Grenseoverskridende reindrift før og etter 1905, E. G. Broderstad & E. Niemi, et al (eds.). Skriftserie nr. 14, Centre for Sami Studies, University of Tromsø, Tromsø, 2007, pp. 87­96. 57

1920, the government used the herding interests of the Skolt Sami in an unsuccessful attempt to claim more land and move the Russian border further east.158 But the main reason reindeer husbandry in Finnmark could continue was that the highlands could not be used for much else. The Reindeer Grazing Committee of 1901 stated that it could not see how settlers could survive without reindeer herders in a region with no other major development prospects.159 The industry was useful because it generated tax income, provided transport and supplied meat and furs to the settler population. While there was little incentive in coastal areas further south, such as Troms, to support an industry which demanded seasonal grazing land in summer but paid no local taxes, the authorities acknowledged that reindeer husbandry could co­exist alongside farming and tried to ease tensions by setting up fences and building bridges.160 Reindeer herders did not own land, but some of them developed large herds and were accepted by the Norwegian elites as equals for their wealth. Thus the first amendment made to the Norwegian Constitution of 1814 was to extend the vote in 1821 to wealthy reindeer herders, even though they were not landowners.161 Reindeer husbandry gradually lost out to agricultural interests from the eighteenth century in South Sami areas, followed by Finnmark in the nineteenth century where several commissions worked to find solutions to conflicts between settlers and nomads over land use. While settlers complained that herders did not look after their animals and demanded compensation for damage to property, the herders protested that they were being pushed off the land, that dog attacks made it difficult to control the herds and that they could not keep reindeer off gardens and unfenced fields.162 In 1883, Sweden and Norway finally agreed on a Common Lapp Law (Felleslappeloven), which regulated reindeer husbandry south of Finnmark on both sides of the Norwegian­Swedish border. It was the first reindeer husbandry agreement between the two states after the Lapp Codicil of 1751 and its main purpose was to protect agricultural interests.163 The law introduced reindeer husbandry districts which were collectively responsible for paying compensation when there was doubt over whose reindeer had done damage to agricultural property. A few years later, the South Sami were prohibited from reindeer grazing outside the newly established districts, and this was justified by the historian

158 Eriksen and Niemi, op. cit., 1981, pp. 172­173. 159 Quoted in NOU 2001:34, p. 239. 160 Ibid. pp. 145, 238­239. 161 E. Niemi, 'Finnmark og Eidsvoll 1814: Innenfor eller utenfor, patriotisme eller lokalisme', Ottar, no. 299, University of Tromsø and Tromsø Museum, 2014, p. 30. 162 NOU 2001:34, pp. 123­125. 163 NOU 2007:14, p. 114. 58

Yngvar Nielsen's immigration theory which claimed that the South Sami were late immigrants to the area. This was the end for some South Sami communities: Susendalen, for example, had been a Sami dominated area with 21 families (100 residents) in 1731 but there were no Sami left by the turn of the twentieth century.164 In the Karlstad Convention of 1905 (when the union between Sweden and Norway ended) and subsequent Reindeer Grazing Convention of 1919, agriculture continued to be favoured over reindeer husbandry. In 1863, the first Land Sales Act for Finnmark introduced an auction system in which the highest bidder won. The government believed that fisheries were the future of the region, hence the purpose of the Land Sales Act of 1863 was to conserve the inland forest so that it could supply much needed wood and building materials for Norwegian coastal settlements.165 Restrictions on land sales also denied Sami residents (and others) property rights to land that they regarded as theirs. The municipal councils of Tana, Karasjok and Nesseby protested, and the Mayor of Karasjok (Mathis Isaksen, one of the few Sami mayors at the time) expressed his concern that Sami residents would be driven off land that they had themselves cleared and settled. It was a common view among authorities and colonists that the Sami could not be trusted with forestry, and despite the restrictions on land sales there are examples of land being sold to Norwegians. 166 The purpose of the Land Sales Act which followed in 1902 was to stop foreign – mainly Kven – influence in Finnmark, because of the 425 blocks of land that were sold between 1896 and 1901 they had purchased 25% (the Sami bought 36%, Norwegians 36% and Swedes 3%).167 To achieve a greater Norwegian presence, the market­based system of auctions was replaced by stricter government control. Those who wanted to puchase land had to apply to the Land Sales Commission, with a Commissioner appointed by the King. The Land Sales Act of 1902 (section 1c) stated that:

Sales may take place to Norwegian citizens only, and with a particular view to furthering the settlement of a population that is suitable for the district, for its cultivation and for its utilization in other ways, that can speak, read and write the Norwegian language and that use it for their everyday tongue.168

As Norwegian citizens, the Sami were not excluded from buying property but those

164 Ibid., pp. 62­63, 67. 165 NOU 2001:34, pp. 326­329; NOU 1994:21, pp. 93­94. 166 Ibid. 167 Eriksen & Niemi, op. cit., 1981, p. 76. 168 R. Jernsletten, 'The land sales act of 1902 as a means of Norwegianization', Acta Borealia, vol. 3. no. 1, 1986, p. 6. 59

Kven people who had Finnish citizenship were. While the language clause was aimed primarily at the Kven, it also targeted Sami speakers but there are few examples of it being given as reason for not granting land ownership.169 However, Regnor Jernsletten points out that the Sami were disadvantaged compared with Kven farmers in other ways because a requirement for purchasing land was that they settle and cultivate it. They could not use the land as they wished. Purchasing land for reindeer husbandry was not realistic because of the enormous tracts of land required. The Land Act also excluded Sami farmers who did not fit the Norwegian ideal type of an agriculturalist. For example, Henrik A. Henriksen, a Sami farmer and former Mayor of Tana, was offered only leasehold tenure when he applied for supplementary land to his main freehold property. The Land Commissioner complained that it was common among Sami to aquire many small properties across the municipality instead of one large farm, and he saw it as his duty to prevent it. As Regnor Jernsletten rightly writes:

The outcome was anyhow that the land policy had (or got) a negative attitude towards traditional Sámi farming where many resource areas were utilized. This mode of subsistence with seasonal migration between the resource areas existed in some places far into this century. The migration pattern allowed other resources such as sea fishing to be used, but it had the form of some sort of "summer farming". The cattle followed in migration. Therefore scattered land pieces were a necessity. When the Land Sales Commissioner considered it his duty to prevent Sámi from having scattered land, he was counteracting this mode of subsistence.170

Attempted assimilation The main purpose of “Norwegianisation” was to turn Sami (and Kven) into loyal Norwegian citizens. While geopolitical concerns dominated the policy, it was also justified ideologically and morally by the need to “civilise” the Sami. The purpose of the Sami Fund (Finnefondet) of 1851 was “to promote the teaching of Norwegian in the transitional [mixed language] districts and to ensure the enlightenment of the Sami people.”171 Three years later, Parliament granted money also to a Travellers Fund (Fantefondet), the goal of which it was to assimilate the Roma people who made up more than 200 small traveller groups in the mid­nineteenth cdntury. When security

169 Eriksen & Niemi, op. cit., 1981, p. 127. 170 Jernsletten, op. cit., 1986, pp. 12­14. 171 H. Minde, 'Assimilation of the Sami – Implementation and Consequences', Acta Borealia, vol. 20, no. 2, 2003, p. 126. 60 concerns increased in the 1860s, the Kven minority was targeted too.172 From the 1870s onwards, theories about race and evolution helped legitimise the Norwegianisation of the Sami. In contrast to the Kven, who were immigrants, the Sami enjoyed some sympathy as the original inhabitants of the area. They were viewed as the “noble savage”, and proudly put on display as northern curiosities at exhibitions, zoos, museums and circuses in Chicago, London, Berlin and Paris in the 1870s. 173 But they were also seen as backward and belonging to a primitive race which ranked low on the evolutionary ladder. According to Christian Andreas Brygfjeld, Director of Schools in Finnmark between 1918­1923 and chief inspector of Norwegianisation measures 1923­ 35:

The Lapps had neither the ability nor the will to use their language as written language. (...) The few individuals who are left of the original Lappish tribe are now so degenerated that there is little hope of any change for the better for them. They are hopeless and belong to Finnmark’s most backward and wretched population, and provide the biggest contingent from these areas to our lunatic asylums and schools for the mentally retarded.174

Ideas of the Sami as a doomed race were often stated in quasi­scientific language but the assimilationist government policy was primarily aimed at saving people from a doomed culture. There was hope for Sami individuals if they left their culture behind. It was believed that reindeer husbandry would give way to agriculture and that the Sami language and culture would vanish when the Sami adopted Norwegian ways of living. The Sami were not excluded from what was seen as a transition from traditional to modern society but expected to embrace it. Unlike in the case of Roma women, of whom a proportionally large number compared with other Norwegians were forcefully and unknowingly sterilised, there is no proof of similar attempts to control Sami reproduction.175 However, the Sami were often made invisible and treated as Sami speaking Norwegians. For example, medical records from Rønvik, North Norway's only asylum between 1902 and 1940, reveal that Sami psychiatric patients suffered because

172 T. Gotaas, Taterne: Livskampen og eventyret, Andresen & Butenschøn, Oslo, 2007, p. 105. 173 C. Baglo, 'From universal homgeneity to essential heterogeneity: On the visual construction of “the Lappish race”', Acta Borealia, vol. 18, no. 2, 2001 p. 35. 174 Original quote in Norwegian in Eriksen and Niemi, op. cit., 1981, p. 258. Translated to English in H. Minde, op. cit., 2003a, p. 131. 175 For an overview of the debate about and practice of sterilisation of Rom people see P. Haave, 'Sterilisering av tatere – kirurgi på "rasemessig" grunnlag?', in Romanifolket og det norske samfunnet: Følgene av hundre års politikk for en nasjonal minoritet, B. Hvinden, (ed.), Fagbokforlaget, Bergen, 2000, pp. 32­73. 61 they spoke a different language and belonged to a different culture. But Sami patients were not singled out for special medical treatment.176 Protection/segregation was more prominent in Sweden where the Swedish “Lapp shall be Lapp” policy, which lasted from 1913 to 1962, involved separate education and tent schools to suit the Sami nomadic lifestyle. It was justified by a set of racial and cultural reasons that cannot easily be separated.177 Missionaries and priests had written down the Sami languages and introduced schooling from the seventeenth century, but from the second half of the nineteenth century schools were used for the purpose of spreading the Norwegian language and culture. According to Niemi and Eriksen, the education system was the main arena for Norwegianisation:

The policy began with cultural education, directed at schools and the church. The main battle was over language and identity, the main battlefield was the classroom, and the rank and file soldiers were the school teachers.178

In 1860 it was legislated that there should be at least one stationary school in each municipality in Norway, but it quickly turned out that school attendance in Finnmark was low because of long travel distances and a shortage of accomodation, and instruction through the medium of Sami slowed down Norwegianisation.179 In Kautokeino people did not find the education offered to their children very relevant, but they were interested to learn Finnish which they regarded as useful because of Finnish immigration and the cross­border interaction.180 The authorities used different measures to increase school attendance, such as fining wealthy reindeer owners for failing to send their children to school.181 Poverty was one reason for reducing the school year to six weeks in the early 1860s because the poor could not afford to do without their children's labour. This also suited those involved in reindeer husbandry because they were unable to return to pick up their children after the annual migration to summer pastures began

176 S. Elgarøy, and P. Aaslestad, '«... det er ingen rede at faa paa ham»: Samiske pasienters psykiatrijournaler 1902–1940', Tidsskrift for Norsk Psykologforening, vol. 47, no. 7, 2010, pp. 587­592. 177 P. Lantto, op. cit. 2000, pp. 40­42. 178 Niemi, E. 'Sami history and the frontier myth: a perspective on Northern Sami spatial and rights history', in Sami Culture in a New Era: The Norwegian Sami Experience, H. Gaski (ed.), Davvi Girji, Karasjok, 1997, p. 73. 179 L. L. Meløy, Internatliv i Finnmark: Skolepolitikk 1900­1940, Det Norske Samlaget, Oslo, 1980. p. 18. 180 Ibid., pp. 33­34. 181 P. L. Smith, Kautokeino og Kautokeino­lappene, Aschehough & co, Oslo, 1938, p. 242; Eriksen and Niemi, op. cit., 1981, p. 53. 62 in mid­April, and residents who accommodated children were reluctant to do so for any longer period of time.182 In Kautokeino in 1876, only 27 of 75 school age children were registered at the local school. When it closed down, the church was used for schooling but of the few children who attended, only one understood and spoke Norwegian and the teachers spoke Sami to the pupils. Kautokeino was held up as the worst example of schooling in Finnmark at the time.183 Henry Minde argues that the “instruction of 1880 marked the final breakthrough for the strict norwegianization policy.”184 As security concerns increased in the 1880s the authorities introduced new measures to enforce Norwegianisation. All Sami and Kven pupils were to learn to speak, read and write Norwegian, and the minority languages were only to be used when strictly necessary. Scholarships for teachers learning the Sami language, which had been available since 1826, were reduced at the Tromsø Teachers' Training Seminar. To speed up assimilation, 50 boarding schools were established in Finnmark between 1900 and 1940. For geopolitical and nationalist reasons the first boarding schools were built in the border region of South Varanger (close to the Russian boder), followed by Kautokeino (the centre of Sami culture) for cultural reasons and finally in poorer coastal areas for socio­economic reasons.185 Local resistance and the Second World War, respectively, delayed their arrival in Polmak (the southern part of today's Tana) until 1938 and in Karasjok until 1951. In Polmak, residents on the outskirts of the municipality feared that a centralised boarding school would lead to the closure of their small local schools. In Karasjok there was resistance to a boarding school promoting Norwegian language and culture, in part because it challenged the exchange relationship between settled and nomadic Sami: the latter paid the locals in meat and pelts for accommodating their children temporarily. In 1940, of the 3,000 pupils who lived away from home when attending school in Finnmark, 522 were accommodated privately. While the boarding schools were financed by the state or municipalities, parents who could afford to were expected to contribute – in Kautokeino in 1917, for example, the principal suggested 60 kilos meat or two female reindeer.186 If the success of Norwegianisation is measured by the decline of the Sami language, it had limited impact until the twentieth century in areas where the Sami were numerous or made up the majority. For example, Teemu Ryymin and Kaisa Maliniemi reveal that, between 1867 and 1911 in Kistrand, official correspondance was conducted in three

182 P. L. Smith, op. cit., 1938, p. 245. 183 Meløy, op. cit., 1980, pp. 33­34. 184 Minde, op. cit., 2003a, p. 128. 185 Meløy, op. cit., 1980, p. 112. 186 Ibid., pp. 35­36, 56­57, 81. 63 languages: Norwegian, Kven and Sami. Kistrand was a multicultural municipality where in 1891 the population consisted of 52% Sami, 36% Kven and 11% Norwegians. Most Kven and Sami language documents were written by middlemen and related to poverty relief. Sometimes the authorities used the minority languages when replying.187 When the psychiatric asylum in Rønvik was established in 1902 it advertised for a Sami­speaking carer and used interpreters, but there were few Sami speakers with other qualifications. 188 Likewise, the Sami Mission established several orphanages and aimed to Christianise the Sami while preserving their language and culture, but it proved difficult because the majority of staff were recruited in the south.189 The survival of languages and cultures in the parts of Finnmark where Kven and Sami made up the majority or a large minority is not surprising because they were economically and politically self­sufficient societies. But while Sami and Kven people participated in local affairs, the minority of Norwegian residents had the best­paid jobs, they were public servants and dominated local politics. The mayor, priest, tradesman and sheriff were usually Norwegian. In 1865, there were about equal numbers of Sami and Norwegians in Finnmark (40% each) and about 20% Kven, but the municipal councils were dominated by Norwegians (65% against 26% Sami and 9% Kven).190 The municipal representation of Sami increased in the twentieth century but even with a Sami majority in municipal councils the mayors continued to be Norwegians (with the exception of Tana where there were two Sami mayors between 1900 and 1940).191 The establishment of boarding schools meant that many Sami children were separated temporarily from their families at an early age and suffered an education system which undermined and ridiculed their language and culture. They understood little or nothing of what was being said and were not allowed to speak their own language during breaks. The impact of Norwegianisation is clear from the declining number of people who identified openly as Sami in the twentieth century. According to the official census, the Sami population did not increase between 1890 and 1930. After 1930, the Sami population in the three northernmost counties was halved from 18,842

187 T. Ryymin, and K. Maliniemi, 'Nytt lys på fornorskningspolitikken? Sentrale direktiver og lokal virkelighet', in Kvener i fortid og nåtid, Rapport fra seminaret "Kvener og skogfinner i fortid og nåtid", Tromsø november 2007, University of Tromsø, Tromsø, 2009, pp. 136­ 137. 188 Elgarøy and Aaslestad, op. cit., 2010, p. 590. 189 I. Tjelle, Omsorg og overgrep: Møter med barnehjemsbarn, Nordnorsk Forlag, Alta, 2005, pp. 76­80. 190 NOU 2001:34, pp. 351­352. 191 R. Jernsletten, Samebevegelsen i Norge: Idé og strategi 1900­1940, Skriftserie nr. 6, Centre for Sami Studies, University of Tromsø, Tromsø, 1998, p. 118. 64 persons in 1930 to 8,778 persons in 1950.192 Ivar Bjørklund's famous study of Kvænangen offers an example of a whole village going from identifying as predominantly Sami and Kven to Norwegian in twenty years:

The census from 1930 could tell that of a population of 1900 people, almost 1200 presented themselves as Sámi or Kvæns. Twenty years later – the census of 1950 – this number was reduced, to 3 Sámi and 2 Kvæns.193

Australia: exclusion and attempted assimilation

The British­Australian colonial project and land The British colonial project in Australia was about land. Christopher Lloyd writes that “the real story of the Australian state and economic development” began from about 1815: “Until this time the little Australian penal settlements were of very little significance to Britain or anyone else.”194 In 1822 Parliament turned to its newest colony to reduce Britain's dependence on German wool by reducing the import duty on colonial wool. There was talk of “the new economic forces of the South”.195 Australia with its large areas of fertile grassland seemed ideally suited to sheep and large­scale wool export: it had no big predators except for the dingo, and with relatively warm winters the sheep could be out all year round so there was no need for large quantities of hay during the colder months. Fine wool was in great demand in Europe. Improved machinery was reducing the manufacturing costs and the price of wool was sufficiently high and import duties sufficiently low for Australian pastoralists to make a profit in spite of long transport routes.196 Lloyd concludes that the “1830s pastoral expansion was driven fundamentally by Britain's rapidly growing demand for fine wool and the dovetailing of British mercantilist and criminological policies.”197 By 1839, Australian wool exports to Britain amounted to over ten million pounds a year and by mid­century constituted

192 NOU 1984:18, p. 84. 193 I. Bjørklund, 'Local history in a multi-ethnic context – the case of Kvænangen, northern Norway', Acta Borealia, vol. 2, no. 1-2, 1985, p. 48. 194 C. Lloyd, The 1840s Depression and the Origins of Australian Capitalism, Paper first presented for the Conference of the Indian Association of Australian Studies, New Dehli, January 2004, Revised version 2005, p. 4. 195 S. H. Roberts, The Squatting Age in Australia 1835­1847, Melbourne University Press, Melbourne and London, 1964, p. 40. 196 G. Blainey, A Shorter History of Australia (second edition), Vintage Books, North Sydney, 2009, pp. 39­41. 197 Lloyd, op. cit., 2005, p. 5. 65 nearly half of Britain's wool import.198 Sheep came to be described as “the shock troops of land seizure”199 and the British Crown was unable to stop squatters moving ever further inland in “a fantastic land grab which was never again to be equalled.”200 As Geoffrey Blainey describes it:

By the 1830s the sheep population was exploding, and in almost every year an area of grassland about the size of Ireland was occupied by sheep and shepherds moving into new country, with the governor of Sydney almost powerless to control them.201

By the mid­nineteenth century the frontier had extended to almost wherever there was fertile land and water. Australia was “among the fastest growing economies in history.”202 As squatters and sheep made their way inland and acquired land illegally there was little room for coexistence between them and the Aboriginal hunters and gatherers who relied on the same land and water for survival. The Aboriginals soon discovered that the newly introduced animals were not for hunting, and violent conflicts over land and livestock followed. Cattle and sheep drove out native species, and the settlers protected their animals and livelihoods by keeping local people away from land and water holes. Aboriginals retaliated by stealing sheep, burning down huts and stations, and killing domesticated animals.203 As British subjects, Aboriginals were supposed to be protected by British law but the brutal lawlessness of the frontier and its punitive expeditions in response to any Aboriginal resistance were a world away from London and even the colonial authorities on the coast. When New South Wales Governor George Gipps pushed for the re­trial of twelve stockmen and hut keepers for the murder of 28 Aboriginals in the 1838 Myall Creek massacre, the local squatters denounced this as imperial interference in local affairs.204 The number of Aboriginals killed in conflicts with settlers is unknown and has been subject to much controversy and ongoing debate. In the so­called “history wars” of the

198 Roberts, op. cit., 1964, pp. 43, 45. 199 Macintyre, op. cit., 2000, p. 59. 200 Richard Broome, op. cit., 2001, p. 41. 201 Blainey, op. cit., 2009, p. 40. 202 L. Ford and A. Roberts, 'Expansion, 1820­50', in The Cambridge History of Australia: Volume 1: Indigenous and Colonial Australia, A. Bashford and S. Macintyre (eds.), Cambridge University Press, Port Melbourne and New York, 2013, p. 121. 203 Broome, op. cit., 2001, pp. 41­46. 204 Curthoys, A. and Mitchell, J. 'The advent of self­government, 1840s­90', in The Cambridge History of Australia: Volume 1: Indigenous and Colonial Australia, A. Bashford, and S. Macintyre (eds.), Cambridge University Press, Port Melbourne and New York, 2013, p. 157. 66

2000s, Keith Windschuttle challenged Henry Reynolds' and other historians' on the high number of Aboriginal deaths that they had reported.205 However, pointing to new research, Reynold argued in 2013 that it is likely that his own “controversial 1981 estimate of 20,000 Aboriginal dead needs to be revised not downwards but steeply upwards to 30,000 and beyond, perhaps well beyond.”206 While frontier violence in much of Australia went undocumented, especially in Queensland, the relationship between colonists and locals was effectively a state of war and the killing of Aboriginals was no secret: “Settlers openly talked about killing blacks. They did so in parliament.”207 To end local resistance, Aboriginals were recruited to Native Police Forces in Tasmania, New South Wales and Queensland and ordered to track down and kill groups of other Aboriginals. Reynolds writes: “For many years the Queensland government funded and administered a force that shot Aborigines in large numbers. The process was well known. The intention was clear. Politicians urged extermination.”208 Broome describes the Native Police Force as “the absolute rock bottom of government Aboriginal policy.”209 It is estimated that, due mostly to diseases and warfare, the continent's original population declined from 750,000 to an estimated 180,000 in half a century. In contrast, the settler population increased steadily. In a single decade the number of European settlers and their descendants trebled from 430,000 in 1851 to 1,152,000 in 1861. The rapidly increasing number of settlers in the mid­nineteenth century had much to do with the discovery of gold which replaced wool as Australia's largest export. The gold rush brought in people and capital. Melbourne was one of the largest, most modern and wealthy cities in the world by the mid­century. The local economy was booming: “In this decade the first railways were constructed, the first telegraphs began operating, the first steamships plied between Europe and Australia.”210 The land grab made hunting and gathering increasingly difficult but the mining booms temporarily provided opportunities

205 For an overview of the "History Wars" see S. Macintyre and A. Clark, The History Wars (second edition), Melbourne University Press, Carlton, 2004.; R. Manne (ed.), Whitewash: On Keith Windschuttle's Fabrication of Aboriginal History, Black Inc., Agenda, Melbourne, 2003; and B. Attwood, Telling the Truth About Aboriginal History, Allen & Unwin, Crows Nest, 2005. 206 H. Reynolds, op. cit., 2013, p. 134. His estimate is based on work by scholars such as R. Ørsted­Jensen, Frontier History Revisited: Colonial Queensland and the 'History War', Lux Mundi Publishing, Brisbane, 2013; and R. Evans, 'The Country has another past: Queensland and the History Wars', in Passionate Histories: Myth, Memory and Indigenous Australia, F. Peters­Little and A. Curthoys (eds.), ANU (Australian National University) E Press, Canberra, 2010. 207 Reynolds, op. cit., 2013, p. 152. 208 Ibid., p. 153­154. 209 Broome, op. cit., 2001, p. 49. 210 Macintyre, op. cit., 2000, p. 87. 67 for Aboriginals to look after livestock while pastoralists and workers tried their luck in the gold fields of New South Wales and Victoria. Heather Goodall writes:

The balance of power changed immediately on the frontier. (...) The pastoralists found that they desperately needed Aboriginal labour. They began to offer, for the first time, reasonable conditions and often cash wages. But most importantly, they offered safe access again to traditional lands.211

However, increased immigration proved devastating for Aboriginals because, when the booms ended, the demand for land was greater than ever. They now experienced what Heather Goodall has labelled the “second dispossession”.212 Parliament, under pressure from the humanitarian lobby in England in the 1830s and 40s, had set aside land for use by Aboriginals, but as a result of legislation such as the 1905 Closer Settlement Scheme, and the Returned Servicemen's Settlement Scheme of 1917, Aboriginals were driven off reserve land on which they lived but did not own because it was Crown land. Those who camped and lived on large pastoral stations owned by European settlers in NSW had to move on because the owners could no longer provide for them when properties were subdivided by the Closer Settlements Acts. Having enjoyed a measure of freedom as “station blacks” they came under state control for the first time in the early twentieth century.213 Nearly half of all Aboriginal reserve land in NSW was lost between 1911 and 1927: 13,000 acres of a total of 27,000 acres, most of it fertile farmland along the coast north of Sydney. While the Aboriginal Protection Board leased out much of the remaining land, increasing its income by 500% between 1913 and 1921, it also took over land that Aboriginals had successfully cultivated.214 Kinchela farm, for example, “a flourishing symbol of Aboriginal independence and assertion”, was turned into the infamous Kinchela Boys' Home, “a feared place where boys removed from their families were kept in loneliness and abuse, to teach them to forget about their Aboriginality.”215 Aboriginals were not officially excluded from buying property but could not compete with whites. At least 300 Aboriginal soldiers had served Australia in World War One but of the 154 from New South Wales only one returning soldier was able to secure

211 H. Goodall, Invasion to Embassy: Land in Aboriginal Politics in New South Wales, 1770­ 1972, Allen & Unwin, St. Leonards, 1996, p. 57. 212 Ibid., p. 125. 213 G. Macdonald, 'Colonizing Processes, the Reach of the State and Ontological Violence: Historicizing Aboriginal Australian Experience', Anthropologica, vol. 52, no. 1, 2010, p. 57. 214 Goodall, op. cit., 1996, p. 136. 215 Ibid., p. 142. 68 ownership of a block of land.216 The irony, of course, was that the initial British claim to Australian land had been justified by the absence of agricultural cultivation, and now the second dispossession affected Aboriginal farmers. The more fertile the land, and the more successful they were in cultivating it, the more likely it was that they would at some point be relocated somewhere else. It mattered little that they conformed to the cultural norms of a “civilised community”. The Aboriginals at Poonindie Mission Station in South Australia, for example, had no previous attachment to land in that area but built up a thriving farm.217 Peggy Brock writes:

The Aborigines picked up western work skills and leisure activities very quickly. Many of the men became first­class shearers and ploughmen and the women excellent needlewomen. The men learned cricket and western athletics. Several of them also became competent musicians. Three men learned to play the classical flute, a decidedly middle­class accomplishment.218

It was a “success story” by British standards, which attracted the attention of European settlers who objected to Aboriginals being allocated land that they demanded be made available for settlers made unemployed by the economic depression in the 1880s. By 1896 the mission's land had been sold off. In a competition with white settlers, only two of a total of eighty Aboriginal residents were granted farmland. 219 Brock concludes that “the non­Aboriginal society was determined to make Aborigines parasitic and undermine their attempts to become independent”.220 The Anglican church and the Poonindie trustees failed to stand up for and defend the community and the money allocated to it by the government was put in a trust fund and eventually disappeared. 221 Those who were employed to “protect” Aboriginals failed to do so under pressure from majority society. This was the case also in NSW: “The Protection Board, like other government departments, found it almost impossible to deny requests for reserve land when the applicants were heroic diggers.”222

216 Ibid., p. 123; R. A. Hall, The Black Diggers: Aborigines and Torres Strait Islanders in the Second World War, Aboriginal Studies Press, Canberra, 1997, p. 3. 217 P. Brock, Outback Ghettos: Aborigines, Institutionalisation and Survival, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1993, pp. 39. 218 Ibid., p. 39. 219 Ibid., pp. 55­56, 159. 220 Ibid., p. 164. 221 Ibid., p. 56, 58. 222 Goodall, op. cit., 1996, p. 124. 69

Conservation and destruction of Aboriginal society The colonial economy offered Aboriginals very limited alternatives for their survival. Robert Castle and Jim Hagan reduce their options to relying on government and private handouts, criminal activities such as stealing, begging and prostitution, or selling their labour.223 The British sought primarily their land, and their labour only if it could be easily used or retrained with little effort on their part. Mervyn Hartwig argues that because of Aboriginals' “profoundly different socialization”, their “labour­power was not directly transferable to most sectors of the rapidly developing economy.” 224 Christopher Lloyd writes along similar lines:

The possibility of a hybridised labour supply depended on local Aborigines being able to supply labour while at the same time maintaining a strong place for their traditional way of life. Most Australian capitalist agricultural industries had no place for such an articulation.225

Aboriginals did casual work as messengers, sexual partners, hut keepers, surveyors, boat rowers, ferrymen, trackers and builders. They gathered firewood, cleaned guns, cleared land and did domestic work. They were particularly useful for shepharding and stockwork. According to Mark Hannah, Aboriginals who worked for the Australian Agricultural Company between 1824 and 1857 “had a considerable advantage over their contemporaries, because they did not have to adjust to a new environment”.226 Their main incentive for seeking work with the company was protection from violent settlers. Looking after livestock suited them because it required local knowledge of the land rather than discipline of time and punctuality. Aboriginal workers were paid in rations of flour, biscuits, tea, sugar, tobacco and maize, and in clothing and meat. Those who received wages were paid about half the European and Chinese labour, but compared with other workers they needed fewer incentives to stay in the job because of their attachment to the land. “Aboriginal workers were among the most favored recruits for

223 R. Castle and J. Hagan, 'Settlers and the state: the creation of an Aboriginal workforce in Australia', Aboriginal History, vol. 22, 1998, p. 24. 224 Hartwig, M. 'Capitalism and Aborigines: The Theory of Internal Colonialism and its Rivals', in Essays in the Political Economy of Australian Capitalism: Volume 3, E. L. Wheelwright and K. Buckley (eds.), Australia & New Zealand Book Company, Sydney, 1978, p. 132. 225 C. Lloyd, 'The emergence of Australian settler capitalism in the nineteenth century and the disintegration/integration of Aboriginal societies: hybridisation and local evolution within the world market', in Indigenous Participation in Australian Economies: Historical and anthropological perspectives, I. Keen (ed.), ANU E­Press, The Australian National University, Canberra, 2010, pp. 23­40. p. 32. 226 M. Hannah, 'Aboriginal Workers in the Australian Agricultural Company, 1824­1857', Labour History, no 82, May 2002, p. 24. 70 shepherding and stockwork. They were demanded principally because of their outstanding work performance.”227 The important contribution of Aboriginal workers to the colonial economy has been well documented since historians began to give it greater attention in the 1980s. 228 However, Aboriginal labour was not exploited systematically or on a large scale. Castle and Hagan write: “Aborigines formed a necessary part of the rural economy but not on terms that could give them equality and independence”, and “there was no attempt to create a black working class.”229 By the turn of the twentieth century, Aboriginal workers made up thirty percent of the pastoral labour force in north­west NSW but “they were increasingly relegated to casual or seasonal jobs, and the better paid and permanent jobs were reserved for white employees.”230 How Aboriginal labour was perceived by Europeans depended on what they were needed for at different times. For example, during the 1850s gold rush when settlers left their livestock to Aboriginals to look after, their labour was no longer described as “erratic and unreliable” but received glowing reports. Goodall writes: “It became apparent that the change had not been in the skills of Aboriginal workers but in the attitude of squatters and in the conditions they were prepared to offer.”231 The cattle industry in the north, which became profitable in the second half of the nineteenth century and faced constant labour shortages, is often held up as an example of how the Aboriginal way of life was preserved in the interest of station owners specifically and the colonial economy generally. At the turn of the twentieth century, the Aboriginal workforce in North Australia (from Mackay on the coast of Queensland to Roerbourne in Western Australia) is estimated to have been around 10,000 workers. 232 Hartwig argues that:

While in the southern areas of the continent the development of the capitalist mode of production was accompanied by a policy aimed at destroying Aboriginal society, in the northern and central areas it often went hand in hand with a policy of conservation/segregation. This was so because in these

227 Ibid., p. 30. 228 A. McGrath, K. Saunders and J. Huggins (eds), Aboriginal Workers, Australian Society for the Study of Labour History, Sydney, 1995; A. Curthoys and C. Moore, 'Working for the white people: an historiographic essay on Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander labour', pp. 1­30, gives a good overview. 229 Castle and Hagan, op. cit., 1998, p. 34. 230 Ibid., p. 65. 231 Goodall, op. cit., 1996, p. 58. 232 H. Reynolds, North of Capricorn: The untold story of the people of Australia's north, Allen & Unwin, Crows Nest, 2005, p. 20. 71

regions Aboriginal labour­power was exploitable without any extensive training.233

The main attraction of Indigenes in the pastoral industry was their attachment to, and knowledge of, the environment, an environment which also provided some food and healthcare and thus further cheapened labour costs for the station owners. They could be used temporarily and easily dismissed. The arrangement suited the Aboriginals because it enabled extended families and groups to stay together on land that they considered theirs and to combine station work with the old ways of life. 234 But the relationship between them and station owners was clearly unequal. Research carried out by Catherine Berndt and Ronald Berndt on pastoral stations and settlements in the Northern Territory in 1944­46 reveals the miserable circumstances for Aboriginal stock workers and their families at the time. When End of an Era was published forty years later they wrote that the poor working and living conditions “are almost unbelievable today. Yet, without a doubt they did exist.”235 Aboriginals received the “minimum of food, clothing and tobacco”, there was “endemic malnutrition” and in some areas the young in particular suffered “near­starvation”. Birthrates were low, infant mortality high, diseases rife and station owners threatened and used violence to exercise authority.236 However, when Ann McGrath carried out oral interviews for her book Born in the Cattle (1987) at stations in the same area, it turned out that old people remembered the period from 1910 to 1940 as the “golden age”, which was “before grog, before wages, before the Japanese war”.237 These nostalgic views of the past, “for the lost world in which they had been knowledgeable people”, perhaps say more about the period that followed.238 Last to be employed and first to be fired, Aboriginals have been vulnerable to

233 Hartwig, op. cit., 1978, p. 135. 234 A. McGrath, 'Born in the Cattle': Aborigines in Cattle Country, Allen & Unwin, Sydney & London, 1987. 235 R. M. Berndt and C. H. Berndt, End of an Era: Aboriginal Labour in the Northern Territory, Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, Canberra, 1987, p. x. 236 Ibid., pp. 199, 217­220. 237 Ann McGrath, op. cit., 1987, p. x. The contrast between Berndt's and Berndt's work and that of McGrath prompted a debate about history writing, memory and the use of oral sources. See T. Rowse, ‘Tolerance, Fortitude and Patience: Frontier Pasts to Live With?’, Meanjin, vol. 47, 1988a, pp. 21­29; T. Rowse, ‘Paternalism’s Changing Reputation’, Mankind, vol. 18, no. 2, August 1988b, pp. 57­73; B. Attwood, ‘Understandings of the Aboriginal Past: History or Myth’, Australian Journal of Politics and History, vol. 34, no. 2, 1988, pp. 261­271; A. McGrath, ‘Born or Reborn in the Cattle?’, Meanjin, vol. 47, 1988, pp. 171­177. 238 Rowse, op. cit., 1988a, p. 29. 72 structural changes especially in the rural economy, and have been attached and detached from the labour market at different times.239 For example, when fences had been built and pastoralism was giving way to agriculture in late nineteenth century New South Wales, there was no longer a need for shepherds.240 Likewise, Aboriginal divers were important to the north's pearling industry on the Pilbara coast, in the Kimberley and around Cape York until they were replaced by divers in wetsuits who could dive in deeper water.241 Colonial labour was distinctive because central to all Aboriginal policy was the idea of “civilising the native” and part of that assimilationist process was learning to work. Low or no wages could be justified because it was a “matter of changing their nature so that they learn and accept that they have to work.”242 Christian Alexander writes:

If the Aboriginals have to learn to work, to work for blankets, rations and wages, then they have to do this not so much because their work is eminently productive, but because it is seen as intrinsically useful. Consequently, the work they do does not have to be rewarded fairly.243

Many Aboriginals were excluded from the labour force either because they resisted inclusion and had other means of survival or because they lost out in the competition with non­Aboriginal workers.244 It is important to point out, however, that the work conditions at many missions and reserves bore a strong resemblance to slavery and were experienced as that by many. Often they were not free to leave. Thom Blake argues that the mission at Cherbourg in Queensland, which was established as a “dumping ground for the lame, the halt and the incorrigible... the black criminals of the state”,245 was driven by the demand for cheap labour in the region. Its residents were forcefully removed from family and land, and they could not, unlike contract workers, return home. They performed farm work, land clearing and domestic tasks, but their wages were collected by managers and put in trusts. When the rural economy was in decline, they worked at the mission or were made to seek work elsewhere. If they refused to

239 C. Williams and B. Thorpe, Beyond Industrial Sociology: The Work of Men and Women, Allen & Unwin, North Sydney, 1992, p. 97. 240 Goodall, op. cit., 1996, pp. 69­70. 241 H. Reynolds, op. cit., 2003, p. 32. 242 C. Alexander, 'Aboriginals in Capitalist Australia: What it Means to Become Civilised', The Australian & New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 20, no. 2, July 1984, p. 237. 243 Ibid. 244 Williams and Thorpe, op. cit., 1992, p. 97. 245 Queensland's Chief Protector of Aborigines J. W. Bleakley in 1913, quoted in T. Blake, A Dumping Ground: A History of the Cherbourg Settlement, University of Queensland Press, St. Lucia, 2001, p. xi. 73 work, they were in danger of being deported to yet another settlement, and separated from family and friends again.246

Discrimination and attempted assimilation There were good reasons for special measures with regard to Aboriginals in the mid­ nineteenth century because they were dispossessed of land, living in fear of violent settlers, and struggling to survive. Aboriginal society was clearly in crisis, Aboriginal people had lost their livelihoods but remained largely outside of the colonial economy and congregated in camps on the outskirts of settlements and towns, often to European settlers’ great discomfort. The colonists saw how many lived on the fringes of white society as beggars and prostitutes, how alcoholism affected them, and how the Aboriginals suffered and died from diseases. Hunting grounds were disappearing, the so­ called “full­blood” population was in decline and the number of so­called “half­castes” increasing. For Europeans with their limited understanding of Aboriginal society beyond the evident day­to­day destruction, it was easy to draw the conclusion that they belonged to a race/culture doomed to extinction. Judy Campbell writes:

In the 1840s it was clear that the Aboriginal population had declined catastrophically. A history of violent dispossession and European diseases was like the history of other European colonies, where the extinction of indigenous people seemed inevitable.247

The Australian colonies were granted self­government in mid­nineteenth century. Between 1869 and 1911 all states except Tasmania passed Protection Acts which mandated Protectors and Protection Boards. In Tasmania the local administration claimed that there were no Aboriginals left (defined then as “full­blood”).248 In response to pressure from the humanitarian lobby overseas and Aboriginal demands, land was set aside for the use by Aboriginals and missions and government stations were established. Keith Windschuttle writes that “the greatest crime that white Australians have committed against the Aborigines was to lock them up for almost 150 years, from the 1830s to the 1970s, on missions and reserves.”249 However, many of the reserves were set

246 Ibid., pp. 118­136, 152­160. 247 J. Campbell, op. cit., 2002, p. 14. 248 Victoria: Aboriginal Protection Act 1869 (and Board), New South Wales: 1882 Protector, Protection Board 1883 (1909 Statutory basis), Western Australia: Aborigines Protection Act 1886 (and Board), Queensland: Aborigines Protection and Restriction of the Sale of Opium Act 1897 (replaced in 1939 by Aboriginals Preservation and Protection Act and the Torres Strait Islanders Act), Northern Territory 1910, South Australia 1911. 249 K. Windschuttle, 'Discussion of Gary John's paper, “The Failure of Aboriginal Separatism”', 74 up because Aboriginals had reoccupied the land, begun to farm it and demanded ownership of it. It was the land that they knew and they had nowhere else to go. In NSW at “the height of Aboriginal holding of reserve lands in 1911, there were 115 reserves totalling 26 000 acres. Of these, 75 were created on Aboriginal initiative.” 250 Many of them were never controlled by the Aboriginal Protection Board. The driving force behind protectionist legislation was a growing concern over the destruction of Aboriginal society. For example, the 1897 Aboriginal Protection and Restrictions of the Sale of Opium Act in Queensland was an attempt to clamp down on and regulate “labour exploitation, sexual assaults on women and children, the vulnerability of working women, the security of families in rural and remote areas, the operations of Aboriginal communities”.251 Police officers were appointed as Protectors and instructed “to see that they do not get any liquor or opium, that they keep their blankets, and are not injured in regard to their children and their wives.”252 Bain Attwood points out that the Aboriginal Protection Act of 1869 in Victoria gave the Board

considerable power over Aborigines – control over their conditions of employment, place of residence, care and custody of children – but it is important to note that its intent not only lay in controlling them, although this was a fundamental purpose, but also in checking European exploitation.253

As part of the efforts to protect Aboriginals – against bad influences from settler society and to “smooth the dying pillow” – they were classified into racial categories. NSW legislation first referred to “half­castes” in 1839, based on skin colour and descent rather than blood which cannot be measured. The definition of Aboriginality by shades of skin colour became standard practice in all states and territories until the late 1950s.254 By the time scientific racism emerged in the 1890s, the protection regime in Australia was well established. Mark Francis writes:

The language of scientific racialism – and social Darwinism was not the most

The Sydney Line, December 2000, viewed on 17 April 2005, < http://www.sydneyline.com/Gould's%20Book%20Arcade%20debate.htm .> 250 Goodall, op. cit, 1996, p. 96. 251 R. Kidd, The Way We Civilise, University of Queensland Press, St Lucia, 2005, p. 78. 252 Ibid., p. 48. 253 B. Attwood, The Making of the Aborigines, Allen & Unwin, Sydney & Wellington, 1989, p. 84. 254 John McCorquodale, 'The Legal Classification of Race in Australia', Aboriginal History, vol. 10, no. 1, 1986, p. 11. 75

common of these – were reservoirs from which officials and politicians could snatch phrases to apply to, and extend upon, already functioning bureaucratic practices.255

John McCorquodale found in 700 separate pieces of legislation from the time of European settlement dealing with Aboriginals “no less than 67 identifiable classifications, descriptions, or definitions”.256 Racial categories such as half­castes, quadroon, quarter­caste, full blood, whole blood, native, native race, aboriginal race, aboriginal native and “person apparently having an admixture of aboriginal blood”, mattered because these categories were used to control the lives of Aboriginals, often dividing families and communities, and they frequently changed. McCorquodale writes:

Those who escaped through having a lesser amount of 'black' blood suddenly found themselves made subject to law; those who obtained exemption could lose it. 'Half­castes' might be placed on the same footing with 'full­bloods' for some purposes (testimony, liquor), but not others (reserves, guardianship of children).257

As it became clear that Aboriginals were not dying out, what was seen as a “half­ caste” problem was not simply left to what social Darwinists called “natural selection” but rather placed under administrative control by such legislation and government policies as encouraging marriage between whites and half­castes in order to “whiten” the latter.258 The idea of “protection” justified a set of paternalistic and often contradictory policies to solve the “Aboriginal problem”. Missions and government stations, which were often located “out of sight but not out of reach”, became important sources of cheap labour.259 Aboriginals were classified as wards of the state and colonial administrators were in charge of most aspects of their lives. Depending on their racial classification they could be forcefully moved to and from missions and reserves and families were divided because their members had different skin colours. Aboriginals had their movements restricted and were told where to work. They were not free to marry whom they wanted, not allowed to drink alcohol and banned from pubs. Black pupils could be removed from school on complaints from white parents, and cinemas,

255 M. Francis, 'Social Darwinism and the Construction of Institutionalised Racism in Australia', Journal of Australian Studies, nos. 50­51, 1996, p. 102. 256 Ibid., p. 9. 257 Ibid., p. 15. 258 Ibid., p. 97. 259 Goodall, op. cit., 1996, p. 93. 76 swimming pools and hospitals were segregated. Until 1967 they were not counted in the national population census. Some feared that reserves would turn into permanent settlements which the state had to subsidise. The 1886 Victorian “half­caste” Act, which gave the Board legal powers to remove lighter­skinned Aboriginals from reserves to make them fend for themselves, can be understood as a “cost­saving measure”.260 However, approaches varied from state to state. In the sparsely settled and more recently colonised north, the practices of protection/discrimination lasted much longer and Indigenes were forcefully moved onto reserves. In Queensland, those who resisted and opposed the system lived in fear of being deported to missions and reserves under particularly strict surveillance, such as Cherbourg and Palm Island. By contrast, in NSW where “reserves was regarded as privilege”, those who rebelled against the authorities could be expelled from missions and stations and forced to leave family and friends behind.261 The Protection Boards did not control all Aboriginals. In 1911, the 115 reserves in NSW had up to 2,000 residents, about 25% of the state's total Aboriginal population estimated at 7,000.262 But being classified as Aboriginals meant that many families lived in fear of the authorities removing their children. Those who were taken away became known as the “stolen generation”. According to the 1997 Bringing Them Home Report, “between one in three and one in ten Indigenous children were forcibly removed from their families and communities in the period from approximately 1910 until 1970,”263 so that “not one Indigenous family has escaped the effects of forcible removal”.264 While there is some disagreement over the exact numbers involved, the fear of children being forcefully taken away and never returning to their families can only be imagined or described by those who experienced it.265 It mattered little to them that the intention of government officials may have been grounded in humanitarian concerns. The threat of child removal was used to impose certain behaviours and force people off riverbanks and land, or to move from one mission to another.266 The segregated reserve system was crucial to Aboriginal survival because it enabled people to stay together, and while many languages were lost and their culture suppressed

260 J. Chesterman and H. Douglas, ''Their Ultimate Absorbation': Assimilation in 1930s Australia, Journal of Australian Studies, vol. 81, March 2004, p. 50. 261 A. Markus, Governing Savages, Allen & Unwin, Sydney, 1990, p. 12. 262 Goodall, op. cit., 1996, p. 98. 263 Bringing Them Home, op. cit., p. 37. 264 Ibid., p. 37. 265 See for example T. Rowse, Rethinking Social Justice: From 'Peoples' to 'Populations', Aboriginal Studies Press, Canberra, 2012, pp. 80­99. 266 Bringing Them Home, op. cit., p. 43. 77 their Aboriginality found new ways of expressing itself. Attwood points out that “rigid racial categorisation of Aborigines and discriminatory and authoritarian government practices also invariably helped bring about wider Aboriginal consciousness.”267 For Aboriginals the issue was less the missions and reserves as such but the way they were run along assimilationist and paternalistic lines. Rosalind Kidd shows in The Way We Civilise how the protection regime in Queensland failed in its job as protectors. 268 The Protection Boards were too weak or disinterested to stand up to the pressures from different interest groups in majority society demanding more land for town development and farming, and segregated public and private services and facilities. While conditions were terrible, poverty rife, and managers harsh and paternalistic, among themselves Aboriginals “retained, assisted by their spatial separation from Europeans, much pride in qualities of life they often believed to be superior” such as kin relations and equity of distribution.269 Peggy Brock writes:

Despite the changing role of the mission and the varied Aboriginal responses to them, their legacy to Aboriginal communal identity has been consistent and profound. They created the circumstances for Aborigines to establish large, close­knit communities based on shared experiences, intermarriage and association with land with which they identified.270

Summary

In this chapter I have compared and contrasted the different driving forces behind the Nordic and the British colonial projects in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries – the importance of geopolitics in Sapmi and land in Australia – and the impact they had on the Sami and the Aboriginals. Nineteenth­century colonisation proved more devastating for the Sami than the gradual encroachments during the previous centuries, and the Aboriginals could not prevent the rapid British expansion inland and the destructive consequences for Aboriginal society and its traditional way of life. The different natural environments played a crucial part in what unfolded during this second phase of colonisation. Although much of the Australian continent was difficult to access for early settlers and covered in arid deserts and semi­deserts, it also contained sufficient highly fertile agricultural land as well as vast plains suitable for

267 Attwood, op. cit., 1989, p. 102. 268 Kidd, op. cit., 2005. 269 G. Macdonald, op. cit., 2010, p. 58. 270 Brock, op. cit., 1993, p. 166. 78 large­scale pastoralism to be able to sustain mass inward migration and become a vital part of the global British imperial system, even more so with the discovery and exploitation of Australia's vast mineral and metal deposits. By contrast, the northernmost region of Europe was ill­suited to either agriculture or large­scale pastoralism and therefore never attracted inward migration on anything like the same scale. As a result, while the Sami were disposessed of land too, and reindeer husbandry was pushed to the margins, the land conflicts were not as intense and there was no need to establish missions and reserves for protecting the Sami from violent squatters as in Australia. The Sami continued to be self­sufficient. Both the Sami and Australian Aboriginals came under intense pressure of forced assimilation from majority nationalism and nation­building, infused in both cases by pseudo­scientific biological racism. Sami and Aboriginals alike shared very similar experiences of having their cultural traditions and languages ridiculed and being subjected to systematic attempts of eradicating their distinct Indigenous identities.

79

PART TWO: POLITICS MATTERS 80

CHAPTER THREE. EARLY INDIGENOUS RESISTANCE

Introduction

The politics of Indigeneity has in recent decades become inseparable from the concept and the language of “self­determination”, a concept which in turn originates in the politics of European nineteenth and twentieth­century nationalism. Such national consciousness, which in Europe typically placed “national interests” above local ones, was initially quite absent in both Sami and Aboriginal societies. Early Indigenous resistance focused on the ownership of land and its use for the survival as, primarily, extended families, then as local communities, and only thirdly whole societies. Its demands tended to be couched in terms that were modest, pragmatic, and most likely to meet with acceptance by the authorities. In this (and the following) chapter(s), the focus will be on the gradual politicisation of Indigenous resistance and the emergence of a politics of self­determination in both of the cases under study. The difference between what I have called “Sami inclusion” and “Aboriginal exclusion” in the previous chapter plays an important part in the evolution of their respective politics, and particularly – as Indigenous resistance becomes more politicised and Indigenous issues more mainstream – in the relationship between the politics of Indigeneity, the politics of race, and the politics of class in Norway and Australia.

Historical origins of “self­determination”

The principle of “self­determination” is often associated with President Woodrow Wilson’s Fourteen Points speech in 1918, although the term itself does not figure in the speech. Wilson’s statement came as a reaction to the Bolsheviks’ call for Russia to withdraw from the war (which under the Tsar had been fought on the side of the Allies) and a response to V. I. Lenin who in his 1914 pamphlet, The Right of Nations to Self­ Determination, had argued that it should be left to the national minorities to decide whether they wanted a separate state or not: that the right to self­determination meant the right to secession.271 Unlike Wilson, Lenin did not expect or encourage secession as he believed that it would be in the many nationalities' interest to be part of a socialist larger unit, but having observed how the growth of nationalist responses to Russification under

271 V.I. Lenin, “The Right of Nations to Self­Determination”, Lenin Internet Archive, viewed on 14 April 2016, https://www.marxists.org/archive/lenin/works/1914/self­det/index.htm. 81 the Tsar, he argued that it had to be voluntary. Because there were many more nationalities than states and some received more favourable treatment in the post­war settlement than others, self­determination became for many minorities unfulfilled nationalist aspirations. While no Sami groups demanded secession, when Finland gained independence from Russia it annexed the region of Petsamo/Pechenga, which split the homeland of the Skolt Sami into east and west and was yet another frontier cutting through Sapmi. Thus, when the League of Nations was set up in 1920, an inbuilt conflict existed between its founding principle of the “territorial integrity” of member states and that of “self­determination” for peoples who were involuntarily part of these states. For example, when Finland rejected the Swedish­ speaking Åland Islands' request to join Sweden in 1920, the League of Nations Council saw it as a domestic matter because the islands had been part of Finland for a century. Instead the Åland Islands achieved regional autonomy or what we may call “internal self­ determination” (for a more detailed discussion of “internal self­determination”, see Chapters Five and Six). The League of Nations, which did not endorse the principle of (let alone a right to) self­determination in its Covenant, had little to offer Indigenous minorities. In 1923, Haudenosaunee Cayuga Chief Deskaheh of the Six Nations of the Iroquois in Canada entered Switzerland on a Haudenosaunee passport to address the League of Nations in Geneva.272 Deskaheh had received a cold shoulder in Britain when protesting against a patronising Canadian government policy, its treaty violations and encroachments onto Indigenous homelands. He wanted to bring a legal case before the Permanent Court of International Justice at The Hague but that required membership (or at least the support) of the League of Nations. Deskaheh spent a year and a half in Geneva, lobbying and speaking at mass meetings to gain recognition, insisting that the Six Nations was a “sovereign state”, a “peace­loving and law­abiding, autonomous and independent state” and a “country, recognised and confirmed by treaty”.273 The purpose of the campaign was not League membership for the sake of it, which would be costly for the Six Nations, but to have access to the World Court to stop Canadian oppression. Deskaheh obtained the support of Estonia, Ireland, Panama and Persia, and received courtesy from the League's Assembly Council's President Hjalmar Branting from Sweden (as well as a Norwegian delegate), but was denied the right to speak at the League's plenary sessions because Britain and Canada vetoed it. The League refused to put his grievances on the

272 L. M. Hauptman, Seven Generations of Iroquois Leadership: The Six Nations Since 1800, Syracuse University Press, New York, 2008.pp. 124­142. 273 Quoted in ibid., pp. 137, 140­141. 82 agenda because he did not represent a sovereign state and the case was a domestic question for Canada.274 There was no room for Indigenous peoples in the League of Nations, although the International Labor Organization (ILO), as an agency of the League, began in the 1920s to address forced labour and the poor living conditions in Latin America with the aim of “disciplining the exploitation of the 'indigenous' workforce in the colonies.”275

Norway

North Sami Resistance: class and Indigeneity When the policy of Norwegianisation was discussed in Parliament for the first time in 1863, Johan Sverdrup from the Liberal Party (Venstre) held up the 1852 Kautokeino Rebellion as an example of the consequences of awakening national sentiments among a minority such as the Sami.276 The Kautokeino Rebellion was the first major Sami uprising against the Norwegian authorities. Aslak Hætta and a group of 34 reindeer herders who belonged to the religious revivalist movement, Læstadianism, returned from the mountains to the village of Kautokeino and killed the district sheriff and merchant, assaulted the priest, and destroyed their property. They took the priest and others hostage and attempted to convert them by means of whipping. The rebellion was defeated with the assistance of Sami non­believers from a village nearby. In its aftermath, the Læstadians were sentenced to prison, labour for life and death. When the two ringleaders were executed in Alta, 56 soldiers were called in to keep law and order and hundreds, perhaps over thousand people, were watching.277 It is much disputed whether the Kautokeino Rebellion was a religious or colonial uprising. Most likely it was both. Henry Minde argues, without discussing the Kautokeino Rebellion specifically, that Læstadianism should be seen primarily as one of the many small religious revolts against the old church order that occurred across Europe at the time rather than an anti­colonial movement.278 Nellejet Zorgdrager gives greater

274 Ibid. 275 L. Rodríguez­Piñero, Indigenous Peoples, Postcolonialism, and International Law: The ILO Regime (1919­1989), Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2005., p. 22. 276 Eriksen and Niemi, op. cit., 1981, pp. 34­35. 277 N. Zorgdrager, De rettferdiges strid: Kautokeino 1852: Samisk motstand mot norsk kolonialisme, Norsk Folkemuseum and Vett & Viten, Nesbru, 1997, pp. 310­329, 382­389; According to Smith, op. cit., 1938, p. 224, more than thousand people watched the executions. 278 H. Minde, 'Læstadianism – samisk religion for et samisk samfunn', in Stat, Religion, Etnisitet, B. Finstad and L. Hansen et al (eds.), Rapport fra Skibotn konferansen 27 to 29 83 weight to the colonial context in her analysis of the rebellion and the broader movement. Læstadianism, which was led by the Swedish Sami priest Lars Levi Læstadius, gained ground in Kautokeino in the second half of the 1840s. Læstadius knew the Sami people, language and culture well, and his preaching appealed to many because he emphasised non­material gains and invited his listeners to join in a religious, spiritual, and physical awakening that bore resemblances to old Sami beliefs and practices. He challenged the Norwegian elite and conservative church authorities, and gave the poor and oppressed confidence to speak up. He also preached against the liquor trade, and was strongly supported in this by Sami in Kautokeino because of its devastating effect on families and the community.279 Several factors contributed to the Rebellion: the 1852 border closure between Norway and Finland affected reindeer herders because it cut across reindeer migration routes and deprived siida of traditional grazing land, the impact of widespread alcoholism at the time, and a well­established racial hierarchy which placed the nomadic Sami at the bottom. But Zorgdrager argues that the main trigger was the authorities' harsh clampdown on the movement. When the believers, seeing it as their duty to convert others inland and along the coast, began to question local priests, interrupt church services and threaten people who refused to join, they were fined and sentenced to prison. The whole siida suffered because they lost herders, and fearing that the sheriff would seize reindeer as payment they escaped to the mountains to protect their livelihood. It was in this context, under increasing pressure from the authorities, that the believers returned to the village to protest against what they considered the state­ employed priest's false teachings.280 While they justified their actions in religious terms and did not have the full support of residents in Kautokeino, Zorgdrager writes that the movement and rebellion “were an attempt to put an end to their humiliation and to break away from their low position” and “offered them the means for religious resistance against internal Norwegian colonialism.”281 The authorities' response to the Kautokeino Rebellion silenced people in Kautokeino, and Inner Finnmark would remain on the fringes of organised Sami resistance until after the Second World War. The Læstadians were not the only ones to resist church authorities and government pressures in the second half of the nineteenth century but the movement was highly influential and spread via reindeer migration routes from inland to the coast. In Kvænangen it provided a common platform for Sami

May 1996, Skriftserie 4, Centre for Sami Studies, University of Tromsø, 1997, p. 165­188. 279 Zorgdrager, op. cit., 1997, pp. 170­181, 414­425. 280 Ibid., pp. 206­262, 301­309, 434­438. 281 Ibid., p. 461. 84 and Kven to resist the Norwegian language and culture. Ivar Bjørklund writes that it was crucial for their cultural survival:

The Læstadian revival solved many of the problems which faced the people of Kvænangen. By rejecting the Norwegian authorities and their assimilation policy, the movement created a spiritual joint activity between the Sámi and Kvæns protecting their languages and cultures.282

While Læstadianism was the common denominator giving many the confidence to unite against the authorities, it was also a conservative religious movement with ideas that worked against Sami traditions, organisations and political involvement. The breakthrough of Sami political resistance in Finnmark and North Troms at the turn of the twentieth century was more closely related to Norwegian politics and the new phenomenon of so­called “fisher farmer socialism” – the political alliance between fishers, farmers and industrial workers that came to dominate politics on the northern periphery.283 The three main groups of people in Finnmark – Sami, Kven and Norwegians – maintained their different identities and languages, but as small­scale primary producers (and workers) they had common economic and political interests against big capital from the south. While Norwegian fishers had colonised the coast, once they were settled their struggle for survival benefited Sami fishers too and a class­based alliance developed between them. The 1903 Mehamn Rebellion, for example, in which 1,500 to 2,000 fishers attacked and destroyed the whaling station in Mehamn in Finnmark, proved to the authorities down south the danger of political mobilisation in the geopolitically important north.284 The protest was directed at the whaling industry which was owned by southern capitalists who had ensured a steady flow of wealth from the periphery to the core since the 1860s. Based on the centuries­long Sami experience of hunting whales, the local fishers believed that it was the whales that chased fish to the shore. Thus the overfishing of whales caused fish stock to be less accessible for those with small boats who could not easily make it far out into open waters. 285 Government restrictions on whaling in the 1880s and a ten­year ban in the three northernmost counties after the Mehamn Rebellion, as well as other restrictions on foreign trawlers and foreign investment, indicated its political strength and governments' interest in

282 Bjørklund, op. cit., 1985, p. 51. 283 E. Niemi, 'Isak Saba: Første same og sosialist pionér på Stortinget: Et hundreårsminne', Arbeiderhistorie, 2006, pp. 91­115. 284 G. Grytås, Motmakt og samfunnsbygger: Med torsken og Norges Råfisklag gjennom 75 år, Akademika forlag, Trondheim, 2013.pp. 17­18. 285 S. Risting, Om hvalfangstens historie, Kristiania, 1922, cited in NOU 1994:21, p. 130. 85 providing the means for small­scale producers to make a living on the coast. It was against this background that, in 1906, the teacher Isak Saba from Nesseby was elected as a Labour candidate for East Finnmark with a majority vote of 53.6% as the first Sami member of the Norwegian Parliament, standing on a standard social democratic election platform but with additional, Sami­specific demands. Saba's campaign was based on the idea that the Sami struggle was also a class struggle.286 The fortnightly Sami language newspaper Sagai Muittalægje (1904­11), which provided the crucial forum for discussion about Sami affairs and support for Saba, printed only the Sami­related parts of his election platform. Its editor, Anders Larsen, was then accused of hiding the fact that Saba was a socialist. However, Saba reassured the newspaper's readers that he was also a Christian.287 The Sami­specific program was mainly a critique of the government's assimilationist language policy and a call for rights that the Sami believed they were entitled to as tax­ paying Norwegian citizens and as the original inhabitants of the area. For example, Saba argued that because Norway supported a state church and the Sami paid their taxes they should be able to attend church sermons and have access to the bible and other religious materials in their own language.288 He spoke out against the discrimination of Sami teachers who were refused wage increases because they were Sami, and advocated for special Sami scholarships at Tromsø Teachers' Training Seminar. He demanded better education, and while he feared that boarding schools would contribute to assimilation, he also saw their potential for enlightening people and maintaining Sami culture.289 Saba called for “equal rights for Sami and Norwegians to purchase land”,290 thereby attacking the language clause of the 1902 Land Sales Act that excluded those who did not use the Norwegian language on a daily basis from buying land. This could have been controversial had land conflicts in Finnmark been sharper, but because the Act was primarily aimed at the Kven and the Sami were recognised as locals, they received widespread support for their right to buy farmland. The government's attempt in 1913 to enforce the language clause more strictly was met “by an almost unanimous opposition” in Finnmark, involving prominent individuals such as the county's three members of

286 It is unclear whether the editor of the Sami newspaper Muittalægje, Christian Andreassen, who was elected but died before he could enter Parliament in 1880, identified as Sami. See R. Jernsletten, op. cit., 1998, pp. 27­28. 287 Ibid, p. 37. 288 Ibid., p. 38. 289 K. Zachariassen, Samiske nasjonale strateger: Den samepolitiske opposisjonen i Finnmark, ca. 1900­1940, PhD thesis, University of Tromsø, 2011, pp. 61­62, 91. 290 Quoted in Jernsletten, op. cit., 1986, p. 7. 86

Parliament and local politicians.291 A meeting of 140 Norwegians and Sami in Nesseby in 1914 stressed that the language clause hindered agriculture and hurt Sami who had lived there since time immemorial.292 Saba raised the problem of reindeer husbandry, border closures and the lack of grazing agreements that allowed reindeer to cross state frontiers. However, Saba and Larsen made it clear that the Sami were entitled to land. Larsen asked rhetorically in Sagai Muittalægje in 1906:

Who is more entitled to the land here in Sámiland, the Norwegian who arrived here as a tramp and evil­doer, or the Sámi, the aboriginal? In our opinion that question is very easy to answer.293

Regnor Jernsletten suggests that the question of language use in school and church was crucial for Saba's support among Sami, and that a reason for his low vote in Karasjok (and Tana) could be that Saba's political message did not reach them because few there read Sagai Muittalægje. But it is difficult to know why he received overwhelming support in Nesseby (78.8% Sami residents and a 66.7% Labour vote) and in industrial Sør Varanger (36.5% Sami residents, 91.6% Labour vote).294 The socio­ economic demands which were not presented as Sami­specific but as local and for all were undoubtedly also beneficial to the Sami economy in the fjords and on the coast.295 Labour went into elections against the “big men” (storkaran) and won against the Conservatives mainly because of the Pomor trade which the Conservatives wanted to control by taxing Russian traders.296 The trade was important for all along the coast, but especially for the Sami because they did not have the same modern equipment as non­ Sami fishers and relied on the Russian traders for flour in winter, in return for fish in summer. This arrangement enabled the Sami to combine farming, fishing, hunting and gathering.297 Per Otnes points out that while Saba failed to push a Sami­specific agenda in Parliament, he worked for Sami local and regional interests to gain support and maintain the political alliance between fishers­farmers and workers.298 Saba was a softly spoken man who found it difficult to address Sami questions in Parliament at a time

291 Ibid, p. 10. 292 Jernsletten, op. cit., 1986, pp. 9­11. 293 Quoted in Jernsletten, op. cit., 1986, p. 8. 294 Ibid., pp. 40­42. 295 Det norske arbeiderpartis program 1924, PolSys: Data om det politiske systemet, University of Bergen, viewed 10 February 2016, 296 L. Eriksen, Isak Saba, stortingsmannen, MA thesis, University of Oslo, 1975, cited in Jernsletten, op. cit., 1986, p. 41; See also Niemi, op. cit., 2006, pp. 91­115. 297 B. A. Berg, op. cit., 2003, pp. 99­102, 108. 298 Per Otnes, op. cit., 1970, pp. 133­137. 87 when racial theories of evolution were influential also among fellow Labour colleagues.299 After an unsuccessful attempt to depoliticise and reduce Sami demands to cultural questions by putting forward a Sami list for the 1921 elections that collected only 411 votes or 4.5% of the total vote in Finnmark,300 the Sami teacher Per Fokstad continued Saba's language battle in the north within the Labour Party. Fokstad was born in Tana and educated in Tromsø but spent time in Oslo, Copenhagen, Paris and England where he observed Welsh resistance against the British. In a paper he gave during a stay at Woodbroke College in Birmingham in 1920, he expressed his concerns that the Sami “seem to lose their nationality and become neither fish nor fowl”. He said that they wanted “cultural freedom” and representation in Parliament.301 Fokstad argued strongly against the government's assimilationist language policy and developed two alternative school curricula in 1923 and 1924 which were rejected because they advocated a revival of the Sami language beyond what the authorities were willing to accept at the time. For Sami society, it was crucial that the Sami language was used in schools, public administration and churches, and he insisted on maintaining Sami place names. Fokstad argued against centralisation, called for many small, local instead of boarding schools, and he held that families should have the choice between Sami and Norwegian schooling.302 Fokstad is remembered mainly for his cultural battle for Sami language and education, but he also “warned against having a cultural policy separate from an economic one.” In 1923 he stated: “When we are no longer recognized as a nation, we shall sink down to being a depressed proletariat under the Norwegians”. 303 The Labour Party's own Sami program of 1924 was based on Fokstad's ideas, especially in education – for example that the Norwegian language should be introduced in schools only at the age of 12 years – as well as the legal protection of reindeer husbandry and an end to the language clause in the 1902 Land Sales Act.304 Eriksen and Niemi suggest that Fokstad's demands were “revolutionary”,305 but his multiculturalism did not really challenge

299 Niemi, op. cit., 2006, pp. 110­111. 300 H. Minde, 'Samebevegelsen, det norske arbeiderparti og samiske rettigheter, in Samene – urbefolkning og minoritet, T. Thuen (ed.), Universitetsforlaget, Tromsø and Oslo, 1980, p. 90. 301 P. Fokstad, "The Land of the Lapps", Woodbrok cronicle, July 1920, quoted in Zachariassen, op. cit., 2011, p. 248. 302 Cited in Zachariassen, op. cit., 2011, pp. 271­292. 303 Jernsletten, op. cit., 1998, p. 175. 304 Minde, op. cit., 1980, p. 91. 305 Eriksen and Niemi, op. cit., p. 273. 88 economic and political interests in Finnmark. While the Labour Party in Finnmark supported Fokstad's demands for a multicultural north, in the border conflicts between Norway and Sweden south of Finnmark nationalist sentiments prevailed and the party took the side of Norwegian farmers against Swedish reindeer herders. 306 Ketil Zachariassen argues that Labour's pro­Sami attitude in Finnmark should be attributed to the establishment of The League of Nations, a greater international focus on ethnic minorities after World War One, and the minorities policy of the USSR after the 1917 Russian Revolution.307 The 1920s Soviet strategy was to include the Sami and other “small peoples of the north” by collectivising reindeer herds and establishing “culture bases” with schools, health clinics, culture halls and cinemas.308 The Sami movement in the north failed to build a programmatic socio­economic alternative to the Labour Party and had little to offer the Sami in the 1920s and 30s. 309 The Sami had specific interests and needs, as in the case of the end of the Pomor trade in 1917 whicdh has been described as a “catastrophe” for Sami coastal culture.310 But the Labour Party provided a class­based alliance that it was difficult for the Sami movement to compete with or to change from within.311 It was believed that with promises of equality the racial hierarchy too would disappear as the region modernised. The Labour Party used the idea of “North Norway” to unite people with different identities and interests.312 When Labour formed government for the first time in 1927, it regulated fisheries and introduced social benefits and cheap loans and housing funds which made life in the fjords easier.313 Ottar Brox writes that it “is very easy to overlook the radical improvement in all respects that had been experienced by the rural population in Norway since the middle thirties, and especially where the inter­war crisis had hurt most, as in the fishing districts.”314 He stresses that the:

306 E. Lae, 'Fra Karlstadkonvensjonen i 1905 til reinbeitekonvensjonen av 1919. Norsk sosialdarwinisme mot romantisk humanisme', in Grenseoverskridende reindrift før og etter 1905, E. G. Broderstad and E. Niemi et al (eds.), Centre for Sami Studies, University of Tromsø, Tromsø, 2007, pp. 21­37. 307 Zachariassen, op. cit., 2011. 308 N. Vakhtin, 'Peoples of the Russian Far North', Minority Rights Group International, London, 1992, cited in D. Bartels and A. L. Bartels, 'Indigenous Peoples of the Russian North and Cold War Ideology', Anthropologica, vol. 48., no. 2, 2006, pp. 265­279. 309 Minde, op. cit., 1980, p. 99. 310 Bård A. Berg, op. cit., 2003, p. 108. 311 Minde, op. cit., 1980. 312 Zachariassen, op. cit., 2011, pp. 318­324. 313 B. Furre, Norsk historie 1914­2000: Industrisamfunnet – frå vokstervisse til framtidstvil, Det Norske Samlaget, Oslo, 2000, pp. 85­95. 314 O. Brox, The Political Economy of Rural Development: Modernisation without Centralisation?, Eburon, Delft, 2006, p. 67. 89

improvements were not only material, i.e. better boats, barns, dwellings and markets; they were also to a large extent political. The Fresh Fish Act of 1938 improved radically their bargaining position against local fish buyers. More than ever before, the coastal fishermen felt that they had a part to play in the control of their conditions.315

The Labour Party doubled its membership nationally from 80,000 in 1930 to 170,000 in 1938, and the number of trade union members rose from 84,000 in 1922 to 357,000 at the beginning of World War Two.316 Minde argues that the Sami were left with the impression that they had the choice of remaining Sami and poor or embrace progress, prosperity and Norwegianness.317 For those along the coast who were part of the farmer­fisher economy, little prevented them from being Norwegian in public and practise Sami culture at home, or abandon with the latter altogether.

South Sami resistance: the idea of separate development Conflicts over land between reindeer herders and farmers in South Sami areas were more intense than in North Norway. On the Swedish side of the border, reindeer husbandry enjoyed some legal protection because of the historic dividing line which aimed at facilitating co­existence with agriculture yet their relationship was far from tension­free, as evident in the frequent shootings of reindeer during the so­called kulturkampen I Härjedalen (culture war) from the 1870s.318 South Sami on both sides of the border were hit hard by compensation laws introduced in the 1880s. Those who were forced to give up reindeer husbandry turned to poor relief, if they were eligible for it, or begging for survival. In Norway few nomadic Sami would have qualified for poor relief because they worked in and moved between different pastures and had not lived in the same municipality for two consecutive years which was the criterion. At the turn of the century, the South Sami was a community in “crisis” on the “verge of collapse”.319 The Norwegian South Sami were a small minority of reindeer herder families who could not easily enter a class alliance similar to that in the fjords of Finnmark and North Troms. However, when the first pan­Sami meeting was held in Trondheim in 1917 the prominent left­wing radical politician and editor of the national Labour Party newspaper

315 Ibid. 316 J. Fagerberg and Å. Cappelen et al, 'The Decline of Social­Democratic State Capitalism in Norway', New Left Review, no. 181, May/June 1990, pp. 63. 317 Ibid., p. 99. 318 L. Lundmark, Stulet land: svensk makt på samisk mark, Ordfront förlag, Stockholm, 2008. 319 S. Fjellheim, Gåebrien sijte – en sameby i Rørostraktene, Self­published, Røros, 2012. 90

Arbeiderbladet, Martin Tranmæl, spoke about the importance of organising.320 Organised resistance among the South Sami had begun a few years earlier in Sweden when the Lapps's Central Union (Lapparnas Centralförbund) was established in 1904. Drawing inspiration from the temperance and evangelical movements, the organisation demanded improved conditions for reindeer husbandry, weaker compensation laws for damage caused by reindeer, better schools, and representation in Parliament. The most radical demand came from the Sami activist and midwife, Elsa Laula Renberg, who argued for establishing a separate Sami region north of the dividing line. Laula Renberg was central to the movement on both sides of the Norwegian­Swedish border and, togther with women from the Brurskanke Sami Women’s League, she organised the 1917 pan­Sami meeting. Sami activists in Finnmark would sometimes use the language of nation­building – Saba, for example, used the slogan “Samiland for Sami” in a poem in 1906 that later became the national Sami anthem – but they remained within the Labour Party and restricted by the party line.321 By contrast, Laula Renberg and the Swedish organisations remained outside the Swedish political party system which gave them more latitude to make their own demands. Laula Renberg urged the establishment of an economic base so that Sami society could survive. In her thirty­page pamphlet Do we face life or death? Words of truth about the Lappish situation (in Swedish Infor lif eller död? Sanningsord I de lappska förhållandena), which was published and distributed to the Swedish Parliament in 1904, she argued that if the Sami were to survive they needed ownership of all land north of the dividing line.322 Land was already reserved for use of reindeer husbandry, but the authorities handed over property to non­Sami settlers who then demanded compensation for damage to property caused by reindeer. Without full ownership of land, the Sami lost out on two accounts – both as reindeer herders and settlers – because as reindeer husbandry was pushed to the margins and the authorities supported non­Sami settlers, Sami who cleared land and settled down could seldom prove ownership of their land. As Laula Renberg saw it, reindeer husbandry had no future on its own but could have a role to play in a transition phase in the north alongside agriculture. While Sami people had been forcefully relocated several times, Laula Renberg's model would require the expulsion of non­Sami settlers north of the dividing line or exchange with Sami settlers south of it.

320 B. A. Berg, Mot en korporativ reindrift: Samisk reindrift i Norge i det 20. århundre ­ eksemplifisert gjennom studier av reindriften på Helgeland, PhD thesis, University of Tromsø, 1999, p. 147. 321 The poem was written in Sami language. Quoted in Niemi, op. cit., 2006, p. 206. 322 Lantto, op. cit., 2000, pp. 57­61; Jernsletten, op. cit., 1998, p. 68 91

The 1917 meeting in Trondheim was the first serious attempt to unite the Sami in the north and south and across state borders. Of the 150 participants 100 were Sami – twenty of them were from Sweden, two from Finnmark and one from Troms. Laula Renberg emphasised the legal protection of reindeer husbandry and criticised Sami activist, teacher and socialist, Daniel Mortensen, who was the editor of the Sami language newspaper Waren Sardne (1910­1913, 1922­1927), for his reformist line giving in to agricultural and other interests.323 The two represented the two main factions at the meeting concerning issues of reindeer husbandry. Whereas Mortensen argued for extensive reindeer husbandry with a move to encourage more meat production, Laula Renberg was for keeping reindeer husbandry small­scale and put greater emphasis on maintaining Sami values and traditions. Unlike Laula Renberg, Mortensen was against the use of the Sami language in schools but at the same time highly critical of how missionaries tried to Norwegianise children at the private Sami boarding school in Havika. Sami activists argued that because the Sami paid their taxes the state was obliged to provide Sami­oriented education and training for reindeer husbandry.324 The Sami resistance movement went into decline in the mid­1920s and did not pick up again until after the Second World War, a period which is described as the “Fimbul Winter”.325 Per Otnes argues that Norwegian authorities had a firm grip on the Sami resistance movement, that Sami leaders were naïve in believing their demands would be fulfilled and that they were not prepared for a long­lasting battle. 326 Jernsletten argues that Otnes exaggerates the control of the Sami Movement by civil servants but concedes that their presence and influence moderated Sami demands. Laula Renberg was critical of Norwegian involvement, but the Sami leaders chose to work with, appeal to, and inform the authorities. Considering their lack of bargaining power at the time, Jernsletten argues that this strategy was optimistic but realistic.327

Australia

Aboriginal resistance in the south: land and equality When the Australian Aboriginal Progressive Association (AAPA) held its first conference in a church hall in Surry Hills in Sydney in April 1925, newspapers reported: “On

323 Jernsletten, op. cit., 1998, pp. 77­81. 324 Ibid., pp. 130­131. 325 In Norse mythology the ’Fimbul Winter’ is three successive winters preceding the end of the world. 326 Otnes, pp. 128­143. Check. 327 Jernsletten, op. cit., 1998, pp. 144­145, 173. 92

Aborigines Aspirations – First Australians To Help Themselves – Self Determination” and “Aborigines in Conference – Self Determination Is Their Aim – To Help A People”.328 The AAPA did not seek to establish a separate Aboriginal state or autonomous region in Australia but its President, Frederick G. Maynard, a Worimi man, dock worker and trade unionist, stated in his inaugural address to an audience of more than 200 Aboriginals that “We want to work out our own destiny”.329 Aboriginal people in the south of Australia during the first half of the twentieth century had two major concerns: the loss of land and racial discrimination. Aboriginals lost reserve land they had farmed because they did not own it. Protection Boards leased or sold land for their own interests, or failed to stand up to white townspeople and settlers who wanted it. The Boards used their powers to control Aboriginals' lives, restrict their freedom, and remove children and young people from families to assimilate them in wider society. Communities resisted protection boards and racist legislation in the nineteenth century, they appealed to humanitarians, missionaries and the media for support, and petitioned the Queen in London and local governments. Bain Attwood argues that the well­coordinated campaign led by residents of Coranderrk station outside Melbourne in the 1870s and 1880s was “the first example of sustained indigenous protest in Australia.”330 The problem at Coranderrk was not that people wanted to leave, they wanted to stay on their homeland and on land that they looked after and that had become home. Nor did they object to white supervisors and missionaries who let them run their own affairs. Antagonism against the Board increased when half­castes were forced to leave the station in the 1880s. According to Attwood, “At the heart of the conflict between the Kulin and the Board were two issues – land and governance.” 331 The Coranderrk's experience was not unique and with greater pressure on land and families in the first half of the twentieth century, Aboriginals and their white supporters began to mobilise on a larger scale, beyond the nearest family and community, along the coast and inland in several states. Despite the shortage of finance, the vast distances and an oppressive protectionist regime which disecouraged such activites, Aboriginal organisations were set up in the 1920s and 1930s in New South Wales, Victoria, South Australia and Western Australia.332

328 Quoted in J. Maynard, Fight for Liberty and Freedom: the Origins of Australian Aboriginal Activism, Aboriginal Studies Press, Canberra, 2007. p. 53. 329 J. Maynard, op. cit., 2007, p. 56. 330 B. Attwood, Rights for Aborigines, Allen & Unwin, Crows Nest, 2003, p. 6. 331 Ibid., p. 13. 332 Australian Aboriginal Progressive Association (AAPA) in Sydney 1924 (New South Wales), Native Union in Western Australia in 1926 (Western Australia), Australian Aborigines Association (AAA) in Adelaide 1928 (South Australia), Australian Aborigines' League (AAL) 93

John Maynard reveals that his grandfather, Fred Maynard, and other Aboriginal dockworkers at Sydney's waterfront who set up the AAPA were inspired by African American seamen who passed through Australian wharfs in the early twentieth century. Aboriginals who were increasingly excluded from mainstream town services such as pubs, hospitals and schools could easily identify with black Americans and their struggle against racism and for equal rights in the USA. Jamaican­born black American nationalist Marcus Garvey, whose Universal Negro Improvement Association (UNIA) had a branch in Sydney in the early 1920s, was informed of, and perhaps involved in, the founding of the AAPA, which came to use such slogans as “One God, One Aim, One Destiny” and “Australia for Australians”. In 1924 Tom Lacy, who would soon become AAPA's treasurer, claimed in correspondance with Amy Jaques Garvey, the editor of the internationally distributed Negro World, that UNIA had the support of 10,000 Aboriginals in Sydney and up to 60,000 Aboriginals nationally. UNIA fostered black pride and embraced coloured people across the world. It challenged the Australian racial classification of people as “full bloods”, “half­castes” and “quadroons”, and it appealed to Aboriginals who defined their identity by descent (or social affiliations) rather than skin colour. The UNIA was an inspiring model for creating unity among a people who were all descendants of Australia's original inhabitants and were all subject to racial discrimination but had different identities, needs and interests.333 While the UNIA declined worldwide, in 1925 the AAPA was registered as a company in Sydney. Half a year later, it had 11 branches with 500 members along the NSW north coast. The “Back to Africa” idea was irrelevant to Aboriginals who had been home for 60,000 years but they could relate to the idea that land provided freedom and fostered independence. As mentioned in the previous chapter, their situation had worsened during the “second dispossession” between 1911 and 1927, when nearly half of all Aboriginal reserve land in NSW was lost, most of it on the north coast where Maynard's people were from.334 Maynard looked to the example of small­scale agriculture in South Australia and AAPA adopted the view of David Unaipon, a Ngarrindjeri man, priest and author from Point Macleay mission in South Australia, who argued that “every Australian Aboriginal should have his own farm or garden in fee simple, and be permitted to rear his own family in his own way.”335 AAPA's claim to land ownership was justified by pointing out that they had proven themselves as

in Melbourne 1932 (Victoria) and Aborigines' Progressive Association (APA) in Dubbo 1937 (New South Wales). 333 Maynard, op. cit., 2007, pp. 18­32, 55. 334 Goodall, op. cit., 1996, p. 136. 335 Maynard, op. cit., 2007, p. 51. 94 successful farmers and that they were the original inhabitants of the land. Granting citizenship rights and land ownership to Aboriginals were political questions, and Maynard argued for both at different times.

We the representatives of the original people, in conference assembled, demand that we shall be accorded the same full right and privileges of citizenship as are enjoyed by all other sections of the community.336

The request made by this Association for sufficient land for each eligible family is justly based. The Australian people are the original owners of the land and have a prior right over all other people in this respect.337

AAPA had most support in areas where the loss of land and children were felt most. The struggles for land and equal rights could not easily be separated because racist laws were used to enforce certain behaviours and to forcefully relocate people. The 1915 amendment to the 1909 NSW Protection Act made it easier for the Board to remove Aboriginal children from their parents because they no longer needed approval from a magistrate on the grounds of neglect. It was sufficient for the Board to consider the removal to be in the best interest of the child's welfare. Non­Aboriginal children too were separated from their families, but “the Act under which white children were charged was a good deal more generous in the alternatives it offered to permanent separation, for it was framed with a different purpose.”338 The threat of removing children from families was used effectively to shift families from one location to another, sometimes more than once. One such example from NSW is those who moved to Menindee Mission in 1933 and then on to Murrin Bridge in 1949.339 The segregation of town services was also used to remove Aboriginals off land needed for town development and farming, or to limit competition for work and resources such as in fisheries on the NSW south coast. In the area around Bateman's Bay in the 1920s, school segregation was used by white townspeople trying to force the removal of whole communities of Aboriginal people.”340 A major concern for the AAPA at the time was the apprenticeship system which saw Aboriginal girls as young as fourteen forced to leave to be trained for

336 Addressing the Kempsey conference in 1925, quoted in Maynard, op. cit., 2007, p. 74 337 Quoted in Maynard, op. cit., 2007, p. 105. 338 P. Read, The Stolen Generations: The Removal of Aboriginal Children in New South Wales 1883 to 1969, New South Wales Department of Aboriginal Affairs, Surry Hills, 2006, pp. 2­ 21. 339 Bringing Them Home, op. cit., p. 43. 340 Goodall, op. cit., 1996, p. 147. 95 domestic and other work in the cities. Goodall writes: “The Board stated quite openly in its reports and minutes that it intended to reduce the birthrate of the Aboriginal population by taking adolescent girls away from their communities.”341 As a solution to the difficulties faced by young “half­caste” girls who were deemed “incorrigible” by the Board and sent to Parramatta Girl's Home, the white missionary Elizabeth McKenzie Hatton, who had worked closely with Fred Maynard and joined him on his travels along the coast to recruit new members, established Rehoboth Aboriginal Girls' Home as a haven in Homebush, Sydney.342 When William Ferguson and Jack Patton set up the Aborigines' Progressive Association (APA) in Dubbo in 1937, they used the existing AAPA network to link up NSW inland with the coast, and had a similar support base which included a very broad spectrum ranging from extreme nationalists and Nazi sympathisers to communists, humanitarians and Christians, and at times local ALP branches and trade unions. Ferguson had escaped the Board's control because of his fair skin but as a shearer, trade unionist and member of the Australian Labor Party he was familiar with Aboriginal communities from working in the pastoral industry in NSW and Victoria. On the coast, Jack Patton cooperated with white nationalists in the growing Australia First Movement which turned its back on Britain and looked to the Australian bush for inspiration. The Australian nationalists and J. J. Maloney who edited The Voice of the North gave Maynard and the AAPA a crucial print platform for their views, and helped fund and publish the only Aboriginal newspaper, The Australian Abo Call, for six months in 1938.343 There were people in the trade union movement who favoured the inclusion of Aboriginal workers.344 Local ALP branches and the Australian Workers' Union (AWU) were involved in several campaigns against, for example, school segregation. While few Aboriginals took up membership in the ALP, many supported the party, and workers in north­west NSW were often affiliated with the AWU.345 Individuals spoke in favour of equal rights such as W. Browne, a leading member of the Queensland Labor Party in 1897 who stated that Aboriginals “have a right to be employed” and were “entitled to a fair wage the same as a white man or anyone else.”346 When Ferguson addressed Labor's

341 Ibid., p. 120. 342 Maynard, op. cit., 2007, p. 45. 343 Goodall, op. Cit., 1996, pp. 233­236, 241­245. 344 A. Markus, 'Talk Longa Mouth', in Who are our enemies? Racism and the Australian Working Class, A. Curthoys and A. Markus (eds.), Hale and Iremonger and the Australian Society for the Study of Labour History, Neutral Bay, 1978, pp. 138­158. 345 Goodall, op. cit., 1996, pp. 133, 148, 183­184, 346 Quoted in Markus, op. cit., 1978, p. 139. 96 party conference after its victory in the 1941 NSW state elections, he was well received, but “hopes for radical changes under a Labor administration proved illusory.”347 Markus writes:

While variations existed, the weight of evidence indicates that from early in the twentieth century the mainstream of the labour movement (but not its extreme left wing) paid lip service to the special obligations owed to Aborigines but acquiesced in the imposition of inferior conditions. Some labour men went further, attempting to exclude Aborigines from certain occupations and openly disclaiming any interest in their welfare. Respect for Aboriginal fellow workers, occasionally evident in the south­eastern colonies in the 1890s, was later submerged under the weight of racist assumptions.348

An exception to this was the Communist Party of Australia (CPA) which, after being criticised by the Comintern for not having addressed the Aboriginal situation, put forward a fourteen point program in 1931. It called for equal rights and Aboriginal republics in the north. In 1937 Tom Wright, a communist trade union leader, got the New South Wales Trades and Labour Council to adopt most of the CPA points when putting forward their own program, calling for “Full and equal rights of all Aborigines – socially, politically and economically – with the white race”. 349 The Council demanded an end to slave labour, the introduction of equal wages and sustenance allowances for unemployed Aboriginals, and the granting of large tracts of fertile land and financial assistance to support Aboriginal farms. It called for the abolition of, or full Aboriginal representation on, the Protection Board and an end to “homes and missions, which are exterminating the aboriginal race by segregating the sexes and sending the girls to domestic slavery.” It also demanded instruction in Aboriginal languages at schools, and special courts which would consider tribal law and customs.350 However, the NSW Trades and Labour Council omitted the CPA's most radical proposal of establishing Aboriginal republics in the north and the release of all Aboriginal prisoners.351 William Cooper and the Australian Aborigines' League (AAL), which was established in Melbourne in 1932, drew inspiration from Native Americans and the

347 Ibid., p. 146. 348 Ibid., p. 142 349 A. Markus, op. cit., 1990, pp. 159­160. 350 Ibid, p. 160. 351 Workers Weekly, 24 September 1931, cited in D. Jordan, Conflicts in the Unions: The Communist Party of Australia, Politics and the Trade Union Movement, 1945­1960, PhD thesis, Victoria University, January 2011, p. 250. 97

Maori in New Zealand. Cooper advocated reservations with property rights, not as in Australia where they were “reservations in name only from which Aboriginals [are] expelled”.352 The AAL had close links to Cumeroogunga across the border to NSW which at the turn of the twentieth century was a successful station undermined by the Board which leased nearly all the land to white farmers and expelled Aboriginals who protested. Within seven years Cumeroogunga went from being a thriving community with a population of 400 residents in 1908 to 252 in 1915. The experience of Cumeroogunga informed the AAL’s chief demand of the return of land which “had once provided them with the opportunity to be secure and independent”.353 To be self­ sufficient, the League asked for capital and unalienable land, to keep for future generations, and Cooper proposed that Cumeroogunga could serve as a model: “an ideal place for an experiment, which, if successful... [could] lead the way for a new policy for Aboriginal development.”354 Attwood writes:

They called for ‘allotments of land, echoing the 1934 United States Indian Reorganisation Act, which they believed had set down a framework for ‘the development of Indian lands’. They not only stressed that the land should be ‘suitable for agriculture or other farming’ but also demanded that Aborigines be provided with ‘requisite machinery and equipment’ to develop it. Likewise, they requested Aborigines be allowed to work the land for themselves and not the Board.355

The League justified demands for land by claiming that they had proved themselves to be civilised by taking up agriculture, and that as the original owners the land belonged to them and had been granted to them by Queen Victoria. Thus they would use arguments stressing commonality with non­Indigenes and their distinctiveness. But mostly they stressed similarity – after all it had been the absence of agriculture that legitimised the British take­over in the first place. They challenged the protectionist regime by wishing to demonstrate that they were capable of looking after themselves, and even pointed to more traditionally­oriented Aboriginals who were not as “civilised”. “At a time when racism flourished and Aboriginal people were denied civil rights on the basis of their perceived racial difference, Aboriginal activists were naturally cautious in claiming rights on the grounds of difference”.356

352 Quoted in Attwood, op. cit., 2003, p. 36. 353 Ibid., pp. 31­35. 354 Quoted in ibid., p. 36. 355 Ibid., p. 35. 356 Ibid., pp. 37­38. 98

In the 1930s the League and the APA joined forces to address the poor socio­ economic conditions on underfunded stations and missions and the patronising treatment of residents. Aboriginal workers in NSW were hit hard by unemployment in the 1930s. When they applied for the Labor government's newly introduced unemployment relief, which they were entitled to, they were told by bureaucrats to contact the Board for rations which were valued at only half as much.357 It was convenient for the Department of Labour to hand over Aboriginal workers to the underfunded Board. But when Aboriginals were forced back to reserves, the recorded number of Aboriginals in NSW increased by 15% between 1927 and 1937, from about 7,000 to 10,000, which caused problems of overcrowding and extreme poverty.358 Goodall summarises the Aboriginal experience in the 1930s in NSW:

So within three years Aboriginal people had experienced a massive loss of civil rights, and a demonstration of the degree to which the NSW government was prepared to treat them with discriminatory content. They had lost their first social benefit, the family endowment, then they were denied the dole, and then work relief, but all they were offered in place of the meagre food orders of the white man's dole were the even more grossly inadequate Protection Board rations.359

In Western Australia, the Department responsible for Aboriginals “was virtually paralysed”.360 Massive unemployment drove Aboriginals into town camps and white residents, “alarmed by the reapparence of a presence they believed to have been eradicated”, demanded their removal. Aboriginals only agreed to move to an already overcrowded Moore River Native Settlement north of Perth when “rations were cut off and their families were starving”.361 When the 100 remaining residents of Cumeroogunga walked off their homeland in 1939, Cooper and Patten sent the following telegram to newspapers: “Aboriginal men and women and children have left Cumeroogunga reservation for Victoria, due to intimidation, victimisation and starvation. Urgently needing food. Demand immediate inquiry.”362 The poor living conditions were one reason for the walk­off but people were

357 Goodall, op. cit., 1996, pp. 180­181. 358 Attwood, op. cit., 2003, p. 39. 359 Ibid., p. 181. 360 A. Haebich, Broken Circles: Fragmenting Indigenous Families 1800­2000, Fremantle Arts Centre Press, Fremantle, 2001, p. 270. 361 Ibid., pp. 269­270. 362 Attwood, op. cit., 2003, p. 31. 99 most concerned with the abuse by the manager who they claimed treated them like animals.363 Land ownership was crucial for Aboriginal self­sufficiency in the long run, but racial discrimination had an everyday impact that was not easy to escape. Aboriginals wanted to be involved in Aboriginal affairs. The AAPA had called for a replacement of the Protection Board in 1925 by “a new system of administration . . . without the foolish patronage which affects to regard them as children”.364 The Aborigines Protection Board was eventually replaced by the Aborigines Welfare Board, which in 1943 included two Aboriginal representatives (at least one “full­blooded”). In the League's famous 1937 Petition to the King, which was signed by 1,800 Aboriginals, they asked for a “member of Parliament, of our own blood or white men known to have studied our needs and to be in sympathy with our race, to represent us in the Federal Parliament.”365 What mattered to the League was to have their elected representative advocate for their interests in Parliament, but that person did not have to be Aboriginal. The Petition was followed by the symbolic “Day of Mourning and Protest” in Sydney on 26 January 1938, organised in opposition to the sesquicentenary of European settlement, and Aboriginals made it clear that “we do not ask for charity, we ask for justice.” In the national Aboriginal policy that Aboriginals leaders agreed to in the late 1930s and presented to politicians, they proposed that control of Aboriginals be transferred from the states to the Commonwealth government and that a federal Ministry for Aboriginal Affairs be established and advised by six people – three of them nominated by the League and APA. They called for equal rights and an end to discrimination, and they proposed land settlements with financial and other state support.366 Russel McGregor argues that while the demands were “confrontational” because they were made by Aboriginals, there “was nothing extraordinary about liberal democracies making special benefits available for specified groups.”367 Compared with the achievements of Indigenous peoples in the other British settler colonies, USA, Canada and New Zealand, Aboriginal demands were modest. The others had all signed treaties that provided a legal foundation for negotiations with governments over rights to natural resources and political representation. In New Zealand, for example, the Maori have had four permanent seats in Parliament since 1867.

363 Ibid., p. 46. 364 Fred Maynard quoted in Goodall, op. cit., 1996, p. 160. 365 Quoted in Attwood, op. cit., 2003, p. 59. 366 Goodall, op. cit., 1996, p. 239­240. 367 R. McGregor, Indifferent Inclusion: Aboriginal People and the Australian Nation, Aboriginal Studies Press, Canberra, 2011, p. 47. 100

Aboriginal north: the idea of a separate state We have seen how, to justify their demands, Aboriginal leaders in the south sometimes stressed that they were as civilised as whites, and more civilised than other Aboriginals. This focus in the south on sameness and commonality rather than difference had implications for their approach to the Aboriginal north where more pre­colonial practices had survived that attracted the attention of missionaries and anthropologists. The authorities were more concerned with the “half­caste” problem in the south than the “tribal” north which they believed was doomed to extinction. But there was the question of what to do about the sparsely populated multicultural north which included large numbers of Chinese, Japanese, Malays, Filipinos and Aboriginals, and was seen as a threat to the ideal of a “White Australia”. Reynolds writes that at the time of Federation in 1901 there were “two Australias”: “Southern, settled, overwhelmingly white Australia” and “the multicultural society in the tropical north” with immigrant towns and “large tribal territories in Cape York, Arnhem Land, the Kimberleys and the Great Sandy Desert” where Aboriginals “knew nothing of Federation or their putative membership of a new nation.”368 The “White Australia” policy, which aimed to reduce immigration from Asia and preserve Australia as white and Anglo­Saxon, affected Aboriginals too because it ended the Macassan trade and legitimised racism. The debates about northern development involved geopolitical concerns, multiculturalism, ideas of race and, quite separately, the future of Aboriginal peoples. In 1925, the Aborigines' Protection League in South Australia proposed to replace the existing reserve system with an Aboriginal Model State which would have a legal and political status similar to that of the other states in the federation. The idea of a state came predominantly from David Unaipon, the only Aboriginal member of the organisation's executive committee, as well as from missionaries and humanitarians who had work experience in the north, but Aboriginals in Arnhem Land and elsewhere were not consulted. While they might have been against the idea of a state there was no reason to believe that they would object to ownership of land which they considered theirs. 369 Inspired by Maori political representation in the New Zealand Parliament and land schemes in Canada and USA, The Proposed Aboriginal State Manifesto stated that:

a large area of land – say Arnhem Land – should be handed back to the natives now on it, and that they be told it is to be their own country, to be

368 Henry Reynolds, op. cit., 2005, p. vii. 369 K. Blackburn, 'White Agitation For An Aboriginal State In Australia (1925­1929), Australian Journal of Politics and History, vol. 45, no. 2, June 1999, p. 164. 101

managed by themselves (with such assistance as is necessary) according to their own laws and customs but prohibiting cannibalism and cruel rites.370

It was further proposed that “no attempt should be made to force any natives into the proposed State, the nucleus of which to be those tribes now occupying the country to be transferred.”371 The Protection League did not share the anthropologist Donald Thomson's ideas of segregation to preserve Aboriginal society. They envisaged that Aboriginals in the new state would be trained for rural occupations and given farmland to be self­sufficient. It was to be managed by a native tribunal and David Unaipon was suggested as one of two potential Aboriginal administrators. He would later withdraw his support for the Model State because be believed that the many different peoples would be unable to agree among themselves.372 Maynard and the AAPA initially opposed the idea of an Aboriginal Model State because they feared being forcefully relocated to the north in order to relieve the governments of the “Aboriginal problem” in the south and to solve a geopolitical defence problem in the north using Aboriginal reserves as a buffer zone against Asia.373 A meeting in Lismore made it clear that they preferred to live where their homes were.374 While the AAPA's struggle was not for a separate Aboriginal state but for the provision of enough land for families to make ends meet, Maynard envisaged the potential for co­operation within Aboriginal society and insisted that “the natives should be provided with their own communities, with schools and other public buildings and should be supervised generally by educated and capable Aborigines.”375 This was already AAPA's policy. Maynard acknowledged the different needs and interests of Aboriginals and the AAPA distinguished between “capable” and “incapable” people, demanding that “the incapables of the Aboriginal community (the direct liability of the Government consequent upon neglect in the past) be properly cared for in suitable homes on reserves” and that “the supervision of all such Aboriginal Homes, Hostels or Reserves be entrusted to the educated aboriginals possessing the requisite ability of such management.”376 McGregor shows that Cooper had his own ideas of northern development in the

370 Quoted in ibid., p. 161. 371 Quoted in ibid., pp. 161­162. 372 Ibid., p. 198. 373 Maynard, op. cit, 2007, p. 90­99. 374 Quoted in Goodall, op. cit., 1996, p. 167. 375 J.S. Nedham of the Australian Board of Missions to Sydney Morning Herald, 15 November 1927, quoted in Maynard, op. cit., 2007, p. 112. 376 Ibid., p. 99. 102

1930s as expressed in the slogan “The Aboriginal as asset and not a liability”. 377 He complained to the Minister of the Interior that the whole debate “revolves round the primitive man, as though he were the only one left worth saving, and the ideal is the saving of this man, in his present state, as a Zoological exhibit for succeeding generations.”378 To save Aboriginal society, Cooper called for a staged process of “uplifting”, “the progressive elevation”, “from one class to an higher one till the whole race is fully civilised and cultured.”379 He saw northern development as a joint regional project and used racial theories which cast doubt over whether the white race could survive in the tropics to argue that development should be left to the Aboriginals who had no climatic problems and were good farmers. Similarly to Maynard, he envisaged that the “educated and cultured” Aboriginals would assist “their own uncivilized people” in education and training temporarily.380 The Aboriginal leaders' approach to development in the north followed their logic for claiming citizenship rights and landownership in the south – they had entered the world of civilisation and, assisted by their expertise, other more traditionally­oriented Aboriginals could do the same. To emphasise what they had in common with the more traditionally­oriented Aboriginals in the north would have undermined their own argument and justification for being treated as equals. On the other hand, as descendants of the original inhabitants they all shared a common history of colonisation and some connection between north and south, which could best be realised by their assistance in a joint project.

Summary

This chapter has switched the focus from the history of the colonisation of Sapmi and Australia to the early beginnings of an Indigenous politics of resistance which, in both cases, revolved around the struggle for land and a rejection of cultural assimilation. Both the Sami and Aboriginal movements grew out of the more populated and mixed areas in the south (and in Finnmark's coastal areas). Indigenous activists drew inspiration locally (from trades unions in Australia, the temperance movement in Sweden, and political parties in Norway) but they also looked to other countries: the importance of the language situation made the Sami look to other European linguistic minorities such as

377 McGregor, op. cit., 2011, p. 42. 378 Quoted in Attwood, op. cit., 2003, p. 117. 379 Quoted in McGregor, op. cit., 2011, p. 40. 380 Ibid., pp. 41­47. 103 the Welsh, whereas the prominence of racialism prompted Aboriginal activists to be influenced by African Americans, and a shared historical experience of dispossession by British imperialism to identify with the Maori and Native Americans. Both Sami and Aboriginal political movements would soon adopt the the language of nation­building and nationalism, such as “Samiland for Sami” and “Australia for Australians” although, unlike European nationalists, they did not demand secession but pursued solutions to their grievances within the colonial states (in the case of the Sami, four of them). While Aboriginals were largely excluded from the Australian political system and under various degrees of state government control, Sami activists were able to work within the Norwegian political system by entering a political alliance with the Labour Party in the north (but not the south). Australian Aboriginals could not influence politics in the same way, at least not yet in the period under review in this chapter. Their activists were mostly workers with family links to missions and stations who came into contact with the trade union movement in the pastoral industry in rural areas and on the wharfs of Sydney. They found support among humanitarians, Christians, communists, unionists and the nationalists of the Australia First Movement, but not in the mainstream of the major political parties. The Labour Party alliance tended to overshadow specific Sami issues and interests in the north, while resistance among the South Sami had a much narrower focus on the protection of reindeer herders and their centuries­old use of grazing land. But Sami activists in both south and north argued that the state was responsible for facilitating the use of the Sami language and culture (mainly in schools and churches) because they were taxpayers like everyone else.381 In a similar fashion, Aboriginals in their struggle for equal rights would emphasise their contribution to society as farmers and soldiers.

381 The taxpayer argument was occasionally also used by Aboriginal activists. In a call for equal rights William Harris, who formed the Native Union in Western Australia in 1925, argued in a letter published in Sunday Times in 1913 that many Aboriginals were educated and paid their taxes alongside whites. Cited in Markus, op. cit., 1990, p. 175. 104

CHAPTER FOUR. THE POST­WAR DECADES

Introduction

The Second World War marks a change in Indigenous affairs. With the establishment of the United Nations and decolonisation in Africa and Asia, there emerged a greater awareness of how to accommodate ethnic minorities and their cultures. The world had witnessed, and the Jews and the Roma experienced, the Holocaust. Following the UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights in 1948, some states such as South Africa came under increased international pressure to end discrimination. This also affected Australia as a member of the Commonwealth with a history of discrimination of its own, and Norway, too, was criticised in the UN for its treatment of the Sami.382 Having both fought with and defended the Allies during the Second World War, the Sami and the Aboriginals entered the post­war era under different circumstances. The Sami returned to their old livelihoods and freshly rebuilt villages in Finnmark and North Troms after the German troops had destroyed and burnt them down during the last months of the war, whereas the Aboriginals remained institutionalised on missions and reserves or living on the fringes of towns, subject to discriminatory laws, and surviving on handouts and casual labour. It was the era of post­war recovery in Europe, rapid global economic growth, and a Western “development project” aimed at the newly decolonising states in what now became known as the “Third World” which also shaped development thinking at home.383 But there was little margin for Indigenous minorities within existing nation states to stake out their own course of development because governments continued to treat them either as part of a regional minority (Norway), or as individuals who were expected to be assimilated into the majority population and culture (Australia). It was easier in Norway than in Australia to demand recognition of cultural difference without fear of it leading to discrimination, but both Aboriginal communities and Sami villages relied on government assistance and were drawn closer into the state bureaucracy and subjected to tighter government control. However, Australia adopted a

382 South African Minister for Foreign Affairs, Eric Louw, quoted in T. Sellström, Sweden and National Liberation in Southern Africa: Volume 1: Formation of a Popular Opinion 1950­ 1970, Nordiska Afrikainstitutet/The Nordic Africa Institute, Uppsala, 1999, p. 49. 383 The “development project” lasted from the post World War Two poeriod until the 1970s. P. McMichael, Development and Social Change: A Global Perspective (second edition), Pine Forge Press, Thousand Oaks, 2000. 105 more individualistic approach to assimilation, in contrast to the regional group­oriented approach in Norway. Sami villages in the north were for geopolitical reasons during the Cold War more important to Norway than Aboriginal communities were to Australia, but the different government policies are also the result of two distinct political cultures: Australia being a highly urbanised liberal democracy in the Anglo­Saxon tradition of free­market individualism, and Norway a social democracy in the Scandinavian mould with a strong rural electorate of small­scale producers (by 1960, only half of the population in Norway was urbanised, compared to over 80% in Australia).384

Norway: back to country, regional development and recognition

Back to country The return of Sami and non­Sami residents to burnt­out villages in Finnmark and North Troms after the war was Norway's “back to country” movement. Sapmi had been important to Germany during World War Two because of the dependence of Germany's wartime steel industry on the rich iron ore resources of Sweden. The iron ore was transported through the Lule Sami area, from Kiruna and Gällivare in Sweden to the ice­ free port of Narvik in Norway. The west coast was strategically important also because it gave access to the North Sea, the Norwegian Sea and the Barents Sea. For that reason Norway had been the second country after Poland to be occupied in 1940, in order to prevent Britain, which already had troops in Narvik, from doing the same. Sweden declared itself neutral but would supply Germany with much needed iron ore throughout the war.385 While serving the Germans as a conduit for Swedish iron ore, elsewhere in the region, in the Lule Sami stronghold of Tysfjord, only ten kilometres south of Narvik, border guides helped about 3,000 Norwegians and some foreigners to cross the mountains into Sweden during the German occupation.386 The Swedish border was only six kilometres from the coast and although the terrain was difficult, the border guides were familiar with the environment, had connections on the other side and knew how to to avoid the Germans (and the Swedish border police). Yet there was little mention of the

384 United Nations, Department of Economic and Social Affairs, Population Division: World Urbanization Prospects, the 2014 revision: Urban and Rural Populations, viewed 16 February 2016, 385 B. Furre, op. cit., 2000, p. 98. 386 M. Neerland Soleim and J. I. Nergård et al, Grenselos i grenseland: Samisk og norsk losvirksomhet i nordre Nordland og Sør­Troms 1940­1945, Orkana Aakademisk, Stamsund, 2015, p. 13. 106

Sami border guides in the post­war celebration of the Norwegian resistance movement. Unlike the Norwegian border guides further south who helped about 50,000 people to cross over to Sweden, the Sami border guides were regarded with suspicion by the authorities and investigated for treason. They were also accused of theft and robbery, of overcharging and leaving people without much help on the other side. It was only in 2005 that they received recognition for their efforts, when King Harald, in his opening speech to the fifth Sami Parliament, apologised to the border guides and their descendants for the lack of recognition.387 Spread across four states, Sami experiences of the war varied greatly. The Skolt Sami provided troops and reindeer and fought on both sides – and against each other – in the war between Finland and the USSR. In Norway, Kirkenes suffered more than 300 Russian air strikes during the war because of the large number of German troops deployed near the border, and people took up refuge in iron­ore mines nearby. The Swedish Sami enjoyed more freedom from the authorities than they had before the war. Johan Eriksson writes that “the war was actually liberating” because the German occupation of Norway “enhanced their de facto autonomy” and created opportunities for better access to summer pastures on the Norwegian coast.388 The Germans had no reason to antagonise the locals and announced that they would uphold the reindeer grazing convention between Norway and Sweden. Per Idivuoma, a reindeer herder and later politician, was surprised:

A strange thing had happened, that the German empire, with its huge war machine, which only during the last six months had subjugated a great number of Europe's independent states, could accept the right of a minority when its small neutral government negotiated on these.389

In the Skolt Sami homeland that occupied the border region between Finland, Russia and Norway, people were relocated several times and served on both sides of the wars between Finland (with German support) and Russia (1939­1944). Most of the 1,000 troops conscripted from the northern minorities into the Red Army in 1939 to fight against Finland were Skolt Sami from the Kola Peninsula. They made good soldiers because they knew the Arctic terrain, were good skiers, hunters, snipers, navigators and guides, and could handle and command the reindeer so important for the war. 390

387 Ibid., pp. 183­186, 201. 388 Eriksson, op. cit., 1997, p. 91. 389 Quoted in ibid., p. 92. 390 W. T. Gorter­Gronvik and M. N. Suprun, 'Ethnic minorities and warfare at the arctic front 1939­45', The Journal of Slavic Military Studies, vol. 13, no. 1, 2000, pp. 127­142; 107

Reindeer were better than horses on the Arctic front because they were not easily frightened by explosions, kept quiet when wounded, were good swimmers and three of them together could pull freight sledges up to 300 kilos. The Russians called them their “Arctic tank” and deployed the world's only reindeer battalion. However, Russian officers had to threaten the Sami and the Nenets at gunpoint to join the Red Army. They only reluctantly agreed to use their reindeer in warfare and because they were much used on the front line, their losses were great. It was not their war.391 When the Red Army pushed back German troops from Petsamo/Pechenga in Finland and liberated Kirkenes in Norway in October 1944, Hitler gave orders to evacuate the population of Finnmark and then burn it. The scorched earth tactics destroyed nearly all infrastructure and houses in Finnmark and North Troms: 12,000 houses, 6,000 farms, 500 industrial units, 150 schools, 20 churches, 15 vicarages, 21 hospitals, 22,000 telegraph posts, 350 bridges, 180 navigation lights and 350 motor boats.392 50,000 people were evacuated south by boat, truck and bus, but 23,000 refused to leave and survived the relatively mild winter hiding in turf huts, caves, and tents. In Karasjok and Kauokeino, only fifty were evacuated in each village, the remaining residents – about 1,300 and 1,400 respectively – outmanoeuvred the Germans and fled with their reindeer to the highlands.393 Inner Finnmark lost virtually everything except a few houses and farms and the church in Karasjok which was the only building left standing. For people in Karasjok, World War Two marks a change from one era to another because much of the village's distinct Sami character in housing and farmyards was lost.394 The Norwegian government, while exiled in London, made plans for a centralised, modernised, industrialised and urbanised post­war North Norway. It was estimated at the time that at least 800,000 landmines would have to be removed before it was safe to return.395 But once the war was over, thousands of internally displaced people could not

Eriksson, op. cit., 1997, p. 132. 391 Gorter­Gronvik and Suprun, op. cit., pp. 91, 130. 392 D. H. Lund, 'The Revival of Northern Norway', The Geographical Journal, vol. 109, no. 4/6, April to June 1947, p. 193; Furre, op. cit., 2000, p. 127; S. E. Lund, 'Samer uten utdanning – 20 års kamp', in Samisk skolehistorie 1/Sámi skuvlahistorjá 1/Samien skuvle­ vaajese 1, in S. Lund (ed.), Davvi Girji, Karasjok, 2005, viewed on 16 February 2016, 393 A. Petterson, 'Evakueringen av Finnmark og Nord­Troms i 1944: Flyktninger i eget land', Lokalhistorisk magasin, Norwegian University of Science and Technology, Trondheim, vol. 21, no. 3, 2010, p. 27. 394 V. Stordahl, Same i den moderne verden: Endring og kontinuitet i et samisk lokalsamfunn, Davvi Girji, Karasjok, 1996, p. 48­50. 395 D. H. Lund., op. cit., 1947, p. 194. 108 wait to go back to the land and began to rebuild their old villages and settlements. The government “proved unable to control the flow of people” and when people began to put temporary roofs over the old remaining structures, the government gave in and provided material for temporary dwellings.396 Everybody had lost houses and huts, children had been without formal schooling for several years, the loss of reindeer made it hard for the families involved in the industry to make a full­time living as they had done before the war,397 and fisher­farmers no longer had boats and fishing gear. The state provided cheap loans and assistance to build houses, buy equipment, and to expand the herd size so as to enable people to make a living from reindeer husbandry.398 The plans for centralisation and growth centres in the north failed because people took matters into their own hands and refused to follow instructions from the bureaucrats. In 1952 the government launched the North Norway Plan as a state­led regional development project to increase productivity by creating all­year­round industries, and to improve living standards in the three northernmost counties. When attention was drawn to the fact that the region's 12% of the total national population produced only 6% of the country's GNP, the authorities began to see North Norway as a problem periphery.399 Brox argues that the North Norway Plan was not a plan but “an inconsistent bundle of unrelated measures” which resulted in “a 'modern' and a 'traditional' sector developing side by side”.400 Governments stimulated private investment by providing tax relief, mainly in the fish­processing industry and mining, and small farmers became milk producers, but planners and politicians were faced with a rural electorate which had few incentives to move to larger towns and cities to take up industrial work. They did not, of course, object to improved living standards with new houses and better infrastructure including extended road networks, schools and hospitals. Unemployment, while high, was mainly seasonal which enabled people to combine fishing with other work.401 Only half of the 10,000 jobs promised in the period 1952­1960 materialised, and 18,000 jobs were lost in fisheries, agriculture and forestry.402

396 Brox, op. cit., 2006, p. 67. 397 The estimated number of reindeer was 65,000 reindeer. NOU 2001:34, p. 231. 398 Ibid. 399 E. O. Eriksen, 'Statsavhengighet og politikkens grenser', in Det nye Nord­Norge: Avhengighet og modernisering i nord, E. O. Eriksen (ed.), Fagbokforlaget, Bergen, 1996, pp. 143­173. 400 Brox, op. cit., 2006, pp. 37, 69. 401 Brox, op. cit., 2006, pp. 68­70. 402 K. S. Wood, The North Norway Plan – A Study in regional and economic development, Christian Michelsen Institute, Bergen, 1965, p. 91, cited in T. Løvseth, Sociopolitical Networks and Regional Development: The Cases of Northern Norway and Southern Italy, 109

While highly critical of the government's attempts to industrialise North Norway, Brox writes:

It would, however, be wrong to draw the conclusion that the nation would have fared better without the Plan. In that case we would have had to find work and housing for a considerable number of impoverished North Norwegians in the South, at the same time as half of the country would have been depopulated. This would have meant an urban slum proletariat in the South, and a politically undesirable demographic vacuum in the North.403

From 1945 to 1965, the Labour Party dominated Norwegian politics, but while the Conservatives questioned state intervention in the economy, state­led regional development in the north was politically uncontroversial and considered necessary for geopolitical reasons. Finnmark had just been liberated by the Red Army and the Communists were in a strong position, as evident in the 1946 elections when the Communist Party of Norway received 36% of the vote in South Varanger which resulted in a Communist Mayor. The Communists also did well nationally with eleven members elected to Parliament. However, the trend in the late 1940s was towards a military alliance with Britain and the USA because two world wars had proved that it was difficult for Norway with its extensive coastline to remain neutral. The post­war recovery was assisted by the 1948 American Marshall Plan, officially known as the European Recovery Program. Geir Lundestad writes that “the strongest American influence on Norway's economy was undoubtedly under the Marshall Plan, in the years 1948­ 1952.”404 Norway received over 300 million dollars. By 1949 Parliament decided to join NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization). “While economic aid stopped in the early 1950s, military assistance lasted for another decade. In the 1950s America's military support made up almost 50 percent of Norwegian defense spending.”405

Cultural­linguistic recognition, poverty and discrimination During the post­war period, in a political climate favourable to minority rights, the Sami language and culture gradually found more official acceptance. Sami organisations took up the battle and pushed for changes that Sami activists such as Per Fokstad had demanded before the war (see Chapter Three). In 1946, NRK (Norwegian Broadcasting

PhD thesis, University of Tromsø, 2004, p. 76. 403 Brox, op. cit., 2006, p. 32. 404 G. Lundestad, 'The United States and Norway, 1905­2006: Allies of a kind: so similar, so different', Journal of Transatlantic Studies, vol. 4, no. 2, 2008, p. 200. 405 Ibid., p. 201. 110

Corporation) started to broadcast Sami­language programs and the 1947 Education Coordination Committee addressed – on its own initiative, it was not part of its mandate – Sami needs and interests in education. The first Sami ABC for children was published in 1951 and in 1956 the Sami newspaper Ságat was established. Moreover, Statens heimeyrkeskole (vocational school) was established in Kautokeino in 1952 and provided Sami­specific content, language teaching and courses for reindeer herders. A Finnmark Sami Council (Samisk Råd for Finnmark) was set up in 1953 as a consultative body for the authorities with five appointed members (at least three of whom were Sami). From 1958 at Karasjok Secondary School, pupils could specialise in reindeer husbandry.406 However, during the hasty post­war recovery Sami­specific housing needs were largely ignored. As for health needs, most medical doctors and health personnel spoke Norwegian only and the residents of Finnmark were “mostly met with mono­cultural health services in the 1950s and 1960s, despite political demands for changes and local modifying attempts.”407 To fight tuberculosis in the 1950s, small cottage hospitals were re­introduced and local campaigns and mass screening were tailored according to the Sami way of life but this was “in the name of efficiency, not cultural sensitivity”.408 The exploitation of Indigenes as workers had been raised as an issue by the ILO since the 1920s and eventually led to the 1957 ILO Convention Concerning the Protection and Integration of Indigenous and Other Tribal, and Semi­Tribal Populations in Independent Countries No. 107. While being highly supportive of the Convention, the Norwegian government declined to ratify it because no such groups lived in Norway: the Sami were “integrated”, and thus the definition “semi­tribal” did not apply to them. The government decision supposedly followed advice from Per Fokstad, Sami teacher, activist and leader of Finnmark Sami Council (Samisk Råd for Finnmark).409 The Sami were seen by the authorities as Sami­speaking Norwegians who, belonging to an impoverished regional minority, represented the most extreme of peripheral backwardness. It was believed that the remedy for Sami poverty was the same as for all others. The link between poverty in Inner Finnmark and widespread discrimination was news to many in the south when the ethnographer Harald Eidheim’s study of the village of Polmak reached the front page of the national newspaper Dagbladet in 1958. The headline

406 S. Lund (ed.), Samisk skolehistorie 2/Sámi skuvlahistorjá 2/Saemien skuvla­vaajese 2/Sámij skåvllåhiståvrrå 2, Davvi Girji, Karasjok, 2007, p. 8, viewed on 16 February 2016, 407 T. Ryymin and A. Andresen, 'Effecting Equality: Norwegian Health Policy in Finnmark, 1945­1970s', Acta Borealia, vol. 26, no. 1, 2009, p. 111. 408 Ibid. 409 NOU (Norges offentlige utredninger) 1980:53: Vern av urbefolkninger, Statens forvaltningstjeneste, Statens trykking, Oslo, p. 20. 111 declared “Sami in Finnmark surrounded by a wall of racism” (En mur av rasehovmot omgir samene I Finnmark), and the subheading added “Shocking information about minority problems in Norway” (Sjokkerende opplysninger om minoritetsproblemene I Norge). Eidheim's research findings were described as “sensational” by the newspaper which made comparisons to racial discrimination in South Africa and Little Rock in the USA.410 Eidheim's research in Polmak between 1948 and 1953 revealed people trapped in poverty which they could not escape because of a lack of opportunities at home, while racism prevented them from seeking education, training and employment elsewhere. 411 The land could sustain only that many, and with population growth the competition for natural resources had increased. Despite the newly introduced age pension, child benefits and state subsidies for the cultivation of land, all of which made it easier to make it through the long winters, living conditions were harsh, diets were poor and houses overcrowded. Used to being self­sufficient, most were too ashamed to ask for poverty relief and said that they would rather starve. The vast majority lacked sufficient Norwegian language skills to move elsewhere and those who left for the larger coastal towns where assimilationist pressure were strongest and Sami culture was ridiculed, often returned home in despair because of discrimination. It was easier to move south to Oslo which had no Sami past and where it was easier to hide their identity or keep a low profile.412 The Sami movement developed two overlapping strategies in the post­war period. While Sami activists increasingly focused on the rights of all Sami, irrespective of livelihood at home and across Nordic state borders in Sapmi, reindeer husbandry was singled out as an industry to be fought for on its own. The Norwegian Reindeer Husbandry Association (NRL) was set up in 1947 with a strong industry­specific focus because reindeer herders believed that, with governments' increasingly corporate vision of the future of primary industries, they needed an organisation to look after their interests and lobby the authorities, much like the Norwegian Fishermen's Sales Organization (Norges Råfisklag) did for fishers and the Norwegian Farmer's Union (Norges Bondelag) did for farmers.413 The purpose of the Oslo based Sámi Sær'vi (Samisk Selskap) was different. It was established in 1948 by Sami and non­Sami

410 Reproduced in A. M. Klausen, 'Da korrekturleser Eidheim i Nationen ble førstesideoppslag i Dagbladet', Norsk Antropologisk Tidsskrift, vol. 16, no. 4, 2005, pp. 190­191. 411 H. Eidheim, Erverv og kulturkontakt i Polmak, Samiske Samlinger: Bind IV­I, Norsk Folkemuseum, Oslo, 1958. 412 Ibid., pp. 42­59. 413 B. A. Berg, op. cit., 1997, pp. 221­231. 112 students, academics and workers who had an interest in Sami questions, such as Harald Eidheim, and the organisation set out to inform majority society about Sami affairs and lobby for Sami interests. Together with “Friends of the Sami” in Sweden and Finland, they organised the first Nordic Sami conference in Jokkmokk in 1953, followed by a second conference in Karasjok in 1956 where the Nordic Sami Council was established as a non­governmental umbrella organisation for Sami in the three Nordic countries. Sámi Sær'vi, the Norwegian Sami Association (NSR) and the Finnmark Sami Council represented the Norwegian Sami on the Council. The recognition of rights to natural resources was discussed widely at the pan­Sami conferences of the 1950s.414 The Nordic Sami Council took a stand against reducing Saminess to reindeer husbandry and agreed on a wide definition which took into account the history of assimilation. In preparation for the 1959 Conference, the Council's Working Committee stated that “the coming meeting in Stockholm should aim at making clear the rights of the entire indigenous Lapp population to the natural resources of their area.”415 It called for common pan­Sami legislation in three countries, which is worth quoting at length because of its radicalism and pan­Sami approach:

In principle this new legislation should be uniform for all the Northern countries and it should be based on a clear definition of the Lappish group of people, as well as on demarcation of an area where this people has special rights as the indigenous population. The legislation should in principle follow the same lines as the Swedish Reindeer Breeding Act, but it must be extended to cover the entire Lapp population and all the natural resources. It should not apply solely to reindeer owners and reindeer pastures.

Extension of the rights should also mean that the Lapps are not just restricted to the right of receiving indemnities for damage by encroachment, but are also entitled to a certain reasonable share of profits, especially those from extensive technical and industrial exploitation of natural resources, as in the case of mining, large­scale sylviculture, and utilization of hydro­electric power. The Lapp Council primarily considers that funds coming from these sources should be administered and used collectively for the entire Lapp population in each country on its own, for occupational training and for cultural purposes; the

414 R. G. P. Hill and K. Nickul (eds. on behalf of The Nordic Lapp Council), The Lapps Today in Finland, Norway and Sweden II: Conferences of Stockholm 1959, Inari 1959, Kiruna 1962, Universitetsforlaget, Oslo & Bergen, 1969, p. 415 Ibid., p. 3. 113

funds may possibly be used inter­Nordically to some extent too.416

The demand for special rights to natural resources for all Sami, the original inhabitants of the land, shows that the Sami question was about more than linguistic and reindeer herding rights. While Oslo based Sámi Sær'vi “agreed entirely with the statement”417 of the Council, the Finnmark Sami Council stated that “the demarcation of a special Lapp area in Norway where the Lapps could be granted rights as the indigenous population” was “unthinkable” because of non­Sami immigration, and it “would have a restrictive effect on the development which the Lapps in Norway desire.” However, it also stated that it was “essential for the mother­country to recognize that the Lapps have lost the opportunity for creating an economic basis for their cultural development” and called for “sufficient means annually at the disposal of the Lapps, to form a basis for their intellectual and cultural enhancement.”418

The idea of a Sami core area In 1956 the government established a Sami Commitee to examine the Sami question and propose cultural, social and economic measures for the betterment of the Sami. While there was already a change in language policy under way, this was the first time a government­initiated committee was set up to discuss the state of affairs and future strategies for the Sami. The Sami Committee's most controversial proposal was to establish a Sami “core area” in Inner Finnmark, based on Karasjok, Kautokeino and Polmak, and the surrounding districts of Nesseby, Tana and Kistrand. The core area would have its own policing, court system and administration run mainly by Sami. The Committee argued for the inclusion of the Sami in majority society in a way that made them secure and proud of their own culture, language and history. While the Sami language was not the only mark of difference between minority and majority society, many had lost it because of years of Norwegianisation. The Committee argued that to establish a Sami core area was crucial for the Sami language to survive. In Inner Finnmark it was still the dominant language at home and in public in the 1950s. For the Sami to develop as a society, with its great variety of Sami­speakers and non­Sami speakers, fishers­farmers, reindeer herders and workers, it was important to create unity, strengthen solidarity and provide a stable economic foundation which included the different livelihoods and developed new ones. For Sami to break out of the existing

416 Ibid., pp. 5­6. 417 Ibid., p. 10. 418 Ibid, pp. 12­13. 114 ethnic hierarchy and take over the local administration and local politics, the Committee stressed the importance of education, and envisaged that a Sami intellectual elite would take a leading role in the future of their people. Moreover, it emphasised that there was not one development path but many, and that the Sami would have to find their own way, but the Committe was influenced by and drew inspiration from different sources, such as Native American schooling and the language policy in Wales.419 While taking a strong geographical approach to the Sami question, the Committee recommended to replace the Finnmark Sami Council with a Norwegian Sami Council to represent all Sami nationally, which was an acknowledgment of the Sami as a national, not only regional, minority. However, the new national council was not elected by the Sami, but made up of Sami representatives chosen by county governors. It called for a government­led commission including Sami representatives to deal with the land question, but proposed compensation for lost grazing land and that a Sami Fund to be controlled by the Sami Council receive a share of mining profits. 420 Its recommendations were political, economic and social measures to secure Sami livelihoods and reduce the socio­economic gap by regulating fisheries and reindeer husbandry, restricting sales of state­owned land, and providing financial assistance. It demanded an end to the Norwegian language and name clause of the 1902 Land Sales Act and put forward special measures, such as giving the Sami priority to buy and lease land, and recognition of their user rights of natural resources. Many of the ideas were demands that Per Fokstad and others had put forward in the 1920s: for example, to reintroduce Sami place names, establish a Sami research institute, expand and subsidise Sami media, more Sami teaching materials, more Sami books for local libraries, priority for Sami in employment. The idea of establishing a Sami core area was not new. As we have seen in the previous chapter, the Sami activist Elsa Laula Renberg had demanded the recognition of Sami land ownership north of the dividing line in Sweden in the early 1900s. While demands for the recognition of Sami land rights were on the pan­Sami agenda in the 1950s, the Sami Committee concentrated on selling the idea of a Sami core area to consolidate Sami language and society by state subsidies and economic development. This stoked fears in Finnmark of a “Sami reservation”. At a meeting in Karasjok in April 1960, 87 of the 89 Sami present agreed to the so­called “Easter Resolution”, which made it clear to the government their opposition to the Sami Committee and its recommendation of a Sami “core area”. They stated that they felt as one with the rest of

419 Komiteen til å utrede samespørsmål, Instilling, Kirke­ og undervisningsdepartementet, Indre Smaalenenes Trykkeri, Mysen, 13 August 1959, pp. 19­21, 32­38. 420 Ibid, pp. 35­36. 115 the population and had never asked for special rights or obligations. They fully supported the Committee's economic recommendations of modernisation and improvements in agriculture and reindeer husbandry, which they pointed out had already been suggested by the county council. But they called for an abolition of the Finnmark Sami Council because, in their experience, such bodies worked against their wishes and interests and they found such elitism and tutelage hurtful and unnecessary. While emphasising that they, like everyone else, loved their mother tongue, they saw no future for it, and believed that using it in schools would be a “fatal step backwards” and create great difficulties for young people. If some parents wished otherwise, there should be separate Sami­language classes.421 The “Easter Resolution” must be seen against the background of decades of Norwegianisation and as a local protest against the growing Sami movement. It was authored by Hans Rønbeck, the leader of the Karasjok branch of the Labour Party and a staunch believer in assimilation. During the 1959 municipal and state elections, he effectively used local fears and confusion over the future of Sami society in the local power struggle.422 By that time Rønbeck's views of assimilation were well known in Finnmark. In an interview in a local newspaper in 1957 he had said that:

I am fully aware that there exist some romantics who are working for a purifying of the Sami race and Sami language. But if that should be the aim, then isolation must be the means, and it will inescapably lead to stagnation for the whole Sami population, and the Samis are fortunately aware of that themselves. Therefore they don't wish to go that way either. They wish a free and natural development which necessarily leads to the Sami language dying out and the Sami population being assimilated into the Norwegian. That is however a development which has been going on for a long time, and the Samis will suffer most if there are attempts to stop it.423

During the election campaign – before the Commitee's report was published –

421 'Resolusjon til Den Norske Regjering', 9 April 1960, Community Centre in Karasjok, attachment to Stortingsmelding nr. 21 (1962­63), Om kulturelle og økonomiske tiltak av særlig interesse for den samiske befolkningen, Kirke­ og undervisningsdepartementet, Oslo, p. 50. 422 H. Eidheim, Aspects of the Lappish Minority Situation, Occasional Papers in Social Anthropology, no. 14, Department of Social Anthroplogy, University of Oslo, Oslo, 1990, pp. 10­24; I. Bjørklund, 'Påskeresolusjonen i 1960 – Karasjoks etnopolitiske oppgjør', Heimen, vol. 48, no. 3, 2011, pp. 195­206. 423 Interview in Lofotposten 13 July 1957, quoted in S. Lund, op. cit., 2005, viewed 3 March 2016, 116

Rønbeck spread rumours that it would recommend setting up a “Sami reservation”, which was not unthinkable because it was known that the newly employed non­Sami principal at Karasjok's school, Bjørn Aarseth, had visited the USA to study education on Native American reservations.424 The residents of Karasjok were divided in the 1959 elections and the Easter Resolution was only narrowly supported by the municipal council, by a majority of eight to seven votes. But in Kautokeino a Sami “core area' was widely supported; the municipal council opposed the “Easter Resolution” and voted unanimously for a Sami area in Inner Finnmark. The NRL (the Reindeer Husbandry Association) too came out in favour of the Sami Committee's recommendations. The fear of a “Sami reservation” was not as great in Kautokeino, most likely because the Labour Party did not hold the same position as in Karasjok. It is also likely that people expected that the reindeer husbandry, which made up half of the municipal's tax income in the late 1950s, would be better protected in a Sami core area.425 The local political controversy made headlines nationally and received international attention too. When the Committee's recommendations were discussed in Parliament, the Sami question was high on the political agenda because in October 1960 the South African Minister for Foreign Affairs, Eric Louw, had criticised the Nordic states at the UN General Assembly for their treatment of the Sami:

The press of those two countries – particularly Sweden – has with one or two exceptions been carrying on a vindictive and malicious campaign against [South Africa]. I should say that the press campaign carried on there is one of the worst of any country in the world. [...] I put the question, have the Swedish and Norwegian delegations, whose governments are sponsors of the complaints against South Africa, come to this assembly with clean hands? Can these delegations, in all sincerity, say that discrimination is not, in fact, practised in respect of the small Lapp minorities in both countries?426

The “Easter Resolution” forced a much needed discussion within the Labour Party because, while politicans in Oslo pushed for a move away from the old assimilationist language policy, the Finnmark branch and newspapers opposed it. In response to such local opposition in Finnmark, the Department toned down the idea of a Sami core area and stated that the “Sami speaking population” is to have the same rights and

424 'Utdrag av undervisningsleder Bjørn Aarseths rapport vedrørende indianerskoler i U.S.A.', attachment to Instilling from Komiteen til å utrede samespørsmål, op. cit., 1959, p. 63. 425 Stortingsmelding nr. 21 (1962­63), op. cit., pp. 3, 15­16. 426 Quoted in Sellström, op. cit. 2006, p. 49. 117 obligations as “the Norwegian speaking population”, but that special measures were needed for the Sami language to survive.427 While the Committee introduced a subjective criterion of self­identification to the definition of who was and who was not a Sami, the Department consistently referred to the Sami as Sami­speaking Norwegians, thereby reducing identity and culture to a question of language.428 No major reform took place in Finnmark, but the 1959 municipal and state elections had raised the Sami question and in the 1963 elections a Sami political list was put forward in Karasjok for the first time.429 In 1965, the language clause in the 1902 Land Sales Act was abolished and the first national consultative body established when the Norwegian Sami Council replaced the Finnmark Sami Council in 1964. However, as it was bound to secrecy by Norwegian law, the new Council could not publish annual reports of its activities and therefore had no impact on public debate about Sami affairs.430

Australia: assimilation, equal rights and government neglect

The policy of assimilation In the Second World War, at least 3,000 Aboriginals and 850 Torres Strait Islanders enlisted to serve Australia overseas and at home.431 Aboriginals had fought for and proven their loyalty to King and country during World War One, but because that had not led to changes to discriminatory laws or improved living conditions, William Cooper's Australian Aborigines League adopted a “no enlistment without citizenship” approach during World War Two.432 But while Aboriginal men who were under protective legislation were exempt from conscription and could not enlist, for other Aboriginals the war offered opportunities: a family allowance, employment, higher income, driver's license, access to vehicles, proper medical treatment and better housing, clothing and food. Initially Aboriginals were not wanted by the Army. In Cape York, where missions were run by the Lutheran church and German influence was therefore strong, Aboriginals were looked upon with suspicion and had their loyalty questioned because of their traditionally close relations with Japanese fishers. The authorities feared

427 Ibid., p. 4. 428 A. B. Faaberg, Norsk minoritetspolitikk: Trekk frå 1960­ og '70­åras utvikling i samiske spørsmål, MA thesis, University of Oslo, 1984, p. 53. 429 Verdens Gang, 'Egen liste fra samene til kommunevalget', Wednesday 18 September 1963, p. 2. 430 Otnes, op. cit., 1970, p. 203. 431 Hall, op. cit., 1997, p. 60. 432 Cooper had lost a son on the battlefields in World War One. Ibid., p. 9. 118 that the Japanese would try to recruit people at missions. When the German foundation pastor of Hope Vale Mission was arrested and interned in 1940 and the mission closed, its Aboriginal population was forced to move south.433 The special Indigenous units set up to defend Australia's north against a Japanese invasion were paid little or nothing because, it was argued, their deep understanding of the local environment enabled them to fend for themselves. Torres Strait Islanders in the Torres Strait Light Infantry Battalion, established to patrol the undefended islands in the strategically important strait between Cape York and Papua New Guinea, received wages based on the pre­war pearling industry, but Aboriginals in the Northern Territory Special Reconnaissance Unit received only rations during their intensive training and three sticks of tobacco a week. The latter unit was established by the anthropologist Donald Thomson after 242 Japanese aircraft attacked Darwin in 1942. It was run as guerilla units of locals who patrolled their 1000 kilometers of coast on foot, carrying little but tomahawks, knives, fishing lines and hooks, and gathered their own bush tucker. Robert A. Hall writes that the “security of Arnhem Land was largely entrusted to them” during their sixteen months existence. They “possessed remarkably detailed knowledge” of unmapped areas, their “survival and bushcraft skills could not be matched” and they “surely formed one of Australia's most remarkable Army units.”434 Similar units operated across the north, on the Tiwi Islands, Cox Peninsula and Groote Eylant. It was only in 1992 that they finally received pay and recognition when they were awarded medals for their contribution during the war. Indigenous individuals who enlisted in the Army were usually treated by fellow non­Indigenous soldiers as equals, but the authorities, pastoralists and mission managers warned that equal pay for Indigenes would raise expectations and cause trouble after the war.435 The policy of “assimilation” was discussed by senior bureaucrats who attended the Native Welfare Conference in 1937, but on the assumption that not all Aboriginals were prepared for equal rights. They agreed that “the destiny of the natives of aboriginal origin, but not of the full blood, lies in their ultimate absorption by the people of the Commonwealth”.436 Under increased pressure after the war, federal and state

433 Ibid., pp. 117­119; see also K. Sanders, 'Inequalities of Sacrifice: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Labour in Northern Australia During the Second World War', Labour History, no. 69, 1995, 131­148. 434 Hall, op. cit., 1997, pp. 85, 98. 435 Quoted in ibid., p. 53. 436 Australian Government, Aboriginal Welfare: Initial Conference of Commonwealth and State Aboriginal Authorities held at Canberra 21 to 23 April 1937, Commonwealth Government Printer, Canberra, 1937, p. 2, viewed on 3 March 2016, 119 governments gradually dismantled openly racist legislation in the 1950s, but until 1972 there was no national Aboriginal policy and it was left to the states to define “assimilation”. C.D. Rowley described the 1937 Conference as the beginning of “a policy based on the assumption of progression”.437 In fact, since Protection Acts were implemented in the nineteenth century, a well established practice already existed of removing people of lighter skin colour off missions and stations to merge and disappear into majority society. For Aboriginals the memories and experience of assimilation go back to the beginning of colonisation.438 From their perspective, assimilation is experienced as ongoing colonial pressure, as an inherent drive in the colonial state to break down Aboriginal culture and society. Whether assimilation was justified in racial or cultural terms mattered less to Aboriginals than the continuous pressure to conform to the expectations of majority society. The move away from what Anna Haebich calls “biological assimilation” to “social assimilation” in the post­war period should not be exaggerated because it did not bring an an end to discrimination but merely changed the terms in which it was justified.439 While the former approach was race­based, aiming to “breed out” and “whiten” the Aboriginal population, segregating “full bloods” and encouraging marriages between “half­castes” and whites, “social assimilation” was linked to the idea of a universal humanity and an assumption that all people of different shades of skin colour could and would eventually be assimilated in majority society. Protection Boards were replaced by Welfare Boards, Protection Acts gave way to Welfare Acts, and the Director of Native Affairs became the Director of Welfare. In 1951 Paul Hasluck, the Minister for Territories, described assimilation as a “policy of opportunity”, unlike that of “segregation” which “opens the door into a peculiar and separate world of coloured people only.”440 At the Native Welfare Conference in 1961 Hasluck stated that the policy of assimilation meant that

all aborigines and part aborigines are expected eventually to attain the same

437 C.D. Rowley, The Destruction of Aboriginal Society: Aboriginal Policy and Practice: Volume 1, Australian National University Press, Canberra, 1970, p. 320. 438 J. Maynard, 'The Other Fellow: Fred Maynard and the 1920s Defence of Cultural Difference', in Contesting Assimilation, T. Rowse (ed.), API Network, Perth, 2005, p. 27. 439 A. Haebich, Spinning the Dream: Assimilation in Australia 1950­1970, Fremantle Press, Fremantle 2008, pp. 77­81. 440 Australian Government, Native Welfare: Meeting of Commonwealth and State Ministers held at Canberra 3 and 4 September 1951, Commonwealth Government Printer, Canberra, 1951, p. 5, viewed on 9 March 2016, 120

manner of living as other Australians and to live as members of a single Australian community enjoying the same rights and privileges, accepting the same responsibilities, observing the same customs and influenced by the same beliefs, hopes and loyalties as other Australians.441

The authorities believed that assimilation was a process that would take time. Hasluck compared the citizenship of Aboriginals with that of a “minor” who “may not be able to do everything that other inhabitants of Australia may be able to do, and may be protected and assisted in ways in which the adult is not protected and assisted.” 442 In the early 1960s, 40,000 of a total of 70,000 recognised Aboriginals were still under restrictive or protective legislation because it was believed to be “in their own interest”.443 The Northern Territory Welfare Ordinance of 1953 did not refer to race or Aboriginals but “wards” in need of “personal care”, but because those eligible to vote could not be declared “wards” it applied to Aboriginals mainly. In 1957, all but six of the 15,700 “full bloods” in the Northern Territory were registered as “wards”. 444 The Native Welfare Conferences agreed to welfare measures that would “encourage nomadic and semi­nomadic natives to adopt a more settled way of life” by making available better healthcare, housing, nutrition, schooling, vocational training and employment. If possible, children should be educated in “normal schools”, but otherwise in “special schools”. Training and employment were aimed particularly at Aboriginals making a “contribution” to “their own people” by taking up positions in healthcare, education and welfare.445 The “methods of advancing the policy” came from the belief that, by improving living standards and reducing socio­economic inequality, Aboriginals would become like everyone else. Hasluck stated that

any special measures taken for aborigines and part­aborigines are regarded as temporary measures not based on colour but intended to meet their need for special care and assistance to protect them from any ill effects of sudden change and to assist them to make the transition from one stage to another in such a way as will be favourable to their future social, economic and political

441 Statement by Paul Hasluck, the Minister for Territories in the House of Representatives, Native Welfare Conference, Thursday 20 April 1961, attachment to The Policy of Assimilaton: Decisions of the Commonwealth and State Ministers at the Native Welfare Conference, Canberra, January 26th and 27th, 1961, p. 1. 442 Ibid., p. 2. 443 Ibid., p. 7. 444 McGregor, op. cit., 2011, p. 85. 445 Hasluck, op. cit., 1961, pp. 2­3. 121

advancement.446

While the policy of assimilation was about Aboriginals leaving their culture behind, Russel McGregor writes that even “staunch assimilationists such as Hasluck not only tolerated, but encouraged, Aboriginal people to retain elements of their culture – particularly aesthetic elements and especially if these could be turned into profit.”447 However, Hasluck and his policy targeted the Aboriginal individual because “groups had a tendency to harden and become less penetrable than the individual.”448 While anthropologists such as E. P. Elkin questioned the government's individual­ oriented approach to assimilation, and had argued since the 1940s for a more collective­ based strategy which allowed Aboriginals to move forward as a group”, the authorities feared that missions and stations would become permanent.449 However, government officials acknowledged that they were “an essential ally in the advancement of native welfare” and that they could not easily be ignored or closed down because Aboriginals regarded them as home and often had nowhere else to go. 450 At the 1951 Native Welfare Conference, as many as seven different kinds of missions and stations were discussed – outpost stations, rural stations, buffer stations, town stations, stations for half­caste children, hostels for adolescents, special training centres. But they were all believed to be temporary and their main purpose was to elevate Aboriginals from one stage to another.451 While the Commonwealth did not have the power to legislate for Aboriginal people before after the 1967 referendum and could therefore not enforce a policy of assimilation, it was directly responsible for the Northern Territory and contributed some funding to the states.

Equal wages and land rights Indigenes became Australian citizens by birth under the 1948 citizenship legislation, but this was a mere technicality as they continued to be denied the franchise federally and in some states, were not counted in the national population census, and did not have the same access to social security as other citizens.452 With the impact of the American civil

446 Ibid., p. 1. 447 McGregor, op. cit., 2011, p. 138. 448 P. Hasluck, Shades of Darkness: Aboriginal Affairs 1925­1965, Melbourne University Press, Carlton, 1988. pp. 131­132. 449 E, P. Elkin, Citizenship for the Aborigines: a National Aboriginal Policy, Australasian Publishing Co, Sydney, 1944, p. 40, quoted in McGregor, op. cit., 2011, p. 66. 450 Native Welfare Conference 1951, Agendum 6: Mission Stations. 451 Ibid. 452 J. Chesterman and B. Galligan, Citizens Without Rights: Aborigines and Australian Citizenship, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge and Melbourne, 1997. 122 rights movement in the 1950s and 1960s, there was for the first time widespread international pressure for equality of all individuals and an end to discrimination. Australian governments could not easily ignore such pressures, although Liberal Prime Minister Robert Menzies refused in the early 1960s to take a stand against South African apartheid, insisting that it was in internal matter.453 The combination of international pressure and domestic activism made federal and state governments dismantle discriminatory laws and grant civil rights, though there was no “watershed moment” when these were won.454 In the southern states, Aboriginals already had the right to vote when the federal vote was extended to all Aboriginals in 1962. In Queensland, the franchise was extended to all in 1965 but only made compulsory (as it was for non­ Indigenes) in 1983 . Many Aboriginals in NSW had enjoyed equal wages since the nineteenth century, but only after federal intervention in 1975 was racial discrimination removed from the regulation of Indigenous wages in Queensland.455 As late as 1986, seven Indigenous government employees from Palm Island took the Joh Bjelke­Petersen government to the Human Rights Commission demanding that they be paid the same rate as their non­ Indigenous colleagues; and only in 1999 did the Beattie government introduce the Underpayment of Award Wages process which made available a sum of $7,000 to underpaid Indigenous government employees who had worked on reserves in Queensland between 1975 and 1986.456 While some rights were fought for by Aboriginals and their supporters, others were promoted by non­Aboriginals for their own reasons. For example, protectors and mission managers, who collected and controlled social security payments on behalf of many Aboriginals, “were at the forefront of public pressure for the legislative inclusion of Aborigines in the social security system.”457 Nicolas Peterson writes that “it was widely known that for a number of stations 'breeding blacks' made the difference between a profitable and non­profitable enterprise in poor years.”458

453 J. Clark, Aborigines & Activism: Race, Aborigines & the Coming of the Sixties to Australia, University of Western Australia Press, Crawley, 2008, p. 67. 454 J. Chesterman, Civil Rights: How Indigenous Australians Won Formal Equality, University of Queensland Press, 2005, p. 18. 455 Ibid., pp. 10, 169. 456 J. Watson, Palm Island: Through a Long Lens. Aboriginal Studies Press, Canberra, 2010, p. 138. 457 J. C. Altman and W. Sanders, 'From exclusion to dependence: Aborigines and the welfare state in Australia', in Social Welfare with Indigenous Peoples, J. Dixon and R. P. Scheurell (eds.), Routledge, London, 1995, p. 210. 458 N. Peterson, 'Capitalism, culture and land rights: Aborigines and the state in the Northern Territory', Social Analysis, no. 18, December 1985, p. 88. 123

Andrew Markus argues that without “support from sections of the labour movement the progress made by Aborigines in the '60s would have been much slower and more difficult.”459 The first major strikes of Aboriginal workers were the result of cooperation between Aboriginal leaders, trade unionists, and the Australian Communist Party (ACP) as part of the national wave of post­war strikes, but were specific to Aboriginal needs and interests.460 Aboriginals had come into close contact with the trade union movement during the war when they were drawn into the workforce by the labour shortage. The unions had their own interests in supporting equal wages because, as more Aboriginals were proletarianised, they competed with white workers and their low pay drove down wages.461 Trade unionists and Communists played a crucial part in assisting Aboriginal leaders in drawing up demands for equal wages and better working and living conditions. The 1946 Pilbara strike in Western Australia, for example, was planned at a six weeks meeting in Skull Springs in 1942 which two hundred Aboriginal representatives from 34 different language groups attended,462 but did not take place until after the war in part because the trade unionist and Communist Don McLeod, one of its key organisers, followed instructions from Moscow to put strikes on hold until fascism in Europe was defeated. Without the support of the trade unions – 19 unions in Western Australia and seven federal unions – the Pilbara strike, which involved 25 pastoral stations, would have been “doomed to isolation and defeat.”463 The North Australian Workers Union (NAWU), run by Communists and representing 20% of the NT workforce, had orchestrated strikes in Darwin in the late 1940s but kept a low public profile because of the authorities' harsh clampdown on strikers in the Pilbara and the Menzies Liberal­Country Coalition government's attempt to ban the Community Party in 1950­51.464 Because of NAWU's influence in the north, Darwin was described as “Russia's only Australian colony”.465 Hasluck later wrote that “there were clear indications” that the interest shown in Aboriginals and actions of some Communists were to “stir up antagonism and to discredit Australia” internationally.466 The Aboriginal workers' strikes in Pilbara and Darwin between 1946 and 1951

459 Markus, op. cit., 1978, p. 156. 460 Jordan, op. cit., 2011, pp. 246­307. 461 Ibid., pp. 291­292. 462 M. Hess, 'Black and Red: The Pilbara Pastoral and Workers' Strike, 1946', Aboriginal History, vol. 18, no. 1, 1994, pp. 65­83, p. 71. 463 Jordan, op. cit., 2011, p. 286. 464 The day before workers refused to board trucks that took them to work in Darwin they contacted NAWU. Norris, 'North Australian Workers Union', p. 76, cited in Jordan, op. cit., 2011, pp. 294­295. 465 News Weekly, 12 May 1948, quoted in Douglas Jordan, op. cit., 2011, p. 288. 466 Hasluck, op. cit., 1988, p. 97. 124 were about more than wages. At the Berrimah Reserve, where Aboriginals were only allowed to visit Darwin collectively to go to the cinema once a week at night time, they demanded a minimum wage, better infrastructure and services (such as a government store and school for their children), freedom of movement and an end to discrimination and patronising policies.467 When pastoral workers walked off stations in the Pilbara at the beginning of the shearer season in 1946, they demanded better working and living conditions and recognition of McLeod as their representative.468 Michael Hess writes:

The central issue of the strike itself was the workers' right to organise, or more precisely to select representatives to negotiate on their behalf. Because this took place in a situation of colonial dominance this was not merely an industrial demand. It was also a political demand, which went to the heart of the system of 'protection' by asserting that the owners of the means of production and the agents of the state, which acted as their handmaiden, did not have the right to act on behalf of the people. Subsequently the strike led to the establishment of self­managing communities as some of the strikers sought to achieve control of their social and economic situations.469

Hess draws attention to the “pioneering role” of the self­supporting communities which were set up by Pilbara workers who did not return to pastoral stations after the strikes. These anticipated the “back to country” movement in the Northern Territory, to which I shall return in the next chapter, by twenty years.470 The dual struggles against discrimination and for rights to land came together in the 1960s when land became increasingly attractive to mining companies and Aboriginal workers would no longer accept the poor living and working conditions on the stations. The Yirrkala Bark Petitions, which the Yolngu sent to Parliament in 1963 to protest against the excision of their land for a bauxite mine, as well as the 1966 walk­off and strike by Aboriginal stockmen at Wave Hill station, marked a new era. Prospecting for minerals and mining had been forbidden on Aboriginal reserves in the NT until 1953, but Hasluck, who as Minister for Territories had the double responsibility of Aboriginal affairs and economic development of the NT, yielded to mining interests and made Aboriginal land available.471 A Trust Fund was set up to collect royalties from mining

467 Ibid., pp. 292­302. 468 Hess, op. cit., 1994, p. 73. 469 Ibid., p. 68. 470 Ibid., p. 82. 471 A. MacCallum, 'The compatibility of Hasluck's assimilation policy and mining on Aboriginal reserves in the Northern Territory: an illusion?', Melbourne Historical Journal, 125 companies so that reserves could pay their way,472 but the Yolngu protest showed that there was more to the land question than financial compensation. When 170 Aboriginals walked off Wave Hill Station in 1966, they stood up to one the world's largest beef empires, Vestey, a British pastoral company owning cattle stations in Australia, Brazil, Venezuela, Argentina, Uruguay and New Zealand. The strike was in protest against a “slow workers” clause and the three­years delay in the introduction of equal wages in the cattle industry after the 1965 Northern Territory Cattle Station Industry Award Case, popularly known as the Equal Wages Case. But it was also the beginning of a battle for a return of their land. Christine Jennett writes that the “Gurindji strike thus provides an instance in which protest on ethnic grounds evolved simultaneously with developing class consciousness.”473 The Gurindji strike is also an example of the tension between the struggles for equal rights and for Indigenous rights, which I will discuss further in the next chapter when I look at how governments tackled the transition to equal wages in the 1970s. The removal of a clause from the Cattle Industry (Northern Territory) Award which was used to prevent payment of equal wages to Aboriginal stockmen was a victory for the civil rights movement, but no Aboriginals were called as witnesses in the case and asked what they wanted, and the pastoralists did well out of the three­year transition period.474 The equal wages decision was a mixed blessing because higher wages soon led to increased unemployment among Aboriginals. Pastoralists had warned against massive unemployment when Aboriginals had to compete with non­Aboriginals for jobs, but according to Hal Wotten, who was involved in the case as a young lawyer assisting the pastoralists and later became a judge of the NSW Supreme Court and a legal expert in Aboriginal affairs, the Commonwealth “did very little about it”.475

Invisibilisation, Freedom Rides and the 1967 Referendum In the early post­war era, nobody could have foreseen the Indigenous revival that would begin in the 1960s. It went against all mainstream development theories which carried with them the assumption that, in time, everybody would become part of and embrace what majority society had to offer. The southern states were a model for the future of the

vol. 38, 2010, pp. 116­122. 472 Hasluck, op. cit., 1988, p. 113. 473 C. Jennett, 'Aborigines, Land Rights and Mining', in Essays in the Political Economy of Australian Capitalism: Volume 5, E. L. Wheelwright and K. Buckley (eds.), Australia & New Zealand Book Company, Sydney & Melbourne, 1983, p. 128. 474 F. Hardy, The Unlucky Australians, Rigby, Adelaide, 1976, p. 16. 475 Hal Wootten quoted in B. Bunbury, It's not the Money It's the Land: Aboriginal Stockmen and the Equal Wages Case, Freemantle Arts Centre Press, North Freemantle, 2002, p. 104. 126 more segregated north. Tasmania and Victoria, for example, did not attend the 1951 Native Welfare Conference because they believed that the Aboriginals within their borders were well integrated. The “last of the Tasmanians” and last “full­blood”, Truganini, had died in 1876, and the remaining descendants of Aboriginals on Cape Barren Island were subject to few discriminatory laws. A 1944 government inquiry into the future of the island recommended that residents become self­sufficient agriculturalists but the idea was abandoned because the new Commonwealth definition of Aboriginals excluded so­called “octoroons”. The authorities assumed that there were no Aboriginals left on the island and thus there was no need for a special reserve. People of Aboriginal descent were instead encouraged to leave Cape Barren Island.476 The idea of assimilation invisibilised lighter skinned Aboriginals in the south and deprived them of a public identity, but in 1961 Tasmania's Director of Social Services, G. C. Smith, decided to attend the Native Welfare Conference and acknowledged that “perhaps we have not recognized that there are special Aboriginal elements in our problem in Tasmania and we should be giving more attention to them.”477 It is noteworthy that at the height of the policy of assimilation new reserves were established: Murrin Bridge station in NSW was established in 1948. As Aboriginals moved to and congregated in larger towns and cities, it became increasingly clear to the authorities – and anthropologists too – that people of mixed descent were not assimilating and simply disappearing into majority society but were maintaining and developing a distinct culture which was different from that in the remote and more recently colonised north but nonetheless Aboriginal.478 Gaynor Macdonald writes:

Assimilationist policies failed not because the Aboriginal people did not desire an improvement in material living standards and economic opportunities but because Anglo­Australians equated this, as many still do, with acceptance of and conformity to middle class Anglo­Australian lifestyles as well.479

The Federal Council for Aboriginal Advancement (FCAA), established in 1958 by the three Aboriginal activists Herbert Groves, Jeff Barnes, and Doug Nicholls with their mostly Christian, student, trade unionist and Communist supporters, focused its

476 Bringing Them Home, op. cit., p. 95. 477 Australian Government, Native Welfare Conference, Parliament House, Canberra, 26 and 27 January 1961, Verbatim Record of Proceedings, 1961, p. 14. 478 See for example J. A. Beckett, Study of Aborigines in the pastoral west of New South Wales, MA thesis (1958), Oceania Monograph no. 55, University of Sydney, 2005. 479 Macdonald, op. cit., 2010, p. 60. 127 campaign on achieving civil rights for Aboriginals.480 The first major student demonstrations in the big cities in the south in the 1960s were inspired by the American Civil Rights movement, with activists demanding that the Menzies government take action against South African apartheid.481 It quickly became clear that Australia had its own race problem, but one different from the African­American struggle for civil rights because Aboriginals also wanted recognition of their rights to land. Thus it was only in the 1960s that white activists realised the importance of land to Aboriginals and assisted them in campaigning for it.482 Liberal ideas of universal equal rights were not always tailored to the needs and interests of Aboriginals and used by governments to reinforce paternalistic policies which split communities and families. The dilemma many Aboriginals faced was brought to the attention of the public when the well­known artist, Albert Namatjira, from the Lutheran Missions at Hermannsburg in Central Australia was sentenced for supplying alcohol (which Namatjira, as one of the few full Australian citizens among Northern Territory Aboriginals, was free to purchase) to an Aboriginal friend (and ward of the state) in 1958. Namatjira escaped himself being declared a ward under the 1953 Northern Territory Ordinance only because of a national campaign, but to him citizenship “was nothing more than a terrible burden” because it set him apart from family and community. The great irony was that if he “were declared a ward, then he would be identified as an Aborigine, but as citizen, he would lose the right to live as an Aboriginal person.”483 The problem was not confined to the segregated north. In New South Wales Aboriginals were left with the choice of living among other Aboriginals under the patronising government control of the missions and reserves, or to apply for exemption cards or citizenship certificates, popularly referred to as “dog licences”, to lead an assimilated life.484 At the Native Welfare Conference in 1961, it was acknowledged that the success of assimilation depended not only on the individual Aboriginal but on majority society, and that governments had a role to play in facilitating the transition. “Methods of Advancing the Policy” included

480 S. Taffe, Black and White Together: FCAATSI: The Federal Council for the Advancement of Aborigines and Torres Strait Islanders 1958­1973, University of Queensland Press, St. Lucia, 2005, pp. 3­14. 481 Clark, op. cit., 2008, p. 33. 482 Taffe, op. cit., 2005, p. 166. 483 J. T. Wells and M. F. Christie, 'Namatjira and the burden of citizenship', Australian Historical Studies, vol. 31, no. 114, 2000, pp. 110, 120. 484 Goodall, op. cit., 1996, p. 193. 128

Positive steps to ensure awareness in the community that implementation of the policy of assimilation is not possible unless advanced aborigines and part aborigines are received into the community and accepted without prejudice, and to ensure, as far as possible, that the community plays its full part.485

While federal governments published leaflets that promoted equality and unity they failed to clamp down on the daily practice of discrimination, especially in rural areas. Well­established racist practices and attitudes in the NSW countryside were revealed in 1965 when the activist and first Aboriginal university graduate Charles Perkins and a group of Sydney University students embarked on a “Freedom Ride”.486 Inspired by the American Freedom Rides, they challenged the existing segregated order in rural towns north of Sydney, such as Moree and Walgett, where Aboriginals were denied access to swimming pools, pubs, clubs, shops, cinemas and cafes. The students documented the poverty and lack of services in communities placed outside of or on the fringes of country towns, and the hostile reaction from townspeople and mayors who refused to be told by young university students from the city how to treat the local Aboriginals. The Mayor of Moree, Alf Sadlier, defended the council's policy of banning Aboriginals from the local thermal baths and Memorial Hall because, as he saw it, the “aboriginal question was a local matter and it had nothing to do with anybody else in the Commonwealth.”487 The 1967 Referendum was important because it made the Aboriginal question a national issue and gave the Commonwealth legislative powers to override discriminatory state laws in Australia's “deep north”, in Queensland, and the south. The 1965 Freedom Rides revealed that, after twenty years of a government policy of “assimilation” there was still embedded racism in NSW towns just a few hours drive north west of Sydney. For many Aboriginals who were not until then counted in the national population census, the 1967 Referendum has come to symbolise the “moment” in modern history which led to citizenship. While federal governments were not responsible for state policies and could not easily undo discriminatory laws overnight after the Referendum, they could have used their direct powers over the Northern Territory to set an example in the 1950s and 60s.

485 Hasluck, op. cit., 1961, p. 74. 486 A. Curthoys, Freedom Ride: a Freedom Rider Remembers, Allen & Unwin, Crows Nest, 2002. 487 Quoted in ibid., p. 120. 129

Summary

The post­war decades were an era of unprecedented economic growth and prosperity all over the West, a “golden era” of capitalism and liberalism which, in sharp contrast to the inter­war era of economic depression, should have provided the perfect backdrop for the policy of assimilation of their impoverished and marginalised Indigenous minorities then pursued in both Norway and Australia, as indeed the heightened sensitivity to ethnic and racial discrimination should have enabled rapid progress towards equal rights. Yet, as we have seen in this chapter, any improvements in the situation of the Indigenous minorities remained patchy and uneven in both countries. In Norway, the Sami benefited from the post­war economic boom much more than Australian Aboriginals because Norwegian governments pursued a state­led policy of regional economic development to rebuild the war­ravaged far north. The Sami villages were treated as an integral part of the future of a geopolitically and strategically important region. Much less government attention was given in Australia to Aboriginal missions and communities because they were seen as transitory on the road to assimilation and were located in remote regions of little national significance. Nor did Australian Commonwealth governments show any urgency in dismantling discriminatory laws, despite growing pressure at home and abroad. In 1961 there were only about 40,000 Aboriginals under some form of protective legislation. To significantly improve the lives of 40,000 people would have been inexpensive at a time of rapid economic growth when the annual intake of immigrants was double that figure. But racism and discrimination were so entrenched in Australia that a much more active role by federal and state governments was required to tackle it. It was left to the Aboriginals themselves and their supporters to put Indigenous issues on the national political agenda through their epic confrontotations with powerful mining companies and beef empires. The importance of the rural vote in North Norway, an overlapping community of interests between Sami and non­Sami in the region, and local political strongholds gave the Sami a position of relative political strength, compared to the virtual disenfranchisement of Australian Aboriginals. But state­led regional development also exposed tensions among the Sami with many fearing what a Sami “core area” could lead to. The Sami Committee's recommendation of such an area was highly controversial within the Labour Party because its Finnmark branch opposed any move away from assimilationism. Thus Parliament in Oslo could safely ignore the Sami Committee's most radical recommendations by pointing to local Sami opposition in Karasjok and continue to treat the Sami as a linguistic minority in need of little more than economic 130 development and increased living standards. While there was a change in attitude to the use of the Sami language in the post­war period, neither this new cultural recognition nor the state­led economic development eradicated the persistent social problems and racism revealed by the Eidheim study, or alter the existing land arrangements under which the reindeer husbandry continued to lose out.

131

CHAPTER FIVE. INTO THE POLITICAL MAINSTREAM

Introduction

The Indigenous revival of the late 1960s and early 1970s was entirely unforeseen as it went against the mainstream expectation that, in time, Indigenes would be assimilated into increasingly homogenous nation states and seize to identify as Indigenous. We have already observed in the previous chapter the importance of the American Civil Rights movement as an inspiration for Aboriginal rights activism in the 1960s, and we shall see in this chapter how the Alta Affair a decade later resonated with the growing environmentalist movement of the 1970s. Historians, anthropologists and social commentators often underestimate the impact of the student radicalism and the global social activism of the 1960s and 1970s on Indigenous movements. Attempting to write Indigenous people back into national history in order to correct the “cult of forgetfulness,”488 there is a tendency to give greater weight to the agency of activists, Indigenous distinctiveness and internal motivations than to external influences, changes in the broader political climate and political alliances.489 Sami and Aboriginal activists found a common ground as “Indigenous” and demanded social, political, economic and cultural recognition, but being few in numbers they could not do it on their own. The

488 W. E. H. Stanner, 'The Boyer Lectures: After the Dreaming', in The Dreaming & Other Essays, Black Inc., Melbourne, 2009. 489 For example, Heather Goodall argues in Invasion to Embassy (1996) that Indigenous resistance grew out of specific local conditions and the dispossession of land. Although she acknowledges the importance of the American Black Power Movement, she downplays the race issue and barely mentions the 1965 Freedom Ride. Johanna Perheentupa's PhD thesis, “To be Part of an Aboriginal Dream of Self­determination”: Aboriginal Activism in Redfern in the 1970s (University of New South Wales, Sydney, 2013), follows in the same pattern. Bain Attwood in Rights for Aborigines (2003) and Russel McGregor in Indifferent Inclusion: Aboriginal People and the Australian Nation (2011) situate Indigenous resistance in a broader context, but they do not go beyond its peak in the early 1970s (nor does Goodall). It should also be mentioned that in the 1980s questions of representation were raised and many non­Aboriginal historians decided to leave it to Indigenes to write their own history. For a discussion of the “Aboriginal turn” in history see B. Attwood, 'The Founding of Aboriginal History and the forming of Aboriginal history', Aboriginal History, vol. 36, 2012, pp. 119­171. In Norway, anthropologists (and historians) have been more interested in Sami nation­building and the distinctiveness of Saminess (reindeer husbandry) rather than the Sami in a regional context. See for example articles in 'En nasjon blir til', Ottar, issue 4, no. 232, 2000, which is also a multimedia exhibition, Sápmi: nášuvdna riegada/en nasjon blir til/becoming a nation, viewed 13 April 2015, http://sapmi.uit.no/; For a critique of the "Tromsø anthropology" see V. Stordahl, 'Antropologi i den fjerde verden', Norsk antropologisk tidsskrift, issue 3, 1996, pp. 175­186. 132

UN and international law provided a platform for joint Indigenous action and international solidarity abroad and at home, and was useful for activists to put pressure on national governments. But the struggle for rights and recognition was a national political matter and small Indigenous minorities required the mobilisation of broader political support and the election of more sympathetic (or at least receptive) governments to achieve effective change. The rise of Indigenous issues to political prominence in the 1970s, the limitations of the progress made then, and the setbacks that followed in subsequent decades cannot easily be understood unless situated in a broader context. This chapter discusses Sami and Aboriginal movements and aspirations in the light of changes in majority society as the political activism (and optimism) of the 1960s and 1970s foundered upon countervailing movements and trends that coincided with the emergence of neoliberal economic policies. For Norway, the chapter covers the period before and after the Alta Affair, from the late 1960s until the 1980s. In Australia, from the late 1960s until the Howard government replaced Labor in 1996, marking the end of the policy era of “self­ determination” and the beginning of a conservative counter­attack which I will discuss in the final chapter. The 1970s is commonly seen as the beginning of Aboriginal “self­determination” but Aboriginals had very little say in the formulations of Labor Party policy as implemented by the Gough Whitlam government in 1972.490 The Whitlam government's approach marked a new era because for the first time there was a federal Aboriginal policy which aimed to give Aboriginal communities a place in the national project: reserves and missions were no longer seen as remnants of the past and mere training camps of assimilation, but as communities with a future. This marked a policy shift from the liberal­individualist post­war approach and its assumption that Indigenes would leave their kin and culture behind and assimilate into majority society. In Norway, too, reindeer husbandry was no longer believed to be doomed to extinction but put under government control in the mid 1970s, and herders were expected to find their place alongside farmers as state subsidised meat producers. But the Norwegian policy was not one of Sami “self­determination” but a regional policy. However, as the continuing

490 The policy of "self­determination" (1972­1975) was softened and renamed "self­ management" under the Malcolm Fraser Liberal National Country Coalition government (1975­1983), but the period is usually considered part of the policy era of "self­ determination". The Labor governments of Bob Hawke (1983­1991) and Paul Keating (1991­1996) increasingly spoke of “reconciliation”, but the policy era of “self­ determination” is often associated with the three Labor governments. (The Coalition consists of the Liberal Party and the National Party, which was called the Australian Country Party until 1975 and the National Country Party from 1975 to 1982.) 133

Indigenous protests in this period demonstrate, both Australia's “self­determination” and Norway's regional policy, despite the limited measure of cultural recognition, political dialogue and land rights they delivered, did not stop governments from undermining Indigenous livelihoods and identities in other ways.

Indigenous "self­determination"

The 1970s were a decade of activism and optimism. For the first time there was a direct link between the Sami and Aboriginals as they were both involved in setting up The World Council of Indigenous Peoples (WCIP) in 1975. At its 1981 Canberra conference, a delegation of fifty Nordic Sami could be seen marching alongside Indigenous Australians calling for “Land Rights Now!”.491 Together with activists from other colonised Indigenous minorities such as the Maori of New Zealand and Native Americans, they joined a worldwide movement demanding a recognition of their rights and opposing increased environmental degradation and encroachment on their historic homelands. Indigenous activists took their place in an international culture of protest comprising a variety of mainly youthful social movements with their own distinctive identity as expressed in language, clothing, music and art, addressing specific issues such as the environment, nuclear weapons and peace, the rights of women, gays, youth and ethnic and Indigenous minorities. Aboriginal activists shared with Sami activists the influence of Native Americans and the Red Power Movement, and literature such as the famous Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee (1970).492 Newly designed Sami and Aboriginal flags with colours and symbols reflecting Indigenous peoples' connections to land, water and sky contrasted with the Nordic flags with the Christian cross embedded in them and the Australian flag with its Union Jack paying tribute to the British imperial legacy. Days of commemoration were proclaimed to unite Indigenes over a shared past. Invasion or Survival Day on 26 January, which coincides with the official Australia Day, started with the 1938 Day of Mourning protest against the sesquicentenary celebration of the arrival of the First Fleet in Botany Bay 1788. The Sami “national day”, 6 February, marks the first Norwegian and Swedish Sami gathering in Trondheim 1917, while Sami activist and Labour politician Isak Saba's poem Sámi soga lávlla was adopted as the pan­Sami “national” anthem in 1986.493

491 H. Minde, 'Samesaken som ble en urfolkssak', Ottar, no. 232, 2000, pp. 34­35; O. M. Hætta, Samene: Nordkalottens urfolk, Høyskoleforlaget/Norwegian Academic Press, Kristiansand, 2002, pp. 196­197. 492 Minde, op. cit., 2003, p. 79; Heather Goodall, op. cit., 1996, p. 336. 493 See Chapter Three for Indigenous resistance in the first half of the twentieth century. 134

However, as Ronald Niezen observes:

Indigenous peoples often use the language and symbols of nation­states, not, I have argued, to assert claims of independent statehood, but to clarify for everyone, above all their own citizens, their continuing claims of self­ determination, based on the political integrity and autonomy of ancestors that preceded the formation or imposition of nation­states in and around their ancestral territories.494

The demand for “self­determination” became central to Indigenous resistance in the 1970s, although not – as is typically the case in the context of European nationalism from which the concept has historically sprung – for the purpose of secession. 495 As we saw in Chapter Three, “self­determination” was all but synonymous with national sovereignty and independent statehood. But when the Canadian Six Nations Chief Deskaheh travelled to Geneva in the early 1920s to seek recognition of his people as sovereign, membership in the League of Nations was simply to allow him to take Britain to the World Court. Likewise, the Australian Aboriginal Progressive Association (AAPA) used the language of “self­determination” at the same time, and Sami and Aboriginal activists spoke of separate regions in the north to envisage a form of internal self­ determination or autonomy within the colonial states. The United Nations after the World War Two applied the “salt water thesis”, limiting the right to self­determination to overseas colonies because extending it to internally colonised minorities would violate the territorial integrity of its own members.496 But the term was often understood differently, for example by Native Americans in the USA after 1964 when the Federal Government began to channel funding for various community programs directly to tribes, rather than via the Bureau of Indian Affairs.497 In 1970, President Richard M. Nixon introduced the policy of “self­determination”, which was later signed into law as the Indian Self­Determination and Educational Assistance Act of 1975. The Whitlam government followed in 1972, but what exactly the Prime Minister, government officials, bureaucrats, activists, organisations and communities meant by, and expected

494 R. Niezen, The Origins of Indigenism: Human Rights and the Politics of Identity, University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, 2003, p. 216. 495 McGregor, op. cit., 2011, pp. 173­182; J. Fenley, 'The National Aboriginal Conference and the Makarrata: Sovereignty and Treaty Discussions, 1979­1981', Australian Historical Studies, vol. 42, no. 3, 2011, pp. 372­389; Minde, op. cit., 2003, pp. 75­104. 496 P. Thornberry, Indigenous Peoples and Human Rights, Manchester University Press, Manchester, 2002, pp. 92­93. 497 C. Wilkinson, Blood Struggle: The Rise of Modern Indian Nations, W. W. Norton & Company, New York & London, 2006, p. 191. 135 from, the new policy of “self­determination” remained unclear and contested.498 There are difficulties applying the principle of “self­determination” to Indigenous minorities such as Sami and Aboriginals because, although they were treated as one by the colonisers and share a history of marginalisation on their land and discrimination, they do not make up one single nation but are composed of many extended family and language groups which were organised historically in siida (Sapmi) or “tribal” groups (Australia) with the purpose of regulating the use of, obligations towards, and responsibility for local natural resources (see Chapter One). In Australia, indeed, the now largely deprecated term “tribe” has been displaced by “nation” to denote local identities and their territories, in parallel with the broader quasi­national Aboriginal identity as symbolised by the omnipresent Aboriginal flag. Will Kymlicka makes the following distinction between stateless and Indigenous peoples historically:

As a rule, stateless nations were contenders but losers in the process of European state­formation, whereas indigenous peoples were entirely isolated from that process until very recently, and so retained a pre­modern way of life until well into this century. Stateless nations would have liked to form their own states, but lost in the struggle for political power, whereas indigenous peoples existed outside this system of European states.499

Fearing separatism, governments have rejected claims that Indigenous peoples have the right to self­determination according to Article 1 in the 1966 United Nations International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights which states that “All peoples have the right of self­determination”.500 They are uncomfortable with the use of “peoples” instead of “populations” in international law concerning Indigenes such as the 1989 ILO Convention Concerning Indigenous and Tribal Peoples in Independent Countries No. 169, because it might be read to imply a right to self­determination as a right to independent statehood.501 When the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples was agreed upon by 143 states in 2007, after over twenty years in the making and much

498 See for example J. Perheentupa, op. cit., 2013. 499 W. Kymlicka, 'American Multiculturalism and the ‘Nations Within’', in Political Theory and the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, D. Ivison and P. Patton et al. (eds.). Cambridge University Press, Cambridge & New York, 2002, p. 221. 500 E. Olli, 'President Egil Olli of the Sami Parliament', opening speech at conference about Sami self­determination, in J. B. Henriksen, (ed.), 'Sami Self­Determination – Scope and Implementation', Gáldu Čála/Journal of Indigenous peoples Rights, no. 2, Gáldu – Resource Centre for the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, Kautokeino, 2008, pp. 37­38; Vars, L. S. 'Political aspects of the Sami's right to Self­Determination', in ibid., pp. 63­66. 501 R. L. Barsh, 'An Advocate's Guide to the Convention on Indigenous and Tribal Peoples', Oklahoma City University Law Review, vol. 15, 1990, pp. 232­233. 136 debate, it was the first international agreement which stated that “Indigenous peoples have the right to self­determination. By virtue of that right they freely determine their political status and freely pursue their economic, social and cultural development.” But the Declaration itself infringes on this principle by ruling out “any action which would dismember or impair, totally or in part, the territorial integrity or political unity of sovereign and independent States.”502 The four former British settler colonies of Australia, Canada, USA and New Zealand, all run by conservative and centre­right governments at the time, initially voted against the Declaration, but Will Kymlicka argues that this opposition was “largely partisan” and the Declaration was later endorsed by successor governments (Labor in Australia and the Democrats in the USA): “the declaration is fully consistent with a liberal democratic conception of indigenous rights.”503 While the principle of “self­determination” in international law is important to many Indigenous leaders, Sami lawyer John B. Henriksen points out that in practice “the western nation state concept is not the most natural way of implementing or exercising the right of self­determination for the vast majority of indigenous peoples.”504 Douglas Sanders writes that for Indigenous minorities self­determination has come to mean “a degree of autonomy involving cultural, economic, and political rights within the structures of recognized states.”505 Without a prospect of establishing sovereign states in the forseeable future, it effectively means internal self­determination. However, internal self­determination poses challenges when applied to minorities such as the Sami and Aboriginals who live spread out across large territories (and even across state frontiers) but make up large numbers or the majority in sparsely populated areas. Concepts of autonomy are often traced back to the Austrian socialists Karl Renner and Otto Bauer who in the early twentieth century proposed a model of “national­cultural autonomy” for the many ethnic minorities in the Austro­Hungarian state (Germans, Czechs, Slovaks, Italians, Hungarians, Poles, Romanians, Serbs, Croats etc.). Their idea was that with urbanisation geography would become irrelevant and individuals would choose to join cultural associations which raised their own taxes and administered education and culture in a multi­national federation.506 However, such a model of de­

502 Article 3 and Article 46 (1) in the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. 503 W. Kymlicka, 'Comments', in F. Merlan, 'Indigeneity: Global and Local', Current Anthropology, vol. 50, no. 3, June 2009, p. 324. 504 J. B. Henriksen, 'Implementation of the right of Self­Determination of Indigenous Peoples', Indigenous Affairs, no. 3, 2001, p. 14. 505 D. E. Sanders, 'The UN Working Group on Indigenous Populations', Human Rights Quarterly, vol. 11, no. 3, August 1989, p. 429. 506 A. S. Leoussi (ed.), Encyclopaedia of Nationalism, Transaction Publishers, New Jersey, 137 territorialised cultural autonomy presupposes that “culture” can be separated from its material (including, especially in the case of Indigenous peoples, territorial) foundations and reduced to language and some ritual practices. Forms of territorial autonomy are more promising because they do not de­link culture from land, but that model also has its problems because it excludes Indigenes who for historical reasons (voluntary migration or dispossession) no longer live in Indigenous core areas. As we shall see in this chapter and the following, solutions for Indigenous minorities are often found in a combination of cultural and territorial autonomy, depending on local conditions and how far national governments are willing to go in recognising Indigeneity.

Australia: the Whitlam to Keating era

Aboriginal activism and the policy of "self­determination" As we saw in Chapter Four, post­war Aboriginal resistance grew out of the early 1940s workers' strikes in the Pilbara and Darwin and the 1960s Civil Rights Movement. In the run up to the 1967 Referendum, it was dominated by demands for equal rights but the underlying importance of land was evident in the Gurindji walk­off at Wattie Creek in 1966. There was an expectation by governments that, with education and training, Aboriginals would help their own people: they did this but not quite in the way expected. With urbanisation, access to better education and employment Aboriginals were drawn into trade union and student activism, and began to organise, assert their difference and oppose government policies. While there were few Aboriginal activists in the 1960s, and the Aboriginal struggle was largely defined by white supporters such as church leaders, trade unionists and students, this changed in the 1970s when Aboriginal activists challenged the white leadership of the Federal Council for the Advancement of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders (FCAATSI) and set up their own community organisations (although still cooperating with white activists).507 Aboriginal activist, dock worker and trade unionist Chicka Dixon described the rapid changes in Sydney in the early 1970s as more people took to the streets:

Looking back on the movement, from the time we went on the 1963 Freedom Rides to Moree and Walgett, things have changed tremendously. In those days you could only get two blacks involved – me and Charlie Perkins – with a lot of white students on a bus. Today when you ask blacks to move on a certain

2001, p. 213. 507 Taffe, op. cit., 2005, pp. 219­313. 138

issue, you can get a heap of them. But not then. Even up until '68 when we tried to march 'em down George [street] to support the Gurindjis, you could count the blacks on your fingers, or, at the most, fifteen or twenty. Now you can muster 600 or more, so the pendulum has swung.508

Aboriginal activists in Sydney were inspired by Charles Perkins' 1965 Freedom Ride which some of them had observed a few years earlier in rural NSW, and met at The Foundation for Aboriginal Affairs (FAA), which Perkins and others had set up in 1964 as a centre to assist newly arrived Aboriginals with work and housing.509 A handful of angry young radicals in the major cities, such as Gary Foley in Sydney, Sam Watson in Brisbane and Bob Maza in Melbourne, were disillusioned with the little progress made after the 1967 Referendum and turned to the American Black Panthers whom they could readily relate to because of similar problems of overcrowding, unemployment, lack of education, poor health, discrimination and poverty.510 For example, Aboriginals complained that they could not walk the streets of Redfern and surrounding suburbs after the 10pm unofficial police curfew without being pulled over, harassed and assaulted by the police. Kathy Lothian writes that there was “immense anger” among urban Aboriginals in the 1960s and “the parallels between the American Black Panther Party activities and the needs of their own communities were unmistakable.”511 The Party attracted few members but boosted black pride and provided practical solutions and community programs which were used by many more. After Professor Hal Wootten, the Dean of the Law Faculty at the University of New South Wales, was invited by Aboriginal activists to witness the police in action in Redfern one evening, he immediately agreed to set up the Aboriginal Legal Service in NSW in 1970, and an “overwhelming number” of white barristers and lawyers quickly volunteered their skills.512 The first community services set up in Redfern, based on the model of the American Panthers' survival programs such as the free breakfast program and medical and legal services, depended on white support and professional skills because there were no Aboriginal lawyers, medical doctors and nurses at the time.513 Charles Perkins was the first Aboriginal male to graduate from

508 Quoted in K. Gilbert, Because a White Man'll Never Do It, A&R Classics, Harper Collins Publishers, Sydney, 2002, p. 32. 509 G. Foley, 'Black Power in Redfern 1968­1972', The Koori History Website, 5 October 2001, viewed on 17 February 2016, 510 Ibid.; K. Lothian, 'Seizing the Time: Australian Aborigines and the Influence of the Black Panther Party, 1969­1972', Journal of Black Studies, vol. 35, no. 4, March 2005, pp. 179­ 200. 511 Ibid., pp. 189, 195. 512 Ibid., pp. 190­197. 513 Perheentupa, op. cit., 2013. 139 university in 1966, and it took a few years for others to follow. Although Aboriginal activism grew out of the 1960s Civil Rights Movement, in the decade that followed it was closely aligned with social movements and a new generation of activists who were more interested in minority rights, multiculturalism and environmentalism than class and race. They were critical of the Old Left's drive for legal equality which they saw as neglecting Indigenous difference. Heather Goodall describes them as hippies influenced by anarchist, libertarian traditions, sensitive to cultural difference, concerned with environmental destruction and drawn to pre­capitalist cultures which did not emphasise material accumulation or social competition.514 The Aboriginal Panthers did not call for compensation for slavery but “restitution for the armed robbery of our land, which is the social, cultural and economic base of any people”.515 They shared with Native Americans and other Indigenous minorities the experience of dispossession of land. For example, when George Manuel, President of the National Indian Brotherhood, returned to Canada after visiting Australia and New Zealand in 1971, he wrote that he hoped that their “common history” and “shared values” would be the seeds to grow an alliance of Native Peoples, which eventually materialised when the WCIP was set up in 1975.516 Goodall stresses the importance of local conditions and the ongoing struggle for land in NSW, which was brought out to a wider audience via national and international media when a group of young activists “from communities scarred by the loss of their lands” drove from Sydney to Canberra on the eve of Australia Day 1972 , in a car provided by supporters of the Communist Party, and pitched a beach umbrella on the grass lawn outside Parliament House. The umbrella was replaced by tents, the so­called Aboriginal Tent Embassy, and Aboriginal activists demanded “Land Rights Now Or Else”.517 Nicolas Peterson argues that the worldwide mining boom starting in the 1960s forced “governments to face the unresolved nature of the legal, political and economic relations” with Indigenous peoples, which explains “why the three major land claim settlements in America, Canada and Australia all took place within the period 1971­ 1976.”518 The Tent Embassy activists protested against Liberal Prime Minister William

514 Heather Goodall, op. cit., 1996, p. 326. 515 Quoted in ibid., pp. 187­188. 516 Report on the National Indian Brotherhood's Tour of New Zealand and Australia, National Indian Brotherhood, Ottawa, 1971, p. 26, quoted in D. E. Sanders, 'The formation of the World Council of Indigenous Peoples', IWGIA Document, no. 29, International Working Group for Indigenous Affairs, Copenhagen, 1977, pp, pp. 7­8. 517 Goodall, op. cit., 1996, pp. 338­339. 518 N. Peterson, 'Capitalism, culture and land rights: Aborigines and the state in the Northern Territory', Social Analysis, no. 18, December 1985, pp. 94­95. 140

McMahon's Australia Day speech in which he ruled out a recognition of land rights after the recent NT High Court decision acknowledging that the Yirrkala people had a spiritual relationship with their traditional homeland but concluding that this did not amount to property rights under Australian law. Disillusioned with the legal system, Aboriginal activists called for political solutions, and put forward a five­point plan demanding Aboriginal ownership of reserves, settlements and urban areas (including ownership of subsurface minerals), preservation of sacred sites, compensation for lost land and statehood in the Northern Territory (which was under Commonwealth control).519 While the government offered communities leasehold on land, the Minister for the Environment, the Arts and Aborigines, Peter Howson, insisted that land rights was “alien to native thought”. The Minister for the Interior, Ralph Hunt, complained that the Embassy was infiltrated by the socialist left, and in July violent clashes broke out between hundreds of demonstrators and many more ACT police who, authorised by the government, ripped up tents and tried to close down the Embassy: the first removal involved 150 police against 70 demonstrators, and the second 360 police against 200 demonstrators. The Embassy was re­erected four times and two thousand supporters turned up to the largest demonstration in Canberra.520 The Tent Embassy signalled that Aboriginals regarded themselves as aliens on their own land and therefore needed an embassy to represent their interests. 521 It was the first urban­initiated pan­Aboriginal protest which drew people from communities across Australia, and students, tourists, journalists, Soviet diplomats, Native American activists and the IRA visited during its nine months existence.522 It made headlines across the world and the international shaming of Australia put the government and the Labor Party, then in opposition, under pressure. In his policy speech for the 1972 elections Whitlam, who had visited the Embassy and criticised the Coalition for not recognising land rights, said that

The Aborigines are our true link with our region... Australia’s treatment of her Aboriginal people will be the thing on which the rest of the world will judge Australia and Australians – not just now, but in the greater perspective of

519 S. Robinson, 'The Aboriginal Embassy: An Account of the Protest of 1972', Aboriginal History, vol. 18, no. 1­2, 1994, p. 52. 520 Ibid., pp. 54­62. 521 G. Foley, 'The Australian Labor Party and the Native Title Act', in Sovereign Subjects: Indigenous Sovereignty Matters, A. Moreton­Robinson (ed.), Allen & Unwin, Crows Nest, 2007, p. 123. 522 Robinson, op. cit., 1994, p. 52. 141

history.523

When Labor ended 23 years of conservative rule in December 1972 and introduced the policy of Aboriginal “self­determination”, it was one of several left­leaning progressive policies and initiatives at the time. Non­European immigration forced a debate about multiculturalism, Whitlam spoke of minority rights, and the “White Australia” policy was finally abolished when the last references to race were removed from immigration law in 1973. The government recalled Australian troops from Vietnam and abolished conscription; Advance Australia Fair replaced Britain's God Save the Queen as a national anthem and the government turned to Australia's neighbours in the Asia­Pacific, developing relations with Indonesia and restoring diplomatic ties with communist China; it introduced the national healthcare system (Medibank), boosted funding to hospitals and schools, established community health clinics and special health programs for women, and introduced the supporting mother's benefit; student university fees were abolished, accompanied by a means­based system of living allowances; and there was more money available for the arts.524 Within days of taking office as Prime Minister, Whitlam froze all applications for mining and exploration leases on Northern Territory reserve land and appointed Justice Edward Woodward to lead the Aboriginal Land Rights Commission, also known as the Woodward Commission, to determine how land rights could be recognised in the Northern Territory. Its recommendations eventually led to the Aboriginal Land Rights (Northern Territory) Act 1976, the country's “most far reaching peace of land rights legislation”, which was prepared by Labor and then modified and passed under Malcolm Fraser's Liberal Country Coalition government.525 The Whitlam government established the Aboriginal Land Fund Commission to buy back land also in urban areas which recognised that the land struggle was not confined to remote areas. For example, government funding and support enabled the Aboriginal Housing Company to purchase and renovate terraced houses in The Block in Redfern and stand up to white residents who launched a campaign against what they described as an inner city “ghetto”.526 The

523 Quoted in: L. Lippmann, Generations of Resistance: Aborigines Demand Justice (second edition), Longman Cheshire, Melbourne, 1992, p. 71. 524 T. Bramston (ed.), The Whitlam Legacy, The Federation Press, Sydney, 2013; P. Strangio, 'Instability, 1966­82' in The Cambridge History of Australia: Volume 2: The Commonwealth of Australia, A. Bashford and S. Macintyre (eds.), Cambridge University Press, Port Melbourne and New York, 2013, pp. 144­151. 525 J. Altman & K. Palmer, 'Land ownership and land use', in Macquarie Atlas of Indigenous Australia, B. Arthur and F. Morphy (eds.), The Macquarie Library, Macquarie University, Sydney, 2005, p. 142. 526 Perheentupa, op. cit., 2013, pp. 248­271. 142 passing of the Racial Discrimination Act 1975 was “the final step in the hard won acquisition of civil rights by Indigenous people in Commonwealth law”,527 and was later used to stop the long­serving, ultra­conservative Queensland Premier Joh Bjelke­Petersen from blocking the 1992 Mabo case. Before the Labor government was forced to resign in late 1975, Whitlam symbolically poured red sand into the hands of Vincent Lingiari when he handed over freehold title to land at Wattie Creek and ended the Gurindji's decade­long strike. During its three years in office, the Whitlam government established the Department of Aboriginal Affairs (DAA) and the National Aboriginal Consultative Committee (NACC) (1973­1977) with 41 elected members. It launched much­needed welfare programs and services, and made money available for the growing number of Aboriginal organisations: federal funding on Aboriginal Affairs tripled from $48 million in 1972/73 to $141 million in 1975/76.528 The Aboriginal Loans Commission provided enterprise loans for Aboriginal economic development, as well as private loans to repay debt and pay for medical, dental, education, housing and funeral and other expenses. For Indigenous Australians it was a time of optimism. They no longer tried to escape the race barrier: the number of people who identified as Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders increased by nearly 40% in only five years, from 116,000 in 1971 to 161,000 in 1976.529 However, “self­determination” as a policy remained ill­defined, and the Whitlam government applied it differently from what the Hawke government would do in the 1980s. Elliot Johnston, Commissioner of the Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody (RCIADIC), later wrote that it “is remarkable how a concept which is so widely recognised as being central to the achievement of the profound change which is required” is so difficult to define; governments “can genuinely believe that their policies give practical recognition to self­determination, and yet in the eyes of Aboriginal people the policies” fail to do so.530 For Whitlam “self­determination” was a political project: “to restore to the Aboriginal people of Australia the lost power of self­determination in economic, social and political affairs.”531 His newly appointed Minister of Aboriginal Affairs, Gordon Bryant, was more cautious when he defined it as “Aboriginal communities deciding the pace and nature of their future development within the legal,

527 Chesterman, op. cit., 2005, p. 179. 528 Broome, op. cit., 2001, p. 185. 529 D. Trewin, 2001 Year Book Australia, Australian Bureau of Statistics, ABS Catalogue no. 1301.0, Commonwealth of Australia, Canberra, p. 197. 530 Chapter 20 (2): 'What is self­determination?' in Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody (RCIADIC), National Report, 5 volumes, The Australian Government Publishing Service, Canberra, 1991. 531 Quoted in: Broome, op. cit., 2001, p. 185. 143 social and economic restraints of Australian society.”532 The policy marked a change from the assimilationist era because the government acknowledged that Aboriginal communities had a future, but critics have also characterised it as, in Tim Rowse's words, a “more respectful practice of assimilation.”533 However, among Aboriginals there were expectations that it was about more than social welfare and increased funding; that Whitlam, who had gone into the elections with the slogan “It’s time” and promised Aboriginals a “new deal”, would bring about real change. The main challenge to implementing the policy was the great variety of Indigenous communities. “Self­determination” was a national government policy and federal intervention in Aboriginal affairs was an old demand put forward by Aboriginal activists at the Day of Mourning in 1938 (see Chapter Three). The “Yes” victory in the 1967 Referendum gave the Commonwealth authority to legislate for Aboriginals in all states and implement a national policy. The newly created Aboriginal flag signified a common history of colonisation, but there was no national Aboriginal organisation or movement. With the exception of Charles Perkins, the Department of Aboriginal Affairs's (DAA) bureaucracy was largely white, but it was expected that it would be “Aboriginalised” in the future when more Aboriginals would be employed. However, Johanna Perheentupa shows that Aboriginal organisations in Redfern clashed with DAA officials who saw the new community services as temporary solutions rather than as permanent institutions for an urban society of Aboriginals who had no intention of giving up their identities and be mainstreamed.534 H. C. Coombs, Whitlam's political advisor and leader of the Council for Aboriginal Affairs (CAA), set up as a consultative body after the Referendum, described the urban “Aboriginal intelligentsia” as “the most interesting group to emerge from the political point of view in the whole of the Aboriginal community in Australia” but he believed that for the new policy to work it had to be locally based so that rural and remote voices were not lost.535 According to Sally Weaver, the organisation of “NACC was enthusiastically undertaken by the Aboriginal steering committee” composed of Aboriginals who had already been active in campaigns run by FCAATSI. Charles Perkins held 13 regional meetings across Australia and there was an “impressive” 78% turnout (of 36 338 registered to vote) at the first

532 Quoted in: Lippmann, op. cit., 1992, p. 59. 533 T. Rowse, 'Contesting Assimilation', in Contesting Assimilation, T. Rowse (ed.), API Network, Perth, 2005, p. 20. 534 Johanna Perheentupa, op. cit., 2013. 535 Quoted Rowse, Obliged to be Difficult: Nugget Coombs' Legacy in Indigenous Affairs, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2000, p. 106. 144 elections.536 Nonetheless, Tim Rowse points out NACC's dilemma:

NACC’s history began with a paradox: it was established by the Minister, and it drew resources from Treasury and the Minister’s pleasure, yet it was supposed to be the national vehicle by which the Minister was made responsive, if not held accountable, to Indigenous Australians.537

In the spirit of “self­determination”, Aboriginal activists pushed for centralisation and more decision­making power but every time they asked for it they were told that they could not have it. For example, when the NACC announced in February 1974 that it had changed its name to the National Aboriginal Congress and aimed to take control of the DAA, the second Minister of Aboriginal Affairs, Jim Cavanagh, called it a “laughing stock” and threatened to withhold the members' salaries.538 Eddie Bernell, a member of the NACC, complained that it “can do things for our people, but the white boss says 'you are not ready for that yet'. He is not ready to give us the money and let us walk on our land.”539 Weaver writes that “the DAA and the CAA felt that the NACC was premature”,540 but although NACC reflected Western ideas of political representation in a modern state rather than the decentralised and dispersed communities it was to represent, once it was set up, for the government to ignore and ridicule its demands, and to question its authority, showed the limits to “self­determination”. How to practice “self­determination”, renamed “self­management” by the Malcolm Fraser Liberal National Country Coalition (1975­1983), at a local level was also not clear. Expectations varied because of the many different communities involved but Gaynor Macdonald points out that it was the first policy which involved management of relations between Indigenous people themselves.541 John von Sturmer argues that, in contrast to post­war “assimilation” whose purpose was to proletarianise Aboriginals, “self­determination” aimed at “drawing them inexorably into the corporate State” either by recruiting individuals into the bureaucracy or involving Aboriginal organisations in decision­making.542 Although missionary and government rule left the administration to

536 S. M. Weaver, 'Australian Aboriginal Policy: Aboriginal Pressure Groups or Government Advisory Bodies?', Oceania, vol. 54, no. 1, September 1983, p. 6. 537 Rowse, op. cit., 2000, p. 114. 538 Canberra Times 7 February 1974 quoted in Weaver, op. cit., 1983, p. 8; 'Black congressmen 'off the payroll'', The Australian, Monday 11 February 1974. 539 Quoted in M. A. Franklin, Black and White Australians: An Inter­Racial History 1788­ 1975, Heinemann Educational Australia, South Yarra, 1976, p. 218. 540 Weaver, op. cit., 1983, p. 9. 541 Macdonald, op. cit., 2010, p. 60. 542 J. Sturmer, 'On the Notion of Aboriginality: A Discussion', Mankind, vol. 15, no 1, 1985, p. 48, quoted in R. Tonkinson and M. Howard, 'Aboriginal Autonomy in Policy and Practice: 145 white managers and was patronising, discriminatory and harsh, it also provided some structure.543 Thus when residents were suddenly expected to run what was now called “communities” they often lacked the experience and skills required to satisfy government expectations of budgets and procedures, and taking the government by its word and believing that they were exercising “self­determination”, often had different priorities. Robert Tonkinson writes that among the Martu on “Australia's last frontier” (WA), where most local Aboriginals had settled only in the post­war period, the new policy provided them with new skills and confidence in dealing with whites, but their nostalgia for missionaries, whom they had resisted,

speaks volumes for their deep­seated reluctance to take on what was thrust upon them in the name of 'self­determination' – much of which was the very domain they had long been excluded from but also sought strenuously to avoid.544

Philip Batty argues that, as governments withdrew their expertise, the policy was legitimised by Aboriginals who entered partnerships with a “more or less permanent administrative class of 'white advisors'” and authorised them to act on their behalf. 545 According to Gillian Cowlishaw, in the Rembarranga community in Arnhem Land known as Bulma “the idea of being rid of white men was new, but it was not to be realised. It was always planned that European management would end, but always more whitefellas arrived.”546 The government had no “experience of encouraging cultural autonomy” and, while Aboriginals were consulted when discussing new ideas and projects, “in reality the officials and advisers were there to gain authorisation to run the projects in ways they considered rational and efficient, and in accordance with budget guidelines.”547 Drawing people into the state bureaucracy and using Aboriginal organisations an introduction', in Going it Alone? Prospects for Aboriginal Autonomy: Essays in Honour of Ronald and Catherine Berndt, R. Tonkinson and M. Howard (eds.), Aboriginal Studies Press, Canberra, 1990, p. 71. 543 There were exceptions, for example Les Ridgeway took up a position as manager of Murrin Bridge Aboriginal Station in 1961. See J. Ramsland, The Rainbow Beach Man: the Life and Times of Les Ridgeway, Worimi Elder, Brolga Publishing, Melbourne, 2009. 544 R. Tonkinson, 'Aboriginal 'Difference' and 'Autonomy' Then and Now: Four Decades of Change in a Western Desert Society', Anthropological Forum, vol. 17, no. 1, March 2007, p. 45. 545 P. Batty, 'Private Politics, Public Strategies: White Advisers and their Aboriginal Subjects', Oceania, vol. 75, no. 3, Mach/June 2005, pp. 215­218. 546 G. Cowlishaw, 'Erasing Culture and Race: Practising 'Self­Determination', Oceania, vol. 68, no. 3, March 1998, pp. 149­150. 547 Ibid., p. 152. 146 legitimised government policy, but also provided experience and skills to work for recognition within white society and contributed to cultural understanding in areas of health and education. Sue Norman describes the 1970s as a staged process of learning skills, knowledge and experience which “would feed onto the next stages of Aboriginal self­determination”.548 For example, Aileen Blackburn, who worked as a rent clerk in the Aboriginal Land Trust in the 1970s, describes that in Redfern they approached her as “the rent lady; you're the lady that sent them nasty letters” and that it taught her that “you can't escape, you are accountable”.549 Never before had there been money available for Indigenous organisations on such a scale. Tim Rowse argues that “the most important product of the policy era known as 'self­determination'” is the rise of the Indigenous Sector in the 1970s which in 2002 consisted of about three thousand publicly funded organisations which are involved in all aspects of Indigenous society.550

Aboriginal Australia and the rural crisis Perhaps the greatest challenge to Indigenous communities in the 1970s and 1980s was that the policy of “self­determination” did not sufficiently address the nationwide rural crisis which was also an Aboriginal crisis. The post­war capitalisation of agriculture, overproduction and world­wide economic recession hit Australian agrarian exports with a wheat crisis in the 1960s, followed by a wool crisis and a collapse of beef prices in the 1970s, and a nationwide drought in 1982­83. The mining boom reduced the importance of agriculture which until the 1960s accounted for 80% of the country's total exports. Large agribusinesses took over from family farms, small farmers joined the rural poor and mechanisation reduced the need for rural workers.551 The Labor Party was committed to aid for the rural poor and to regional development, but its electorate was largely urban and it had an uneasy relationship with farmers.552 Australian agriculture was capital intensive and efficient by world standards and in the 1980s the National Farmers Federation (NFF) espoused free trade and blamed the crisis on protectionism in the European Union and price subsidies in the USA.553 Rolf Gerritsen argues that farmer

548 S. Norman, 'The New South Wales Aboriginal Lands Trust and its place in history', Australian Aboriginal Studies, no. 2, 2011, p. 97. 549 Quoted in ibid. 550 Rowse, op. cit., 2002, p. 1. 551 G. Lawrence, Capitalism and Countryside: The Rural Crisis in Australia, Pluto Press, Sydney & London, 1987, pp. 9­23, 41­42; R. Gerritsen, 'Why the "uncertainty"? Labor's failure to manage the "rural crisis"', Politics, vol. 22, no. 1, 1987, pp. 47­59. 552 Lawrence, ibid., 1987, pp. 9­10. 553 B. Frankel, 'Beyond Labourism and Socialism: How the Australian Labor Party Developed the Model of 'New Labour'', New Left Review, no. 221, 1997, p. 15. 147 protests against the Hawke government's measures that raised farming costs “were not taken seriously in part because of NFF's role in political campaigns – such as the ultimately successful one against Aboriginal land rights – that were seen as inimical to Labor's program.”554 With increased unemployment, the rural crisis affected remote and rural communities in north and south because as unskilled, casual, and seasonal workers Aboriginals were “last on and first to go”.555 Russel Hogg and Kerry Carrington argue that to explain Aboriginal poverty by a history of exclusion often fails to take into account the “severe impact” of rural recession and declining employment opportunities: “For many Indigenous people the era of formal legal segregation gave way to one of de facto economic and social exclusion driven in part by the jobs crisis in rural Australia.”556 While the 1960s were the era of equal rights, the 1970s revealed that formal equality for individuals, unless accompanied by other measures, exacerbated Aboriginal employment problems in a declining rural economy. The equal wages decision of 1965, for example, was a major victory for human rights advocates and trade unions, but due to the hands­off approach of federal and state governments – what Mary Anne Jebb calls the policy of “wait and see” – Aboriginal stockworkers and their families were left with the consequences of mass unemployment and dislocation in its aftermath. 557 Tony Smith writes that “the Pastoral award symbolized the beginning of the end of the 'golden age' of Aboriginal employment in the Kimberley pastoral industry.” Pastoralism had been the “cornerstone of the regional economy” and contributed to full employment until well into the 1960s, but it was hard hit by the 1970s collapse of global beef prices due to overproduction.558 As we saw in Chapter Two, since the late nineteenth century Indigenous workers had been invaluable to the northern cattle industry, and despite the desperate living conditions, no or low wages, and a highly unequal relationship between station owners and workers, the arrangement had enabled Aboriginals to stay on “their” land. According to Tim Manuel, who took over the family's Kimberley pastoral property in the 1950s, there “was a sort of unwritten law that it was our station but their country (…) which allowed both sides to respect each other's position.”559 Station owners had

554 Rolf Gerritsen, op. cit., 1987, p. 49. 555 C. D. Rowley, Outcasts in White Australia: Aboriginal Policy and Practice: Volume 2, Australian National University Press, Canberra, 1971, pp. 335­346. 556 R. Hogg and K. Carrington, Policing the Rural Crisis, The Federation Press, Annandale, 2006, p. 48. 557 M. A. Jebb, Blood, Sweat and Welfare: A History of White Bosses and Aboriginal Pastoral Workers, University of Western Australia Press, Crawley, 2002, p. 285. 558 T. Smith, 'Aboriginal Labour and the Pastoral Industry in the Kimberley Division of Western Australia: 1960­1975', Journal of Agrarian Change, vol. 3, no. 4, October 2003, p. 553. 559 Quoted in Bunbury, op. cit., 2002, p. 120. 148 warned that if they had to pay equal wages they could no longer afford to employ the same number of Aboriginal stockworkers and provide for their extended families living on the stations, but the trade unions downplayed the issue.560 The mechanisation of the industry (as helicopters and motorbikes replaced horses and mustering camps), increasing absentee ownership of pastoral leases, and a declining export market, combined with the rising cost of labour, reduced the demand for Aboriginal stockworkers: between 1967 and 1972, the number of Aboriginals working for the cattle industry in the Kimberley declined from 1,700 to 650.561 As families were driven off cattle stations or left voluntarily, many drifted towards towns but unemployment was not the only reason people left the cattle industry. There were other incentives for leaving the harsh station life behind; town life was attractive and provided more education and employment opportunities, and parents followed their children who were placed in missions and hostels to attend school, a practice which began under the policy of assimilation in the 1960s. Many left simply because they could: the end of discriminatory laws allowed people to choose where they wanted to live and social security payments made it easier to move around.562 However, Mary Anne Jebb points out that while governments provided “the social and economic conditions for dismantling the station system” they did not provide an “institutional alternative for people who left or were forced off stations”. Federal and state funding increased, but governments “did not keep up with demographic shifts which began in the 1960s and swelled to resemble a refugee movement in the 1970s and '80s.” 563 Peter Yu, a young Aboriginal activist in WA at the time who later became the Executive Director of the Kimberley Land Council, writes that the “Western Australian government had no idea how to respond to the sudden collapse of the pastoral and mission colonial system.” 564 Workers and their families left stations and camped on other peoples' land, river banks or outskirts of towns, or moved to already poorly equipped, overcrowded and underfunded reserves in Kimberley towns. Yu describes it as a “massive refugee problem, an explosion of population”: “There was no provision for them, no infrastructure.”565 For example, Turkey Creek “which had been a post office and a store, was suddenly transformed into a refugee camp of more than 300 people.” The closure of missions

560 Hal Wootten quoted in ibid., p. 104. 561 T. Smith, op. cit., 2003, pp. 559; Bunbury, op. cit., 2002, pp. 69­132. 562 Jebb, op. cit., 2002, pp. 251­255. 563 Ibid., pp. 249, 301. 564 P. Yu, 'The Kimberley: from welfare colonialism to self­determination', Race and Class, vol. 4, no. 35, 1994, p. 26. 565 Quoted in Bill Bunbury, op. cit., 2002, p. 115. 149 contributed to the “refugee problem” and “the population of Halls Creek, Wyndham and Derby almost doubled over night”. Fitzroy Crossing increased its population from 100 in 1970 to more than 2,000 in 1975.566 Hal Wootten, who was involved in the Equal Wages Case as a young lawyer representing the pastoralists, later said that the Commonwealth should have explained to stockworkers and their families the consequences of the equal wages legislation and provided them with an alternative future. Instead they “put them on welfare and forgot about them.”567 The federal government responded to the crisis by buying a few pastoral stations and funding the building of hospitals, schools and infrastructure. The growing Aboriginal welfare economy replaced pastoralism and became the new foundation of the Kimberley regional economy.568 As a response to the increasing number of Aboriginals receiving unemployment benefit payments in remote areas, the Fraser government introduced part­time federal­funded employment, so­called Community Development Employment Projects (CDEP), in 12 communities in 1977 so that “socially useful, if not economically viable, work could be undertaken.”569 CDEP was initially deployed in remote communities which operated largely outside the mainstream economy, but because of its cultural and social importance it was more than an employment “work for the dole” scheme, and as it became hugely popular it spread to rural and urban communities. By 1995, a total of 25,000 participants in 230 communities were registered.570 CDEP made governments look good because it halved the official unemployment rate in many communities, and it was cheap – people were paid the equivalent of unemployment benefits or a little more to carry out a wide range of work that local councils in other areas paid standard wages for (garbage collection for example). But the project also suited Aboriginals because they could stay and work together on their homelands or in communities which had become home, and being part­ time could be combined with other interests and activities. CDEP subsidised Aboriginal­ owned cattle stations, emu and crocodile farming, gardens (for producing foods), arts and crafts, hunting and gathering (also for sale), landcare activities such as bush burning

566 Yu, op. cit., 1994, 25­26. 567 Quoted in Bill Bunbury, op. cit., 2002, p. 170. 568 Yu, op. cit., 1994, pp. 26­27. 569 Altman and Sanders, op. cit., 1995, p. 220; W. Sanders and F. Murphy, 'Introduction', in The Indigenous Welfare Economy and the CDEP Scheme, F. Murphy and W. Sanders (eds.), Research Monograph no. 20, Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research (CAEPR), ANU E­Press, Australian National University, Canberra, 2001, p. 1. 570 D. Smith, Redfern works: the policy and community challenges of urban CDEP scheme, Discussion Paper no. 99, Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research (CAEPR), Australian National University, Canberra, 1995, pp. 2, 6­7. 150 and the control of feral animals, and community services in education, health, construction and transport.571 Noel Pearson and others argue that access to social benefits and CDEP have contributed to endemic welfare dependency in rural and remote communities, but government handouts as a means of survival on missions and stations can be traced back to early colonisation.572 Jon Altman and Will Sanders argue that the introduction of social benefits and CDEP wages boosted income in the 1970s and “provided Aborigines with a degree of economic independence which they did not enjoy” before.573 With the recognition of land rights and more funding available for purchasing land there were opportunities to return to country for cultural reasons. The Outstation movement, also known as the Homeland movement, in the NT grew out of the struggle for land rights and aimed at restoring cultural, social and economic ties with land.574 It was a reaction to years of mission rule, assimilationist government policies and centralisation, and outstations provided for many an escape from the stress and social problems larger communities faced, such as unemployment, alcoholism and violence. The older generation had longed for returning to country to reconnect with land and culture for many years. From 1973 onwards, the federal government provided establishment grants for up to $10,000 to committed groups who had settled the land for a minimum of six months. The number of outstations grew rapidly and became the social movement of the north: by the mid 1980s there were about 600 “homeland centre communities” with about 10,000 people, mainly in the NT. About a quarter of them received CDEP payments.575

Labor's unfulfilled promises Labor was still committed to a policy of “self­determination” when returning to government in 1983 after eight years in opposition, but it became increasingly difficult

571 R. Davis, 'Aboriginal Managers as Blackfellas or Whitefellas? Aspects of Australian Aboriginal Cattle Ownership in the Kimberley', Anthropological Forum, vol. 14, no. 1, 2004, p. 24; H. C. Coombs, Aboriginal Autonomy: Issues and Strategies, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge & New York, 1994, pp. 80­82. 572 N. Pearson, Up From the Mission, Black Inc., Carlton, 2009, pp. 143­171. 573 Altman and Sanders, op. cit., 1995, p. 221. 574 Coombs, op. cit., 1994, pp. 24­31; J. C. Altman and J. Nieuwenhuysen, The Economic Status of Australian Aborigines, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge & New York, 2006, pp. 76­100. 575 C. A. Blanchard (Chairman), Return to Country: The Aboriginal Homeland Movement in Australia, Report of the House of Representatives Standing Committee on Aboriginal Affairs, Australian Government Publishing Service, Canberra, March 1987, pp. 17, xvi, 26, 143. 151 for the governments of Bob Hawke (1983­1991) and Paul Keating (1991­1996) to live up to the promises and expectations without sufficient support in their own ranks and a hostile Opposition.576 The Old Left's collapse into social movements which were driven by identity politics seeking recognition of difference rather than equality made it easier for governments to avoid addressing the underlying structures of capitalism and colonisation and instead compensate Indigenous people with gestures of cultural recognition.577 Facing economic recession and the highest unemployment rates since the 1930s, peaking at nearly 10% in the early 1980s, the Hawke government struck an agreement with the Australian Council of Trade Unions (ACTU), the so­called Prices and Incomes Accord, which promised high employment and low inflation, and welfare spending on health and education in return for wage restraint. Thus with broad trade union support, Hawke and Keating laid the foundations for neoliberalism, also known as “economic rationalism” in Australia: the floating of the dollar, tariff cuts, tax reform, the weakening of trade unions, privatisation, cuts to federal funding, downsizing of the public sector and introduction of university fees. At the same time, however, the Hawke and Keating governments also followed in the footsteps of Whitlam by breaking with old conservative Anglo­Saxon traditions in social and cultural policy, promoting multiculturalism, extending the rights of gays and women, and increasing funding for the arts. They paid more attention to environmental issues – the Hawke government, for example, used its federal powers to stop the construction of the Franklin Dam in Tasmania – and Keating's push into Asia to strengthen regional trade and cooperation marked a growing distance to Britain and Europe.578 Labor did not follow the same path to neoliberalism as Ronald Reagan in the USA and Margaret Thatcher in Britain in the 1980s, but sought to combine “economic rationalism” with left­wing social policies, as a pioneer of the “Third Way” politics which was later associated with the “New Labour” of Britain's Tony Blair and the USA's Bill Clinton in the 1990s. Boris Frankel writes:

In contrast to Thatcher who proclaimed her ambition to rid Britain of

576 C. Jennett, 'Aboriginals Affairs Policy', in Hawke and Australian Public Policy: Consensus and Restructuring, C. Jennett & R. G. Stewart (eds.), Macmillan Company, South Melbourne, 1990, pp. 245­287; Foley, op. cit., 2007. 577 J. Sissons, First Peoples: Indigenous Cultures and Their Futures, Reaktion Books, London, 2005. 578 J. Walter, 'Growth resumed, 1983­2000', in The Cambridge History of Australia: Volume 2: The Commonwealth of Australia, A. Bashford and S. Macintyre (eds.), Cambridge University Press, Port Melbourne and New York, 2013, pp. 162­186; Speech by Prime Minister Paul Keating, 'Australia and Asia: Knowing Who We Are', 7 April 1992, viewed 12 March 2015, 152

socialism and return public and private morality to the old patriarchal family structures, work ethic and respect for authority, the ALP governments advocated a mixture of neoliberal economic reforms plus cultural and social policies which challenged conservative values and practices.579

Labor's approach to Aboriginal Australia was radical in rhetoric, but the 1980s were a decade of unfulfilled promises. Gary Foley and Tim Anderson describe the Hawke government's failure to stand up to the mining industry and the Western Australian ALP branch and impose national land rights legislation as “Labor's betrayal”.580 After the 1983 elections Clyde Holding, the Minister for Aboriginal Affairs, promised that national land rights legislation would follow the recommendations of the Woodward Commission and provide for inalienable freehold title to land, compensation for lost land, negotiated royalties, the protection of sacred sites, and some control over economic development on traditional land (not a veto right, but opposition to mining projects would have to be overruled by Parliament in the “national interest”). In response, the Western Australian Chamber of Mines launched a major campaign against land rights under the slogan “Land rights should be equal rights” and featuring an advertisement which depicted black hands building a brick wall across the northern half of the state with a sign: “KEEP OUT. This land is under Aboriginal claim.”581 The federal government also faced opposition from the conservative WA Labor branch under the leadership of Premier Brian Burke, who was highly critical of the party's left­wing influences and “trendy issues such as the environment, nuclear disarmament, and Aboriginal land rights”. The Northern Territory Land Council began to worry that national land rights legislation would weaken the NT Land Rights Act. Fearing defeat in the upcoming WA state elections and later nationally, the Hawke government did not pursue a national land rights bill and left the issue to the states. 582 Murray Goot and Tim Rowse question the assumption that there was a massive backlash among voters against recognition of land rights in the 1980s,583 but irrespective of what the Hawke government believed at the time, national land rights was not seen as important enough

579 Frankel, op. cit., 1997, p. 15. 580 G. Foley and T. Anderson, 'Land Rights and Aboriginal Voices', Australian Journal of Human Rights, vol. 12, no. 1, 2006, p. 92. 581 M. A. Edmunds, A Good Life: Human Rights and Encounters with Modernity, ANU E­ Press, Australian National University, Canberra, 2013, p. 205. 582 R. T. Libby, Hawke's Law: The Politics of Mining and Aboriginal Land Rights in Australia, University of Western Australia Press, Nedlands, 1989, p. 4. 583 M. Goot and T. Rowse, Divided Nation? Indigenous Affairs and the Imagined Public, Melbourne University Press, Carlton, 2007, pp. 61­96. 153 to take on the massive hostility of the mining industry. In the context of the 1988 bicentenary celebrations of the arrival of the First Fleet, the Hawke government, to compensate for the failure to legislate for land rights nationally, promised to replace the already abolished National Aboriginal Conference (NAC) (1977­1985) with an Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission (ATSIC) and to negotiate a treaty.584 ATSIC will be discussed in detail in the next chapter. NAC's call for a treaty, a so­called Makarrata, shows the disillusionment with how little progress had been made politically since the Whitlam government and the low expectations of the legal system after the High Court had turned down Aboriginal Tent Embassy activist and lawyer Paul Coe's claim to Aboriginal sovereignty in Australia. 585 While the Tent Embassy and the Larrakia people from the NT had called for a treaty in 1972, NAC adopted the less controversial term Makarrata which was explained to mean “the resumption of normal relations after a period of hostilities” in the languages of north­eastern Arnhem Land and therefore less controversial than the word treaty.586 The treaty debate signalled that Aboriginal leaders wanted more than cultural recognition, and with Labor back in power in the 1980s they expected a return to Whitlam's political approach. Angela M. Pratt argues that Hawke's promises of negotiating a treaty when presented with the “Barunga statement” calling for such a treaty and for self­ determination in the NT in 1988 “was as much about restoring a sense of the national self as inherently 'good' as it was about recognition of Indigenous peoples' political rights.”587 Hawke left it to a Committee of seven Aboriginal leaders to carry out consultations and expected a treaty proposal within six months. The process was rushed, and without parliamentary backing from the two major parties a treaty was unrealistic. John Howard, leader of the Liberals and later Prime Minister, threatened to “tear up” any such agreement.588 He held that it was “an absurd proposition that a nation should make a treaty with some of its own citizens”.589 However, in December 1992 in Redfern Park, the urban heart of Aboriginal activism, Prime Minister Paul Keating delivered his famous “Redfern Speech” at the

584 Foley and Anderson, op. cit., 2006, p. 94; A. Pratt, "Indigenous sovereignty – never ceded": sovereignty, nationhood and whiteness in Australia, PhD thesis, University of Wollongong, 2003, pp. 138­145. 585 J. Fenley, 'The National Aboriginal Conference and the Makarrata: Sovereignty and Treaty Discussions, 1979­1981', Australian Historical Studies, vol. 42, no. 3, 2011, pp. 375­378. 586 Quoted in Rowse, op. cit., 2000, pp. 179­180. 587 Pratt, op. cit., 2003, p. 139. 588 Quoted in F. Brennan and J. Crawford, 'Aboriginality, Recognition and Australian Law: The Need for a Bipartisan Approach, The Australian Quarterly, vol. 62, no. 2, Winter 1990, p. 147. 589 Quoted in Chesterman and Galligan, op. cit., 1997, p. 218. 154 launch of the 1993 International Year of the World's Indigenous People. It was barely reported in the media at the time but it was symbolically important to many Aboriginals and has since been held up as one of the most powerful speeches in the history of Australia. In 2011 it was voted the third most “unforgettable speech of all time” in an ABC Radio National Poll, ranked after Martin Luther King Jr.'s “I Have a Dream” and Jesus' “Sermon on the Mount”.590 Twenty years later, Aboriginal Law Professor Larissa Behrendt who was a young law student at the time, described the Keating speech as a “high­water mark for inclusion”, which says much about the period that followed under the Liberal­National Coalition government of John Howard. She remembers her shock and surprise when she heard a political leader speak for the first time from a perspective that appreciated the Aboriginal viewpoint.591 Sol Bellear, Aboriginal activist and chairman of the Aboriginal Medical Service Redfern, later claimed that “even the trees stood still in Redfern Park when those words were spoken.”592 Keating recognised that “the problem starts with us non­Aboriginal Australians”:

We took traditional lands and smashed the traditional way of life. We brought the disasters. The alcohol. We committed the murders. We took the children from their mothers. We practised discrimination and exclusion.593

But the Redfern speech was more than a symbolic gesture. The High Court's 1992 Mabo judgement, which in Keating's words did “away with the bizarre conceit that this continent had no owners prior to the settlement of Europeans”, forced a political response from the government and the proposed Native Title legislation was being negotiated in Parliament at the time of the Redfern Speech. The Mabo case was groundbreaking because it recognised native title to land, but David Ritter writes that although it “caused political convulsions in Australia”, it was also “conservative to the extent that it simply applied the common law as already well known elsewhere in the world.”594 The government came under pressure from the opposition, from state

590 T. Clark, 'Paul Keating's Redfern Park speech and its rhetorical legacy', Overland, issue 213, summer 2013. 591 L. Behrendt, 'Sadly, the Redfern speech is still the high­water mark for inclusion', The Sydney Morning Herald, 10 December 2012, viewed 11 March 2016, 592 Quoted in N. Robinson, 'Redfern speech promised much, delivered little', The Australian, 10 December 2012. 593 P. Keating, Australian Launch of the International Year for the World's Indigenous People', Indigenous Law Bulletin, vol. 7, issue 23, March/April 2011, p. 21. 594 D. Ritter, Contesting Native Title: From Controversy to Consensus in the Struggle Over Indigenous Land Rights, Allen & Unwin, Crows Nest, 2009, p. 4. 155 governments, from farming and mining interests, and what was known as Keating's chosen “A­team” – mainly ATSIC and state Land Councils – was left with the compromise of accepting a weaker Act than they had envisaged or nothing. 595 While the farmers had some security their occupation of the land, the mining industry saw its future exploration plans endangered by the proposed Native Title legislation. Derek Fisher, President of the Association of Mining and Exploration Companies (AMEC), claimed that Mabo was “probably the greatest single threat to the development and progress of this country yet encountered.”596 David Ritter writes that the “passage of the NTA no doubt came as a shock to the mining industry: the fact that the legislation had got through at all marked a very considerable political defeat.”597 The 1993 Native Title Act as passed by Parliament just before Christmas 1993 limited Indigenous claims to land in important ways: it extinguished native title to freehold land altogether (although technically, this extinguishment did not fully occur until it was amended in 1998), and successful claims required that the claimants prove continuous and ongoing connections with the land, a requirement that for Patrick Wolfe is one of “repressive authenticity”. 598 However, the Native Title Act brought land rights back onto the national agenda: it was followed by the establishment of the Native Title Tribunal to process claims and by the Indigenous Land Fund to pay compensation for native title claims now considered extinguished. At Whitlam's state funeral in Sydney in 2015, Noel Pearson spoke of him as “Australia's greatest white elder” and said that without him “the land and human rights of our people would never have seen the light of day”.599 Pearson was referring to the 1975 Racial Discrimination Act, which the High Court used to stop the Queensland Premier from blocking the Mabo case. It was the outcome of this legal battle for land rights that put the Keating government under pressure to legislate, and thus the Native Title Act too was had its roots in the Whitlam era.

595 Rowse, op. cit., 2000, pp. 204­209. 596 Quoted in A. Lavelle, 'The Mining industry’s campaign against native title: some explanations', Australian Journal of Political Science, vol. 36, no. 1, 2001, pp. 103­104. 597 D. Ritter, op. cit., 2009, p. 105. 598 P. Wolfe, Settler Colonialism and the Transformation of Anthropology: The Politics and Poetics of an Ethnographic Event, Bloomsbury Academic, London, 1998, p. 163. 599 N. Pearson, 'Noel Pearson's tribute to Gough Whitlam at the state memorial service on 5 November 2014 at Sydney Town Hall'. ABC, viewed on 20 June 2015, 156

Norway: the emergence of Sami politics

The Sami as a regional minority At the time the Whitlam government launched the policy of Aboriginal “self­ determination” in 1972, it did not even occur to the Norwegian government that the Sami were anything but a Sami­speaking Norwegian minority, some of whom were reindeer herders. It would take until the end of the decade to seriously challenge that perception. Meanwhile there were other developments in the 1970s which impacted on Sami society. One was the discovery of one of the world's largest offshore oil fields in 1969 at Ekofisk, off the southern Norwegian North Sea coast. It was the beginning of a new era for Norway and affected the Sami­dominated areas because it boosted the capacity for state expenditure in the north. The government had already claimed sovereignty over large areas in the North Sea after it was approached by the American oil company Phillips Petroleum for an oil exploration license in 1962, followed by interest from Dutch­owned Shell and Texas­based Esso.600 Of the “ten oil commandments” that Parliament adopted as the new oil policy in 1971, the first two stated that “national governance and control must be secured for all activities on the Norwegian continental shelf” and that “Norway must become independent of others in the supply of crude oil”.601 The commandments set the standard for what came to characterise the approach to off­shore oil: “national governance and control” became a “mantra for the development of Norwegian oil policy.”602 Helge Ryggvik points out that Norway's “position in the 1960s was very similar to that frequently experienced by poor countries in the global South”. It lacked oil expertise and sufficient means of investment and therefore relied on foreign companies in the beginning, but by 1972 Statoil and the Norwegian Petroleum Directorate were established to ensure state control and long­term national benefits from the wealth produced.603 Thus in contrast to the typical “resource curse” experienced by countries in Africa and the Middle East where large quantities of oil and gas contributed to political instability and warfare, in Norway, a politically stable and relatively egalitarian social democracy, oil fuelled the welfare state. Oil revenues made up one fourth of the state's income and contributed to the fastest economic growth

600 G. Hernes and J. M. Hippe et. al., Varsel om vekst? Fremtidsbilder av olje­ og gassvirksomhet i Nord­Norge, Fafo Report no. 36, Fafo Research Foundation, Oslo, 2007, p. 10. 601 H. Ryggvik, The Norwegian Oil Experience: A toolbox for managing resources?, Centre for Technology, Innovation and Culture (TIK­Centre), University of Oslo, 2010, p. 32. 602 Ibid., p. 33. 603 Ibid., pp. 18­19. 157 in Europe between 1974 and 1980, a time when other countries struggled to recover from the oil crisis.604 Norway went from being ranked by the OECD (Organisation for Economic Co­operation and Development) as the world's eighteenth­richest country in 1970 to third based on per capita GDP in 2000.605 The other significant development in the 1960s and 1970s was the rise of regionalism and a rural­urban alliance preoccupied with decentralisation and later the environment. Hallvard Tjelmeland writes that North Norwegian regionalism became a “mass phenomenon” in the 1970s, with its many cultural expressions representing the region's uniqueness, and was “held up as a counter­image to 1950s and 60s visions of modernisation.”606 Although regionalism and a regional identity potentially challenged Sami distinctiveness and their demand for recognition as a separate minority, the North Norwegian tradition of small­scale and combined livelihoods united people against the government push for enlargement and specialisation of primary industries. 607 Regional resistance peaked with the 1972 Referendum about membership in the EEC (European Economic Community/European Union from 1993) when the People's Movement against EEC Membership mobilised a 53.5% majority vote against it. It was a significant defeat for the Norwegian political elite because only two years earlier the great majority of members of Parliament had voted for membership (132 for and 17 against). Berge Furre writes that the question of EEC membership overshadowed everything else in Norwegian politics between 1969 and 1972.608 The People's Movement was an alliance made up of fishers, farmers, students and workers, and the no vote was particularly strong in rural areas where people feared the impact of market­driven EEC policy on their livelihoods and a loss of sovereignty to Brussels : in the three northernmost counties of North Norway, the no vote was over 70%.609 According to Knut Heidar, the EEC debate and referendum “changed Norwegian politics and radicalised the Labour Party”.610 Labour remained in minority government until 1981 but because it was under pressure from the 604 Furre, op. cit., 2000, p. 229. 605 OECD Observer, 'Wealth of OECD Nations', no. 235, The Organisation for Economic Co­ operation and Development (OECD), December 2002, viewed on 17 February 2016, 606 H. Tjelmeland, The Making of a Sub­Arctic Region: Northern Norway, 1900­2000, Nineteenth International Congress of Historical Sciences, Oslo, 2000, viewed on 18 February 2016, < http://www.oslo2000.uio.no/program/papers/s9/s9­tjelmeland.pdf > 607 S. Saugestad, 'Regional and indigenous identities in the high north: enacting social boundaries', Polar Record, vol. 48, issue 3, 2012, pp. 229­235. 608 Furre, op. cit., 2000, p. 211. 609 Ibid., pp. 211­215. 610 K. Heidar, 'The Norwegian Labour Party: 'En Attendant l'Europe', West European Politics, vol. 16, no. 1, January 1993, p. 64. 158 socialist left, after its share of the national vote was reduced from 46 to 35% in the 1973 parliamentary elections, it had to pay greater attention to the new environmental movement.611 Reidar Almås writes that the referendum has been described as “the closest Norway came to a social revolution” in the twentieth century, and that its legacy was a “turn towards the green part of the political spectrum, especially as far as rural development and agricultural policy were concerned.”612 Maintaining a distributed settlement pattern across the country was stated as a government goal in 1972, and a strong regional policy – the “cornerstone of Norwegian politics” – slowed down urbanisation and ensured a flow of resources from high income municipalities to poorer areas. Health and social services were decentralised. 613 Reports in the late 1960s and early 1970s indicated that the socio­economic situation in Inner Finnmark was worse than elsewhere in the north, and while Finnmark Labour insisted (as late as 1984) that the solution to the problem was nothing but mainstream economic development, there was greater awareness of Sami culture than before.614 It is difficult to distinguish between measures aimed specifically at the Sami as a distinct minority and as part of the region because often the two overlapped.615 As we saw in the previous chapter, changes to Sami language policy had been under way since the war, and after the Sami Committee put forward its recommendations in 1959, governments took a more active role in Finnmark. In 1965, for example, the four­party centre­right coalition government of Per Borten (1965­71) set aside money in the state budget for building what became known as “Sami Highway 1”, connecting Finnmark's inland communities by road, and in 1969 it established Karasjok Secondary School. These were projects that Finnmark County Council had not prioritised. It would have preferred to see the new high school being built in ethnically mixed Alta on the coast rather than in Sami­

611 The Socialist Electoral League, a left wing coalition of communists and social democrats, won 16 seats in the 1973 parliamentary elections. It was the forerunner to the Socialist Left Party which was established in 1975. 612 R. Almås, 'Characteristics and Conflicts in Norwegian Agriculture', Agriculture and Human Values, vol. 6, issue 1­2, Winter/Spring 1989, p. 130. 613 Stortingsmelding nr. 50, 1972­1973, cited in J. Cruickshank, 'Protest against centralisation in Norway: The evolvement of the goal for maintaining a dispersed settlement pattern', Norsk Geografisk Tidsskrift/Norwegian Journal of Geography, vol 60, no. 3, 2006, p. 179; K. Halvorsen and S. Stjernø, Work, Oil and Welfare: The Welfare State in Norway, Universitetsforlaget, Oslo, 2008, p. 17. 614 B. Aarseth, Norsk samepolitikk 1945­1990: Målsetting, virkemidler og resultater, Vett & Viten and Norsk Folkemuseum, Oslo, 2006, pp. 83­86; NOU (Norges offentlige utredninger) 1972:33 Om landsdelen for Nord­Norge, Statens forvaltningstjeneste, Statens trykking, Oslo, pp. 165­176. 615 Aarseth, op. cit., 2006, pp. 78­79. 159 dominated Karasjok.616 When the Labour Party discussed support for the inland road, the Finnmark bench “exploded” and made it clear that it did not want interference from Oslo, and certainly not to build a road for “fjellfinner” (Mountain Finns, a derogatory term for Sami/reindeer herders from Inner Finnmark).617 Similar to non­Sami in rural areas, many Sami left the primary industries and took up work in public administration, health and education, and were involved in local politics. The typical Sami occupational combination of farming and fishing was hit by the government policy of specialisation but found new ways of operating. For example, with reduced access to fisheries many small­scale fishers turned to work in construction and building which enabled them to return home more frequently and help out on the farms as they grew in size.618 In Karasjok, the number of people employed in primary industries was the same in 1950 and 1970 (about 400 persons), which in relative terms was a drop from 70 to 40% in two decades. Many followed in the family tradition of farming or reindeer husbandry, but for the first time more people were employed in tertiary than primary industries in Karasjok.619 Educational opportunities closer to home, scholarships, and preferential treatment in higher education made the Sami take up occupations that were previously dominated by non­Sami. Newly graduated medical doctors and nurses from the University of Tromsø, established in 1972, transformed what had been Finnmark's mostly “mono­cultural health services in the 1950s and 60s” by the 1970s and 1980s.620 There were also specific Sami institutions being set up. For example, the Nordic Sami Institute in Kautokeino, founded in 1973 and jointly financed by the three Nordic countries, showed that governments recognised the Sami as one people living across state borders in Europe's north. The same year, the Finnish Sami Parliament was set up as a consultative body. In 1975, the Norwegian Sami Council became responsible for the Sami Education Council and the newly established Sami Development Fund. However, Sami interests and needs were often ignored in the attempt to eradicate poverty and increase living standards in the north. For example, Per Mathisen argues that because Sami organisations did not have an official role in the late 1960s housing program in Inner Finnmark, which was run by architects from the south and set out to construct 600 new houses for 10,000 people, it ended up being more like a

616 Aarseth, op. cit., 2006, pp. 76­79. 617 L. M. Hjorthol, Alta: Kraftkampen som utfordret statens makt, Gyldendal Akademisk, 2006, p. 80. 618 R. Nilsen, 'From Norwegianization to Coastal Sami Uprising', in Indigenous Peoples: Resource Management and Global Rights, S. Jentoft and H. Minde et al (eds.), Eburon, Delft, 2003, pp. 170­172. 619 V. Stordahl, op. cit., 1996, pp. 65­66. 620 T. Ryymin and A. Andersen, op. cit., 2009, p. 111. 160

“poor people's relief program”.621 Although Sami and non­Sami interests coincided on the whole, the important exception was reindeer husbandry which was not only an industry but the backbone of Sami culture. While mining and other development provided employment, it had a devastating impact on reindeer husbandry. In Kautokeino, for example, about half of the 100 to 120 miners at Biedjovággi in the early 1970s were Sami speaking, but the copper and gold mine cut through reindeer migration routes and grazing land, forcing reindeer herders out of the area. The Ábboniid siida in Kvænangen was doubly hit by hydro­ power development on the coast and mining inland.622 Ivar Bjørklund argues that reindeer husbandry did not easily fit into government plans for the north because it needed large tracts of land and did not comply with the social­democratic ideal of equality because of the income and wealth inequalities between herders with small and large herds.623 By the 1970s the industry had undergone major changes: grazing land was reduced and under pressure from increased economic and state activity such as road building, military installations, mining, tourism and so forth. The spread of snow mobiles in the 1960s made herding easier and herders more mobile, and with the introduction of nine years compulsory schooling for children and government­financed housing projects, many Sami families settled more permanently. But better and more expensive technology, consumer goods and a money­oriented lifestyle required more capital and larger herds, and the industry ran into difficulties. The combination of poverty, increasing number of animals, land conflicts and internal socio­economic inequality was politically unacceptable for governments driven by the idea of equality and welfare for all.624 The low wages in reindeer husbandry were not unusual compared to what other primary producers earned at the time. For example, farmers' wages were about 65% that of industrial workers despite the stated government goal of equal wages for all. After rural unrest broke out at Hitra island in South Trøndelag in 1975, when 70 farmers went

621 P. Mathisen, 'Bureaucratic Categories and Ethnic Ascriptions: An analysis of a Norwegian housing Program in a Sami Region', Journal of Anthropology, vol. 43, issue 3­4, 1978, pp. 237­239. 622 I. Bjørklund and T. Brantenberg, Samisk reindrift – norske inngrep: Om Altaelva, reindrift og samisk kultur, Universitetsforlaget, Tromsø and Oslo, 1981, pp. 38­44; S. Lund, Gull, gråstein og gull – Eit kritisk blikk på mineralnæringa i fortid, notid ag framtid, Davvi Girji, 2015, viewed 10 July 2015, < http://gruve.info/a1.htm > 623 I. Bjørklund, 'Den nasjonale integrasjon av det samiske reindriftssamfunn', in Norsk ressursforvaltning og samiske rettighetsforhold: Om statlig styring, allmenningens tragedie og lokale sedvaner i Sápmi, I. Bjørklund (ed.), Ad Notham Gyldendal, Oslo, 1999, pp. 52­ 68. 624 Bjørklund, ibid., pp. 55­56. 161 on strike for higher prices, tax benefits and social welfare, Parliament set a policy goal to increase the annual income for a farmer to that of an industrial worker within three years.625 Norwegian agriculture was marginal, non­competitive on the world markets, and thus heavily regulated, protected and subsidised by the state as a “matter of rural self­defense” and an attempt to be self­sufficient at a time when the UN urged the Third World to secure their food situation because of fear that world trade would break down.626 Reidar Almås argues that the Norwegian agricultural “leap forward” that followed from 1975 was a “radical effort to change the relations between town and countryside” with its emphasis on income equality, social welfare and decentralisation. The Norwegian farm relief service, which covered sickness leave, vacations and hired relief workers, was “the most progressive welfare arrangement for family farmers in the world.”627 Against that background, it was clear that reindeer herders could no longer be ignored. Thus the state seized control of reindeer husbandry. Farmers had negotiated agreements with governments since 1950 and fishers since 1964, but the NRL (Sami Reindeer Herders’ Association of Norway) rejected the government's proposal to be part of the annual agricultural agreement and demanded their own.628 The Agricultural Agreement provided a model for the first first Reindeer Management Agreement (Reindriftsavtalen) which was signed by the NRL and the Ministry of Agriculture and Food in 1976. Two years later the 1978 Reindeer Management Law (Reindriftsloven) replaced that of 1933. Reindeer husbandry was treated as an industry with a future and a co­management model was set up to develop it, but for the first time the government interfered in its internal organisation and laid down rules for its operation. 629 Although the NRL was involved in the process, it should be noted that when the Chairman of the Standing Committee on Agriculture, Berge Furre from the Socialist Left, went to Karasjok to inform a meeting of 200 reindeer herders about the new law (which had not been translated into the Sami language), one after the other asked him what the authorities were about to do to them. He was horrified and described the situation as

625 R. Almås, 'From state­driven modernization to green liberalism 1920­2000', in Norwegian Agricultural History, R. Almås (ed.), Tapir Academic Press, Trondheim, 2004, pp. 330, 334­335. 626 Almås, op. cit., 1989, p. 131. 627 Ibid., pp. 131­132. 628 M. N. Sara, Reindriftsnæringens tilpassing og reindriftspolitikk, Diedut, no. 2, Sámi Instituhtta/Nordic Sami Institute, Kautokeino, 1993, p. 102. 629 J. Å. Riseth, 'Sami Reindeer Management in Norway: Modernization Challenges and Conflicting Strategies. Reflections Upon the Co­management Alternative', in Indigenous Peoples: Resource Management and Global Rights, S. Jentoft and H. Minde et al (eds.), Eburon, Delft, 2003, pp. 229, 236. 162

“grotesque”.630 Karen Marie Eira Buljo, who grew up in a herding family in Kautokeino, points out the great irony that on the same day that Parliament passed the 1978 Reindeer Management Law, which excluded many Sami women from the industry because the production unit required (one reindeer herd) was usually held by men, it passed the Gender Equality Act. Thus on that day what Sami women lost, Norwegian women gained.631 Svein Lund writes that the new law put an end to the verdde system, the exchange arrangement between coast and inland, which “contributed strongly to destroying the solidarity between the nomadic Sami and the settled population, and led to growing contrasts between these groups.”632 The government quickly understood that, contrary to what was assumed at the time, reindeer husbandry could not be treated like any other meat industry. What followed was the destruction of an industry that lost flexibility, control of animals, size and structure of herds, recruitment of people, use of labour and grazing areas.633 Erik S. Reinert argues that, when the herders lost control of slaughtering and marketing, their relationship with governments developed many of the features of “welfare colonialism”.634 Following agricultural planning principles, “Saami reindeer herders in many ways received the worst of two worlds: the worst of the planning paradigm and the worst of the market.” According to Reinert, under a “counterproductive government hand” the industry went from being a “highly profitable activity” in the 1970s to operating with “huge losses” on state subsidies.635 For example, when the Ministry of Agriculture left the marketing of meat to the Central Meat and Lard Office of Norway (which later became Norwegian Meat/Nortura), which was owned by farmers controlling 98% of the meat market, reindeer meat was in the hands of the competitors and ended up in the freezer, paid for by the state via grants to reindeer herders and subsidies to cover the costs for storing meat, which “was probably a more profitable

630 Dagbladet 7 February 1977, quoted in P. Fugelli, 'Rasisme i Finnmark', in Samisk mot – norsk hovmod, G. H. Gjengset (ed.), Pax Forlag, Oslo, 1981, p. 89. 631 K. M. Eira Buljo in cooperation with S. E. Lund, Samisk skolehistorie 6/Sámi skuvlahistorjá 6/Samien skuvle­vaajese 6, Davvi Girji, Karasjok, 2013, viewed on 16 February 2016, 632 S. E. Lund, 'The nature of Finnmark between traditional use, international capital, and central political power', in Sustainable Development in the Circumpola North: From Tana, Norway to Oktemtsy, Yakutia, Russia, T. Gjertsen and G. Halseth (eds.), The Gargia Conferences for Local and regional Development (2004­2014), Septentrio Academic Publishing, The University of Tromsø, 2015, p. 211. 633 Bjørklund, op. cit., 1999, pp. 55­56. 634 E. S. Reinert, 'The economics of reindeer herding: Saami entrepreneurship between cyclical sustainability and the powers of state and oligopolies', British Food Journal, vol. 108, no. 7, p. 535. 635 Ibid., pp. 523­524. 163 business than selling the same meat.”636 Thus Reinert writes:

In practice, the official Norwegian policy became: all meat producers shall have a monopoly on selling their own produce, except the reindeer herders, who are forced to sell their products to their competitors, the producers of other meats.637

The relationship between animals, pasture and people would have been put to the test irrespective of the government takeover because of the changes in technology and ongoing pressures on grazing land, but by stripping the animal owners of responsibility, the authorities undermined well established local structures based on knowledge and experience which had for centuries enabled the Sami to adjust to change and tackle the challenges of an unpredictable and harsh climate. The state took over an industry it did not understand and could not control because reindeer are not cattle who can be fenced in. The purpose of the new reindeer policy was to prevent overgrazing and increase profitability by reducing the number of animals and herders, but in West Finnmark, for example, it had the opposite effect of more than doubling the number of animals from 48,110 in 1975 to 112,000 in 1989.638 Bård A. Berg argues that government support “was the decisive factor behind the growth” and that, instead of preventing a “tragedy of the commons”,639 state intervention had provoked it.640 What was initially a well­ meaning attempt to eradicate poverty among reindeer herders, to boost their income, and to bring welfare to Inner Finnmark had the effect of increasing state dependency.

Two factions of Sami activism The 1970s brought about tensions and a split in the Sami movement when some activists turned to the International Indigenous movement and others, who were closely aligned with the Labour Party, stressed their loyalty to the King and region. The tensions between “regionalism” and “Indigeneity” in the Sami movement is an example of what Nancy Fraser describes as a conflict between the “struggle for redistribution” and “struggle for recognition” in the rise of social movements in the 1970s.641 While the

636 Ibid., p. 526. 637 Ibid. 638 B. A. Berg, 'Government Intervention into Sámi Reindeer­Management in Norway: Has it prevented or provoked 'Tragedies of the Commons'', Acta Borealia, no 2, vol. 13, 1996, p. 78. 639 Economic theory put forward by Garret Hardin that a common natural resource disappears because everybody acts according to their own interest and neglect what is best for society. 640 Berg, op. cit., 1996, p. 79. 641 N. Fraser, 'From Redistribution to Recognition? Dilemmas of Justice in a 'Post­Socialist' 164 origins of this conflict can be traced back in Sapmi to the early twentieth­century divide between coast and inland and the conflict­ridden relationship with the Labour Party in the context of Norwegianisation, the 1970s consolidated the two political camps and laid the foundation of the Sami Parliament's system of Norwegian and Indigenous parties, 642 to which I shall return in the next chapter. The Norwegian Sami Association (NSR) was established as a national organisation in 1968 in Kautokeino by the four Finnmark branches of the Oslo based Sámi Sær'vi which were set up between 1959 and 1967, but it traces its history back to the activist Elsa Laula Renberg and the early twentieth­century Sami organisations (see Chapter Three).643 The older generation of Sami activists were still involved in the struggle for Sami rights in the late 1960s, for example Per Fokstad who at the age of 78 represented Tana at the NSR's founding meeting, but the organisation was run by the younger, post­ war Sami generation who drew inspiration from student activism in the larger cities of the south: the first annual meeting was postponed so that some of the delegates could finish their university exams.644 The NSR demanded that the authorities follow up the 1968 High Court decisions in Brekken and Altevann, which had recognised some user rights to land (based on “time immemorial” usage) and a right to compensation for expropriated land.645 But while it called for a government inquiry into Sami land rights, for strategic reasons it focused on cultural recognition until the Alta Affair brought land rights back on the agenda ten years later. There seemed to be little room for an Indigenous movement in North Norway at the time. When the independent Sami People's List (Samefolkets liste/Sámeálbmot listu) was put up in Finnmark for the 1969 parliamentary elections, local and regional Labour politicians and newspapers saw it as an attack on the Labour Party and ridiculed the attempt to create a “Lapp Power” movement.646 The activists behind the Sami People's List stated that it was a response to the failure of Norwegian political parties to nominate Sami for safe seats in Finnmark.647 The critique was directed at Finnmark Labour which

Age', New Left Review, no. 212, July­August 1995, pp. 68­93. 642 H. K. Mellingen, Rett og politikk: En studie av NSR og AP på Sametinget 1998­2004, MA thesis, University of Bergen, November 2004. 643 See NSR's website, 'Historie og dokumenter', viewed 12 March 2016, 644 Norwegian Sami Association (NSR), Annual Report, 30 November 1968 to 22 June 1969, viewed on 20 February 2016, 645 E. Josefsen, Norwegian Legislation and Administration – Saami Land Rights, Gáldu Čála/Journal of Indigenous Peoples Rights, no. 1, Gáldu – Resource Centre for the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, Kautokeino, 2007, p. 13. 646 Faaberg, op. cit., 1984, pp. 98­102. 647 Quoted in Otnes, op. cit., 1970, p. 209. 165 had not reselected Harald Nicolai Samuelsberg from Loppa who had served as member of Parliament for 12 years in the Isak Saba tradition of working for Sami interests from within the Labour Party. Samuelsberg was the first leader of the newly established Norwegian Sami Council (1964), but he remained loyal to the Labour Party and stated that the Sami People's List did nothing but damage to the Sami cause. In 1969 the List scored only 524 votes and the daily Labour Party newspaper Finnmark Dagblad concluded that only a small minority supported what it described as the extremist and romantic line towards the Sami.648 According to Henry Minde, there were no signs that the Sami compared themselves with Indigenous peoples before the post­WW2 era.649 As we saw in Chapter Three, Sami activists cooperated among themselves across state borders and looked towards other European linguistic minorities who were under assimilationist pressures, such as the Welsh whose situation Per Fokstad knew well from his student days in England in the 1920s. While Sami maintained links with Wales and the Friesland region of the Netherlands to draw on their experiences in language instruction, they also began to build relations with other Arctic minorities in the 1960s.650 The Swedish Sami magazine Samefolket proclaimed in 1963 that “the Sámi are Sweden’s Indians”,651 and in 1969 the “First International Conference on Cross­cultural Education in the Circumpolar Nations” was held in Montreal. The Sami came together with other minorities of the north – the Inuit of Greenland, Alaska and Canada, and Native Americans – and created an Arctic network to address issues and concerns related to education.652 Despite the race issue not being absent in Sapmi (I shall return to this further below), the Sami could not easily attach themselves to the 1960s black civil rights movement, but they could more easily relate to Indigeneity and environmentalism because of their experience of increased pressure on the land in the post­war period. The environmental movement provided a political platform for Indigenous activists to meet. When the Canadian Indian Chief George Manuel from the National Indian Brotherhood (NIB), for example, who would later become the first President of the World Council of Indigenous Peoples (WCIP), made headlines during his visit to Sapmi in 1972, he was in Sweden as part of the official

648 Finnmark Dagblad 26 September 1969, quoted in Faaberg, op. cit., 1984, pp. 100­101. 649 Minde, 'The Making of an International Movement of Indigenous Peoples', Scandinavian Journal of History, vol. 21, no. 3, 1996, pp. 221­246. 650 J. Todal, 'The Sámi School System in Norway and International Cooperation', Comparative Education, vol. 39, no. 2, May 2003, p. 190. 651 Henry Minde, 'The Challenge of Indigenism: The Struggle for Sami Land Rights and Self­ Government in Norway 1960­1990', in Indigenous Peoples: Resource Management and Global Rights, S. Jentoft and H. Minde et al (eds.), Eburon, Delft, 2003, p. 79. 652 Todal, op. cit., 2003, p. 189. 166

Canadian delegation to the first UN Conference on the Human Environment in Stockholm. It was at that conference that he met Sami activists such as Aslak Nils Sara, who worked for the Norwegian Department of the Environment and would later serve as the vice president of WCIP from 1981­84.653 By the time the World Council of Indigenous Peoples (WCIP) was founded at Port Alberni in Canada in 1975, the Nordic Sami Council had declared the Sami “a people with its own territory, culture and social structure” (1971) and adopted an identity as Indigenous (1974):

The areas now occupied by the Sami were occupied and utilized by them long before any other people. As the indigenous people the Sami had, therefore, the right to these core areas on the basis of immemorial tradition.654

There was some scepticism towards the Sami joining the international Indigenous movement. The Latin American delegates at the founding meeting of WCIP initially found it difficult to accept the light­skinned and relatively well­off north Europeans as “white Indians” but, according to Henry Minde, the Native American Philip (Sam) Deloria from the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe proposed broad membership criteria precisely to include in the organisation minorities like the Nordic Sami who were not as downtrodden as other minorities and whose relationship with “their” states could be held up as an example to be followed.655 Sami activists and Norwegian bureaucrats advocated for Indigenous rights abroad but kept a low profile at home. The authorities provided funding to the establishment of International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs (IWGIA) by anthropologists in Copenhagen in 1968 and preparations for the WCIP before recognising the Sami as Indigenous. However, the Foreign Ministry was forced to tackle the Sami question when the UN requested a response to the José Martínez­Cobo UN Study of the Problem of Discrimination against Indigenous Populations in 1975, and it acknowledged that the Sami were Indigenous according to the definition provided.656 In 1978 the Secretary of State at the Foreign Ministry, Thorvald Stoltenberg, followed this up when he delivered the key note at the UN World Conference Against Racism:

It is a sad fact that the existence and survival of indigenous populations are often gravely menaced. In Norway the Sami people, sometimes known as

653 Minde, op. cit., 2003, pp. 81­82. 654 Quoted in Minde, op. cit., 1996, pp. 237­238. 655 Ibid., pp. 84­85. 656 E. Høgtvedt, NOU 1980: 53, p. 23. 167

Lapps, has known a long history of discrimination and attempts at forceful assimilation. Today that is no longer the case, but admittedly much remains to be done to redress the wrongs of the past.657

Stoltenberg and Sami activists stressed that the situation of the Nordic Sami could not be compared with the marginalisation and suppression experienced by Indigenous minorities living under military dictatorships in Latin America and elsewhere. 658 However, the racial hierarchy in North Norway was not easily dismantled and discrimination and pressure to assimilate were ongoing. For example, according to the 1970 population and housing census, a significant number of people in North Troms who reported that Sami was their first language also reported that they did not identify as Sami.659 Harald Eidheim described in the late 1960s how, in the “Norwegian” public sphere, the Sami language was seen as a handicap and people immediately switched to speaking Norwegian or changed the topic when a local non­Sami entered the group. 660 While many of the young reclaimed their Sami identity in the 1970s, there were still good reasons for trying to hide or downplay it. The outspoken Professor of Medicine, Per Fugelli, who came to Finnmark as district medical officer in 1977, looks back and is shocked by the racism he witnessed and wrote about at the time.661 He describes how the Sami were always last to enter the bus because they automatically gave way to non­Sami passengers or the bus driver told them to wait, and at the supermarket the cashier would let non­Sami customers jump the queue to pay while Sami stood back waiting for their turn.662 Fugelli found that in 1980 more than 80% of the 74 Sami inhabitants (aged 16 years and older) from the village of Skoganvarre outside Karasjok who turned up for medical examinations and interviews did not know how to write their own language, more than 30% could write no language at all and 40% had no or little knowledge of Norwegian. While 85% of Sami households lacked running water or had pipes which would regularly freeze during the winter months, only 13% of the 46 non­Sami residents

657 Quoted in ibid. 658 S. K. Kristiansen, 'Stoltenberg ferdig med rekruttskolen: "jeg visste ikke hva jeg gikk til"', Verdens Gang, Monday 31 December 1979, p. 17; H. Sandvig, 'Samisk delegasjon til urbefolkningskonferansen: Alta ingen hovedsak i Canberra', Aftenposten, 26 April 1981, p. 4. 659 V. A. Båk'te, 'Den samiske befolkningen i Nord­Norge/Sámi ál'bmut Davvi­Norgas', Artikler fra Statistisk sentralbyrå no. 107, Statistics Norway, Oslo, 1978., p. 62. 660 H. Eidheim, op. cit., 1990, pp. 57, 60. 661 P. Fugelli, op. cit., 1981; See also P. Fokstad, 'Vi er i ferd med å dø', in Samene i dag ­ og i morgen, T. E. Dahl (ed.), Gyldendal, 1970, pp. 7­15. 662 Quoted in B. Brekke, '­ Internatskolene var barnemishandling i offentlig regi', NRK, 31 October 2013, viewed 2 December 2013, 168 reported similar problems. Fugelli's medical examinations give some insight into poor housing, overcrowding, the lack of basics and inadequate education in Inner Finnmark at the time.663 He describes boarding schools as state child abuse.664 Although former Sami and non­Sami inmates gave a mixed picture of their experiences when interviewed by Ingjerd Tjelle in Omsorg og overgrep (Care and Abuse), because for some the schools provided an escape from poverty, they reveal enough of the physical, sexual and psychological child abuse that took place to imagine the impact. Abuse was experienced also by non­Sami but the Sami children also suffered a lack of understanding of their language and culture. The schools were institutions of Norwegianisation and the language and cultural needs and interests of Sami children were not considered before the 1980s.665 Against this backdrop, many people of Sami descent felt uneasy about the Sami revival instigated by a young generation of so­called “Super Sami”666 who were not only not willing to hide their identity but challenged the authorities and the Norwegian­ inflicted cultural shame among older Sami by flaunting their cultural pride in dress, language, joik (Sami singing), music, art and badges. They brought back a culture that many families had left behind and tried to forget.667 Sami Indigenous activists found it difficult to mobilise among their own, and during the Alta Affair in 1979 a group of Sami Labour Party sympathisers rejected Sami radicalism and broke away from the NSR to establish the Sami National League (Samenes Landsforbund, SLF). In the previous year, the NSR had turned down a dinner invitation to King Olav's 75th birthday and the SLF made clear in its mission statement that it would work for the protection of the Sami language and culture in accordance with the Norwegian Constitution and show respect for the King, his government and the authorities.668 The Finnmark Labour Party was commonly seen to be behind the establishment of SLF which followed another incident a few years earlier when the pro­Sami editor Odd Mathis Hætta of the Sami­Norwegian newspaper Ságat was sacked in 1974 in what NRK (the national broadcaster) reported as a Labour Party coup.669 The SLF provided a Sami alternative to the NSR and picked up

663 Fugelli, op. cit., 1981, p. 95­97. 664 Quoted in Brekke, op. cit., 2013. 665 I. Tjelle, Omsorg og Overgrep: Møter med barnehjemsbarn, Nordnorsk Forlag, Alta, 2005, p. 77. 666 According to Svein Lund the label "supersame" (Super Sami) was first used by Henrik Ravna (1913­1991), a Sami police officer from Tana. S. Lund, op. Cit., 2013, viewed 13 March 2016, 667 Minde, op. cit., 2003, pp. 86­87. 668 Hætta, op. cit., 2002, p. 183. 669 H. K. Mellingen, op. cit., 2004, pp. 49­52, 73­77. 169 support in coastal areas, challenging the idea that Saminess was synonymous with reindeer husbandry and confined to the Sami speakers of Inner Finnmark.

The Alta Affair as a turning point Henry Minde writes that until the Alta Affair, the “idea that the Sami were an indigenous people in a modern sense, according to international law, was quite unfamiliar to both the Norwegian authorities and the vast majority of the Sami”. 670 On 8 October 1979, a group of Sami activists from Finnmark pitched a lávvu (Sami tent) on the lawn in front of the Norwegian Parliament in Oslo and threatened to go on hunger strike unless the government postponed its plans to build a hydroelectric power plant in the Alta River/Álttáeatnu until the question of Sami land rights was settled by the courts.671 The original plans to dam the river, which flows from the mountain plateau of Kautokeino into the Alta Fjord and is known for its rich salmon stocks, dated back to the 1960s and would have submerged the Sami village Máze/Masi (population 400) and surrounding reindeer grazing and calving areas, with only the church tower of Máze remaining visible.672 By the time the government and an overwhelming majority of Parliament decided to go ahead, the project had been downscaled and Máze protected, but herders and anthropologists disputed the government claim that it would impact on the grazing land of no more than 21 reindeer. Their estimate was 30,000 reindeer and 300 herders.673 Both the hunger strike and the appeal to Indigenous rights took the government and public by surprise. As we saw in Chapter Four, Norway had not signed the ILO Convention 107 in 1957 because it regarded the Sami as well integrated, and a specific Sami policy had not been considered since the Sami Committee put forward its recommendations in 1959. Within days of the hunger strike, Prime Minister Odvar Nordli called off a major police action against demonstrators at the construction site at Stilla outside Alta, which would have involved 150 soldiers who were ready to assist the police.674 According to Minde, he then “turned to his advisors and asked them to provide documentation about what Norwegian Sami politics actually consisted of.”675 The damming of the Alta River was initially about the conflict between hydro­ electric power and protection of the environment, not Indigenous rights to natural

670 Minde, op. cit., 2003, p. 88. 671 Hjorthol, op. cit., 2006, pp. 49­50. 672 Ø. Dalland, 'The last big dam in Norway: whose victory?', in Dams as Aid: A Political Anatomy of Nordic Development Thinking, A. Usher (ed.), Routledge, London, 1997, pp. 43­44. 673 Bjørklund and Brantenberg, op. cit., 1981, pp. 13, 20. 674 Hjorthol, op. cit., pp. 67, 71. 675 Minde, op. cit., 2003, p. 90. 170 resources. Sami activists were involved in the protest from the beginning and adopted different strategies to build support, first locally and later nationally and internationally. The early resistance in Máze was local and Sami, as evident on the banners used to welcome members of Parliament visiting the village in 1970: “We came first” and “We will not evacuate again” (a reference to the WW2 evacuation of Finnmark – see Chapter Four).676 In a letter addressed to the Norwegian Water Resources and Energy Directorate (NVE) in 1971, the People's Movement Committee in Máze demanded an investigation into Sami rights to land and natural resources in accordance with national and international law, but in the absence of political mobilisation around this the NVE could easily shelve the letter without answering. As late as July 1978, Sami activists did not push the Sami cause when the People's Movement was established in Alta, and it was barely mentioned when the Alta Dam was discussed in Parliament later that year. Sami activists were reluctant to highlight Sami or Indigenous rights because that implied exclusiveness and might alienate local support in Alta where the main protest issue was to protect the salmon­rich river for locals.677 Thus the campaign adopted the neutral “Let the River Live” slogan and a salmon as its symbol. By the mid­1970s, Alta had become the focus of a national environmental protest, and non­governmental organisations such as the Norwegian Society for the Conservation of Nature (Naturvernforbundet) came “to play a major role throughout the rest of the conflict.”678 The environmental alliance was crucial for mobilising urban support in the south. The People's Movement was made up of intellectuals, teachers, students, environmentalists, politicians and celebrities – 20,000 people signed up for membership and 6,000 visited the ten­week protest camp at Detsika outside Alta in 1979. According to Odd Ivar Solbakk, about 50 of the 900 demonstrators at Stilla, who were physically removed by 600 police in the country's largest post­war police operation in harsh winter conditions on 14 January 1981, were Sami.679 The combined interests of Sami, non­Sami locals, and environmentalists provided the foundation for the Alta alliance but it was the Indigenous connection which gave the mass protest a new dimension which the government could not easily ignore. Sami activist Ole Henrik Magga, who was to become the first President of the Sami Parliament, wrote that the awakening among Sami and other Indigenes in the late 1960s and 70s had “deeper roots than any student

676 My translation, Hjorthol, op. cit., 2006, p. 17. 677 Ibid., pp. 18­19, 31, 34. 678 C. M. Briggs, 'Science, local knowledge and exclusionary practices: Lessons from the Alta Dam case'. Norsk Geografisk Tidsskrift/Norwegian Journal of Geography, vol. 60, no. 2, 2006, p. 153. 679 Quoted in Hjorthol, op. cit., p. 110. 171 movement.”680 Tellingly, the Sami activist Niillas Aslaksen Somby who lost an arm and one eye when he (and two others) tried to blow up a bridge on the road to the construction site, fled the country with his family and took refuge among Native Americans in a Canadian reservation.681 For the Labour Party, divided as it was between a new generation of young environmentalists and the older so­called “power socialists” with their trade union roots, the Alta Dam was only one of several hydro­power projects in the 1970s and not controversial until it became an Indigenous issue. Alta was overshadowed by a larger battle within the party to include the Veig and Dagali watercourses in plans to turn Hardangervidda, in Norway's south and the biggest mountain plateau of its kind in Europe, into a national park. Not every river could be conserved, and when the newly appointed Minister of the Environment, Gro Harlem Brundtland, decided in 1974 to take on “old Labour” and concentrate on Hardanger, Alta was sacrificed.682 Although the Alta Dam was opposed by Alta and Kautokeino municipal councils, the party leadership was under pressure from Finnmark Labour. Finnmark County Authority had been behind the initial project in the 1960s and maintained 40% ownership when it became a state project in 1970, thus the regional involvement was significantly higher than in other state­led power development projects.683 According to Reiulf Steen, Labour leader at the time, they knew little in Oslo about the far north but had a “bad conscience” for not doing enough for the region and therefore accepted the Finnmark branch's arguments that they needed the electric power.684 Gro Harlem Brundtland paid little attention to Alta and kept a low profile until she, three days after taking over from Nordli as Prime Minister in 1981, faced 14 Sami women aged between 5 and 78 years who occupied her office for twenty­four hours and demanded to be heard. But by that time it was too late. Parliament had given the hydroelectric project the green light three times.685 According to Minde, once “the Alta Affair had been defined by the media as both a Sami matter and an indigenous people’s matter, the political rules of the game altered

680 O. H. Magga, 'Are we finally to get our rights?', in Native Power: The Quest for Autonomy and Nationhood of Indigenous Peoples, J. Brøstad & J. Dahl et. al. (eds.), Universitetsforlaget, Bergen and Oslo, 1985, p. 22. 681 Hjorthol, op. cit., pp. 158­161. 682 Ibid., p. 22. 683 Y. Nilsen, 'Ideologi eller kompleksitet? Motstand mot vannkraftutbygging i Norge i 1970­ årene', Historisk Tidsskrift, vol. 87, 2008, pp. 80­81. 684 Quoted in Hjorthol, op. cit., p. 29. 685 Hjorthol, op. cit.., pp. 22­27, 127­129. 172 drastically.”686 Norway had its “international breakthrough” in the 1960s.687 Largely unaware of, or unwilling to recognise as such, its colonisation of the far north, it occupied the moral high ground internationally when advocating for human rights in the 1970s. The Alta Affair made it increasingly difficult for the government to balance international interests and national concerns – presenting itself as a humanitarian model power abroad and ignoring Indigenous demands at home. The government was condemned by the WCIP and questioned by the UN Human Rights Committee about the Sami, in what Ole Henrik Magga described as an “unpleasant international spotlight” – much more unpleasant than when South Africa had criticised Norway in the early 1960s.688 The Foreign Ministry pointed out that Norway had certain obligations and that the Alta Dam could have unfortunate consequences for its growing international role. 689 Nordli later observed that the Alta controversy would have been a burden for any government, but that for a social­democratic government it was a “nightmare”.690 Gro Harlem Brundtland too, after having chaired the UN's World Commission on the Environment and Development (WCED) from 1984­87, said in an interview with the newspaper Vårt Land in 1990 that the Alta Dam was unneccesary.691 However, the fact that Norway's international reputation was at stake did not stop the government from using 600 police to remove demonstrators so that the Dam development could go ahead, even before it was given green light by the High Court. The government and the major opposition parties feared that if the state did not clamp down on the mass protest (up to 6,000 demonstrators were expected to converge on Stilla), the Alta Affair would set precedence for future civil protests. But there was also a geopolitical and Cold War dimension to the response, given Finnmark's shared border with the USSR. The secret police had warned of the weak national sentiment among Sami in the post­war period, and with the emergence of “Sami extremism” and even talk of a Sami state in the 1970s, the surveillance of Sami activists peaked during the Alta protests: there were claims that they collaborated with communists and were in contact with the KGB.692

686 Minde, op. cit., 2003, p. 101. 687 T. Tvedt, Utviklingshjelp, utenrikspolitikk og makt: Den norske modellen, Gyldendal, Oslo, 2003, pp. 31, 61­65. 688 Magga, op. cit., 1985, p. 16. 689 Minde, op. cit., 2008, p. 67. 690 O. Nordli, Min vei: Minner og meninger, Tiden Norsk Forlag, Oslo, 1986, quoted Mellingen, op. cit., 2004, 79. 691 Hjorthol, op. cit., 2006, pp. 22­27, 127­129, 179. 692 T. Bergh & K. E. Eriksen, Den hemmelige krigen: Overvåking i Norge 1914­1997, Cappelen Akademiske Forlag, 1998, cited in ibid., pp. 86­91, 162­165. 173

The Alta Affair has been described as “the most far­reaching and deepest conflict” between the Sami and the state in the twentieth century,693 and one that “changed the status of the Norwegian Sami, past, present and future.”694 It is often said that the Sami lost the battle over Alta but won in the long term because the government was forced to enter into political dialogue with them and to investigate historic Sami rights to land and natural resources. In 1980, the Sami Rights Commission (SRC) and Sami Culture Commission were established, the recommendations of which would result in a new government approach to the Sami – a “two peoples” solution with a Sami Parliament, which will be discussed in the final chapter. In the meantime, the Norwegian Sami Council was reorganised with 18 representatives selected by Sami organisations and county governors, and an Office for Sami Affairs was established in Oslo under the Department of Local Affairs. The government approach towards Sami issues was changing, but while the Sami were waiting for the SRC's recommendations, their livelihoods were undermined by more market­driven policies in fisheries and farming, and reindeer grazing land was disappearing. By the 1980s, the rural­urban alliance was in decline. Reidar Almås writes that the “strong political support for the large and growing state budget transfers to agriculture during the 1970s” began to dwindle with the fiscal crisis of the 1980s when the urban left, in fear of losing their own jobs, “were less inclined to support a pro­agriculture redistribution.”695 In the aftermath of Alta, Sami fishers in Porsanger made their voices heard in 1983. Ragnar Nilsen points out that fish resources have been as important for Sami culture and economy as reindeer, but years of pressure to assimilate undermined the Coastal Sami identity and prevented them from raising their voices as Sami.696 While they were part of the regional fisher­farmer alliance they had usually smaller boats and less modernised equipment. Residents of fjord communities whose families had enjoyed the abundance of fish for centuries were hit by the post­war decline of fish stocks and demanded better protection and stronger regulation to prevent overfishing by boats with active gear which “looted the fjord”, but they did so as a regional minority. The Coastal Sami protest by the SLF (Sami National League) branch in the Porsanger Fjord was the first time they used their Saminess (but not Indigeneity) to take on big capital in the national Fishermen's Association and challenge the well established tradition of free access for the

693 T. Brantenberg, 'The Alta­Kautokeino conflict, Sami reindeer herding and ethnopolitics', in Native Power: The Quest for Autonomy and Nationhood of Indigenous Peoples, J. Brøstad & J. Dahl et. al (eds.), Universitetsforlaget, Bergen and Oslo, 1985, p. 23. 694 Henry Minde, op. cit., 2003, p. 75. 695 Almås, op. cit., 1989, pp. 132­134. 696 R. Nilsen, op. cit., 2003, pp. 165, 172. 174 country's residents to fish irrespective of where they live. The Coastal Sami did not demand recognition of Sami rights to natural resources but regulation of fisheries so that they and non­Sami could make a living in the fjords.697

Summary

In both Norway and Australia, the 1960s and the immediately following decades transformed the political relationship between their Indigenous minorities and non­ Indigenous majorities in many different ways, most importantly by moving this relationship itself to the centre of the political stage for the first time in their histories. Movements for Indigenous rights became more confident, better organised, and – under the growing influence of a younger generation of activists – radicalised. They could also more readily align themselves with new social and political movements in non­ Indigenous society such as the new left, student activism, civil rights, environmentalist and other movements that sprang up from the 1960s onwards, and were – as in the case of the Australian Whitlam Labor government – now dealing with new governments swept into office by the leftward shift in the political climate that was so typical of that era, and anxious to make their reformist mark after decades of conservative stasis. As we shall see in Chapter Six, the advances made in that period would not always last and could be reversed, in full or in part, by subsequent shifts in the political climate. Compared to previous decades, however, they were transformative. The rhetoric of “self­ determination” employed by the Whitlam, Hawke, and Keating Labor governments in Australia may have been a false promise but it did deliver substantial change in that, for the first time in Australian history, government policy was no longer based on the assumption that Aboriginal people would, in time, simply fade away through individual assimilation into the mainstream economy and culture, but on the permanent inclusion of Aboriginal communities in a multicultural Australian society. This included the establishment of a federal portfolio and Department of Aboriginal Affairs, funding for Aboriginal organisations and services, the setting up of representative bodies and the recognition of (some) rights to land. In Norway, the improvements in the position of the Sami made in this period – both in socio­economic terms and in the growing recognition of the Sami language – were not in the name of “self­determination” or any kind of specific Indigenous or Sami policy but in the name of regional development. Although there was a significant increase in Sami

697 Ibid., pp. 173­176. 175 consciousness and Sami activism, the Sami themselves were divided over whether their demands should be framed in terms of their Indigeneity and Indigenous rights, with the activists of the NSR who participated in the international Indigenous movement representing only a small minority in Sapmi, at least until the Alta Affair which brought the major breakthrough in Norway towards the eventual recognition of Sami rights as Indigenous rights. As in Australia, although in different, national­specific ways, it was not the efforts of Indigenous minority activists alone – important as they were – but their ability to mobilise a broad rural­urban alliance that enabled the breakthrough, combined with a favourable political environment which, in the Norwegian case, included the sensitivity of Norwegian governments to international criticism of any blemishes on their domestic human rights record. The political alliances made in the 1960s and 1970s between Indigenous and non­ Indigenous movements, however, would prove fragile in the harsher economic climate of the 1980s and 1990s. As Australian Labor moved away from its commitment to “self­ determination” and “land rights” following its capitulation to the powerful mining interests, its Aboriginal policy was increasingly reduced to cultural gestures like Keating's 1992 Redfern speech (and, much later, Rudd's apology to the Stolen Generations). These would have a wide appeal in the new era of identity politics but do little to tackle the growing social and economic disadvantage in Aboriginal communities. The more stable regional alliances, based on shared socio­economic interests, which the Sami would regularly forge with non­Indigenous groups in northern Norway – for example around fishing rights or in opposition to the EEC during the 1972 referendum – proved more durable through changes in the political climate. Australian Aboriginals did not have the benefit of such alliances, despite the social crisis of the rural Australian “bush”. On the contrary, the land rights agitation caused widespread fear of, and hostility to, Indigenous rights in rural Australia.

176

CHAPTER SIX. DIVERGENT PATHS IN THE ERA OF NEOLIBERALISM

Introduction

In the previous chapter, a key difference between the Norwegian and the Australian government approaches to their Indigenous minorities highlighted was between the Australian rhetoric of self­determination of Aboriginal communities, and the Norwegian emphasis on regional policy under which the Sami were submerged as a northern linguistic minority. However, in the following period from the 1990s onwards, Norway moved closer to the Australian approach by adopting a “two peoples” principle which recognised the Sami as the Indigenous people of the north and creating a permanent political representation for them in the form of the Sami Parliament. At the same time in Australia, “self­determination” and its two key pillars – ATSIC (the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission) and the 1993 Native Title Act – were coming under increasing pressure from a conservative neoliberal inspired backlash. Once ATSIC was abolished, Aboriginal Australians were entirely without independent political representation. The Indigenous policies of Norway and Australia became reversed images of each other: whereas Aboriginal Australia was denied its own political voice and recognised only for its culture and role as “traditional custodians of the land”, Norway's Sami policy was focused almost entirely on their political representation through the Sami Parliament. In this chapter, I discuss the more recent evolution of these different approaches and address such issues as why Norway is more reluctant than Australia to recognise rights to land, and why conservative Australia is so hostile to an independent Aboriginal politics, and conclude with a discussion of the regional dimension of Indigenous policy in both countries, given the strong presence of their Indigenous minorities in sparsely settled and relatively remote geographical areas.

Norway: the “two peoples” approach

The Sami Parliament When King Harald V opened the third Sami Parliament in 1997, he made the famous declaration that “the Norwegian state is founded on the territory of two peoples – Norwegians and Sami.” He then apologised for the past injustices that the Norwegian 177 state had brought upon the Sami by forced Norwegianisation.698 Since the Alta Affair, governments had abandoned the purely regional approach and agreed to a specific Sami policy based on a “two peoples” principle within Norwegian sovereignty, laws and territory. The Sami Rights Commission (SRC), established in 1980, was sympathetic to the Canadian Professor Douglas Sanders' High Court statement during the Alta Affair that the relationship between the Norwegian state and the Sami is “colonial in its origin”.699 The SRC made a distinction between the Sami and other minorities (Jews, Roma, Kven and more recent immigrants) on the grounds of their continuous occupation of the land and their more than a thousand years old relationship with Norway. It emphasised that the authorities were responsible for the survival of Sami culture because, unlike the immigrant cultures, it is not linked to majority cultures outside Fennoscandia.700 The recommendations of the SRC led to Article 108 in the Constitution stating that: “The authorities of the state shall create conditions enabling the Sami people to preserve and develop its language, culture and way of life.”701 The Constitution does not mention Sami political representation, but according to the 1987 Sami Act the “Sami people are to have their own nation­wide Sameting elected by and among the Sami population.” It states that the Sami Parliament is a bilingual consultative elected body the purpose of which is to deal with “any matter that in the view of the parliament particularly affects the Sami people”, and may “on its own initiative refer matters to public authorities and private institutions”.702 The Norwegian Sami Association has unsuccessfully advocated for the Sami Parliament to be included in the Constitution, which would require a two thirds parliamentary majority (in a process involving two different parliaments with an election in between).703 The SRC's recommendations received broad political support from all political parties except the Progress Party (Fremskrittspartiet) which called for a referendum in

698 “Den norske stat er grunnlagt på territoriet til to folk – nordmenn og samer. Samisk historie er tett flettet sammen med norsk historie. I dag må vi beklage den urett den norske stat tidligere har påført det samiske folk gjennom en hard fornorskningspolitikk.” Stortingsmelding nr. 55 (2000), Om samepolitikken, Kommunal­ og regionaldepartementet, Oslo, p. 11. 699 NOU 1984:18, pp. 163­165. 700 NOU 1984:18, p. 386. 701 The Norwegian Constitution, laid down on 17 May 1814, viewed 12 June 2015, 702 The Sámi Act: Act of 12 June 1987 No. 56 concerning the Sameting (the Sami parliament) and other Sami legal matters (the Sami Act). Viewed on 26 February 2016, 703 Ságat, 'Editorial: Sametinget inn i grunnloven?', 12 February 2014, viewed 4 September 2015, 178

Sami­dominated areas and pointed out that even some Sami organisations were against a Sami Census (more on the census below).704 The Progress Party had entered Parliament in 1973 on a market­liberal platform as “Anders Lange's Party for a Strong Reduction in Taxes, Duties and Public Intervention”, but picked up on anti­immigration sentiment and rural discontent in the 1980s. Its electoral breakthrough came in the 1987 municipal and county council elections when it received 12% of the vote. In North Norway it increased its vote from less than two percent in 1985 to 13% in 2001,705 challenging Labour's well established stronghold. The Sami question played a part in that, because in Finnmark 17 of 20 municipalities rejected a Sami Census based on voluntary registration by self­identification and descent (traced back to the language of the grandparents). The Progress Party opposed Sami recognition except in language policy.706 Carl I. Hagen, its long serving leader from 1978 to 2006, quoted the editor of the Sami (Norwegian language) newspaper Ságat who drew parallels with South African apartheid and predicted that the vast majority of the Sami would boycott the census. The Sami National League (SLF) stated that it was discriminatory to exclude Sami who were eligible but chose not to register from voting and participating in a Sami political body.707 Also the Norwegian Reindeer Husbandry Association (NRL) was reluctant to agree to the new Sami policy, but for different reasons than the SLF. The NRL asked for more time to find better solutions more widely supported among reindeer herders. Because of the importance of reindeer husbandry to Sami culture and its operation across municipal and state borders, the NRL demanded a separate reindeer herders' electoral district. While the SRC acknowledged the industry's specific needs and its importance to Sami society, it rejected the NRL's demand because an Indigenous political body should represent all Sami individuals irrespective of occupation and livelihoods.708 But it was commonly agreed that the Sami should be represented politically, either by democratising the existing Norwegian Sami Council or by establishing a new democratically elected body.709 The need for a political body to accommodate the many Sami views and interests was evident from the tensions that had surfaced during the Alta Affair. Norwegian politicians argued that it was in the authorities' interest to have a Sami voice to relate to.710 An Indigenous political body also suited Norway's carefully

704 Aarseth, op. cit., 2006, pp. 369­370. 705 H. Valen cited in A. Jaklin, Historien om Nord­Norge, Gyldendal, Oslo, 2004, pp. 462­463. 706 NOU 1984:18, p. 354­355. 707 Aarseth, op. cit., 2006, pp. 361, 369­374; NOU 1984:18, pp. 485­486, 489. 708 NOU 1984:18, pp. 529­530. 709 NOU 1984:18, pp. 451, 509; Aarseth, op. cit., 2006, p. 370. 710 Aarseth, op. cit., 2006, p. 371. 179 cultivated image abroad as a promoter of human rights, political dialogue and peace: 711 at about the same time as the Sami Parliament held its first elections in 1989, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs became involved in peace negotiations in Guatemala. The following year, in 1990, Norway queued up to be the first state to ratify the 1989 ILO Convention No. 169 Concerning Indigenous and Tribal Peoples in Independent Countries. Terje Tvedt observes that in the following decade, Norway consolidated its international profile as a peace negotiator and turned state­led humanitarianism into a national project, widely supported by the state bureaucracy, politicians, NGOs (non­ governmental organisations), academia and the mainstream media.712 Norway has been involved in peace negotiations in, among others, Sudan, Cyprus, Middle East, Sri Lanka, Ethiopia, Eritrea, Somalia, Colombia and Sierra Leone. By the early 2000s, generous state funding was channelled into 10,000 aid and development projects in more than 100 countries.713 This international humanitarian role is legitimised by the self­image of Norway as a small country with few economic and strategic interests abroad and no history of colonisation. According to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, “Norway does not have a colonial past, and is often regarded as impartial and sincere, in that our engagement in peace efforts is not motivated by political or economic self­interest.” 714 Marianne Gullestad writes that there is a well­established popular consciousness of historical innocence, based on Norway as a victim of colonisation (by Denmark) and occupation (by Germany). The fact that Norwegians participated in the slave trade (as part of Denmark/Norway) and the “culture of colonialism as businessmen, explorers, seamen and missionaries” is downplayed: “Norway is seen as an innocent, humane, tolerant, anti­racist and peace­loving society that is committed to helping the needy.” 715 The new Sami policy must, at least in part, be understood in that light. Yet the question of Sami “self­determination” has not featured much in public debate. Governments have stated that they consider it to be secured by Norwegian law

711 L. Dunfjeld, 'Selvstyre, selvbestemmelse og samene', in Becoming Visible – Indigenous Politics and Self­Government, T. Brantenberg and J. Hansen et al (eds.), Centre for Sami Studies, The University of Tromsø, 1995; A. J. Semb, 'How Norms Affect Policy – The Case of Sami Policy in Norway', International Journal on Minority and Group Rights, vol. 8, no. 2, 2001, pp, 215­219. 712 Tvedt, op. cit., 2003. 713 Ibid., p. 18. 714 The Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, What characterises Norway's peace and reconciliation work?, last updated 17 July 2015, viewed 20 February 2016, 715 M. Gullestad, 'Normalising racial boundaries. The Norwegian dispute about the term neger', Social Anthropology, vol. 13, no. 1, February 2005, p. 43. 180 and institutions.716 As recently as February 2008, a few months after Norway had voted in favour of the UN Indigenous Declaration, the State Secretary for Sami and Minority Affairs, Raimo Valle, said in his opening speech at a conference in Alta about “Sami self­ determination” that the “concept and the debate are not well known in Norway”.717 Sami politicians such as Egil Olli, who served as President of the Sami Parliament for the Labour Party (2007­2013), and Láilá Susanne Vars, founding leader and member of Parliament for the Indigenous party Árja, insist that the Sami have the legal right to “self­ determination” according to Article 1 in the 1966 UN Covenant.718 But the Sami have never demanded separate statehood and the concept of “self­determination” is usually understood as what Sami lawyer John B. Henriksen describes as a “process right”, rather than a “right to a pre­defined outcome”.719 Henriksen writes that for Sami leaders, “in practical terms the aim is to ensure Sami autonomy and self­government in matters relating to their internal affairs”.720 Understood as an ongoing process of political dialogue, the Sami Parliament is fundamental to the new policy. It is its cornerstone, the ultimate marker of political recognition of the Sami as one of two peoples in Norway. According to Carsten Smith, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, who chaired the first Sami Rights Commission (SRC) (1980­1985), the Commission on the Nordic Sami Rights Convention (2002­2005) and the Commission on Fishing Rights in the Ocean North of Norway (2006­2008):

Without a Sami Parliament there is no democratic legitimacy. Without a separate Sami electoral register, no representative body. Without a representative body, no sufficiently credible Sami policy.721

The Sami Parliament is symbolically located in the heart of Sapmi and overlooks Karasjohka, the river which flows north through the Finnmark Plateau into the Tana/Deatnu River, famous for its salmon­fishing.. After the parliamentary elections

716 Stortingsmelding nr. 28 (2007­2008), Samepolitikken, Arbeids­ og inkluderingsdepartementet, Oslo, pp. 34­36. 717 R. Valle, Self­determination and the Sami: Remarks for opening statement at conference on Sami Self­Determination: Scope and Implementation, Alta, 4 February 2008, published 5 February 2008, Ministry of Labour and Social Inclusion, viewed on 20 February 2016, 718 Henriksen , op. cit., 2008, pp. 10, 13. 719 Henriksen, op. cit., 2001, p. 14. 720 Henriksen, op. cit., 2008, p. 30. 721 C. Smith, 'The Development of Sami Rights in Norway from 1980 to 2007', in First World, First Nations: Internal Colonialism and Indigenous Self­Determination in Northern Europe and Australia, G. Minnerup and P. Solberg (eds.), Sussex Academic Press, Brighton and Portland, 2011, pp. 25. 181 every four years, the King opens first the Norwegian Parliament in Oslo and then travels north to open the Sami Parliament in Karasjok. The building is constructed like a half circle, with forty offices over two levels and a Plenary Assembly Hall that resembles a lavvu (Sami tent).722 It has 39 directly­elected members standing for Norwegian and Sami political parties, organisations and local party lists, representing seven (originally 13) electorates across Norway. It elects the Sami Parliament President who appoints a Sami Parliament Council, the equivalent of a national government which meets 10 to 12 times a year. The President and Vice­President are full­time politicians. Plenary sessions meet for five days four times a year. When the Sami Parliament celebrated its 25th anniversary in September 2015, the Plenary was invited to hold its fourth session in the Norwegian Parliament, reflecting its acceptance of the Sami Parliament as a separate but integral part of Norwegian democracy. Anybody who self­identifies as Sami and is a Norwegian citizen, 18 years of age and speaks Sami at home or is the child, grandchild or great­grandchild of someone who used the language at home or was registered in the Sami Census, is eligible to vote. 723 The number of those registered in the Sami Census has increased from 5,505 in the 1989 elections to 14,162 in 2013. Many more are eligible to register for the Census. Bjørn Bjerkli and Per Selle estimate a potential 30,000 voters, but decades of Norwegianisation and fears of what ethnic registers can be used for, dissuade many from doing so. There is no strong tradition of collecting data related to Sami, ethnic minorities and immigrants, thus the census is looked upon with suspicion by many Sami and non­Sami.724 The Sami Council asked Statistics Norway to include questions about the use of the Sami language and Sami identification in the 1970 population census, but otherwise there has not since the 1930s been a systematic gathering of data relating to Sami as a distinct minority.725 The government's Sami policy is coordinated by the Ministry of Local Government and Modernisation, which has a Sami State Secretary in the Department of Sami and Minority Affairs. While there has been a tendency to delegate more responsibility to the

722 However, architect Stein Halvorsen denies that the resemblance a lavvu was intentional. E. Aslaksen and K. Vailo, '­ Vi har ikke kopiert en lavvu', NRK Sápmi, 5 February 2008, viewed 3 August 2015, 723 See the Sami Parliament's website: https://www.sametinget.no/ 724 B. Bjerkli and P. Selle, 'Sametinget – kjerneinstitusjonen innenfor den nye samiske offentligheten', in Samer, makt og demokrati: Sametinget og den nye samiske offentligheten, B. Bjerkli and P. Selle (eds.), Gyldendal, Oslo, 2003, p. 53; R. Paine, 'Identitetsfloke: same­ same: Om komplekse identitetsprosesser i samiske samfunn', in ibid., pp. 291­317. 725 V. A. Båk'te, op. cit., 1978, p. 16; E. Lie, 'Numbering the nationalities: ethnic minorities in Norwegian population censuses 1845­1930', Ethnic and Racial Studies, vol. 25, no. 5, September 2002, p. 819. 182

Sami Parliament in areas such as cultural heritage, language, education and culture, this has not been extended to reindeer husbandry. In 1991 the Norwegian Parliament turned down the Sami Parliament's proposal to take over responsibility for reindeer husbandry. Terje Brantenberg writes that the Sami Parliament “was seen as too recent and incapable of being trusted with such powers,”726 but the rejection was also due to the tense relationship between NRL and the Sami Parliament. The NRL opposes too much involvement of the Sami Parliament in its affairs. Its former leader, Nils Henrik Sara, has stressed repeatedly that it represents an industry and as such should stay out of politics. However, recent changes in the reindeer husbandry policy have brought the NRL and the Sami Parliament closer together. Sami politicians such as Per A. Bæhr, who was initially against handing responsibility to the Sami Parliament, has argued that it is necessary if the industry is not to lose out when the Sami Parliament's political power increases.727 The Norwegian authorities have willingly handed over responsibilities to the Sami Parliament, in line with the current policy trend of greater municipal autonomy, but Bjørn Bjerkli and Per Selle argue that, as a national body, it might be in the Sami Parliament's best interest to maintain close ties with central government in Oslo and lobby for their rights and interests “from within”.728 The Sami Parliament is responsible for Sami education curricula, which consist of Sami language education and subjects such as duodji/handicraft, reindeer husbandry and culture, and would like to have a greater say in other, mainstream subjects.729 It has taken over the administration of the Sami Development Fund, set up in 1975, but has no means to generate revenue of its own. It depends on state transfers, which have increased from 32 million NOK in 1990 to 429 million NOK in 2015.730 Rune Sverre Fjellheim comments that although the Sami Parliament administers about 40% of the government's total budget on Sami affairs, it 726 T. Brantenberg, 'Murky Agenda in the Mørketid: Norwegian Policy, Sami Politics and the Tromsø Conference, in Becoming Visible – Indigenous Politics and Self­Government, T. Brantenberg and J. Hansen et al (eds.), Centre for Sami Studies, The University of Tromsø, Tromsø, 1995, viewed on 23 February 2016, 727 T. W. Thrane, 'Reindrifta må med i Sametinget', NRK Sapmi, 17 October 2009, viewed 3 November 2015, , A. K. Kalstad, '­Endringene vil skje uten Sametingets samtykke', NRK Sapmi, 22 January 2013, viewed on 12 March 2016, 728 Bjerkli and Selle, op. cit., 2003, pp. 56­57, 76­77. 729 The Sami Parliament, Sametingsmelding om opplæring og utdanning 2011, Karasjok, 2011, p. 28. 730 Kommunal­ og moderniseringsdepartementet, Bevilgninger til samiske formål i statsbudsjettet 2015, publikasjonskode H­2327 B/S, October 2014, viewed on 20 February 2016, 183 has merely inherited old schemes from the state and distributed the funds along similar lines. He argues that it does not carry out its own but the state's Sami policy: “the State is behind 97 percent of the economic instruments in the field of Sami policy in total and 93 percent of the Sami policy administered by the Sami Parliament.”731

The Finnmark Act The political parties could easily agree to a Sami Parliament with limited powers, but recognition of rights to natural resources was a different matter. According to Carsten Smith, “one of the major political obstacles” to reaching agreement on a Nordic Sami Convention, which the Nordic states have discussed since 2005, is the proposal to give the Sami Parliaments of Norway, Sweden and Finland a right to veto measures that “may significantly damage the basic conditions for Sami culture, livelihoods or society”.732 The period between the Alta protest and the establishment of the Sami Parliament in the 1980s has been described as a “quiet revolution”:733 quiet because the land rights question was being discussed by the SRC's sub­committee of legal experts behind closed doors for thirteen years. Terje Brantenberg writes that when the “veil of silence and darkness was broken” in 1993, it exposed “many continuing ambiguities and 'murkiness' in Sami­Norwegian relations.”734 The first Sami Rights Commission found that the concept of culture “did not apply merely to ideal forms of expression – such as books, theatre, music, visual arts etc. – but should cover also the material foundation, that is, the economic and physical basis of culture.”735 But any Sami hopes for a recognition of ownership to land were crushed when the sub­committee concluded that – on the basis of Norwegian and international law – the state owned the land in Finnmark and that Sami and non­Sami could claim only rights to use it.736 At an Indigenous conference in Tromsø in 1993, Douglas Sanders said that he was “shocked at the lack of progress” in Norway and that “nothing” had changed since he first visited the country in 1980 during the Alta protest.737 The mining industry, too, was eager to get the land rights question

731 R. S. Fjellheim, 'Self­determination and Economics', in Henriksen (ed.), op. cit., 2008, p. 98. 732 Smith, op. cit., 2011, pp. 29­30. 733 Einar Førde quoted in Aarseth, op. cit., 2006, p. 375. 734 Brantenberg, op. cit., 1995. 735 Smith, op. cit., 2011, p. 23. 736 NOU (Norges offentlige utredninger) 1993:34 Rett til og forvaltning av land og vann i Finnmark, Statens forvaltningstjeneste, Statens trykking, Oslo. 737 D. E. Sanders, 'State Practice and the united Nations Draft declaration on the Rights of indigenous Peoples', in Becoming Visible – Indigenous Politics and Self­Government, T. Brantenberg and J. Hansen et al (eds.), Centre for Sami Studies, The University of Tromsø, Tromsø, 1995, viewed on 20 February 2016, 184 settled. The Exploration Manager for Rio Tinto Zinc Mining and Exploration, Colin Harris, put the government under pressure by visiting the Sami Parliament and announcing that they would withdraw from Finnmark and only return when given a green light by the President of the Sami Parliament.738 It took another decade for the first proposal for a Finnmark Act to be put forward in 2003. The Sami Parliament's rejection of it set off a legal and political debate about Norway's obligations in international law and new rounds of consultations.739 The 2005 Finnmark Act was the state's final answer to the Alta protest twenty­five years earlier. It was a political compromise made possible because of broad political support in the Norwegian Parliament and in the Sami Parliament. The latter saw it as a victory, as evident in that both the Sami faction of the Labour Party and the Norwegian Sami Association (NSR) claimed credit for it – the latter by presenting it as the outcome of a long struggle for land rights, and the former by stressing the importance of national politics and alliances because the Labour Party, which was then in opposition, pushed for the legislation to be passed in the Norwegian Parliament.740 Following the “two peoples” principle, the state handed ownership of 96 percent of Finnmark – 46,000 km 2, roughly half the size of Tasmania – to a new body known as the “Finnmark Estate” in 2005. The Board of the Finnmark Estate consists of three members appointed by the Finnmark County Council and three representatives of the Sami Parliament.741 From the viewpoint of Indigenous rights, there are obvious shortcomings of the Act in that it is confined to Finnmark itself and does not therefore cover the Sami (except as represented by the Sami Parliament) or any land and resources outside its borders, and also excludes from its provisions rights to salt water fishing, minerals and oil even within Finnmark. Yet it also represents an innovative attempt at recognising Indigenous rights while at the same time reconciling them with conflicting, non­Indigenous claims within a

738 Quoted in Brantenberg, op. cit., 1995. 739 E. G. Broderstad and H. K. Hernes, 'Gjennombrudd ved konsultasjoner? Finnmarksloven og konsultasjonsordningen i Stortinget', in Finnmarksloven, H. K. Hernes and N. Oskal (eds.), Cappelen Akademisk Forlag, Oslo, 2008, pp. 122­145. 740 L. Gaski, 'Contesting the Sami Polity: Discursive Representations in the Sami Electoral Campaign in 2005', Acta Borealia, vol. 25, no. 1, 2008, p. 10. 741 “If the vote is tied 3–3, the chairman of the board has the casting vote. The board chooses its own chairman and deputy chairman. If none of the members receives a majority vote, the decision as to which of the six members are to be chairman and deputy chairman is made by the Finnmark County Council in odd­numbered years and the Sami Parliament in even­numbered years.” Cf. https://www.regjeringen.no/no/tema/urfolk­og­minoriteter/urfolkryddemappe/report­on­ convention­no­169­concerning­i/id548646/ 185 framework of joint responsibility of both sides for the overall development of the region which they share. It takes into account the history of colonisation and a century of Norwegianisation, without forcing an identity revival upon those residents of Sami descent who no longer identify as Sami, or excluding those of Kven, Norwegian and other non­Sami background. It acknowledges a national dimension beyond Finnmark alone by assigning a key role to the Sami Parliament which represents all Norwegian Sami, including those living south of Finnmark. While defining as its overall purpose the management of land and natural resources “for the benefit of the residents”, it goes on to add “particularly as a basis for Sami culture, reindeer husbandry, use of non­cultivated areas, commercial activity and social life.”742 And although the Finnmark Commission was set up to identify and recognise Sami and non­Sami rights to specific land, with an Uncultivated Land Tribunal to solve the legal disputes which might follow, Section 3 of the Finnmark Act implies that, in case of a conflict, ILO Convention 169 takes precedence over national law. The regional approach to recognising Sami land rights was also intended to allay fears of forced Samification among people of Sami descent and others. While the Sami­ dominated interior welcomed the new bilingual road signs and the Sami curriculum when Sami language laws and the new education policy were introduced in the 1990s, the new policy divided families and communities in the coastal communities. For example, when the village of Kåfjord experienced a Sami revival with the well­known annual music and culture festival Riddu Riđđ u, meaning “little storm on the coast”, the new Sami language road signs alongside the old Norwegian ones were shot at with firearms until they were unreadable. Local bureaucrats launched a campaign against what they believed would be obligatory Sami language education in schools and demanded a referendum about whether the municipality should be included in the newly­established Sami Language Administrative District.743 In parts of the fjord community of Tana there was much resistance against the 1997 Sami curriculum. Although most parents did not actively support the political right and its “No to Samiland” campaign, some of them took their children out of school and set up a private Montessori school, a significant

742 Act of 17 June 2005 No. 85 relating to legal relations and management of land and natural resources in the county of Finnmark (Finnmark Act), viewed on 10 April 2015, 743 P. Pedersen and A. Høgmo, Sápmi slår tilbake: Samiske revitaliserings­ og moderniseringsprosesser i siste generasjon, ČálliidLágádus/ForfatternesForlag, Karasjok, 2012, pp. 158­162. 186 step in a country with no strong tradition of private education.744 These and other protests might be be lumped together as anti­Sami, but Paul Pedersen and Asle Høgmo argue that they were based on fears that the new Sami curriculum would be used to force a revival of Saminess rather than to facilitate multiculturalism. The Kven minority, for example, longed for a curriculum which also incorporated their history and culture.745 The nationalist right and the socialist left both rejected the Finnmark Act. The Progress Party, opposed to any ethnic differentiation, called for a referendum in Finnmark and demanded that Norway “unsign” ILO Convention 169. While the Socialist Left Party was sympathetic to a recognition of Sami land rights – and wanted fishing rights to be included in the Act – it stated that it could not support a law which strongly reduced common rights in Finnmark.746 The Finnmark Act reduced the state's land ownership nationally from over thirty to twenty percent, and many in the south feared that they would no longer have access to the wilderness of the north which, unlike the more densely populated and regulated south, is one of the last areas of significant size available for fishing, hunting, hiking, berry­picking and other recreational use. There is a strong tradition of outdoor recreation in Norway which “is the only country in the world where public access is protected by an explicit legal act”, the Open­Air Recreation Act of 28 June 1957.747 For some, such as the Norwegian Association of Hunters and Fishers (Norges Jeger­ og Fiskerforbund, NJFF), the Finnmark Act was an attack on public access to nature and the “right to roam” (allemannsretten), an inherent feature of the country's egalitarian national identity.748 A petition against the Finnmark Act, organised by some on the political left against what they saw as privatisation of state­owned land, collected 11,000 signatures among a Finnmark population of 70,000. Jon Gauslaa of the Finnmark Commission argued that the Act did not privatise land but recognised already existing rights under Norwegian law.749 The SRC had recommended a political rather

744 Ibid., pp. 202­208. 745 Ibid., p. 195. 746 Innst. O. nr. 80 (2004­2005): Innstilling fra justiskomiteen om lov om rettsforhold og forvaltning av grunn og naturressurser i Finnmark fylke (finnmarksloven), pp. 15­16. 747 B. P. Kaltenborn and H. Haaland et al, 'The Public Rights of Access – Some Challenges to Sustainable Tourism Development in Scandinavia', Journal of Sustainable Tourism, vol. 9, no. 5, 2001, p. 421. 748 For the importance of nature to the Norwegian national identity see T. Hylland Eriksen, 'Norwegians and Nature', Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs' article series, Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affair, Summer 1996, viewed on 10 April 2015, 749 J. Gauslaa, Finnmarkskommisjonen, rettighetsanerkjennelse og privatisering, Finnmarkskommisjonen: Norges Domstoler, 6 May 2009, viewed on 3 April 2015, 187 than a legal process – that the administration of unenclosed lands should be left to the municipalities to settle democratically rather than to the courts – but the Sami Parliament insisted that the state took an active role in identifying and recognising Sami rights to specific land and water in Finnmark (according to Article 14 in the ILO Convention 169).750 The establishment of a Finnmark Commission to do so merely extended the legal practice of identifying property and user rights to state­owned land which had earlier precedents south of Finnmark in the Mountain Commission (1908–1953) and the Uncultivated Land Commission for Nordland and Troms (1985­2004).751 Norwegian and global interests in the area has ruled out anything that could encourage regional or Sami separatism. While Norway was the first country to sign the ILO Convention 169 in 1990, it also actively lobbied to try to weaken it during the revision process in the 1980s.752 The 2009 Minerals Act refers to ILO Convention 169 and requires mining companies to pay a slightly higher royalty in Finnmark than elsewhere, but it is paid to the Finnmark Estate, not the Sami, and this is one reason the Sami Parliament rejects the Minerals Act and has put forward its own minerals policy.753 The lack of Sami and regional fishing rights has been condemned by the UN's Special Rapporteur on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, James Anaya, and the first Sami Parliament President, Ole Henrik Magga, who describes it as a “big, black hole” in Norwegian history and politics.754 The Coastal Fishing Commission (2006­2008) found that, according to international law, Sami and non­Sami who live in the fjords and on the coast of Finnmark have the fishing rights as historical user rights, and has recommended a management model similar to the Finnmark Act, with a fishing zone to be administered by a board of six elected by the Sami Parliament and Finnmark County Council.755 Insisting that fish are a national resource, the Commission's proposal was fiercely

750 Ulf T. Ballo in Ságat 3 December 2011, quoted in Ø. Ravna, 'Reglene for rettskartleggingen på Finnmarkseiendommens grunn – og noen betraktninger om forutsigbarhet, partsdisposisjoner og ankeordning', Tidsskrift for eiendomsrett, vol. 6, no. 3, 19 November 2012, p. 160; NOU 1997:4, pp. 337­349. 751 Ø. Ravna, 'The Process of Identifying Land Rights in parts of Northern Norway: Does the Finnmark Act Prescribe an Adequate Procedure within the National Law?', Yearbook of Polar Law, vol. 3, 2011, pp. 433­437. 752 Henry Minde, 'Sami land rights in Norway: a test case for Indigenous peoples', International Journal on Minority and Group Rights, vol. 8, no. 4, 2001, pp. 117­120. 753 Ot. prp. nr. 43 (2008­2009): Om lov om erverv og utvinning av mineralressurser (mineralloven), pp. 92­93, 107­108; The Sami Parliament, The Sami Parliament's mineral guide: for exploration work and operations relating to mineral resources, Karasjok, 2010. 754 S. E. Vuolab and T. W. Thrane, '– En solid støtteerklæring, NRK Sápmi, 18 January 2011, viewed 5 August 2015, 755 NOU 2008:5: Retten til fiske i havet utenfor Finnmark, pp. 14­15. 188 opposed by the Fishermen's Association which represents individual fishers as well as large companies and is dominated by big capital in the south.756 Norway has its own reasons for not recognising Sami fishing rights. Water is more important for Norway than land: it has one of the world's longest coastlines and is the second largest exporter of fish after China, the third largest exporter of natural gas and the tenth largest oil exporter. Seafoods are a significant industry making up about six to seven percent of total exports but, more importantly, a recognition of Sami and local fishing rights would raise questions of ownership of offshore oil and gas which make up more than half of the state's exports and almost one third of its income. 757 The US Geological Survey (USGS) estimates that the Arctic contains more than twenty percent of the world's undiscovered oil and nearly thirty percent of the world's undiscovered gas reserves. Roughly twelve percent of the Arctic's undiscovered gas and eight percent of its oil are expected to be found off Nordland county in Norway, and 19% of the gas in the Barents Sea – most of which belongs to Russia.758 Norway used to keep a low profile in the Barents Sea during the Cold War when it concentrated on extracting oil and gas from fields south of Sapmi, but shortly after the Finnmark Act was passed by Parliament in June 2005, the Norwegian (mostly state­owned) companies Statoil and Norsk Hydro were shortlisted to take part in the development of the Russian Shtokman field, one of the world's largest offshore gas fields. A few months later, Norway and Russia began negotiations about the three decades­long maritime border dispute in the Barents Sea which were eventually concluded in 2010.759 By that time, the Arctic ice meltdown was a well known reality. Scott G. Borgerson points out that in the short period between “2004 and 2005, the Arctic lost 14% of its perennial ice – the dense, thick ice that is the main obstacle to shipping”. With future ice­free summers, the new shipping routes from continental Europe to Asia via Canada and Alaska and Norway and Russia will be attractive because they go through politically stable areas and shorten the distance by up

756 Å. Pulk and J. E. Kalvemo, '– Finnmark ikke tjent med forslaget', NRK Sápmi, 9 December 2008, viewed 12 August 2015, 757 Y. Tormodsgard, Facts 2014: The Norwegian Petroleum Sector, Norwegian Ministry of Petroleum and Energy, Oslo, 5 May 2014, pp. 12­13, viewed on 20 February 2016, , Nordic Council of Ministers, Nordic Statistical Yearbook 2014, Copenhagen, p. 133; H. Røed, Fiskehistorier: Hvem skal eie havet?, Manifest, Oslo, 2013, pp. 19­22. 758 S. Sawhill and W. Østreng, Petroleum in the North, Ocean Futures, Oslo, 2005, cited in Hernes and Hippe et. al., op. cit., 2007, p. 8. 759 A. Moe, 'Russian and Norwegian petroleum strategies in the Barents Sea', Arctic Review on Law and Politics, vol. 1, no. 2, 2010, pp. 232­233, 240­241. 189 to 40%.760 The importance of oil and gas to the Norwegian economy has made the Sami Parliament reluctant to demand saltwater rights. Sami rights to natural resources were not an issue for the Norwegian Parliament when it gave the green light to the Snøhvit offshore gas field near Hammerfest in Finnmark in 2002. 761 The Sami politician Jánoš Trosten, a former leader of NSR (1998­2001) and known as the Sami Parliament's “cowboy”, claimed exclusive Sami ownership of the Snøhvit resources, but the Sami faction of the Labour Party followed the party line that oil and gas are national resources. The Sami Parliament's official statement at the time, authored by the NSR, was that the Sami – as an Indigenous people – had certain rights to gas and oil in Sami areas and that the Sami Parliament should have a say in the development of such resources.762 But with the support of only half of the Sami Parliament, there was no danger that the Indigenous parties would pose a threat to Norwegian sovereignty.

Regional dimensions of the Sami question In 2011 the Labour President of the Sami Parliament, Egil Olli, warned against the government's “high north policy” undermining Sami livelihoods by encroaching on land and resources. He suggested that the risk of Sami culture, language and industries being weakened or completely lost is perhaps greater today than thirty years ago.763 This is alarming but also surprising: how can Sami society be under greater pressure today than at the time of the Alta Protest when the Sami were barely recognised as Indigenous and had no Sami Parliament and no Finnmark Act? By the time the Coastal Fishing Committee put forward its recommendations in 2008, the number of fishers in Sami fjords such as Porsanger, had experienced a 70% reduction since 1990. There were only 27 registered fishers left in the municipality. 764 There has been a steady decline of fishers nationally during the post­war period, from 760 S. G. Borgerson, 'Arctic Meltdown: The Economic and Security Implications of Global Warming', Foreign Affairs, vol. 87, no. 2, March and April 2008, pp. 66­69. 761 T. Henriksen and H. K. Hernes, 'Snøhvit – eventyr i sameland?', in Hvor går Nord­Norge? Tidsbilder fra en landsdel i forandring, S. Jentoft and J. I. Nergård et al (eds.), Orkana Akademisk, Stamsund, 2011, p. 197. 762 Mellingen, op. cit., 2004, pp. 109­111; R. Enoksen, 'Tilhører Snøhvit­gassen samene?', Nordlys, 7 November 2001, viewed 10 August 2015, ; R. Enoksen, '– Sametingsrådet driver historieforfalskning', Nordlys, 19 January 2002, 763 E. Olli, 'Samepolitikk i revers?', ABC Nyheter, 27 October 2011, viewed 12 August 2015, 764 Samiske tall forteller 2/Sámi logut muitalit 2: Kommentert samisk statistikk 2009, Sami University College, Kautokeino, p. 97. 190 about 120,000 in 1940 to about 20,000 in 2001, but small fishers have been hit hard recently because in 1989 – the year the Sami Parliament held its first elections – fishers for the first time lost their unlimited access to fisheries when the government suspended cod fishing due to depleted fish stocks. When a quota system was introduced the following year, small Sami fishers who had combined several livelihoods were forced out of the industry because they had not caught enough fish in the last three years to qualify. Ragnar Nilsen notes the great irony that they “were punished for having fished too little of a communal resource that was threatened with extinction.”765 As the Sami Parliament saw it, the government had used a natural disaster – the 1980s seal invasion which reduced fish stocks in the fjords – and the overfishing of cod to get rid of small fishers in Sami areas.766 In contrast to the small fishers, the reindeer herders are blamed for being too efficient and geared towards profit. Under government control since the 1970s, the industry struggles with a land shortage. The Alta Affair alliance between herders and environmentalists during the late 1970s and early 1980s has fractured, with herders being blamed for damaging the environment with their use of motorised vehicles on the mountain plateaus and exhausting pastures with excessively large herds.767 While the Sami Parliament has limited powers, it is today a regional player in North Norway which cannot easily be ignored. The Progress Party, which wants to abolish it but was elected to it for the first time with three representatives in 2009, has decided that it is better to take part in Sami politics than watching from the outside. It is noteworthy that there has been a 150% increase of registrations for the Sami Census – from 5,505 in the 1989 elections to 14,162 persons in 2013 – despite much opposition against it when it was established. While the Sami Parliament is dominated by the Norwegian Labour Party and the Norwegian Sami Association (NSR) which pull in opposite directions ideologically – the latter emphasising colonisation and Indigeneity and the former stressing co­existence and equality – the political process has been characterised by compromises and a united front to counteract the most assimilationist aspects of government policy. The Progress Party has inherited Old Labour's assimilationist line. 768 Eva Josefsen argues that the Sami Parliament's strategy has been “breaking in” to work the Norwegian political system from within rather that “breaking out” to win greater

765 Nilsen, op. cit., 2003, p. 178. 766 The Sami Parliament, Sametingets melding om fiske som næring og kultur i kyst­ og fjordområdene, Karasjok, 2004, pp. 15­16. 767 R. Paine, 'Social construction of the 'Tragedy of the Commons' and Saami reindeer pastoralism', Acta Borealia, vol. 9, issue 2, January 1992, p. 10. 768 Mellingen, op. cit., 2004; L. Gaski, 'Contesting the Sami Polity: Discursive Representations in the Sami Electoral Campaign in 2005', Acta Borealia, vol. 25, no. 1, 2008. 191 autonomy.769 One example of this is the 2005 consultancy agreement with the government which states that “the Sami have the right to be consulted in matters that may affect them directly”, and provides a foundation for co­operation at all levels. It grew out of the final stages of the consultations for a Finnmark Act, which was, according to Josefsen, a “historical event without precedence” because of the involvement of the Sami Parliament.770 Per Selle and Kristin Strømsnes conclude that there is little to suggest that the Sami “have turned their backs on the national political system”. They are included in the political system in a way that makes the “two peoples” overlap “rather than being competitive, or even antagonistic.”771 The importance of local politics is often missing in the debate about Indigenous recognition, but it is central to it because of the Sami Parliament's limited powers and the Finnmark Act's shortcomings. For example, municipalities decide such issues as land use regulations according to the Planning and Building Act, or whether to apply to be included in the Sami Language Administrative District.772 Local politics is also Sami politics, but not usually referred to as that. When Kautokeino Municipal Council, for example, turned down Arctic Gold's requests to explore the feasibility of mining for gold in the area in 2012, Helga Pedersen, herself a Sami from Tana, deputy leader of the Norwegian Labour Party and then Minister of Fisheries and Coastal Affairs, was careful to describe it as a local decision. Reindeer husbandry interests were at stake, but Pedersen and other politicians stressed the importance of respecting local democracy (even though the right to veto land use lies with central government).773 There is a long held view in the north that the region as a whole is a colony and provider of raw materials for the south.774 For example, the Alta­based EDL

769 E. Josefsen, Selvbestemmelse og samstyring – En studie av Sametingets plass i politiske prosesser i Norge, PhD thesis, University of Tromsø, 2014, pp. 57­72. 770 E. Josefsen, The Norwegian Sámi Parliament and Sámi Political Empowerment', in First World, First Nations: Internal Colonialism and Indigenous Self­Determination in Northern Europe and Australia, G. Minnerup and P. Solberg (eds.), Sussex Academic Press, Brighton and Portland, 2011, p. 36. 771 P. Selle and K. Strømsnes, 'Sami citizenship: Marginalisation or Integration?', Acta Borealia, vol. 27, issue 1, 2010, pp. 86­87. 772 K. Strøm Bull, 'Finnmarksloven – Finnmarkseiendommen og kartlegging av rettigheter i Finnmark', in Finnmarksloven, H. K. Hernes and N. Oskal (eds.), Cappelen Akademisk Forlag, Oslo, 2008, p. 152. 773 Quoted in B. S. Gaup, 'Forundret over gruve­nei, men vil ikke tvinge Kautokeino', NRK Sapmi, 22 May 2012, viewed 10 August 2015, 774 For North Norway as a frontier and colony see Brox, op. cit., 1972; Brox, op. cit., 1984; M. A. Strøksnes, Hva skjer i Nord­Norge?, Kagge Forlag, Oslo, 2006. 192

(Organisation for Ethnic and Democratic Equality) is not opposed to the Sami Parliament as a representative body of Sami culture but to its involvement in the management of natural resources on the grounds that all people in the north share a history of colonisation and state oppression.775 The Sami are therefore but one part of a larger regional movement opposing the government push for centralisation and the encroachment of fishing and mining interests from the south. The Sami­dominated fjord and coastal areas in the north experienced an 80% reduction in the number of small boats between 1980 and 2001, but the national reduction rate of 60% shows that other villages were hit by the new fishing regime as well.776 Likewise, with greater concentration, larger production units, and fewer people employed in agriculture, the number of farms in Sami­dominated areas has been reduced by 59% between 1989 and 2005, which is only slightly more than the 52% reduction in the North and 47% in all of Norway, but particularly detrimental to Sami society and culture because farming is one way that they can stay in their homeland.777 The decline of the primary industries has been compensated for by a large public sector which accounts for 46% of employment in Sami­dominated areas, but because this is only slightly larger than the figure for North Norway of 43% (which compares with 34% nationally), it is perceived as part of a problem of regional state dependency, not Sami welfare dependency.778 Sami institutions provide about 1,000 workplaces but impact on many more because Saminess is central to tourism and the region's identity. Sami institutions are concentrated in Inner Finnmark, where they provide 30% of employment in Karasjok (which has the Sami Parliament and the Sami­language radio station NRK Sapmi) and 20% in Kautokeino (where the Sami University College is located), but can also be found in coastal, urban and South Sami areas.779 Toini Løvseth argues that state transfers to North Norway are part of “the broad regional policy” which is “grounded in the notion that the state should provide services and secure income, no matter where one lives”.780 State transfers are high but the north is rich in minerals, and tourism is likely to become more important to the national economy when

775 K. Olsen, 'Stat, urfolk og 'settlere' i Finnmark', Norsk antropologisk tidsskrift, vol. 21, no. 2­3, 2010, pp. 117­119. 776 The Sami Parliament, Sametingets melding om fiske som næring og kultur i kyst­ og fjordområdene, Karasjok, 2004, pp. 50­51. 777 Samiske tall forteller 2/Sámi logut muitalit 2: Kommentert samisk statistikk 2009, Sami University College, Kautokeino, p. 90. 778 E. Angell and M. Gaski, et al, Næringsutvikling i samiske samfunn: En studie av sysselsetting og verdiskaping i nord, Report no. 4, Norut – Northern Research Institute, Alta, 5 February 2014, pp. 6, 89­103, 130­131; E. O. Eriksen, op. cit., 1996, pp. 143­173. 779 Angell and Gaski et al, ibid., pp. 6, 89­103, 130­131. 780 Løvseth, op. cit., 2004, p. 94. 193 easily accessible offshore oil and gas resources are running out. While land conflicts between reindeer husbandry and other development are likely to exacerbate, it is the only primary industry which has no problem recruiting people, and it might hold the key for the region to a more sustainable environmental approach based on tourism and fisheries.781 The Sami Parliament is a strong advocate for decentralisation, a defender of local schools, and tries to counteract out­migration even in non­Sami areas of the north by funding small­scale fisheries and other local enterprises.782 Sami­dominated areas have experienced a 25% decline from a peak population of 60,000 in 1965 to 45,000 in 2010, but the population of North Norway as a whole is increasing (mainly because of immigration), and a growing Sami population in larger towns and cities connect the urban with the rural.783 The Sami Parliament has successfully refuted much of the initial scepticism towards it as it has taken an active role in promoting regional, and not only Sami, development. The Sami Development Fund, for example, set up in 1975 to facilitate economic development in five municipalities of Inner Finnmark, has been renamed the Sami Parliament Subsidy Schemes for Business Development (STN) and expanded its operations to 31 municipalities north of Saltfjellet at the Arctic Circle.784 Sami and non­Sami alike can apply for funding. The broader regional movement, however, remains reluctant to use the Sami Indigenous cause and international law to secure regional rights, maintain settlements and foster development in the north. This was evident in the 2014 Coastal Action by fishers from the north and their supporters outside the Parliament in Oslo. The Sami Parliament, the NSR and Sami fishers supported and took part in the protest, directed mainly at the Norwegian­owned Aker Group for not landing and processing fish locally at the fish processing plant in Mehamn, the home of the 1903 Mehamn Rebellion mentioned in Chapter Two.785 The Coastal Action did not attempt to challenge the 781 Samiske tall forteller 2/Sámi logut muitalit 2: Kommentert samisk statistikk 2009, op. cit., pp. 81­83. 782 V. Nygaard and S. Skålnes, Evaluering av tilskuddsordningen for samisk utviklingsfond, Report no. 7, NIBR (Norwegian Institute for Urban and Regional Research) and Norut (Northern Research Institute), Alta, 2007. 783 K. Vareide and H. Nyborg Storm, Næringsutvikling og attraktivitet for samiske områder, TF­notat no. 55, Telemarksforskning/Telemark Research Institute, Bø, 2010, pp. 7­8; Helge Brunborg (Statistics Norway) quoted in H. Mangset Lorentsen, 'Rekordmange ønsker å bo i nord', NRK Sapmi, 17 April 2012, viewed 13 May 2015, 784 Statistics Norway (Statistisk Sentralbyrå), Samisk statistikk 2014, Oslo, p. 8. 785 Ottar Brox cited in K. Moxness Sandnes, '“Norge jobber for å stoppe pirater i Somalia, men våre pirater får ture fram som de vil”', iFinnmark, 3 March 2014, viewed on 22 August 2015, 786 Nilsen, op. cit., 2003, p. 170. 787 M. Ballovara, M. and L. Ailu Anti et al. '­ Ikke naturlig å ha med Samtinget', NRK Sapmi, 25 August 2015, viewed 10 August 2015, ; Hanne Markussen Eek, President of Norwegian Mining Industries, quoted in L. Storholm, 'Ber medlemmene holde seg unna Finnmark', High North News, 27 March 2015, viewed 10 August 2015, 788 Norges Bank Investment Management, 'Fund Tops 6,000 billion kroner in market value', 28 November 2014, viewed on 10 August 2015, 789 Norwegian Sami Association (NSR), 'János Trosten: En offensiv politiker 2005', viewed on 10 August 2015, 790 T. A. Benjaminsen and R. Reinert et al., 'Misreading the Arctic landscape: A political ecology of reindeer, carrying capacities, and overstocking in Finnmark, Norway', Norwegian Journal of Geography, June 2015, pp. 219­229; A. C. Rørholdt, Encroachment as problem for Sami Reindeer Husbandry, MA Thesis, University of Tromsø, Spring 2009. 195

Convention, discussed behind closed doors since 2005, are likely to conclude in 2016. With all these different challenges to the region closely, the North Norwegian Council may find the Sami Parliament a more useful ally and partner than it has so far recognised.

Australia: conservative backlash against “self­determination”

The abolition of ATSIC John Howard began to promote the idea of “One Australia” in the second half of the 1980s when he was leader of the opposition Liberal Party.791 He denounced Prime Minister Hawke's promise of a treaty, opposed the establishment of ATSIC in 1989, and refused to apologise for past wrongs which he argued his generation could not be held responsible for. He was “strongly against dividing the country between black and white”, which would be a “recipe for disaster”.792 For Howard, ATSIC was a separatist attempt to “create a black nation within the Australian nation” that “strikes at the heart of the unity of the Australian people” and was led by the “misguided notion of believing that if one creates a parliament within the Australian community for Aboriginal people”, the wrongs of the past would be remedied.793 As I mentioned in the previous chapter, the plan to establish ATSIC was launched in the run up to the 1988 bicentenary celebrations of the arrival of the First Fleet, and was linked to the project of a treaty between Indigenous and non­Indigenous Australia which required a signatory on the Indigenous side.794 While Jane Robbins rightly writes that ATSIC was “a creature designed by government”,795 it was legitimised by a consultation process that involved 450 community meetings across Australia and 46 meetings between government representatives and 6,000 representatives from 1,200 organisations and groups over a 791 A. Markus, Race: John Howard and the remaking of Australia, Allen & Unwin, Sydney, 2001, pp. 85­90. 792 Comments made in Parliament in May 1988, quoted in ibid., p. 86. 793 John Howard, Ministerial Statement: Administration of Aboriginal Affairs, House of Representatives, Debates, 11 April 1989, p. 1328, quoted in A. Pratt and S. Bennett, 'The end of ATSIC and the future administration of Indigenous Affairs', Current Issues Brief, no. 4, 2004­2005, Australian Parliamentary Library, 9 August 2004, viewed 20 August 2015, 794 L. R. Hiatt, 'A new Aboriginal National Organisation', Oceania, vol. 60, no. 3, March 1990, p. 237. 795 J. Robbins, 'Indigenous Representative Bodies in Northern Europe and Australia', in First World, First Nations: Internal Colonialism and Indigenous Self­Determination in Northern Europe and Australia, G. Minnerup and P. Solberg (eds.), Sussex Academic Press, Brighton & Portland, 2011, p. 52. 196 period of seven weeks.796 Gerry Hand, Minister for Aboriginal Affairs, emphasised that Indigenous Australians had the desire to be involved in decision­making but no intention of breaking away from the Australian political system. However, Tim Rowse writes that Hand “failed to provide a philosophical defence against the argument, presented with vigour since then, that indigenous Australians have no distinct historically based rights to govern themselves.”797 ATSIC was the third elected Indigenous consultative body set up by governments. Unlike its predecessors, it was also a service provider as it took over the Department of Aboriginal Affairs and the Aboriginal Development Commission. Its representative arm was made up of 60 Regional Councils (elected every three years) which were later reduced to 35 and grouped into 17 zones, each of which elected a full­time commissioner to serve on the ATSIC Board. The Board was headed by a Chairperson who was initially appointed by government but from 1999 was elected. The ATSIC administration was headed by a Chief Executive Officer (CEO) who was appointed by and reported to the Minister. It took over the DAA bureaucracy of Commonwealth civil servants. By June 1992, nearly half of ATSIC's employees were Indigenous.798 The Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission Act 1989 recognised the “past dispossession and dispersal of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples and their present disadvantaged position”. Its objects were “to ensure maximum participation of Aboriginal persons and Torres Strait Islanders in the formulation and implementation of government policies that affect them”, “to promote the development of self­management and self­sufficiency” and “to further ... economic, social and cultural development”.799 Although ATSIC was a service provider, its purpose was to supplement, not substitute for, services, and it was never responsible for all programs directed at Indigenous people. According to the ATSIC Act it was “to ensure co­ordination in the formulation and implementation of policies” but “without detracting from the responsibilities of State, Territory and local governments to provide services to their Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander residents.”800 Nor was it the only or main Indigenous body that governments consulted in matters concerning Indigenous people. For example, ATSIC was part of Prime Minister

796 G. Hand, Ministerial Statement: Aboriginal and Torres Starit Islander Commission, Debates, 27 April 1988, vol. 161, p. 2177, cited in Rowse, op. cit., 2000, p. 200. 797 Rowse, op. cit., 2000, p. 199. 798 ATSIC 1994, cited in Tim Rowse, 'The Political Identity of Regional Councillors', in Shooting the Banker: Essays on ATSIC and Self­Determination, P. Sullivan (ed.), North Australian Research Unit, The Australian National University, Darwin, 1996, p. 45. 799 Part 1, Section 3, The Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission Act 1989, viewed 20 August 2015, 800 Ibid. 197

Keating's so­called “A­team” during the consultations for the 1993 Native Title Act, but so were the largest Land Councils. Its Chairperson Lois O'Donoghue was therefore only one of several voices representing Indigenous Australia. When Howard became Prime Minister in 1996, he immediately announced a special audit of ATSIC expenditures which cleared 95% of the 122 ATSIC­funded organisations. The remaining five percent showed only minor breaches such as late submissions.801 It would take another eight years before the Howard government could seize the opportunity – a few months before the 2004 elections and after a series of rape allegations against ATSIC's first elected Chairperson, Geoff Clark – to announce the abolition of ATSIC. The Labor Party supported its abolition but promised to set up a new body. Howard stated that “we believe very strongly that the experiment in separate representation, elected representation, for indigenous people has been a failure” and that ATSIC had become “too preoccupied with what might loosely be called symbolic issues and too little concerned with delivering real outcomes for indigenous people”. 802 By that time, Howard's welfare strategy of “practical reconciliation” was well established. While ATSIC became a scapegoat for the socio­economic problems many Aboriginal communities faced, its capacity to tackle them had been limited. For example, in 2003­ 2004 it controlled less than half of all Commonwealth spending on Indigenous affairs and 85% of that was earmarked for services and programs which would otherwise be provided by governments, such as CDEP (Community Development Employment Projects) and CHIP (Community Housing and Infrastructure Program).803 Will Sanders argues that ATSIC relieved governments of responsibilities in many areas as CDEP significantly reduced unemployment and CHIP provided much­needed affordable rental housing.804 Angela Pratt and Scott Bennett write that even “though ATSIC was not the primary service provider in many areas such as health care and education it was often blamed when not enough was seen to be done in these areas.”805 The authors of the government­initiated external review of the organisation held a similar view. They wrote

801 M. Ivanitz, The politics of Accountability: ATSIC, The Coalition Government, and Public Sector Service Outcomes, Research Paper no. 9, Aboriginal Politics and Public Sector Management, Centre for Australian Public Sector Management, Griffith University, July 1999, p. 4. 802 John Howard quoted in M. Shaw, 'Howard puts ATSIC to death', The Age, 16 April 2004, viewed 25 August 2015, 803 Pratt and Bennett, op. cit., 2004. 804 W. Sanders, ATSIC's Achievements and Strengths: Implications for Institutional Reform, Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research (CAEPR), Australian National University, Canberra, 2004, p. 3. 805 Pratt and Bennett, op. cit., 2004. 198 in their report In the Hands of the Region – A New ATSIC that:

mainstream Commonwealth and State government agencies from time to time have used the existence of ATSIC to avoid or minimise their responsibilities to overcome the significant disadvantage of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people.806

Amanda Vanstone, Minister for Indigenous Affairs, had questioned the representative nature of ATSIC, but although the review panel observed that Indigenous people felt “an absolute disconnect” between themselves and the national body, the review did not recommend the abolition of the organisation but a restructure.807 The panel found that Indigenous Australians saw “ATSIC as an important stepping stone to a desired future, and believe its role is to assist them where they want to go.” 808 Will Sanders writes that ATSIC “attracted significant levels of participation among Indigenous people” during its short period of existence. The number of voters participating in ATSIC elections, for example, increased from 39,000 in 1990 to 54,000 in 2002.809 The review also found that ATSIC's objectives had “widespread support” but its representative structure was criticised for being modelled on the Westminster system – a Western blueprint of “one size fits all” which did not reflect Indigenous communities and their leaderships. The artificial regional boundaries did not always coincide with Indigenous cultural boundaries.810 There were concerns that “the people elected through the ATSIC system are not necessarily the same people from within a community who have the traditional authority to represent the area”.811 The panel wrote that “a fundamental dilemma inherent in ATSIC is that it is a western political and administrative model alien to Indigenous family/clan/community structures” and that it therefore operates as a top­down body. “Few, if any, of its policy positions are initiated from community or regional levels.”812 Sanders, however, called it a “bold experiment in regionalism” because it tried to link the national with the local. 813 Hal Wootten was more critical of ATSIC. In his view, “Aboriginal well­wishers are still coming to terms

806 J. Hannaford and J. Huggins, In the Hand of the Regions – A New ATSIC: Report of the Review of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission, November 2003. p. 30. 807 Amanda Vanstone quoted in Shaw, op. cit., 16 April 2004. 808 Hannaford and Huggins et al, op. cit., 2003. 809 Sanders, op. cit., 2004. 810 Hannaford and Huggins et al, op. cit., 2003, pp. 7, 45­46. 811 Submission from South West Aboriginal Land and Sea Council, Western Australia, quoted in ibid., p. 28. 812 Ibid., pp. 31­32. 813 Sanders, op. cit., 2004, p. 4. 199 with the fact that the narrative that took hold in the 1970s” did not culminate in a solution to the “Aboriginal problem”, and that “ATSIC was more a symptom than a cause”:

On the one hand Aboriginal society was expected to act as a nation with impersonal institutions, but on the other hand to cherish its local and kinship based character. Aboriginals were expected to make cultural changes needed to compete in a modern, capitalist and highly technological world while at the same time preserving an ancient culture. They were expected to gain education, vocational skills and jobs that are available only to the mobile, yet cleave closely to their traditional land, which usually lacked the economic viability to support their rapidly expanding populations.814

ATSIC did not easily fit the decentralised society it was set up to represent and although it provided governments with a national Indigenous voice, that voice was not saying what they wanted to hear. Megan Davis suggests that ATSIC became too political for the government, that a significant reason for its demise was “the active role the Commission played in holding Australia to account at the United Nations.”815 ATSIC participated in the drafting of the Indigenous Declaration and informed the Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination (CERD) of Howard's changes to the Native Title Act 1993, which resulted in UN criticism of Australia.816 At home, ATSIC under Geoff Clark's leadership revived the treaty debate, demanded an apology to the “stolen generations” (children who were forcefully removed by the authorities) and insisted on recognition of the principle of “self­determination”.817 While this did little to improve ATSIC's relationship with the government, Sanders argues that its boldness was its strengths. It was “obliged to develop its independence from government in order to build credibility and legitimacy with its Indigenous constituency.”818 The abolition of ATSIC, with Labor's support, was a reminder of the minority situation of Indigenous Australians and their dependence on political goodwill in majority society. As Jane Robbins points out, all the elected Aboriginal bodies (NACC, NAC and ATSIC) have “been dismissed

814 H. Wootten, 'Self­determination after ATSIC', Dialogue, vol. 23, no. 2, 2004, p. 17. 815 Davis, M. 'Arguing over Indigenous Rights: Australia and the United Nations', in Altman and Hinkson (eds.), op. cit., 2007, p. 97. 816 Ibid. 817 Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies (AIATSIS), Treaty: Let's get it right!, Aboriginal Studies Press, Canberra, 2003; J. Cunningham and J. I. Baeza, 'An 'experiment' in Indigenous social policy: the rise and fall of Australia's Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission (ATSIC)', Policy & Politics, vol. 33, no. 3, 2005, p. 465. 818 Sanders, op. cit., 2004, pp. 1­2. 200 arbitrarily by government decision without consultation or agreement on the part of Indigenous peoples.”819

Neoliberalism and the conservative backlash As we saw in the previous chapter, the Labor governments of Hawke and Keating laid the foundation for neoliberal economic reform with privatisation and tax cuts in the 1980s and 1990s, while at the same time pursuing relatively progressive social policies not only towards Indigenous Australians but also other minority groups in the name of multiculturalism. Further budget cuts apart, the Howard government (1996­2007) did not significantly depart from Labor's economic policies, but executed a sharp conservative turn in social policies and identity rhetoric with an emphasis on “family values” and “national unity”.820 The Liberal­National Coalition itself came under increased pressure from the right in the 1990s from the rise of Pauline Hanson's One Nation party. A right­wing populist party with its main stronghold in Queensland, Hanson was originally elected to Parliament as a Liberal in 1996 but then sat as an Independent after the Liberal Party disendorsed her after her controversial statements about Aboriginals. Andrew Marcus writes that “Howard did much to lend her movement an air of respectability.”821 Following Hanson's maiden speech, for example – in which she spoke of “equality for all Australians” and against special benefits for Aboriginals, demanded the abolition of multiculturalism and warned against the “danger of being swamped by Asians” – Howard did not take a stand against her but extolled freedom of speech without “fear of being branded as a bigot or as a racist”. 822 One Nation was not represented in Federal Parliament but in the 1998 Queensland state elections received 22.7% of the vote for 11 of the 89 seats in the state legislature.823 For Howard, who belonged to the conservative wing of the Liberal Party, some of the sentiments on Indigenous affairs articulated by Hanson reflected his long­held personal convictions.824 Peter Costello, the Howard government's Treasurer who was “determined to get the symbolism right”, suggested that the Cabinet walk together and alongside 250,000 people in the Sydney Harbour Bridge Walk for Aboriginal

819 Robbins, op. cit., 2011, p. 68. 820 J. Quiggin, 'Economic Policy', in The Howard Years, R. Manne (ed.), Black Inc Agenda, Melbourne, 2004, pp. 169­190; Markus, op. cit., 2001, pp. 98­102. 821 Markus, op. cit., 2001, p. 100. 822 Quoted in ibid., pp. 100­101, 151­157. 823 Ibid., p. 147. 824 For an analysis of John Howard as a conservative see H. Irving, 'A True Conservative?', in Manne (ed.), op. cit., 2004, pp. 94­118. 201 reconciliation in May 2000, but Howard declined.825 The Prime Minister was actively engaged in the so­called “History Wars” about Australian colonial history and national identity, paying tribute to the liberal conservative magazine Quadrant at its 50th anniversary: “Of the causes that Quadrant has taken up that are close to my heart none is more important than the role it has played as a counterforce to the black armband view of Australian history.”826 Howard refused to apologise to the “stolen generations” who the authorities had forcefully removed from their families, because he believed that people today cannot be held responsible for what was done to Indigenes in the past. The Aboriginal leader Mick Dodson writes that: “Nothing Howard has done has shown such an insistent insensitivity, lack of imaginative depth or simple heart as the Prime Minister's reaction to the Bringing Them Home report.”827 In contrast to Keating, who had looked to Asia and promoted multiculturalism, Howard was critical of the high rate of Asian immigration to Australia and pledged his loyalty to the British monarchy during the 1999 referendum about whether Australia should become a republic. Under Howard, the solutions envisaged for Indigenous Australians were based on classical liberal and neoliberal values; a belief in economic market forces, minimal state interference, and the sanctity of private property. They were also paternalistic.828 At the heart of much of the backlash against the policy era of “self­determination” and what was seen as separatist policies was a fundamental unease about how Indigenous people lead their lives, in particular their collective arrangements which are frequently discussed with references to the former Soviet Union and North Korea, and South Africa under apartheid.829 Remote communities and outstations have been described by Ministers of Indigenous Affairs during the Howard era as “cultural museums” (Amanda Vanstone) and “living hell­holes” (Mal Brough).830 Helen Hughes, who worked for the right­of­centre political think­tank, the Centre for Independent

825 P. Costello (with P. Coleman), The Costello Memoirs: The Age of Prosperity, Melbourne University Press, Carlton, 2008, pp. 216­217. 826 J. Howard, 'A Tribute to 'Quadrant'', Quadrant, vol. 50, no. 11, November 2006, p. 23. 827 M. Dodson, 'Indigenous Australians', in Manne (ed.), op. cit., 2004, p. 130. 828 D. Austin­Broos, op. cit., 2011, p. 150. 829 Hughes, op. cit., 2007; Mundine, op. cit., 2013. 830 Brough to the The Age 20 and 21 March 2006, quoted in J. C. Altman, In Search of an Outstations Policy for Indigenous Australians, Working Paper no. 34, Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy (CAEPR), Australian National University, Canberra, 2006, p. 10; Vanstone to Tony Eastley in AM (radio series) at ABC, 'Vanstone says remote Indigenous communities becoming 'cultural museums', 9 December 2005, viewed 1 September 2015, 202

Studies, described them as “Lands of Shame” and “living museums”.831 In 2006 Tony Abbott, who then served as Minister for Health and Ageing in the Howard government, called for paternalism to be reconsidered:

Australians' sense of guilt about the past and naive idealisation of communal life may now be the biggest single obstacle to the betterment of Aboriginal people. Having rejected the paternalism of the past, we now insist on forms of self­management for Aboriginal people that would be totally unworkable even in places where people are much more used to them.832

The same year the Minister of Indigenous Affairs, Mal Brough, in an address to the Northern Territory Police Association, said that:

No other communities in Australia [are] required to live under a communist form of government. The land was owned collectively – the collective clan decides who gets the rent for the handful of houses. No one gets to own a home. The collective decides who gets a job. It hasn't worked anywhere in the world. But back in the '70s we decided this would be our utopia for indigenous Australia.833

In a similar fashion Helen Hughes and Jenness Warin wrote:

Bolstered by land rights confined to communal land ownership and with a policy of isolating Aborigines and Torres Strait Islanders, the Coombs experiment established a socialist, communal, customary economy and society in remote Australia.834

Gary Johns, President of the liberal conservative think­tank The Bennelong Society (2001­2011), wrote that the Shared Responsibility Agreements and Regional Partnership Agreements, introduced by the Howard government, were unlikely to change behaviour “because they are structured as collective agreements. Collective agreements in the context of Aboriginal culture will not stick.”835 Noel Pearson, the Howard government's

831 H. Hughes and J. Warin, 'A new deal for Aborigines and Torres Strait Islanders in remote communities', Issue Analysis no. 54, Centre for Independent Studies, Sydney, 1 March 2005, p. 4; Hughes, op. cit., 2007. 832 T. Abbott, 'Paternalism Reconsidered', Quadrant, vol. 50, no. 9, September 2006, p. 32. 833 Quoted in S. Peatling, 'Back into the darkness', The Sydney Morning Herald, 25 August 2006, viewed 1 September 2015, 834 Hughes and Warin, op. cit., 2005, p. 4. 835 G. Johns, 'What is to become of Aborigines forced to move', The Australian, 11 October 203 favourite Aboriginal leader, has repeatedly stressed the importance of individual responsibility and private property: “Like other forms of passive welfare over the past three decades, public housing in Indigenous communities has removed responsibility from families, and promoted dependency and passivity.”836 The debate was no longer about race but culture. Andrew Lattas and Barry Morris write:

Today, it is not the essentialisms and determinisms of biology that serve to racialise Indigenous people but certain psycho­cultural essentialisms and determinisms that treat Indigenous people as prisoners of embedded cultural logics or grammars.837

The Northern Territory National Emergency Response, commonly known as “the Intervention”, grew out of the conservative view that Aboriginal remote culture was the main problem facing Indigenous Australia. The Ampe Akelyernemane Meke Mekarle: Little Children are Sacred report by Patricia Anderson and Rex Wild on child sexual abuse in the NT gave the government the pretext to declare a “national emergency” and seize control of 73 remote communities in June 2007, a few months before the elections,838 sending in 600 Australian Defence Force personnel from the Army, Navy and Air Force. It was the final nail in the coffin of “self­determination” and “reconciliation”, following as it did a range of government measures which targeted political representation (abolition of ATSIC), land rights (amendments to the 1993 Native Title Act) and symbolic recognition (refusing to say “sorry” to the stolen generations). Jon Altman, then Director for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research at the Australian National University, wrote that the “federal 'national emergency' intervention” was a “bizarre moment in Indigenous policy­making without precedent since 1967.”839 The policy era of “self­determination” was blamed for the misery caused by decades of separatist policies.840 Without ATSIC, there was no longer a national

2006. 836 Cape York Institute for Policy and Leadership, From Hand Out to Hand Up: Cape York Welfare reform Project, Aurukun, Coen, Hope Vale, Mossman Gorge: Design Recommendations, May 2007, p. 14. 837 A. Lattas and B. Morris, 'Embedded Anthropology and the Intervention', Arena, no. 107, 2010, p. 20. 838 R. Wild and P. Anderson, Ampe Akelyernemane Meke Mekarle “Little Children are Sacred”: Report of the Northern Territory Board of Inquiry into the Protection of Aboriginal Children from Sexual Abuse, Northern Territory Government, 2007. 839 J. C. Altman, The Howard Government's Northern Territory Intervention: Are Neo­ Paternalism and Indigenous Development Compatible?, Topical Issue no. 16, Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy (CAEPR), Australian National University, Canberra, 2007, p. 1. 840 See for example Sutton, op. cit., 2007. 204

Indigenous political body to challenge the government, or to be consulted by it. The Intervention, renamed “Stronger Futures” when the Labor Party returned to government, imposed on the affected Indigenous communities bans on alcohol and pornography, more police and greater surveillance, income management, attacks on land rights using compulsory leases, the scrapping of CDEP (Community Development Employment Projects), health checks and immunisation programs, but there were also promises of more and better infrastructure.841 Views and comments from individuals, community leaders, groups and land councils to governments and others have shown that some of these measures were (and are) more controversial than others. 842 Although Noel Pearson had no official role in the Intervention, his ideas were well known and embraced by the government, and his report From Hand Out to Hand Up was launched a few days before the “national emergency”.843 The government picked up on several of Pearson's proposals, such as income management, which links parents' welfare payments to their children's school attendance and controls spending by making welfare payments in the form of purchasing cards which can be used only for selected goods at selected shops. The blanket imposition of forced income management on whole communities required the temporary suspension of the 1975 Racial Discrimination Act and was widely criticised as being discriminatory.844 For some it resembled a return to the “ration days”.845 The UN special rapporteur on Indigenous peoples, James Anaya, wrote that forced measures such as income management, compulsory leases of land and community­ wide bans on alcohol and pornography “overtly discriminate against aboriginal peoples, infringe on their right of self­determination and stigmatise already stigmatised communities.”846 Three years later Anaya and Maria Magdalena Sepúlveda Carmona, the

841 M. Hinkson, 'Introduction: In the name of the child', in Altman and Hinkson (eds.), op. cit., 2007. 842 Concerned Australians, This is What We Said: Australian Aboriginal People Give Their Views on the Northern Territory Intervention, Concerned Australians, Enlightening Productions, East Melbourne, 2010; Australian Government, Report on the Northern Territory Emergency Response Redesign Consultations, Canberra, 2009. 843 Brough quoted in interview with the Australian Associated Press (AAP), 'Brough backs indigenous welfare overhaul, 19 June 2007, The Age, 844 J. C. Altman, Income Management and the Rights of Indigenous Australians to Equity, Topical Issue no. 3, Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research (CAEPR), Australian National University, Canberra, 2010. 845 P. Gibson, Return to the Ration Days: The NT Intervention: grass­roots experience and resistance, Discussion Paper, Jumbunna Indigenous House of Learning, University of Technology, Sydney, June 2009. 846 Anaya, J. 'Statement of the Special Rapporteur on the Situation of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms of Indigenous People', Indigenous Law Bulletin, vol. 7, no. 14, 27 205

UN Special Rapporteur on extreme poverty and human rights, followed up their concerns that the government policy could “exacerbate discrimination against and stigmatisation of indigenous peoples”.847 They criticised the government for failing “to create environments where indigenous opinions and decisions were respected”.848 But forced income management also had its supporters. Bess Nungarrayi Price, for example, describes the difficulty of managing money while maintaining kinship obligations. She was happy to see income management extended to everybody. She wrote in 2009: “That is what we have always asked for.”849 The 2008 NTER Review Board found that views among Aboriginals on income quarantining varied. Some “suffered frustration, embarrassment, humiliation and overt racism because of the difficulties associated with acquiring and using store cards”, but others (especially women) reported that it “did provide new opportunity to manage their income and family budgets in a way that they wanted to see continue.”850 When the Ngaanyatjarra Pitjantjatjara Yankunytjatjara (NPY) Women's Council asked the government to introduce income management in Anangu Pitjantjatjara Yankunytjatjara (APY) Lands in South Australia, which is outside the prescribed area, Marcia Langton commented that they were “exercising their rights of self­determination.”851 The Intervention brought the land question back into public debate. It was widely seen as a “land grab” – an attempt by the government to get its hands on land and natural resources which Indigenous peoples had fought for.852 Making promises of more and better infrastructure and economic development, the government forcibly acquired leases of Aboriginal­owned land and abolished the permit system, which had enabled communities to control who was allowed access to their land. Pat Turner, an Arrernte

August 2009. 847 M. M. Sepúlveda Carmona and J. Anaya, Mandates of the Special Rapporteur on extreme poverty and human rights and the Special Rapporteur on the rights of indigenous peoples, Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights. Letter to the Australian Government about the Northern Territory Emergency Response, AL Poverty (1998­11) Indigenous (2001­8) AUS 1/2012, 9 March 2012. 848 Ibid. 849 B. N. Price, The Inaugural Peter Howson Lecture, The Bennelong Society, Sydney, 3 December 2009, p. 3. 850 P. Yu and M. E. Duncan et al, Report of the NTER (Northern Territory Emergency Response) Review Board, Commonwealth of Australia, Canberra, October 2008, pp. 20­21. 851 Langton to 7.30 ABC, 'Aboriginal group defies criticism with income management plea', 7 July 2012, viewed 20 February 2016, 852 P. Turner and N. Watson, 'The Trojan Horse', in Altman and Hinkson (eds.), op. cit., 2007, pp. 205­212; J. McCullen, 'Dispossession: Neo­Liberalism and the struggle for Aboriginal Land and Rights in the 21 century', in In Black & White: Australians All at the Crossroads, R. Craven and A. Dillon et al (eds.), Connor Court Publishing, Ballan, 2013, p. 122. 206 woman and CEO of Indigenous TV, made it clear on ABC Lateline that “we believe that this government is using child sexual abuse as the Trojan horse to resume total control of our lands.”853 Anthropologist Melinda Hinkson agreed and wrote that the government's plan to amend the NT Land Rights Act and abolish the permit system suggested that the Little Children are Sacred report was used to “undermine the kin­based forms of ownership that characterise Aboriginal land title, and to substitute these with individual forms.”854 Rosalie Kunoth­Monks from the community of Utopia homelands, north of Alice Springs, and an active campaigner against the Intervention, describes how it was received in her community:

We didn't know what the Intervention was. Suddenly there was a policy in the Northern Territory that took away our rights and on top of that they also wanted to take away our land, through what they called a lease. They wanted it for five years and to make Arlparra the centre. I can still hear Lena Pwerl, one of our ladies, yelling out, “No lease, no lease, not for one minute, not for one second, no lease, this is our land”. (…) On that day when they said we want your land, there was an outcry all over Australia, I believe, from Aboriginal peoples.855

The NT Intervention reinforced the view that the “Aboriginal problem” is about the remnants of traditional culture in the remote areas that were last to be colonised. But there was more to the conservative backlash than the government intervention in the north. It also impacted on Indigenous communities in the more densely settled south. Gaynor McDonald writes that when she began to do fieldwork among Wiradjuri communities in NSW in the early 1980s there “was poverty but there was also hope”, with promises of land rights, “histories to be proud of” and “strong and inspirational men and women to look up to”. Within a decade, she saw “people turning on themselves, sucking the lifeblood out of social relations with spitefulness and resentment. Another decade later there were knife fights, rapes, suicides and unexplained murders.”856 This breakdown cannot be explained by late colonisation, so often held up as the main cause for the problems in remote areas, because the Wiradjuri homeland, between the Blue Mountains and Canberra, was colonised early in the nineteenth

853 Turner to ABC Lateline, 26 June 2007, quoted in P. Turner and N. Watson, ibid., p. 205. 854 Melinda Hinkson, op. cit., 2007, p. 3. 855 R. Kunoth­Monks, 'Foreword', in The Land That Holds Us: Aboriginal Peoples' Right to Traditional Homelands in the Northern Territory, Amnesty International Australia, August 2011, p. 4. 856 Macdonald, op. cit., 2010, p. 49. 207 century. McDonald draws attention to more recent government policies, the rural recession and increased unemployment which “prompted the state to involve itself in an unprecedented program of micro­management of people's lives”.857 The Intervention prompted fears that the “ill thought­out actions of the Commonwealth Government” would create another “stolen generation”,858 a fear that is not confined to the north. In 1997, when the Bringing Them Home report on the removal of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander children from their families was tabled in Federal Parliament, 2,785 Indigenous children were in out­of­home care. By June 2012, that figure had risen to 13,299. In the southern state of Victoria, where the “rate of Aboriginal children in out­ of­home care is now among the highest in Australia”, they are 16 times more likely than non­Aboriginal children to be in out­of­home care, a rate which “exceeds that at any time since white settlement.”859

Regional dimensions of the Aboriginal question In October 2015, the Noongar (Koorah, Nitja, Boordahwan) (Past, Present, Future) Recognition Bill 2015 was introduced to the Western Australian Parliament.860 This “most comprehensive native title agreement in Australian history” recognises the Noongar people as the traditional owners of Perth and surroundings in the south­west corner of Australia (200,000 square kilometres, the size of Britain), but extinguishes all native title claims to it in exchange for a $1.3 billion dollar deal over the next twelve years, the transfer of 320,000 hectares of Crown land, land use agreements, the establishment of the Noongar Boodja Trust to manage future funds, six new Noongar Regional Corporations and a Central Services Corporation to benefit, advance and promote communities in the region.861 The agreement was a political response to a long­ running legal process in which the Full Federal Court overturned in 2008 an earlier ruling from 2006 (Bennell v State of Western Australia) which recognised that the Noongar had native title rights to land in Perth, a city of nearly two million inhabitants.

857 Ibid., p. 60. 858 M. Dodson, 'Bully in the Playground: A New Stolen Generation', in Altman and Hinkson (eds.), op. cit., 2007, p. 85. 859 Commission for Children and Young People, Annual Report 2013­2014, Victorian Government, Melbourne, September 2014, p. 37. 860 The Noongar Recognition Bill has been passed and is now the Noongar (Koorah, Nitja, Boordahwan) (Past, Present, Future) Recognition Act 2016 (WA). 861 Premier C. J. Barnett in Parliament (Western Australia), Noongar (Koorah, Nitja, Boordahwan) (Past, Present, Future) Recognition Bill 2015, Parliamentary Debates (Hansard), 14 October 2015, pp. 7313b­7314a, viewed 11 March 2016, 208

Noel Pearson wrote after the 2006 ruling that “the Federal Court has dropped a bombshell right in the centre of Perth, a metropolis that governs the most booming natural resources in the world.”862 The High Court had already found in the 1996 Wik Peoples v The State of Queensland and Others that the grant of pastoral leases on Crown land does not necessarily extinguish native title rights as had been previously assumed, but that they can co­exist alongside each other. 863 The settlement package in WA took this debate to a new level because it recognises continuous Indigenous connections to land in urban areas too and is an attempt to find workable long­term solutions to conflicting claims on the land outside the court system. Upon entering the talks Glen Kelly, the Noongar team's lead negotiator, said that the negotiations went beyond “the technical matters of native title” and were an opportunity “to lay to rest some of the burdens of history”. They were a chance

to come to terms with today's world and the undeniable fact that history cannot be undone, to secure recognition and rights to traditional lands and to secure a footing in today's world which can be used to advance our people and our culture in a way that works today... And this we argue, is in the interest of the state and the people of Western Australia, just as much as it is in the interest of Noongar people.864

The recognition of native title has been important for cultural reasons, but the legal process has its limitations if the purpose of the Native Title Act was to also enable Indigenous communities to receive a share of the wealth created on their land. Ciaran O'Faircheallaigh argues that a “flawed system for negotiating mining leases” has left them “often severely disadvantaged”.865 There is a time limit of six months on Indigenous communities' “right to negotiate”, and the negotiations are stacked against them. The pressure is on the communities, not on the mining companies, because unless an

862 N. Pearson, 'A mighty moral victory', The Australian, 23 September 2006, viewed 26 October 2015, 863 P. Butt and R. Eagleson, Mabo, Wik & Native Title (fourth edition), The Federation Press, Leichhardt, 2001, p. 107. 864 Glen Kelly, 'Opening Remarks', Plenary Session, South West Native Title Settlement Negotiations, Perth, 13 April 2010, quoted in G. Kelly and S. Bradfield, 'Winning native title, or winning out of native title?: the Noongar native title settlement', Indigenous Law Bulletin, vol. 8, no. 2, September/October 2012, pp. 14­16. 865 C. O'Faircheallaigh, 'Native title and Australia's resource boom: a lost opportunity?', The Conversation, 11 August 2011, viewed on 23 October 2015, 209 agreement is reached the matter will go to arbitration and no royalties will be paid. The government­appointed Native Title Tribunal cannot impose the payment of royalties. According to O'Faircheallaigh, only 25% of native title agreements “provide for substantive revenues”, and the result for many Indigenous communities is that “the current resources boom, like previous ones, will pass them by.”866 As an alternative form of recognition of land rights, the Noongar settlement package has therefore been described as breaking new ground for governments and native title claimants as “native title recognition may no longer be an end in itself”, and the success of the negotiations “might encourage a more holistic and forward­looking approach in other places where native title is a poor fit.”867 The notion of co­existing rights and a negotiated settlement between them which is of benefit to both sides may therefore provide a starting point for new political approaches to relations between Indigenous and non­Indigenous Australians which may succeed where both the free reign of “market forces” and the legal process have failed. The idea is not entirely new. As Mick Dodson commented on the High Court's acceptance of co­existing rights to pastoral land, “Aboriginal people have always shared vast tracts of land.”868 In previous chapters of this thesis I have pointed out that despite conflicts over land, the relationship between Indigenous and non­Indigenous people in rural and remote areas was also characterised by an understanding of the need for co­ existence, co­operation and the existence of shared interests. For many decades, this relationship was based on European settlers' and their descendants' use of cheap Aboriginal labour, but even as, the 1970s, rural Aboriginal employment decreased sharply, the welfare economy which replaced it has resulted in a form of “reverse dependency” of non­Indigenes on Indigenes as customers and consumers.869 Four out of six towns in the Kimberley, for example, “depend for their existence almost totally on the Aboriginal (welfare) economy” and the two others rely “heavily” on their Aboriginal inhabitants.870 Although the majority of Indigenous people today live in the capital cities, and at the other extreme there are about 1,200 small discrete communities making up a total “remote” population of 100,000 spread out over vast geographical distances in the

866 Ibid. 867 S. Young, 'From the bike to the bus: the Noongar native title settlement', The Conversation, 15 July 2013, viewed on 23 October 2015, 868 M. Dodson, op. cit., 2004, p. 122. 869 D. Drakakis­Smith, 'Aboriginal access to housing in Alice Springs', Australian Geographer, vol. 15, no. 1, pp. 39­51. 870 Yu, op. cit., 1994, p. 26. 210 north,871 there is a growing proportion of Indigenes who make up large minorities in regional centres, which are important to the network of Indigenous culture because they provide the crucial link between urban, rural and remote communities. With their relatively young populations, these minorities are likely to grow more rapidly than the non­Indigenous population. In places like Cairns in Queensland, Darwin in the NT and Tamworth in NSW Indigenes make up 11% of the populations; they constitute 27% in Broome, WA and 16% in Dubbo, NSW; and in Alice Springs in Central Australia and Port Augusta in South Australia 21% of the total inhabitants.872 Unlike in the capital cities therefore, where the Indigenous minorities are largely “invisible” and from where the “Aboriginal problem” appears as a rather abstract issue concerning remote and faraway places, the social and political urgency of Indigenous issues in these regional centres is significantly greater. This trend is likely to accelerate if governments are successful in their push for centralisation of the Aboriginal population. In March 2015 Prime Minister Tony Abbott, came out in support of WA Premier Colin Barnett's plan to close 150 remote communities with the infamous, widely criticised remark that “it's not the job of the taxpayer to subsidise lifestyle choices”.873 The WA government's decision to cut funding to communities deemed “unsustainable” followed the federal government's announcement that it would delegate the funding of basic infrastructure in remote communities to the states. Yet whether it is the federal or state governments bearing the costs, the role of the state in providing infrastructure and employment in areas with few education and employment opportunities is undoubtedly crucial. After the third riot in the Cape York community of Aurukun in 2007, when 200 people took to the streets armed with spears, knives and sticks, Philip Martin – who had previously worked with Noel Pearson's welfare reform program – wrote that under­resourced infrastructure and services were central to the community's frustration and the social breakdown. The move from “rights­based” to “responsibility­based” reform tied “people into ever­tighter relations of financial control, surveillance and regulation through welfare reform, while

871 J. C. Altman, 'People on country as alternate development', in People on Country, Vital Landscapes, Indigenous Futures, J. C. Altman and S. Kerins (eds.), The Federation Press, Annandale, 2012, pp. 9­10. 872 N. Biddle and F. Markham, Regional Centres, Paper no. 12, CAEPR Indigenous Population Project: 2011 Census Papers, Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research (CAEPR), Australian National University, Canberra, 2011. 873 Quoted in S. Medhora, 'Remote communities are 'lifestyle choices', says Tony Abbott', The Guardian, 10 March 2015, viewed 1 September 2015, 211 overlooking federal and state responsibilities to provide essential infrastructure.”874 Marcia Langton comments that until state and territory governments take responsibility for housing, education and health services, “there is a ticking time bomb in the remote economic heart of the nation”.875 Rosalind Kidd makes a similar point:

In attempts to defend the indefensible, bureaucrats and politicians readily invoke, and thus revalidate, the concept of an “Aboriginal problem”. It has been all too easy to accumulate a raft of separate issues – territorial and cultural dispossession, erratic and unsafe food and water, under­supply and under­maintenance of housing, poverty arising from unpaid and underpaid labour, decades of defective teaching and medical attention – and file them under this convenient label. But these are problems of government.876

Yet since the Howard government began to dismantle CDEP in remote areas in 2007, both Liberal and Labor governments have insisted on Indigenous people to move into paid work in a “real” economy which in practice has little to offer them. 877 Indigenous participation in mainstream employment is also central to Pearson's campaign against welfare dependency and to the Council of Australian Governments' (COAG) strategy for “Closing the Gap” of Indigenous disadvantage.878 But the market has failed the Indigenous­dominated areas, and without the means to accumulate sufficient capital of their own they remain reliant on government subsidies. When Aboriginals began to take over cattle stations and pastoral leases in the Kimberley – in 2004 they held 12% of all pastoral leases and owned 26 of 98 stations, and 9% (43,000) of the total herd in the region – this was hailed as a “quiet revolution”. But the industry they were taking over was in crisis, with falling prices in an increasingly monopolised and competitive world market. Government transfers such as CDEP have been crucial to keep the stations economically viable.879 There is no reason to assume that, unsupported 874 P. Martin, 'Welfare is not the key', The Age, 7 December 2007, viewed 27 October 2015, 875 M. Langton, op. cit., 2010. 876 Kidd, op. cit., 2005, pp. 345­346. 877 For a discussiomn about Indigenous employment see N. Biddle and K. Jordan, 'The Social Benefits and Costs of Indigenous Employment', in In Black & White: Australians All at the Crossroads, R. Craven and A. Dillon (eds.), Connor Court Publishing, Ballan, 2013, pp. 303­320. 878 N. Pearson, op. cit., 2007; Council of Australian Governments (COAG), National Integrated Strategy for Closing the Gap in Indigenous Disadvantage, July 2009, viewed on 28 October 2015, 879 Kimberley Aboriginal Pastoralists Association (KAPA) cited in R. Davis, op. cit., 2004, p. 23. 212 by such subsidies, Indigenous­owned businesses would provide any greater certainty of employment and reduction of poverty than previous companies.880 Marcia Langton, too, celebrates a “quiet revolution” in the emergence of an Aboriginal middle class, and hails the employment provided by the mineral resources boom as an alternative to welfare dependency.881 It is true that the mining industry has increased Indigenous employment from a few hundred in the early 1990s to more than 7,000 in 2011. In remote and non­remote mining areas, 9% of Indigenous employment was in the mining industry in 2011. Mining has had some impact on the overall Indigenous employment rate, which was higher in remote mining areas (43%) than in remote non­mining areas (39%), but the work is often temporary and the presence of the mining industry has also exacerbated income inequality and pressure on housing with higher rents.882 While in the past the mining industry tended to create realatively stable communities and local economies, in 2005 nearly half of the mining workforce in WA was fly­in, fly­out (FIFO) or drive­in, drive­out (DIDO).883 Employment in the mining industry peaked at 276,300 in May 2012, however, and the opportunity presented by the boom to spread its windfall benefits more evenly was wasted.884 At its height, it contributed about 8.5% to Australia's GDP and made up half of export earnings,885 but the vast majority of Australians report that they do not benefit from the recent mining boom.886 The federal mining tax proposed by the Rudd Labor government came under heavy lobbying pressure from the mining industry and met opposition from the governments of the resource states Queensland and WA, and by the time Rudd's successor Julia Gillard introduced the Minerals Resources Rent Tax (MRRT) in 2012, it

880 A. J. Smith and S. Macwilliam, 'Agrarian Change and the Initial Development of an Aboriginal Bourgeoisie in Australia', Journal of Agrarian Change, vol. 15, no. 1, January 2015, pp. 1­16. 881 M. Langton, op. cit., 2013, pp. 46­47. 882 B. Hunter and M. Howlett et al, The economic impact of the mining boom on Indigenous and non­Indigenous Australians, Working Paper no. 93, Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research (CAEPR), Australian National University, Canberra, 2014, pp. 7­9. 883 House of Representatives Standing Committee on Regional Australia (HRSCRA), Cancer of the Bush or Salvation for our Cities? Fly­in, fly­out and drive­in, drive­out workforce practices in Regional Australia, Commonwealth Government, Canberra, 2013, p. 16. 884 Australian Bureau of Statistics, Towns of the mining boom, Australian Social Trends, Publication no. 4102.0, April 2013, viewed on 11 March 2016, 885 A. Garnett, 'Australia's 'five pillar economy': mining', The Conversation, 1 May 2015, viewed on 27 October 2015, 886 Opinion polls carried out by Essential Vision and ABC between 2011 and 2013, cited in D. Marsh and C. Lewis et al, 'The Australian mining tax and the political power of business', Australian Journal of Political Science, vol. 49, no. 4, 2014, p. 719. 213 had been watered down to such an extent that it was soon revealed that the three largest mining companies had paid no tax at all.887 While governments continue to extol the central role of the market in developing remote and rural Indigenous communities, the lack of actual labour market opportunities has in practice seen the abolition of the CDEP, which in 2004 had 35,000 participants, followed by its replacement with other subsidised employment schemes under different names. The latest of these, the Remote Jobs and Communities Program (RJCP), now supports 30,000 unemployed in remote communities.888 Such state­subsidised employment in areas of few market opportunities has the potential of being more than a mere safety net, it can provide long­term social stability and offer Indigenous people an opportunity to stay “on country” while making a contribution to the national interest that both minority and majority can benefit from. Michael C. Dillon and Neil D. Westbury emphasise that “it is now widely accepted that settlement of northern Australia is a necessary component of an effective continental defence strategy”. While Indigenous marine and sea rangers monitor the coastline to prevent illegal immigration and fishing, they also carry out sea­managing tasks and report on the state of the marine environment.889 In the face of global warming and a wide range of environmental challenges, Jon Altman argues that there are good reasons for moving away from a resource­based economy to more sustainable long­term development, such as tourism and environmental management.890 While environmental degradation means that the land managed by Indigenous people for thousands of years is undergoing major changes, it can also give them an important role in remedial efforts. Several employment schemes are based on the idea of shared interests. For example, the 69 Indigenous Protected Areas (IPA) declared between 1998 and 2015 and covering 58 million hectares, contribute to preserve Australia's biodiversity and provide Indigenous people with employment and training on their land. In 2014 the “Working on Country” and IPA programs employed about 2,200 people in various roles to control fires, feral animals and weeds, and manage native plants and animals.891 The vast majority of rangers work on land in the sparsely

887 Ibid., pp. 714­716. 888 J. C. Altman, 'How successive governments destroyed black jobs, and why the latest plan will too', New Matilda, 28 January 2015, viewed on 28 October 2015, 889 M. C. Dillon and N. D. Westbury, Beyond Humbug: Transforming Government Engagement with Indigenous Australia, Seaview Press, West Lakes, 2007, p. 33. 890 J. Altman and S. Kerins (eds.), People on Country, Vital Landscapes, Indigenous Futures, The Federation Press, Annandale, 2012. 891 Australian Government, Reporting back... 2013­14: Working on Country and Indigenous Protected Areas programmes, Canberra, 2015. 214 settled north, but the first Indigenous Protected Areas were declared in the south, and so­ called “green teams” in NSW take part in the restoration and fencing of river banks and the removal of weeds.892 Altman develops the concept of a “hybrid economy” which combines the “customary” sector (fishing, hunting and gathering) with both state­funded and market­oriented sectors and is capable of being applied flexibly to different Indigenous communities.893 At a regional, and at the Northern Territory level, Aboriginal voters have also become an increasingly significant factor. The Aboriginal “bush vote” was crucial when the Country Liberal Party (CLP) came to office in the 2012 NT elections on the promise to dismantle the “super shires”, introduced by the Howard government with support from the NT Labor government in 2008, and return to more decentralised local government. Adam Giles of the CLP in 2013 became the first Aboriginal politician to lead an Australian state or territory. Although Marcia Langton’s claim that the Aboriginal support for the CLP was a protest against “left­wing causes imposed from 'down south'” such as opposition to mining, live cattle exports and the NT Intervention may be wishful thinking reflecting her own ideological position, there is no doubt that the Indigenous vote increasingly matters and that Labor can no longer take it for granted as it has done in the past on the back of the Whitlam legacy.894 There are indeed signs that Labor and the left are not the only possible political allies, especially at regional level where rural and small­town conservatives, mistrustful of the free­market liberalism of the urban right and interested both in defusing the land rights issue by agreement with Aboriginal Australians and securing state financial aid to address the socio­economic crisis of “the bush”, can be surprisingly open to dialog. One early example of this is Noel Pearson's attempt, in the so­called “Bennelong process”, to forge just such an alliance in response to Howard's “Ten Point Plan” attack on the Wik native title judgement. He found that the rural political right, farmers and pastoralists were prepared to find common ground for co­existence and even a “domestic treaty” between Indigenous and non­Indigenous Australia recognising that “the concept terra nullius was a myth” and providing for Indigenous peoples to receive annual payments as compensation “for the relinquishment of economic rights” to create a “long term capital base”.895 Pearson's efforts came to nothing but the discovery of potential allies on the right has informed his political strategy ever since: “That is the logic of the work we have

892 J. Hunt, 'North to South?', in Altman and Kerins (eds.), op cit., pp. 94, 107. 893 J. C. Altman, op. cit., 2001. 894 Langton, op. cit., 2013 pp. 76­77. 895 Pearson, op. cit., 2009, pp. 93­99. 215 been doing over the past quarter century. And we feel that all of those threads are coming together.”896 In the recent debate about a constitutional amendment to recognise Indigenous Australia, Pearson has pushed for regional treaties, constitutional recognition and a national political body. He insists that “we don’t want separatism: we want inclusion on a fair basis”, but that that there is a democratic problem of “3 percent mouse and 97 percent elephant”, which must be tackled by writing into the Constitution an elected Indigenous political body.897

Summary

When ATSIC was abolished in 2004, Indigenous Australians were excluded from the kind of political dialogue which is ongoing in Sapmi. The Sami Parliament and ATSIC were both democratically elected political bodies with little financial independence. The latter was also a service provider, but without sufficient means to tackle the many challenges Indigenous communities face. While Norwegian political parties make up about half of the Sami Parliament and are therefore heavily involved in Sami politics, ATSIC representatives were elected individuals who, not bound by the party lines of Australian political parties, were confronted with an increasingly hostile Liberal National Coalition government, led by John Howard who had opposed ATSIC before it was even set up. Howard's eventual abolition of ATSIC was supported by the Labor Party which, when in government, had created it. By contrast, the Sami Parliament has the support of all the major political parties except the right­wing Progress Party. ATSIC was easily targeted by the government because it was perceived as unsuccessful in bringing about significant socio­economic improvements in Indigenous communities, and unable to mobilise support against its own abolition. The organisation's top­down structure had tended to impose policies from above rather than respond to and build on initiatives from below. The vast geographical distances and a more dispersed and locally fragmented Aboriginal population make it more difficult to operate a centralised Indigenous political body in Australia than in Norway, and ATSIC never was important to Australia in the same way as the Sami Parliament is for Norway. To maintain Norway's position on the diplomatic world's moral high ground, its

896 N. Pearson, Keynote Address at National Native Title Conference 2015, Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies (AIATSIS), 18 June 2015, viewed on 4 November 2015, 897 N. Pearson, 'A Rightful Place: Race, Recognition and a More Complete Commonwealth'. Quarterly Essay, no. 55, September 2014, p. 66. 216 political parties were prepared to push through the Sami Parliament and the Finnmark Act even against some local opposition in Finnmark itself. The Finnmark Act, in particular, is an unconventional and innovatory attempt at reconciling regional, national, and Indigenous claims which, as will be suggested in the Conclusion, could serve as a model for similar regional arrangements in Australia. Australia has, however, been more willing than Norway to recognise Indigenous land rights. Vast tracts of sparsely settled Crown land, land rights legislation and funding for land purchases have enabled Indigenous Australians to claim back a substantial proportion – more than twenty percent – of the continent.898 It is often said that the Aboriginals are land rich, but poor. The Sami are land poor, but enjoy much higher living standards even in remote areas because governments have provided infrastructure, services and employment to maintain settlements and political stability in the north. Unlike in Australia where the mining industry has launched several campaigns against Indigenous land rights, no such campaign has been necessary in Norway because the Sami themselves have been reluctant to claim exclusive rights to minerals, fishing quota, oil and gas. These differences reflect, at least in part, the different political cultures of Anglo­Saxon liberalism in Australia and Nordic social democracy in Norway: in the former, the well­being of individuals and collectives alike is, in the final analysis, dependent on their property rights, while in the latter, the politically determined redistributive power of the state is paramount.

898 J. C. Altman and F. Markham, ‘Burgeoning Indigenous Land Ownership: Diverse Values and Strategic Potentialities’ in S. Brennan et al (eds.), Native Title From Mabo to Akiba: A Vehicle for Change and Empowerment?, Federation Press, Sydney, 2015, pp. 126. 217

Conclusion As a comparison of the history and politics of the “Indigenous question” in Norway and Australia, this thesis aims to make a contribution to the debate in Australia by identifying and highlighting those aspects of the Norwegian Sami experience which may throw some new and unfamiliar light on the Australian situation. Some of the key issues which have figured prominently in the comparison are the relative socio­economic position of the two Indigenous populations, the role of regional economic development, the recognition of Indigenous cultural­linguistic and land rights, and the importance of Indigenous political representation. While the comparison proceeds in a chronological historical sequence, the findings can be summarised and reduced to three main issues which span across time. First, the importance of differences between the two distinct political cultures of the Australian and Norwegian states and societies – the traditions of Anglo­American liberalism (transplanted into the British colony) in the former, those of Nordic social democracy in the latter – and the different approaches resulting from these to their Indigenous minorities, especially with regards to their very different understandings of the role of active state intervention. Second, given the minoritarian status and political weakness of Indigenous movements, the importance of alliances with sections of non­Indigenous majority society for achieving specific aims of Indigenous emancipation and advancement, and the historically changing pattern of such alliances. Third, the issue of according full justice and equality to Indigenous peoples, still unresolved today in both Norway and Australia, including the full recognition of, and compensation for, the injustices of the past, and the constitutional recognition of the Indigenous minorities as equal partners.

The role of the state

An obvious explanation of the most glaring contrast between the Sami and Aboriginal Australians – the decent living standards of the former and the shocking poverty and social disadvantage of the latter – would be the difference between the relative generosity of the post­war Nordic social­democratic welfare state and the minimalist safety net approach of the social security system in Anglo­Saxon liberal states such as Australia. There is an element of truth in that, but the role of the state cannot be reduced to welfare provision any more than the Indigenous problem can be reduced to socio­economic 218 inequality. It was much more comprehensive than that, and the Nordic social­democratic state interventionism also came, as we have seen, with a strong assimilationist push which for many decades served to submerge the Indigeneous identity of the Sami. By far the most important aspect of the role of the Norwegian state that impacted on the Sami was and is its commitment to state­led regional economic development. The difference between the Norwegian and the Australian approaches to their peripheries is illustrated, as we have seen, by the return of the Sami (and non­Sami) to Finnmark and North Troms after the Second World War (Chapter Four) and the Aboriginal “back to country” movement in the 1970s (Chapter Five). The Norwegian government initially planned to rebuild and centralise North Norway with American assistance, but the Sami (and non­Sami) refused to wait for instructions from bureaucrats and travelled back to their old, burnt­out villages and settlements. The authorities then responded and provided much needed infrastructure, social benefits, cheap loans and housing. By contrast, the Aboriginal “back to country” movement, which thirty years later grew out of the struggle for and recognition of Aboriginal land rights, received some financial support for the “outstations” but was seen primarily as a return to pre­colonial culture, an escape from the ills of the city, as an Aboriginal initiative which had little to do with Australian national or regional interests. Geographical remoteness is often cited as the chief reason for insufficient basic infrastructure and services even in larger Aboriginal communities: we saw in Chapter Five what was described as a “refugee crisis” in the Kimberley, when families left cattle stations and drifted to towns from the 1960s onwards. A more recent example is the threat by the WA government in 2014 to close down 150 communities deemed “unviable”. For Norwegian governments, the north is sufficiently important to compensate for the decline of traditional Sami livelihoods (reindeer husbandry and fishing­farming) with generous state transfers and subsidies for a growing “Sami sector” (culture, education, media, tourism). In Australia, where government subsidised employment schemes such as CDEP are also crucial for keeping rural and remote areas populated, Aboriginal communities are singled out as a distinct problem of “welfare dependency”. The Sami are subsumed under the larger issue of North Norwegian “state dependency”, and the pressure on them as a minority is eased because the problem is defined as “regional” (to be solved by Norway) and not “Sami” (whose right to live on the periphery is not questioned). Thus in Norway, an oil and gas fuelled economy with a large public sector (about twice the size of that of Australia), the debate about the role of the state as a provider of infrastructure, services and employment feeds into the Indigenous debate in a 219 way that it does not in Australia, where questions of Aboriginal policy are usually discussed in isolation from the larger context of the rural and remote areas in which Indigenous Australians make up significant proportions of the population. The actual roles of the two states must, of course, be distinguished from the rhetoric which was at times employed by their respective governments. Thus the Whitlam government and, to an extent, its Hawke and Keating successors, marked a rhetorical break with the assimilationist policies of the past by adopting the language of Aboriginal “self­determination” but, as we saw in Chapter Five, the substance and reality of Labor's policies in the 1970s and 1980s did not match that rhetoric. The concept and rhetoric of “self­determination” were almost entirely absent from Norwegian government policies towards the Sami, which recognised some cultural and (for reindeer herders) land rights even before recognising the Sami as “Indigenous”. Nor should the liberal antipathy to state interventionism and the absence of a state­ led regional development policy in Australia be confused with a “weak” state. The conservative­neoliberal backlash against the “self­determination” era in Australia under Howard from the mid­1990s, discussed in Chapter Six, produced not less but more state involvement in Aboriginal affairs, with more surveillance and micro­management and a larger bureaucracy to enforce behavioural changes, culminating in the Northern Territory Intervention. Following a similar logic, but without involving the military, the Norwegian state has taken a more active role in managing reindeer husbandry in Finnmark and threatened the Sami with a forced slaughter of animals unless herds are downsized. The tendency to understand the “Indigenous problem” in terms of dysfunctional Indigenous behaviour persists in both countries. Finally, an important difference between Norway and Australia with regards to the role of the state in Indigenous policy is the Australian legacy of institutionalised racial discrimination against Aboriginals, which was compounded by the federal nature of the Australian state. The 1967 referendum was not only about the inclusion of Aboriginal people in the census but also about the federal government's ability to legislate in Aboriginal affairs, with strong resistance in some states (especially Queensland) against the dismantling of racial discrimination and the kind of racist practices revealed to the public via the media by such events as the 1965 Freedom Rides in NSW. Thus the Indigenous question contributed to the centralisation of Australian politics (a centralisation already underway for quite different reasons), while Norway with its strong tradition of power concentrated in the capital Oslo, the responses to the Sami issue – the creation of the Sami Parliament and the Finnmark Act – tended to have the 220 opposite effect.

The need for alliances

The historical survey provided in the main chapters of this thesis gives ample evidence of the tenacity and resourcefulness shown by both the Sami and Aboriginal Australians to survive against enormous odds, and of their unbroken and continuous resistance to colonisation, assimilation, and marginalisation. Yet the inescapable fact is that they are today (and have been for a long time) small minorities in powerful nation states, with a numerical weight sufficient to wield political influence at only regional level, and in regions quite remote from the centres of political and economic power. In practical­ strategic terms, therefore, any significant improvement in their position can only come about as the result of alliances with sections of the non­Indigenous majority, based on shared or at least coinciding interests. As we have seen, the Sami have been important to Norway in a way that Aboriginals have not been to Australia. The Sami were valued as tribute and tax payers, as fishers, hunters and herders in a sparsely settled and geopolitically contested border region. From the early twentieth century onwards, Sami activists were influentially involved in the socialist alliances of fishers and farmers in the fjords and on the Finnmark coast against southern Norwegian capital. In the 1960s and 1970s, they played a part in the broadly­based regional movement against EEC/EU membership. Most famously, the Alta Affair aligned the Sami reindeer herders with other local and regional opposition to the dam project as well as with urban environmentalists, turning the Alta Affair into a question of Indigenous land rights to which the Norwegian government responded with a Sami Parliament, and later the 2005 Finnmark Act. The political leverage of the Sami during these decades was crucially enhanced by the desire of the social­democratic Norwegian government to avoid sullying its carefully projected image as an international model citizen and its key role in UN diplomacy. Aboriginal Australians never had a comparable status or political leverage. The British settler colony had little use for the Indigenous population and proceeded to systematically destroy the basis of their hunter­gatherer livelihood in the least arid parts of the continent which were turned over to farming and sheep grazing, cattle stations and silver, copper, and gold mines, each supported by successive waves of immigration. While it is true that Aboriginal labour played a part in the rural and remote economy, especially the northern cattle industry as stockmen living off the land on low or even no 221 wages, enabling Aboriginals to stay on country for a century or so, this arrangement came to an end with the introduction of equal wage legislation in the late 1960s. The subsequent wave of evictions from the cattle stations fuelled the campaign for land rights. Aboriginal campaigns for equal rights, equal wages and land rights did attract support from trade unionists, communists and Christians, and eventually from a left­ moving Labor Party, but such support never translated into an effective alliance capable of solving the fundamental problems faced by Aboriginal Australians: the absence of legal discrimination does not in itself constitute true equality, and land rights ended up in a legal quagmire around “native title”, with Australian Labor governments in the 1970s and 80s unwilling to take on the mining industry and override the states to deliver on the promises of “self­determination”, national land rights legislation and a treaty. Although there continues to be widespread support for Aboriginal causes, the retreat of the ALP from its positions of the Whitlam era – eventually culminating in its support for the dissolution of ATSIC and the NT Intervention – have contributed to the current impasse of a debate dominated by concerns over “welfare dependency” and “closing the gap” in life expectancy, education, and other social indicators between Indigenous and non­ Indigenous Australians. This is where the Norwegian example, and especially that of the Finnmark Act, could point a way forward. For the problems of Aboriginal Australia cannot be seen in isolation from the broader rural crisis – social, economic, and environmental – which also deeply affects the non­Indigenous population. Where are the employment and educational opportunities and the quality healthcare for Indigenous people in regional Australia to come from if they are already increasingly scarce for local non­Indigenous people? If tackling the crisis in regional Australia is to coincide with tackling that of Aboriginal Australia, the kind of institutionalised regionalism of the Finnmark Act, with national and state governments providing resources for strategic initiatives based on cooperation between local Indigenous and non­Indigenous interests – giving the former an independent and equal, even a leading role – would seem to offer a possible way forward. The 1993 Native Title Act and the Wik decision have already established the principle of shared and overlapping rights and responsibilities on the land between pastoral leases and the traditional owners (see Chapter Six). The comprehensive 2015 settlement of the Noongar native title claim in south­western WA (including metropolitan Perth) also points towards the possibility of a more political, negotiated, regional and cooperative rather than a merely judicial and adversary approach to land 222 rights. In regions such as Cape York, there is some history of mutually beneficial agreements between Indigenous and non­Indigenous land users, and in North Queensland (which includes Cape York) a loose and quite heterogeneous alliance of conservative farmers and Indigenous as well as non­Indigenous defectors from the ruling Labor Party have jointly protested against the neglect of the regions by the Brisbane government, and even raised the spectre of a secession from the state of Queensland. The Aboriginal welfare economy has grown into an ever more important part of the rural economy, and as in Norway the decline of primary industries needs to be compensated for by the public sector and an Indigenous sector. As in Norway, but much more so, the important tourist industry in Australia is already heavily reliant on Indigenous history and culture. For the possibilities indicated by the example of the Finnmark Act to be explored in Australia would, of course, require a more active political approach to regional development and less reliance on the mere operation of market forces and “economic rationalism”. It would also, moreover, require a break with the current “Close the Gap” welfare paternalism and a new political framework for Indigenous policy.

Equality and political representation

The most immediately striking difference in the relationship between the Indigenous minorities and non­Indigenous majorities of Norway and Australia is, of course, the existence of an elected Sami Parliament and the complete absence, since the abolition of ATSIC in 2004, of any national political representative body of Aboriginal Australians. But what matters more than that absence in itself is what this absence is indicative of: the lack of a clear, principled understanding of the relationship between Indigenous and non­ Indigenous Australia. For all its problems, some of which are discussed in Chapter Six, the Sami Parliament stands as the ultimate marker of the “two peoples” approach in Norway which defines the relationship between the Sami and Norwegians as, in principle, one of equality. That principle of equality is the most glaring absence in Australia's Indigenous policy. The Sami Parliament has, as we have seen, been unable to stop outmigration from Sami­dominated areas, the marginalisation of reindeer husbandry, the decline of Sami fishing interests and a host of other issues. But the Sami Parliament and the Finnmark Act, in a broader historical perspective, are also a return to a much older tradition of recognising Indigenes as peoples in their own right. Until the mid­nineteenth century, the 223

Sami were recognised as one of several minorities in the neighbouring multi­ethnic kingdoms, and the 1751 Lapp Codicil between Sweden/Finland and Denmark/Norway indicate that they were accepted as a “Lappish nation”. The first two chapters of this thesis remind us that, in the broader context of world history, the assimilationist policies of nineteenth­century European nation­state building are relatively new. Today the language and symbolism of nineteenth­century nationalism are often used in debates over Indigenous policy, particularly by Indigenous activists and those most supportive of them: “self­determination”, “sovereignty”, the redesignation of what used to be described as “tribes” into “nations”, the widespread adoption of the Aboriginal and Sami flags are examples of this. Yet, as almost everyone is aware, there is no serious prospect of (or even demand for) independent Sami or Aboriginal statehood. For small Indigenous minorities subject to the ever­changing political whims of non­Indigenous minorities, demands for “self­determination” and the recognition of a “sovereignty” never surrendered can only mean internal self­determination and internal sovereignty as the antidote to internal colonialism. A political representative body which cannot, as ATSIC was, be abolished at the stroke of a pen by the majority government of the day is a key prerequisite of that. This was understood during the Whitlam­Hawke­Keating era when the policy of “self­determination” included the promise of an elected Aboriginal political representation and a Treaty. Today, there is the proposal of a referendum on constitutional recognition of Aboriginals and Torres Strait Islanders which remains ill­ defined in its practical meaning and is likely to be so highly diluted to ensure a maximum chance of majority acceptance that Aboriginal leaders and activists have begun to express doubts about its usefulness, and the alternative of a Treaty has resurfaced in the debate.899 A Treaty, of course, is an agreement between equals, and no Treaty between an Australian Government and its Indigenous minority is conceivable without an independent elected representative body – or several such bodies – of the latter. Given the differences between Norway and Australia, it may well be that the form of political representation of Aboriginal Australia would be very different from the Sami Parliament: perhaps more devolved and decentralised to reflect the enormous size of the

899 L. Behrendt, 'Indigenous recognition: the concerns of those opposed must be taken seriously', The Guardian, 25 September 2014, viewed on 3 March 2016, ; C. Wahlquist, 'Indigenous leaders praise Victoria's commitment to talk about treaty', The Guardian, 3 March 2016, viewed on 3 March 2016, 224 continent and the great diversity of Aboriginal Australia. But it is the principle of equality which matters above all, and in this sense the existence of the Sami Parliament within a “two peoples” definition of the Norwegian state – imperfect as the reality of it is in so many ways, as this comparison has shown – that holds the most important lessons for Australia if the debate is to move beyond that of closing the socio­economic gap and include a sustainable settlement of the historical, present and future relationship between Indigenous and non­Indigenous Australians.

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forvaltningstjeneste, Statens trykking, Oslo. NOU (Norges offentlige utredninger) 1996:11 Forslag til minerallov. Statens forvaltningstjeneste, Statens trykking, Oslo. NOU (Norges offentlige utredninger) 1997:4 Naturgrunnlaget for samisk kultur. Statens forvaltningstjeneste, Statens trykking, Oslo. NOU (Norges offentlige utredninger) 1997:5 Urfolks landrettigheter etter folkerett og utenlandsk rett – bakgrunnsmateriale for Samerettsutvalget. Statens forvaltningstjeneste, Statens trykking, Oslo. NOU (Norges offentlige utredninger) 2001:34 Samiske sedvaner og rettsoppfatninger – bakgrunnsmateriale for Samerettsutvalget. Statens forvaltningstjeneste, Statens trykking, Oslo. NOU (Norges offentlige utredninger) 2003:32 Mot nord! Utfordringer og muligheter i nordområdene. Statens forvaltningstjeneste, Statens trykking, Oslo. NOU (Norges offentlige utredninger) 2004:19 Livskraftige distrikter og regioner. Statens forvaltningstjeneste, Statens trykking, Oslo. NOU (Norges offentlige utredninger) 2007:14 Samisk naturbruk og rettssituasjon fra Hedmark til Troms – bakgrunnsmateriale for Samerettsutvalget. Statens forvaltningstjeneste, Statens trykking, Oslo. NOU (Norges offentlige utredninger) 2008:5 Retten til fiske i havet utenfor Finnmark. Statens forvaltningstjeneste, Statens trykking, Oslo. Norges Bank Investment Management. 'Fund Tops 6,000 billion kroner in market value'. 28 November 2014, viewed on 10 August 2015, The Norwegian Labour Party. Det norske arbeiderpartis program 1924. PolSys: Data om det politiske systemet, University of Bergen, viewed 10 February 2016, The Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, What characterises Norway's peace and reconciliation work?, last updated 17 July 2015, viewed 20 February 2016, Norwegian Sami Association (NSR). Historie og dokumenter, viewed on 20 February 2016, Norwegian Sami Association (NSR). Annual Report. 30 November 1968 to 22 June 1969, viewed on 20 February 2016,

displayid=19412> Norwegian Sami Association (NSR). János Trosten: En offensiv politiker 2005, viewed on 10 August 2015, Ot. prp. nr. 43 (2008­2009): Om lov om erverv og utvinning av mineralressurser (mineralloven). Samiske tall forteller 1/Sámi logut muitalit 1: Kommentert samisk statistikk 2008, Sami University College, Kautokeino. Samiske tall forteller 2/Sámi logut muitalit 2: Kommentert samisk statistikk 2009, Sami University College, Kautokeino. Samiske tall forteller 3/Sámi logut muitalit 3: Kommentert samisk statistikk 2010, Sami University College, Kautokeino. Samiske tall forteller 4/Sámi logut muitalit 4: Kommentert samisk statistikk 2011, Sami University College, Kautokeino. Samiske tall forteller 5/Sámi logut muitalit 5: Kommentert samisk statistikk 2012, Sami University College, Kautokeino. The Sami Parliament. Sametingsmelding om opplæring og utdanning 2011. Karasjok, 2011. The Sami Parliament. The Sami Parliament's mineral guide: for exploration work and operations relating to mineral resources. Karasjok, 2010. The Sami Parliament. Sametingets melding om fiske som næring og kultur i kyst­ og fjordområdene. Karasjok, 2004. Statistics Norway (Statistisk Sentralbyrå). Samisk statistikk 2014. Oslo. Stortingsmelding nr. 21 (1962­63). Om kulturelle og økonomiske tiltak av særlig interesse for den samiske befolkningen. Kirke­ og undervisningsdepartementet, Oslo. Stortingmelding nr. 15 (2000­2001). Nasjonale minoritetar i Noreg – Om statleg politikk overfor jødar, kvener, rom, romanifolket og skogfinnar. Kommunal­ og regionaldepartementet, Oslo. Stortingsmelding nr. 55 (2000). Om samepolitikken. Kommunal­ og regionaldepartementet, Oslo. Stortingsmelding nr. 28 (2007­2008). Samepolitikken. Arbeids­ og inkluderingsdepartementet, Oslo. Tormodsgard, Y. Facts 2014: The Norwegian Petroleum Sector. Norwegian Ministry of Petroleum and Energy, Oslo, 5 May 2014, viewed on 20 February 2016,

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d. Legislation Australia

The Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission Act 1989. Viewed 26 February 2016, The Aboriginal Land Rights (Northern Territory) Act 1976. Viewed 26 February 2016, The Native Title Act 1993. Viewed 26 February 2016, The Northern Territory National Emergency Response Act 2007. Viewed 26 February 2016,

e. Legislation Norway

The Finnmark Act: Act of 17 June 2005 No. 85 relating to legal relations and management of land and natural resources in the county of Finnmark (Finnmark Act). Viewed on 10 April 2015, The Minerals Act: Act of 19 June 2009 No. 101 relating to the acquisition and extraction of mineral resources (the Minerals Act). Viewed on 26 February 2016, The Norwegian Constitution. Laid down on 17 May 1814 by the Constituent Assembly at Eidsvoll and subsequently amended, viewed on 12 June 2015, The Sámi Act: Act of 12 June 1987 No. 56 concerning the Sameting (the Sami parliament) and other Sami legal matters (the Sami Act). Viewed on 26 February 264

2016,

f. Legislation international

Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention, 1989 (No. 169): Convention concerning Indigenous and Tribal Peoples in Independent Countries. Viewed 26 February 2016, United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007). Viewed 26 February 2016,

g. Radio, television and newspapers

Aslaksen, E. and Vailo, K. '­ Vi har ikke kopiert en lavvu'. NRK Sápmi, 5 February 2008, viewed 3 August 2015, Ballovara, M. and Ailu Anti, L. et al. '­ Ikke naturlig å ha med Samtinget'. NRK Sapmi, 25 August 2015, viewed 10 August 2015, BBC News, 'UN condemns Aborigines' housing', 15 August 2006, viewed on 16 February 2016, Brekke, B. '­ Internatskolene var barnemishandling I offentlig regi'. NRK, 31 October 2013, viewed 2 December 2013, < http://www.nrk.no/fordypning/_­statlig­ barnemishandling­1.11298675> Enoksen, R. 'Tilhører Snøhvit­gassen samene?'. Nordlys, 7 November 2001, viewed 10 August 2015, Enoksen, R. '– Sametingsrådet driver historieforfalskning'. Nordlys, 19 January 2002, viewed 20 February 2016, Graham, C. 'Intervention Tales: Amnesty head shocked by conditions in Central Australia'. National Indigenous Times, vol. 8, no. 191, 26 November 2009. Gordon, M. 'Noel Pearson not our leader, say wild river men'. The Sydney Morning 265

Herald, 30 September 2010, viewed on 16 February 2016, Gaup, B. S. 'Forundret over gruve­nei, men vil ikke tvinge Kautokeino'. NRK Sapmi, 22 May 2012, viewed 10 August 2015, Kalstad, A. K. '­Endringene vil skje uten Sametingets samtykke'. NRK Sapmi, 22 January 2013, viewed on 3 November 2015, Kristiansen, J. E. This is Norway 2015: What the Figures say. Statistics Norway (SSB), Kongsvinger, 24 August 2015. Kristiansen, S. K. 'Stoltenberg ferdig med rekruttskolen: “jeg visste ikke hva jeg gikk til”'. Verdens Gang, Monday 31 December 1979, p. 17. Mangset Lorentsen, H. 'Rekordmange ønsker å bo I nord'. NRK Sapmi, 17 April 2012, viewed 13 May 2015, Martin, P. 'Not quite Norway, but still a great place to call home'. The Sydney Morning Herald, 3 November 2011, viewed 16 February 2016, Mathisen, I. H. '­ Min drøm er at Oslo lager samiske skilt'. Dagbladet, 17 November 2011, viewed on 20 February 2016, Medhora, S. 'Remote communities are 'lifestyle choices', says Tony Abbott'. The Guardian, 10 March 2015, viewed 1 September 2015, Morton, R. and Ferrari, J. 'Children 'out of sight and out of mind''. The Australian, 28 September 2013, viewed 16 February 2016, Moxness Sandnes, K. 'Norge jobber for å stoppe pirater i Somalia, men våre pirater får ture fram som de vil'. IFinnmark, 3 March 2014, viewed 22 August 2015,

men­vare­pirater­far­ture­fram­som­de­vil/s/1­30002­7204697> OECD Observer, 'Wealth of OECD Nations', no. 235, The Organisation for Economic Co­operation and Development (OECD), December 2002, viewed on 17 February 2016, Owens, J. and Wilson, L. 'Noel Pearson brands Wild Rivers law 'colonialism'. The Australian, 30 September 2010, viewed on 16 february 2016, Peatling, S. 'Back into the darkness'. The Sydney Morning Herald, 25 August 2006, viewed 1 September 2015, Pulk, Å. And Buljo, A. I. 'Inviterer EDL til samarbeid'. NRK Sapmi, 8 November 2011, viewed 20 June 2015, Pulk, Å. And Kalvemo, J. E. '– Finnmark ikke tjent med forslaget'. NRK Sápmi, 9 December 2008, viewed 12 August 2015, Robinson, N. 'Redfern speech promised much, delivered little', The Australian, 10 December 2012. Ságat, 'Editorial: Sametinget inn i grunnloven?', 12 February 2014, viewed 4 September 2015, Sandvig, H. 'Samisk delegasjon til urbefolkningskonferansen: Alta ingen hovedsak i Canberra'. Aftenposten, 26 April 1981, p. 4. Shaw, M. 'Howard puts ATSIC to death'. The Age, 16 April 2004, viewed 25 August 2015, Storholm, L. 'Ber medlemmene holde seg unna Finnmark'. High North News, 27 March 2015, viewed 10 August 2015, Thrane, T. W. 'Reindrifta må med i Sametinget'. NRK Sapmi, 17 October 2009, viewed on 3 November 2015, The Age, 'Brough backs indigenous welfare overhaul, 19 June 2007, viewed 20 267

February 2016, The Australian, 'Black congressmen 'off the payroll'', Monday 11 February 1974. The Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC), 'Vanstone says remote Indigenous communities becoming 'cultural museums', 9 December 2005, viewed 1 September 2015, The Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC), 'Aboriginal group defies criticism with income management plea', 7 July 2012, viewed 20 February 2016, Verdens Gang, 'Egen liste fra samene til kommunevalget', Wednesday 18 September 1963, p. 2. Vuolab, S. E. and Thrane, T. W. '– En solid støtteerklæring'. NRK Sápmi, 18 January 2011, viewed 5 August 2015, Wahlquist, C. 'Indigenous leaders praise Victoria's commitment to talk about treaty'. The Guardian, 3 March 2016, viewed 3 March 2016, 268

Appendix

On methodology, positionality, and suggestions for further research

As a non­Indigenous Norwegian residing in Australia I have approached my topic with a certain distance from both objects of the comparison, geographical and otherwise.. Having arrived in Australia in my mid­twenties as a university student, I did not carry the cultural and historical baggage of Anglo­Saxon liberalism and colonialism but encountered the Australian Indigenous debate from the different angle of Nordic social democratic welfarism, while the distance from Norwegian society and the encounter with Aboriginal Australia helped me reappraise Norwegian approaches to the Sami question. However, the questions that I ask in this thesis undoubtedly stem from growing up in a society where governments – whether of the left or right – are expected to play an actively interventionist part in the economy, in providing social welfare, and in regional development. The role of the state is therefore the central focus of my comparison of the Indigenous questions in Norway and Australia. Perhaps the greatest challenge that I faced during my candidature was the temptation of exaggerating the similarities between the Sami and Aboriginal peoples in the name of their common Indigeneity. The very significant differences between them are perhaps one reason why this comparison has never been attempted before, with specialists on either side assuming that the Australian Aboriginal and the Nordic Sami experiences are so different as to be beyond comparative study. Moreover, the emphasis on cultural history and cultural studies since the late 1970s and 1980s has raised the question of who has the right to write Indigenous history. Only Indigenous people, it is said, can describe how they have experienced colonialism. But this thesis does not pretend to speak for either the Sami or Aboriginal Australians, let alone Indigenous people in general. While written from a standpoint that is clearly sympathetic to their cause, it is primarily concerned with historical parallels, similarities, and differences at the intersection between majority politics and Indigenous minority resistance, emphasising socio­economic and political rather than cultural analysis. To the extent that the absence of the latter is a weakness of this thesis, it will have to be left to future works by others to remedy it. Having said this, the time that I spent as a photojournalist documenting the lives of the Aboriginal community Murrin Bridge, NSW, between 2004 and 2008, and a visit to the Sami newspaper Min Aigi for four weeks in 2004 was a 269 major influence on the thinking behind this thesis,particularly in drawing my attention to the vital regional dimension of Indigenous socio­economic development and political self­ determination. Most of the written material about the Norwegian Sami is in the Norwegian language, mostly by non­Sami researchers or by a small number of Sami academics who for a variety of reasons prefer to publish in Norwegian. I have used primary and secondary sources (books, theses and government reports) that are found online or through UNSW library, and in Norway at The University of Tromsø ­ The Arctic University of Norway and the University of Oslo. The largest collection of literature about the Sami is held by the Sami Special Library which is located in the Sami Parliament building in Karasjok, which I also visited. Norwegian and Australian newspaper archives can be accessed online, mostly behind paywalls. There is only a limited body of published academic research on the Sami peoples by the small number of historians and anthropologists concerned with the topic in Norway, and an important source for this thesis were Norwegian government publications about the Sami (Norges offentlige utredninger, NOU) . These are written in Norwegian by committees, such as the Sami Rights Commission, appointed by the government; those that are published after 1994 can be accessed online (https://www.regjeringen.no/no/dokument/nou­ ar/id1767/). Statistical information on Indigenous people in Australia and Norway, as published by Statistics Norway and the Australian Bureau of Statistics, is available online. Another useful site for online material about Sami politics, culture and industries in Norway is the Sami Parliament's website (https://www.sametinget.no/Dokumenter). Some English­language material is available from Norut, the Northern Research Institute (http://norut.no/en) and also from the Galdu Resource Centre for the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (http://www.galdu.no/). Master theses in Indigenous Studies at the University of Tromsø are written in English and can be accessed online: http://site.uit.no/mis/ or http://munin.uit.no/handle/10037/151 Unlike Indigenous Australians, the Sami constitute an Indigenous minority in four different states. My thesis focuses on the numerically largest group, the Norwegian Sami, and makes only fleeting references to the Sami minorities in Sweden, Finland, and Russia or the Indigenous policies pursued by their governments. This limitation can be justified by the high profile and image (including the self­image) of Norway as an international “model citizen” and supporter of Indigenous and minority rights but is also due to restrictions of space and not least to linguistic reasons: while the Swedish language is closely enough related to Norwegian to be comprehensible, Finnish and Russian are quite 270 a different matter. Like all such limitations, this one is also an invitation to further research: both to intra­Fennoscandian comparative research of Sami history and Sami politics (of which there is very surprisingly little so far), and to broaden the comparison with Australia beyond Norway. However, confined as it is to comparing Norway and Australia, the broad historical sweep of this study – from the beginnings of colonisation to the present day – and its unavoidably broad­brush treatment of key issues also suggests further research with a narrower rather than a wider focus. The point is made repeatedly in this thesis that, for relatively small Indigenous minorities the regional dimension is as important as the national one for their cultural practices, socio­economic development, the forging of political alliances with non­Indigenous groups, and the exercise of what I have called their “internal self­determination”. A more specific regional focus than has been possible in this study, which could only hint at some of the possibilities and issues below the national level, would therefore be a most promising avenue for further research.