Gender, Work & Organization

Stopped in our tracks: From ‘giving an account’ to an ethics of recognition in feminist praxis

Journal: Gender, Work & Organization

Manuscript ID GWO-18-032.R2 Manuscript Type:ForOriginal Peer Article Review Keywords: recognition, Indigenous women, stolen wages, feminist writing, listening

Page 1 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 Stopped in our tracks: 4 5 From ‘giving an account’ to an ethics of recognition in feminist praxis 6 7 8 9 Abstract 10 When the Western Australian government announced in 2010 that Indigenous 11 12 people would be compensated for unpaid wages, a Yindjibarndi woman named 13 14 Bigali Hanlon submitted an application to access her government files so that 15 16 she could lodge a claim. At the age of four, Bigali was taken from her home in 17 Mulga Downs, Western Australia to live in a church-run hostel for ‘fair-skinned’ 18 19 Indigenous children until she was sent into indentured domestic service as a 20 21 teenager. Three largeFor files documentPeer her Review history. These files, combined with in- 22 23 depth interviews, and a film about Bigali and other Indigenous Australian 24 people, Walking Tracks Back Home, form the basis of this paper. In reflecting on 25 26 the issues raised by Bigali’s story, we draw on feminist writing on the costs 27 28 associated with being called to give an account of oneself, considering how 29 30 listening might form the basis of an ethics of recognition in feminist praxis. 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60

1 Gender, Work & Organization Page 2 of 37

1 2 3 Introduction 4 5 Bigali Hanlon is a Yindjibarndii woman born in 1940 at Mulga Downs in 6 7 Western Australia. At the age of four, Bigali was taken from her mother and sent 8 9 to live in a church-run hostel for ‘fair-skinned’ Indigenous children until she was 10 13 when she went into indentured domestic service. Wages were collected but 11 12 were never paid to Bigali. When the Western Australian government announced 13 14 in 2010 that Indigenous people would be compensated for unpaid wages, Bigali 15 16 submitted an application to access her government files so that she could lodge a 17 claim with the Western Australian Stolen Wages Commission. Three large 18 19 folders document Bigali’s life from her birth at Mulga Downs until she formally 20 21 left care at the age ofFor sixteen. Peer The detail Review of the records in Bigali’s files testifies to 22 23 how Aboriginal people were subjected to extreme forms of ‘governmentality’ 24 (Foucault, 1961), involving a surveillance of their everyday lives and the 25 26 regulation of their movements. 27 28 The starting point for this paper came out of Bigali’s application to the Western 29 30 Australian Stolen Wages Commission, which required documentary evidence to 31 support coherent claims from Indigenous Australians for unpaid wagesii. These 32 33 claims coalesced around the need to give a persuasive account on the part of 34 35 Indigenous people, but the effect of this process was that it positioned claimants 36 37 in terms of a one-dimensional ‘victim’ subjectivity. Through her granddaughter, 38 Talila Milroy, Bigali has shared her files compiled by the Department of Native 39 40 Affairs. Talila is explicit that Bigali’s story should not be told through a ‘victim’ 41 42 discourse, thereby replicating this positioning, and her experiences of being 43 44 called to account by the Stolen Wages Commission. Instead, Talila’s view, shared 45 46 by Bigali, is that the compulsion to present Bigali’s story through a victim 47 narrative should be ‘undone’ in order to highlight the ways in which, through 48 49 this organizational process, this reificatory re-positioning of Bigali accentuates 50 51 rather than recognizes her earlier exploitation. Drawing on feminist writing on 52 53 ‘generous encounters’ (Swan, 2017), as well as Bigali’s own act of generosity in 54 sharing her story and documentation with us, we approach this tentatively, but 55 56 with a commitment to showing how Bigali and other Indigenous people with 57 58 similar stories to tell have been ‘undone’ by the Commissions to which they have 59 60 made applications. Drawing on recent writing on a feminist politics of listening,

2 Page 3 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 we aim to raise awareness of how the Commissions’ requirements reduce the 4 5 complexity of Indigenous people’s lived experiences to provide coherent victim 6 7 narratives in a way that replicates rather than recognizes the normative 8 iii 9 governmental regimes to which they have been subject . In our discussion of 10 Bigali’s story, we explore how the sharing of Indigenous people’s narratives 11 12 might be opened up beyond ‘giving an account’ (Butler, 2005) through a politics 13 14 of listening premised upon an ethics of recognition. 15 16 17 Bigali’s narrative begins in media res, when many things have ‘already taken 18 19 place to make [her] story possible in language’ (Butler, 2005: 39)iv. While the 20 21 State had documentedFor details Peer of her life, Review Bigali explained to her grand-daughter, 22 23 Talila, that she didn’t know much of the detail of her early life until she first read 24 those files at the age of 70. When Bigali read a draft of this paper she wanted us 25 26 to stress that she had to ‘fight’ the government to get them to release her files. 27 28 On making application to access her files, Bigali was told that it would be too 29 30 upsetting for her to read the material documenting her life. Her response to this 31 was that she did not need to be ‘protected’, the State had already done enough 32 33 ‘protecting’ of her, emphasizing that the pain caused is hers to feel. 34 35 36 37 Like Bigali’s story, this paper also begins in media res. We do not situate our 38 argument within a particular body of literature, or identify a ‘gap’ or relatively 39 40 neglected theme in published research that we claim to be able to address to 41 42 somehow ‘close down’ critique. In some ways, on the contrary, we take our cue 43 44 from what we see as an act of incredible generosity. Bigali has shared her story 45 46 with us, on the understanding that we would continue that generosity by telling 47 her story more widely, including with and through academic audiences. She has 48 49 also shared many recollections, feelings and thoughts about aspects of her story 50 51 not ‘captured’ in the official files, and we use this word deliberately, in an 52 53 interview with Talila and in a film, Walking Tracks Back Home, produced by her 54 daughter, Michelle Broun, that is part of a wider project recording oral histories 55 56 of Indigenous Western Australiansv. Bigali’s feedback and reflections on this 57 58 paper have also shaped our narrative. Our desire then isn’t to retell Bigali’s story 59 60 but to unravel the coherence imposed on her narrative by a governmental

3 Gender, Work & Organization Page 4 of 37

1 2 3 process, and to emphasize how this process continues to act as an organizing 4 5 one by imposing the conditional coherence of a ‘victim’ narrative on Bigali whilst 6 7 purporting to offer the possibility of recognition and recompense. Bigali’s 8 9 account is part of a much wider story that constitutes a collective struggle for 10 recognition. We consider here what form this takes, and what feminists can 11 12 learn from and contribute to this struggle. In doing so, however, we are mindful 13 14 of the need to reflect on the presumption that ‘we’ can somehow translate the 15 16 stranger fetish into ethnographic knowledge (Ahmed, 2000). 17 18 19 As Swan (2017: 547) outlines, when hearing stories such as Bigali’s ‘the impulse 20 21 towards action is understandableFor Peer and complicated’.Review It is understandable because 22 23 doing something is a defense against the shock (including the shock of the 24 complicity that is revealed); it is complicated because of the impulse to make 25 26 amends, to somehow reconcile or ‘re-cover’ the past. The desire to act is as 27 28 complex, Swan argues, because of the assumption of various subject positions on 29 30 the part of those who feel a need to ‘do’ something: to make public a sense of 31 moral outrage; to express solidarity, or to demonstrate optimism in the 32 33 restorative capacity of the future, rephrased, Swan argues, as a rhetorical call to 34 35 activism: ‘what can be done?’ Swan’s critique of this impetus rests on the idea 36 37 that the desire to act, albeit with the best of intentions, can work to ‘block’ 38 hearing, a process that can ‘stop the message getting through’ (Ahmed, 2004, 39 40 cited in Swan, 2017: 247). Putting it starkly, Swan argues that ‘white researchers 41 42 need to listen and learn’, and stop trying to ‘make a difference’. 43 44 45 46 For this reason, we do not develop an ‘argument’ as such in this paper, but 47 rather try to tell Bigali’s story, as far as possible, in her own words and those of 48 49 her grand-daughter Talila. This raises important issues about the paper’s 50 51 composition and the process involved in re-telling Bigali’s account of her life in 52 53 the context of an academic journal (and academic seminars and conferences as 54 well). As authors, we are all women – two of us academics, one of us (Talila) a 55 56 medical doctor. One of us is a white Australian, one white English. Talila (Bigali’s 57 58 grand-daughter) is an Indigenous Australian. While Bigali chose not to become a 59 vi 60 co-author of the paper , Talila worked closely with her to ensure that Bigali read

4 Page 5 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 and commented on emerging ideas, arguments and text. We tried, as far as 4 5 possible, to make the process as inter-subjective and dialogical as possible, with 6 7 all insights revolving around Bigali’s documentation and contribution, as her 8 9 positioning in the process emerged not as the expert in a hierarchical or 10 ‘authentic’ sense, but as the focal point around which complex layers of 11 12 narrative gradually began to layer. This challenged presumptions about 13 14 authorial reflexivity as we were particularly keen not to turn the focal point back 15 16 onto ourselves, and credibility. Our aim was to raise awareness of Bigali’s story, 17 and those of others in similar circumstances, not by corroborating her account 18 19 (and thereby replicating the same governmental processes to which she had 20 21 been subject), but For rather toPeer actively listen,Review and in doing so, to collaboratively 22 23 produce a critique of Bigali’s subjection that she would recognize herself in. This 24 principle, of mutual recognition, therefore underpins both the substantive focus 25 26 of the paper, and the process of its production. 27 28 29 30 In this sense, our aim is not to ‘close down’ critique of the ideas and experiences 31 we present, replicating the coherence we seek to ‘undo’; on the contrary, we 32 33 seek to open up a space for listening, thinking and reflecting. This presents a 34 35 number of challenges that we consider in more detail below. Not least of these is 36 37 that, as Ahmed (cited in Swan, 2017) insists, white people’s yearning to make a 38 difference often means that we see ourselves as the agents of ‘good’ praxisvii. 39 40 Indeed, as Swan (2017: 549) and others have noted, critical race theorists and 41 42 activists often view so-called ‘white praxis’ with ‘suspicion and cynicism’ (see 43 44 also Sullivan, 2007, cited in Swan, 2017, 549). This carries the risk of further 45 46 ‘undoing’ those whose stories we tell, exploiting their relative vulnerability, and 47 un-reflexively replicating a white, middle-class, colonial philanthropy 48 49 (Applebaum, 2010; Moreton-Robinson, 2003). In particular, Black feminists and 50 51 activists have cautioned against mobilizing collective pronouns (‘we’, ‘us’ and so 52 53 on) to signify a universal bond of identification organized primarily around 54 gender difference. Doing so, as the grammatical and epistemological basis of 55 56 speaking on behalf of Others as a justification for ‘doing good’ with one’s 57 58 privilege, whilst leaving the latter intact, has been the subject of increasing 59 60 critique. Swan (2017: 547) puts it thus when summing up these growing

5 Gender, Work & Organization Page 6 of 37

1 2 3 concerns: ‘contra to the postfeminist marketing injunction, white feminists 4 5 should not ‘just do it’’. 6 7 8 9 Rather, as Swan goes on to note, a commitment to listening can discourage the 10 ‘presumptuous and oppressive practices of speaking for’ (Alcoff, 1991: 17, cited 11 12 in Swan, 2017: 553). Listening not only stops the propensity to speak or act for 13 14 in its tracks; it also has the capacity to reflexively undo the compulsion to tell, or 15 16 give an account of oneself, through a seemingly coherent linearity. Listening, as 17 the basis of a feminist political praxis, in this sense involves a kind of reflexive 18 19 undoing of that linearity. This process can be risky, painful and profoundly 20 21 discomforting, as SwanFor (2017) Peer emphasizes. Review Yet as Moreton-Robinson (2008, 22 23 cited in Swan, 2017) stresses, it is nowhere near as painful as exploitation and 24 annihilation has been for Indigenous people. In this sense, Swan, Ahmed and 25 26 others’ call is not to arms but to ears, urging us not to act but rather to stop, and 27 28 listen to the stories that others have to tell, on their own terms and in their own 29 30 ways. For this reason, here and throughout the paper, we have resisted the 31 temptation to turn the reflexive gaze on ourselves, seeking instead to retain the 32 33 focus on Bigali’s narrative which is told, as far as possible in her own words, and 34 35 to open up space for a collective reflexivity through which to question who our 36 37 thinking and writing is for, by whom it is produced, and in whose interests. 38 39 40 Following Swan (2017: 549), we ask therefore: What might not rushing to ‘do’ 41 42 something mean? As Swan argues in her discussion of progressive praxis, 43 44 ‘listening may be one way in which white academics can contribute to praxis as a 45 46 kind of ‘not doing doing’, or as a collective form of reflexive ‘not undoing’ in 47 feminist terms (Butler, 2004). For Swan, drawing on Ahmed, this kind of 48 49 generous encountering – a deliberate not doing, but actively listening, 50 51 constitutes a possible basis for a phenomenological openness that has the 52 53 capacity to ‘stop people in their tracks’, avoiding the kind of self-indulgent 54 narcissism that is often badged as reflexivity in white academic research. 55 56 Vachhani (2015: 148) hints at this in her critique of the presumption that to be 57 58 ‘defiant, activist and transformative’, academic writing has to be masterful. As 59 60 Moreton-Robinson (2003: 66) has put it, within the latter, white privilege often

6 Page 7 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 remains ‘invisible, unmarked and uninterrogated’, while Indigenous women’s 4 5 subjectivities tend to be objectified as the basis of analysis or the focus of 6 7 philanthropic intervention, a point to which we return below. 8 9 10 In Gender, Work and Organization there has been a growing engagement with 11 12 Indigenous women’s histories and contemporary struggles for recognition 13 14 (Blackmore, 2011; Colley, 2013; Eveline and Booth, 2002; Eveline, et al 2009; 15 16 Pio, 2007; Soni-Sinha and Yates, 2013). With the notable exception of Swan 17 (2017), the focus of much of this work has been largely empirical, and then only 18 19 in relative passing has there been a situated, sustained interest in the 20 21 particularities of IndigenousFor Peer Australian Review women’s lives and work. Eveline et al 22 23 (2009) argue that successful action needs to move beyond categorical 24 distinctions between groups, to focus on intersectional experiences of injustice 25 26 and appropriation (see also Colley, 2013), arguing that political representation 27 28 of Indigenous women, especially in Western Australia, is particularly poor. They 29 30 describe the governmental regimes to which Indigenous people have been 31 subject in recent years as a ‘textual mediation of indigenous subjugation’ 32 33 (Eveline et al, 2009: 17). But Eveline et al also emphasize the neo-colonial 34 35 problems associated with subjecting Indigenous women’s lived experiences to 36 37 European and North American feminist thinking and ontologies of gender (see 38 also Simpson, 2011). Here they pick up on earlier work by Eveline (2005) and 39 40 Curthouys (1994) noting that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people 41 42 continue to be perceived as ‘rather exotic’ in academic writing, reproducing a 43 44 kind of epistemological geography that needs to be reflexively, collectively 45 46 unraveled. De Ishtar (2004) interrogates this further, arguing that there is an 47 urgent need to undertake research not on but with Indigenous people, ‘to engage 48 49 in reflexive involvement’ rather than epistemologically distant scrutiny. To 50 51 embark on this, de Ishtar urges us to work together towards what she describes 52 53 as a ‘relationship in praxis’, developing an approach that can recognize and 54 immerse itself in different ways of knowing and being as a step towards 55 56 recognizing and reflexively undoing the silencing of Indigenous women’s voices 57 58 in debates about them. 59 60

7 Gender, Work & Organization Page 8 of 37

1 2 3 Giving an Account 4 5 In presenting and discussing Bigali’s story, weviii attempt this kind of 6 7 immerision, but drawing on different accounts of her life to ask what effect 8 9 giving an account of oneself can have. As Butler (2005: 121, emphasis added) 10 reminds us ‘any discourse, any regime of intelligibility, constitutes us at a cost’. 11 12 Pio (2007) has noted how Indigenous people often spend their whole lives 13 14 trying to ‘prove their suitability’ within white governmental regimes. Yet 15 16 Aboriginal Australians have talked of getting ‘tired of telling their stories: she’s 17 Stolen Generation and telling that hurts her all the time’ (McKenzie, quoted in 18 19 Maddison, 2011). Requiring Indigenous women to ‘give an account’ has come at 20 21 a cost but in tellingFor their stories, Peer Indigenous Review people are ‘doing something with 22 23 this telling, acting on [the other] in some way’ (Butler 2005: 51). In our 24 discussion below, we examine the nature of the ethical relation that this process 25 26 of giving an account establishes by exploring how we might allow stories such as 27 28 Bigali’s to re-circulate, reflecting on how we might ‘learn without expecting the 29 30 Other to teach’ (Dreher 2009, cited in Swan 2017: 554). 31 32 33 The discussion below proceeds from Bigali’s story, connecting and weaving her 34 35 thoughts and embodied experiences to insights from feminist literature on 36 37 recognition, difference and belonging, particularly writing by Ahmed (2000, 38 2012) and Butler (2004, 2005). We draw on the latter not to ‘make sense’ of 39 40 Bigali’s account but to reflect on how it guides us to in terms of understanding 41 42 the lived consequences of organizational processes of differentiation. We 43 44 consider Bigali’s narrative as a poignant example of how the accounts that we 45 46 give of ourselves to elicit recognition constitute powerful organizational 47 processes that categorize difference and order it hierarchically. We also explore 48 49 how feminist research and politics might listen to stories of lived experiences of 50 51 this process, understanding more about its reifying effects and thinking through 52 53 how stories such as Bigali’s might be told differently. In other words, how might 54 narratives be re-told to move beyond the subjective constraints of the accounts 55 56 that we are compelled to give in order to be recognized as credible 57 58 organizational subjects – those who might be recognized, respected and 59 60 recompensed? We consider what form recognition might take beyond a politics

8 Page 9 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 of accountability, and premised upon an understanding of difference beyond a 4 5 relationship of appropriation. 6 7 8 9 In developing these thoughts we are mindful that as Jackie Huggins (1998, cited 10 in Maddison 2009: xxxviii) has warned: 11 12 13 14 The constant demand placed on Aboriginal people to be educators is 15 16 tiring. Surely it is time for non-Aboriginal people to begin their 17 journey of discovery by themselves. It is too much to be expecting 18 19 Aboriginal women to be continually explaining their oppression – as if 20 21 somehow it Foris their faultPeer and they Review have to talk and write their way out 22 23 of it. And do others really listen? 24 25 26 We also reflect on Nicoll’s (2004) observation that it is because of a failure to 27 28 hear, that some people need to keep telling their stories, again and again, and 29 30 are mindful of the hurt this causes. 31 32 33 For us, Huggins’ (1998) warning and our sense of responsibility in talking, 34 35 thinking and writing Bigali’s story raises a number of ethical dilemmas. On the 36 37 one hand, we have an obligation to tell her story (this was her ‘condition’), and 38 on the other, in doing so we risk simply perpetuating the appropriation that 39 40 forms the basis of Bigali’s narrative, replicating past injustices and the tiring 41 42 effects of the constant demands to which Huggins refers. And as Huggins also 43 44 asks: ‘do others really listen’? Where should we tell Bigali’s story, and to whom? 45 46 How? In responding to rhetorical questions such as these, we draw on insights 47 from recent feminist writing on ethics and politics as well as Bigali’s own 48 49 reflections to try to move the discussion from a focus on a ‘politics of regret’ 50 51 (Olick, 1999) and recrimination, to one of recognition. Drawing on Butler (2005) 52 ix 53 and Ahmed (2000: 154) , we see this process as a political one– calling for a 54 politics of listening that moves beyond giving an account towards an ethics of 55 56 recognition. 57 58 59 60

9 Gender, Work & Organization Page 10 of 37

1 2 3 For most non-Indigenous Australians their understanding of Indigenous 4 5 communities and ways of life is largely acquired through media culture (Cutcher 6 7 and Milroy 2010), leading to a reified ‘stranger fetish’ rather than the possibility 8 x 9 of a recognition-based encounter in the way that Ahmed (2000) describes it . 10 Drawing on Ahmed (2000), we think about recognition as a struggle for 11 12 acknowledgement of difference as the outcome of a shared history (one of 13 14 abuse, exploitation and appropriation), rather than of attributed characteristics. 15 16 This as an important counter to what Ahmed (2000) calls the ‘stranger fetish’ 17 that is perpetuated by media culture, which frames our perception of the Other 18 19 prior to our encounter. For Ahmed (2000), it is only by moving from a mediated 20 21 way of knowing theFor Other to Peer an immersive, Review proximal way of relating that we can 22 23 open up the possibility of engaging in the kind of mutual recognition necessary 24 to overcome a hierarchical organization and appropriation of ascribed 25 26 difference. One of our aims in sharing Bigali’s story, and our thoughts on why it 27 28 is so significant beyond her own narrative, is to open up this possibility of an 29 30 ethical and political openness to the Other in contrast to the coherent accounts 31 that Bigali and others who have made applications to the Stolen Wages 32 33 Commissions have hitherto been compelled to give as part of the ‘Stolen 34 35 Generations’. 36 37 38 Commissioning the self 39 40 The ‘Stolen Generations’ is a term that has come to represent one of the most 41 42 oppressive of institutionalized dispossessions enacted by the white colonial 43 44 administration in Australia from 1890s up to and including the 1970s. 45 46 Throughout this extensive period, Aboriginal people were subjected to extreme 47 forms of ‘governmentality’ (Foucault 1961). The constant surveillance and 48 49 regulation to which they were subject was manifested in many ways. The ‘full 50 51 blooded’ Aboriginal was isolated and kept with severe restrictions on 52 53 movements away from the reserves requiring them to apply to obtain ‘passes’ 54 that would permit travel off the reserve or across State lines. The ‘half-caste’ was 55 56 seen as particular ‘problem’ that needed to be managed. Government policy 57 58 based on eugenic beliefs of breeding out colour constructed Aboriginality as a 59 60 ‘primitive social order’ composed of ‘ritual murders, infanticide, ceremonial wife

10 Page 11 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 exchange, polygamy’ (Hasluck 1956: 2) The solution was to remove children 4 5 categorized as ‘half-caste’ from their Aboriginal families and place them in state 6 7 care where they could be taught proper ‘civilized ways’ under the protection of 8 9 Aboriginal Welfare Boards. 10 11 12 Bigali herself was caught up in the latter process. One example of this, that we 13 14 came across in her documents, is a file note from the Deputy Commissioner of 15 st 16 Native Affairs, dated 1 May 1942 containing typewritten details as below, as 17 well as some additional hand-written notes: 18 19 20 21 Cards shouldFor note this Peer child for Review removal when four years of age. Egypt 22 23 [Bigali’s mother] is of a dark type of halfcaste and possibly her child 24 [Bigali] may be a little too dark for admission to Sister Kate’s. However, 25 26 this is a matter than can be determined by inspection at a later date. 27 28 29 rd 30 Sister Kate’s was a Children’s Home to which Bigali was admitted on 3 31 September 1946, at the age of fourxi. Another similar document (a note in one of 32 33 her files written by someone in the office of the Deputy Commissioner of Native 34 35 Affairs, dated 19th December 1941) states: ‘this child is obviously a quarter 36 37 caste’. Bigali herself reflects on the underlying imperative of this chromatic 38 categorization of people in the film, Walking Tracks Back Home (Broon, 2017xii) 39 40 when she states that ‘they [the ‘protectors’] take you away from your family, 41 42 your community, your language, your culture – it’s genocide’. 43 44 45 46 The Australian Human Rights and Equality Opportunity Commission’s report, 47 Bringing Them Home, estimates that in the period 1910 to 1970 between 10 to 48 49 30 per cent of Aboriginal children were removed from their mothers (Langton 50 51 and Barry, 1998). Goodall (1995) highlights how in the early years the policy 52 53 was explicitly directed at removing girls reaching puberty from Aboriginal 54 communities. For example, between 1912 and 1928 girls who were 12 and over 55 56 made up 54% of the children taken, while boys who were 12 and over made up 57 58 only 14% (Goodall 1995: 82). Children as young as three or four were taken by 59 60 force or by coercion from their Aboriginal families on the reserves and adopted

11 Gender, Work & Organization Page 12 of 37

1 2 3 out to white families or housed in dormitories (away from their families). While 4 5 a number of studies have highlighted how concerns with ‘racial purity’ formed 6 7 the basis of policies that saw the removal of so many Aboriginal women and 8 9 children (Jacobs, 2005; Holland, 1995) less attention has been paid to the fact 10 that these women and children formed a pool of cheap (often unpaid) labour. 11 12 The removal process not only provided a pool of labour but also arguably set up 13 14 a micro-economy in itself, one that reduced the ontological status of the people 15 16 and communities involved to that of things. Another of Bigali’s documents, dated 17 28th June 1941, illustrate this, referring to the cartage of goods to Port Hedland 18 19 for ‘three natives and luggage, and one Electrolux [vacuum cleaner]’. 20 21 Presumably, the people,For theirPeer effects Review and equipment were being sold and 22 23 distributed as a ‘package’. 24 25 26 Bennett argued as far back as 1930 that the removal of Aboriginal women and 27 28 children from their communities was ‘akin to slavery’ (cited in Holland, 1995). 29 30 Reynolds (1990: 169) describes how this ‘slavery’ benefited Europeans: 31 32 33 The greatest advantage of young Aboriginal servants was that they came 34 35 cheap and were never paid beyond the provision of food and clothing. As a 36 37 result any European on or near the frontier regardless of their own 38 circumstances, could acquire and maintain a personal servant. 39 40 41 42 This work in the service of white women and families served the dual purpose of 43 44 training the young Aboriginal girls in white ways of housekeeping and 45 46 mothering, as well as providing a cheap pool of reliable domestic labour to 47 further white prosperity (Higman, 2002). This further supported the racial 48 49 project of ‘settling’ Australia by positioning white women’s primary role as that 50 51 of reproduction, at the same time bolstering cultural superiority through the 52 53 combined gendered and class connotations of freeing white women from 54 domestic labour. Young Aboriginal girls were ‘apprenticed’ as domestic 55 56 labourers with the hope that the training they would receive would not only 57 58 benefit them but that they would become trainers of future nuclear families 59 60 (Goodall 1995: 83). ‘Domestic service’, Higman (2002: 127) suggests, ‘was a vital

12 Page 13 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 tool in the civilizing and assimilationist missions, which meshed neatly with the 4 5 desire to recruit useful labor within the archetypal household’. 6 7 8 9 To this end, not only were Aboriginal children forcibly removed from their 10 families and placed into service, their wages were not their own but controlled 11 12 by the State. As Kidd (2007: 8) explains: 13 14 15 16 Governments around Australia controlled wages, savings and benefits 17 belonging to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people for most of the 18 19 twentieth century. Payments withheld included child endowment, 20 21 pensions andFor even solders’Peer pay. Review Much of the money held in trust was 22 23 never paid. 24 25 26 Indeed, the legislation pertaining to Aboriginal people and the ‘Protection Acts’ 27 28 enforced by the Australian government throughout the period of approximately 29 30 1890 to 1985 saw many Aboriginal people denied their entitlements to wages 31 because of the control exercised by state and federal governments. Aboriginal 32 33 people working under contracts of cheap labour had a majority, if not all, of their 34 35 wages sent to the relevant Department in their State who ‘managed’ their 36 37 money. 38 39 40 Children were largely ‘apprenticed out’ to properties in the country and 41 42 households in the cities where, if they did receive wages, they were paid little. In 43 44 most cases their wages were sent directly to the ‘protector/trustees’ of these 45 46 ‘wards of state’ and the young workers never saw any of this money. They were 47 often at the mercy of the white employers and easily subject to cruelty, long 48 49 hours, poor food and sexual and physical abuse. Such practices were an integral 50 51 part of the assimilation process, removing girls from a situation where it was 52 53 feared they might ‘breed indiscriminately’ (with full blooded Aboriginals), 54 placing them in homes where the risk of impregnation from white men was well 55 56 known (Haskins 2001). This appears to have been common-place. For example, 57 58 in 1915 Archbishop Donaldson visiting Palm Island (Queensland) observed that 59 60

13 Gender, Work & Organization Page 14 of 37

1 2 3 ‘90% of the girls sent out to work as domestics returned pregnant to white men’ 4 5 (cited in Kidd, 1994: 273). 6 7 8 9 The sexual exploitation of these vulnerable girls by their white masters served 10 the eugenicist argument underpinning colonial governmentality, reinforcing the 11 12 construction of Aboriginal women as promiscuous and ensuring an ongoing pool 13 14 of cheap labour. Choo (2001: 50) reflects on what it was like to grow up in a 15 16 Catholic mission in Western Australia: 17 18 19 The child is taken away from the mother and sometimes never sees her 20 21 again. Thus For these children Peer grow Review up as whites knowing nothing of their 22 23 own environment. At the expiration of the period of two years the mother 24 goes into service so that it doesn’t really matter if she has half a dozen 25 26 children. 27 28 29 30 Research has revealed that often the State management of the wages taken from 31 Indigenous workers and children led to fraud, mismanagement and misuse. 32 33 These wages, along with other State and Commonwealth entitlements such as 34 35 maternity benefits, invalid and widow pensions, are collectively known as 36 37 ‘stolen wages’. In October 2006, the Federal Government held a Stolen Wages 38 Senate Inquiry. This inquiry received 128 submissions and published a report, 39 40 Unfinished Business: Indigenous Stolen Wages. The report recommended that 41 42 State governments allow better access to archives, fund education campaigns 43 44 and provide legal research to support claimants in seeking compensation for 45 46 wages or benefits never paid. Stolen Wages Commissions were held in four 47 states: Western Australia, Queensland, Victoria and New South Wales. While 48 49 there were differences in the terms of reference of these State commissions, 50 51 there were important similarities in the way that claimants were required to 52 53 present a coherent account of their life histories, supported by documentary 54 evidence. In Butler’s (2005) terms these accounts were given with the aim of 55 56 persuading the Commissions of the intelligibility and credibility of the claims 57 58 made but in doing so, they reified the complexity of applicants’ lived experience 59 60 and life beyond ‘protection’. The accounts given to the Commissions in this

14 Page 15 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 sense, ‘flatten’ the complex layers that constitute life stories such as Bigali’sxiii in 4 5 so far as they reduce the fragmentary recollections, often dependent upon 6 7 aesthetic ways of knowing and understanding, to more ‘factual’, linear 8 9 narratives that require applicants to unequivocally position themselves and 10 each other as victims. 11 12 13 Bigali, like thousands of others, was called to give an account as an Indigenous 14 15 child labourer. This required her to cohere her narrative in order to make it 16 17 intelligible in governmental termsxiv, as she was required to give coherence to 18 19 the complexity of her lived experience. This meant assuming the subject position 20 of a victim within the dominant terms of the account. A paradox of her life (and 21 For Peer Review 22 many others like her) is that Bigali has been called to account by the state, 23 24 controlled and documented, indentured into a slave life, but at the same term 25 26 rendered ‘stateless’. In order to be recognized, the State which had caused the 27 28 trauma and stolen wages in the first place, now required claimants such as Bigali 29 to tell their story within the strictures of a pre-determined narrative. Further, 30 31 telling the story was not in itself enough; applicants had to tell a verifiable story, 32 33 supported by documentation which the State had compiled and would hand 34 35 over only so that it could be re-presented in a way that credibility, in the form of 36 recognition, to the claimants. In this way, historical injustices associated with 37 38 categorizing and classifying people, separating them off from their families and 39 40 communities, alienating them from their land, ways of life and language, are 41 42 effectively replicated in the governmental processes associated with the 43 Commissions that simply position the claimants as ‘victims’ of workplace 44 45 exploitation. 46 47 48 Despite the State being responsible for managing the wages of Indigenous 49 50 people under the Protection Act, many claims were rejected because of a lack of 51 52 documentation. For example, in Queensland 3,200 applicants (37%) had their 53 claims refused due to a lack of government recordsxv. Claimants’ stories were 54 55 not taken at face value, but required empirical substance that could be 56 57 quantified. This, despite the fact that ‘identity’ was part of the process of 58 59 removal of Indigenous people. Indigenous people had their names changed, 60

15 Gender, Work & Organization Page 16 of 37

1 2 3 often several times, at the will of the State. For example, Bigali’s name was 4 5 changed to Sudan by the State when it started documenting her life from age five 6 7 months, and then to Susan when she arrived at Sister Kate’s aged six. She was 8 9 given the name Sudan, just as her mother was renamed Egypt from her 10 Yindjibardi name of Eejit (Native Affairs document 332/31). Bigali and her 11 12 brother, Rommel, who was removed at the same time, were deliberately given 13 14 different names in order to separate them: 15 16 17 Sudan is given the surname of Raymond and is quadroon. If Rommel, half 18 19 caste, is also given the same surname there will be a tendency to regard the 20 two as being related in the years to come. By placing Sudan at the 21 For Peer Review 22 Children’s Cottage we desire her to be raised as white. Had it been decided 23 24 for Rommel to still claim his relationship of half-brother to Sudan, he too, 25 26 would have been sent to Sister Kate’s. In view of the fact that Rommel is to 27 28 be educated at Moore River, it appears to me the relationship between the 29 two children is to be forgotten (File Note Acting Deputy Commissioner of 30 31 Native Affairs, 5th September 1946, emphasis added). 32 33 34 The Protectionist practicesxvi documented in Bigali’s government records were 35 36 aimed largely at negating her identity prior to entering Sister Kate’s, and served 37 38 to reify the classification and hierarchical organization to which her and her 39 family were subject. Until she reconnected with her relatives later in life, Bigali’s 40 41 story is one of remembering and longing: ‘I used to climb a big pine tree, and 42 43 that tree would be swaying and I would look out over the hills and I would think, 44 45 “I’m gunna go home one day”’ (Walking Tracks Back Home). 46 47 48 Protectionist policies were aimed at Indigenous mothers forgetting their 49 50 children and their children forgetting them but it is non-Indigenous people who 51 have chosen to forget by engaging in ethical distancingxvii. Ethical distancing 52 53 consigns what happens to the ‘past’, stipulating that Indigenous stories be 54 55 framed solely as victim narratives, which enables non-Indigenous people to 56 57 insist, as Ahmed and others have written, that ‘the past is not our responsibility 58 because we weren’t there’. Yet as Ahmed (2005: 72, emphasis added) also notes, 59 60

16 Page 17 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 the dominant position that ‘this history is not personal’, negates the extent to 4 5 which ‘for the Indigenous testifiers, the stories are deeply personal’. 6 7 8 ‘Undoing’ narrative coherence: Bigali’s story 9 10 11 In contrast to the accounts required by the Commissions, Bigali’s way of 12 13 knowing and conveying her story is highly sensory and embodied, emphasizing 14 15 emotional connection and relationality. We gathered the threads of Bigali’s story 16 17 from three main sources: the interview she did with Talila specifically for this 18 project; a short-film called Walking Tracks Back Home and from the folders of 19 20 documents that Bigali generously shared with us. Again, we reiterate that our 21 For Peer Review 22 aim is not to ‘re-tell’ or re-frame her story, but to critically, reflexively ‘undo’ the 23 24 imposition of coherence on Bigali’s narrative. The impetus to tell the story has 25 come from Bigali herself. Our challenge in this sense is to share the narrative 26 27 without imposing our own coherence on it, in order to convey it faithfully and 28 29 communicate it meaningfully; to this end, Talila has shared emerging insights 30 31 and ideas with Bigali at various stages of the listening, talking, thinking and 32 writing process. Emerging from this analytical process and reflective dialogue 33 34 are three themes that we consider below, highlighting the importance of skin, 35 36 smell and language to Bigali’s ways of knowing and sharing her story beyond 37 38 narrative coherence. 39 40 41 42 43 Before we explore these themes, the ethical consequences of this working 44 relationship and process are important to reflect on. As Butler (2005: 51, 45 46 emphasis added) puts it, 47 48 49 50 So ‘I’ tell a story to ‘you’, and we might together consider the details of the 51 story that I tell. But if I tell them to you in the context of a transference, I 52 53 am doing something with this telling, acting on you in some way. And this 54 55 telling is also doing something to me, acting on me, in ways that I may 56 57 well not understand as I go. 58 59 60

17 Gender, Work & Organization Page 18 of 37

1 2 3 When sharing Bigali’s narrative in a number of different symposia and 4 5 conferences, we have been struck by the way in which her narrative ‘acts on’ the 6 7 audience in the way that Butler describes. We found that telling Bigali’s story 8 9 has opened a space for more Indigenous people to share their own stories. This 10 has happened spontaneously with people choosing to share their family’s story 11 12 of ‘being Stolen’ at the end of our presentations. After one presentation, in a 13 14 quiet space, one Indigenous elder shared his story a couple of weeks after 15 16 hearing Bigali’s. In the quiet of a campus office he recounted how his mother 17 was born in the Cootamundra girl’s home. His grandmother had been taken from 18 19 her family and put into domestic service where she was raped. In contrast to 20 21 these kinds of heart-rendingFor Peer and largely Review previously unshared accounts, non- 22 23 Indigenous people have most often found it hard to speak; as a colleague, Jenny 24 wrote: ‘Words fail me - but I guess in some ways that’s the point’. Echoing Swan 25 26 (2017), Jenny hints here that she has been ‘stopped in her tracks’; unable to 27 28 articulate her thoughts or mobilize a desire to act. At various points of working 29 30 together on this project, Bigali’s story has had the same effect on us, and we 31 hope that, as we consider the themes below, it will continue to do so on others. 32 33 34 35 Skin 36 37 The ‘protectionist’ processes discussed above were premised upon a chromatic 38 categorization of Indigenous people to render them classifiable, and therefore 39 40 containable, according to racialized norms of recognition, as the following 41 42 extract indicates: 43 44 45 th 46 I saw Egypt [Bigali’s mother] on 13 November 1941 and her female 47 child called Sudan [Bigali] at Mulga Downs Stations. The child is 48 49 approximately five months old and appears to be a quadroon. However, 50 51 sometime should lapse before this is decided with certainly as there is 52 53 some tendency for half-caste natives to get darker coloured skin as they 54 grow older. At the present I should say the child is quadroon 55 56 (Handwritten note from Deputy Commissioner of Native Affairs, 19th 57 58 December 1941). 59 60

18 Page 19 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 In contrast to this reified, chromatic narrative of separation and control, in the 4 5 film Walking Tracks Back Home Bigali and another woman (Sue Gordon), who 6 7 was also taken to Sister Kate’s children’s home (see above), describe the 8 9 importance of touch. They seem to do so in order to convey the importance, both 10 at the time and retrospectively, of an embodied connection and collectivity 11 12 otherwise denied them: 13 14 15 16 It was really, really cold and we had to sleep on the verandah. That was one 17 of the worst things, sleeping on the verandah, we used to jump into bed 18 19 with one other but we always got into the trouble (Bigali, Walking Tracks 20 21 Back Home). For Peer Review 22 23 24 Most of the kids wet the bed. If you wet the bed you would strip off your 25 26 clothes and jump into [another child’s] bed hoping it was dry. So that 27 28 bonds formed with kids. We would walk around arm in arm and it was 29 30 holding onto something (Sue Gordon, Walking Tracks Back Home). 31 32 33 Ahmed (2000), drawing on Butler (1993) and Biddle (1997), describes the 34 35 significance of this inter-corporeal sociality, this ‘holding onto something’ 36 37 as Sue puts it, as an affectivity that somehow ‘crosses a line’, 38 problematizing the difference that classification reifies, and the sense of 39 40 shame it depends upon. As Biddle (1997: 227) has written, ‘shame arises 41 42 from a failure to be recognized’, reifying ‘being an object only for the 43 44 other’s jurisdiction’. In contrast, the affectivity of the skin that Ahmed 45 46 (2000: 45-48) emphasizes ‘opens out bodies to other bodies’ in a way that 47 is both ethically and politically important as a challenge to the bodily 48 49 containment and separation that characterized life at Sister Kate’s; again in 50 51 Sue’s terms, it involved a ‘holding on’. 52 53 54 Smell 55 56 Ahmed (2000: 90) talks about dispossession as a process of leaving a space that 57 58 one has been enveloped, inhabited by. Thought about in this way, migratory 59 60 narratives can be understood as spatial reconfigurations of an embodied self, a

19 Gender, Work & Organization Page 20 of 37

1 2 3 ‘transformation in the very skin through which body is embodied’. Bigali evokes 4 5 this in her own recognition of the significance of smell and its connection to her 6 7 sense of place and belonging: 8 9 10 When I thirteen, I got sent out to a farm. That’s what they did to all the 11 12 kids. Send them out to farms, boys and girls. Cheap labour I got sent out 13 14 to a place called Babakin. Which is quite a long way - It’s up near Bruce 15 16 Rock - and you worked on a farm. I chopped the wood, looked after a 17 little baby, I cooked for the shearers, I did the cooking, I did a lot of things. 18 19 That’s where I got abused. I’ve never seen my money. They just bought 20 21 me some clothesFor but PeerI never ever Review saw any money. It was very lonely. I got 22 23 along with them fine, but the farmer was abusing me. The old girl that 24 was there - she was having another baby. Ah, that was a cold place that 25 26 one. Ah, I hated the cold. But that is when I started to remember where I 27 28 was born because the farmer took me out to where they sheered the 29 30 sheep and tailed the lamb and they had a big fire. They threw all these 31 tails in there and the smell - then I remembered I had eaten these things. 32 33 The flames were just coming up, coming up and I could see black faces, I 34 35 could hear noise and I could hear laughing and I went oh, I know where 36 37 I’ve come from. I could smell it, you know (Bigali, interview with Talila). 38 39 40 Years later, Bigali went to live in Wittenoom (near Mulga Downs Station where 41 42 she was born) to work. Bigali recalls walking along a creek bed pushing her 43 44 daughter, Michelle, in a pram, and finding wild cucumber growing along the 45 46 river: 47 I opened it, and said “I’ve been here before”, and that smell, I had flash 48 49 backs of the station homestead and we were only 30 or 40 ks out of the 50 51 homestead and I had never been there. Didn’t know I was born there 52 53 until I went back to Sister Kate’s and insisted on knowing and they 54 reluctantly told me, “you were born in Wittenoom” (Bigali, Walking 55 56 Tracks Back Home). 57 58 59 60 Language

20 Page 21 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 Bigali described in both the interview and the film how on returning to 4 5 Wittenoom, where she was living, she sought out her family: 6 7 8 xviii 9 I went up to this black fella and unbeknown to me one was my 10 cousin brother and one was my brother, Alec and brother Guinness. They 11 12 were sitting on the ground and I went up to them and I said excuse me, do 13 14 you know my mother? They said yes, I said, do you know who I am? They 15 16 go yes. I said, where’s my mother? She comes into town every Saturday to 17 see you. Well why doesn’t she talk to me? We’ve been told, we’re not 18 19 allowed to go anywhere near you by the boss. I got angry and it was the 20 21 first time I gotFor angry. Peer I never used Review to swear before and I thought fuck, 22 23 whose got the right to do this, who has the right to take away my baby, I 24 would kill anyone who took my baby away, I would kill ‘em. 25 26 27 Bigali talks very poignantly about being unable, on their first meeting as adult 28 29 women, to speak to her mother in their shared language, reflecting on the 30 31 different emotions this evoked in her mother and herself: 32 33 34 When they came to visit me, Guinness [Bigali’s brother] says this is your 35 36 mum and this is your dad and they shook hands with me like I was a 37 38 stranger. There’s my skinny little mother, shaking hands, speaking 39 40 [Yindjibarndi] language to me. I said I can’t talk language mum. Well she 41 screamed and wailed and carried on and then my sister Blanche, she’s 42 43 there, Alec’s father, not my father, and brother, Guinness and somebody 44 45 else, I can’t remember who that was. They all come into the lounge room 46 47 and I felt shame. I was so scared at what the neighbours would say and 48 who they were and - mum was so distressed, she went into the kitchen, 49 50 did all my dishes. I said mum you don’t have to do my dishes, come in her 51 52 with us. Poor old girl, poor old girl (crying) (Bigali, interview with Talila). 53 54 55 Biddle (1997) has argued that the kind of shame to which Bigali refers here is 56 57 the result of a failure to be recognized, and to recognize others in return. Bigali’s 58 59 60

21 Gender, Work & Organization Page 22 of 37

1 2 3 sense of being a ‘double stranger’ is suggested when she recounts her inability to 4 5 learn and speak her mother tongue language to Talila: 6 7 8 9 For some reason I can’t pick it up – I can understand quite a lot of the 10 Yindjibarndi language but I can’t speak it. I still feel divorced, from the 11 12 rest of the [community], I don’t feel like I’m really part of the community. 13 14 I’m different and I know I’m different and I had to accept that a long time 15 16 ago. It doesn’t worry me, you know. Sometimes I used to say to my sister 17 I should have stayed stolen then I wouldn’t know you fellas. 18 19 20 21 Ahmed (2000: 128-9)For describes Peer her ownReview experience of being called to give a 22 23 ‘double account’ of herself, recalling how when she was fourteen years old two 24 policemen stopped her and asked her if she was Aboriginal. She recounts 25 26 replying, ‘no’, rather indignantly in response to this experience of being called to 27 28 account. She explains how one of the policemen winked, and asked her if her 29 30 skin tone was ‘just a suntan’, reflecting on how her denial of being Aboriginal 31 and, as she puts it, ‘failure to name or declare [her] race’ implicated her in their 32 33 structure of address, ‘by rendering Aboriginality something to be disavowed’. 34 35 Reflecting on this experience as an adult woman, Ahmed argues that the 36 37 encounter opened up a space in which her subjectivity became ‘unfixed by 38 almost but not quite ‘fitting’ the visual prompt that triggers identity thinking’. 39 40 Bigali seems to convey a similar sense of being ‘undone’ by this experience of 41 42 being called to account and, like Ahmed, both regrets and resents the feelings of 43 44 shame this engendered. Although she is now a proud respected elder within her 45 46 own Indigenous community, Bigali continues to feel a sense of distance that is 47 hard to convey, but which is poignantly suggested in her sometimes, thinking 48 49 that she ‘should have stayed stolen’. 50 51 52 53 Towards a politics of recognition 54 55 56 The Stolen Wages Commissions required Indigenous people to give an account 57 of themselves. Drawing on Butler, and listening to Bigali’s reflections discussed 58 59 above, we see two ethical problems arising from this process, both connected to 60

22 Page 23 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 what Butler (2005: 23) calls ‘the social dimension of normativity that governs 4 5 the scene of recognition’. First, the norms that govern the accounts claimants 6 7 were compelled to give had the power to either bequeath or withhold 8 9 recognition according to normative terms set by the State, and not the claimants 10 themselves. Second, these normative frames of reference hold the potential to 11 12 confer (or deny) the possibility of becoming a recognizable subject; in the case of 13 14 the latter, the governmental process required assuming and attesting to a 15 16 coherent ‘victim’ narrative. We address these two ethical concerns below and 17 tentatively offer ways to move beyond this process of giving an account towards 18 19 an ethics of recognition in feminist praxis. 20 21 For Peer Review 22 23 In considering the first ethical concern we propose moving from a need for 24 coherence to embracing the incomplete, the not quite there, the unfixable. As 25 26 Bigali’s story reminds us, our narratives are conditioned by the norms that 27 28 establish the viability of the subject. Giving an account of oneself is not simply 29 30 ‘telling a story’, but rather constitutes the subject as a narrative form in a 31 particular way; the particularity of this ‘depends upon the ability to relay a set of 32 33 sequential events with plausible transitions but also draws upon narrative voice 34 35 and authority’ (Butler, 2005: 12). Hence, subjects come into being in the context 36 37 of establishing a plausible, coherent narrative account. However, as Butler has 38 argued elsewhere (see Butler, 2004), this coherence comes at the cost of 39 40 complexity, as the account given is constrained and compelled by the norms 41 42 governing subjective coherence, and the desire for recognition of oneself as 43 44 socially viable. Ahmed (2000) develops a similar critique, arguing that coherent 45 46 accounts impose (or in Bigali’s case, replicate) a reified order through their 47 interpretation of lived experience; in other words, they are an organization of 48 49 lived complexity. This means that the accounts that we give of ourselves can 50 51 never fully express or ‘carry’ as she puts it (Butler, 2005: 36) the fullness of lived 52 53 experience. Requiring the Other to give a coherent account renders them ‘non- 54 recognizable’ and then condemns them for this non-recognizability, as in the 55 56 case of those claimants whose applications were rejected by the Commissions 57 58 discussed above. Rather, they constitute a form of thinking that reifies that 59 60 complexity in the service of narrative coherence. The paradox of this, the cruel

23 Gender, Work & Organization Page 24 of 37

1 2 3 ontological trick it plays on us, is that producing coherence accentuates our 4 5 ‘undoing’ (Butler, 2004) rather than alleviates it. As Butler (2005: 132) puts it, ‘I 6 7 become disposed in the telling’. This is because, as Bigali’s story poignantly, 8 9 painfully illustrates, coherent narratives can never do justice to the impossibility 10 of communication that remains as a result of asymmetrical reciprocity. 11 12 13 14 In telling her story in a way that brings this dispossession, and its histories, scars 15 16 and traumas to the fore, Bigali does two important – and generous - things. First, 17 she reveals how the apparent coherence of the accounts required in 18 19 governmental terms by the Commissions are just that – an imposition of 20 21 coherence on an otherwiseFor complexPeer story. Review Biglai’s story is not a coherent, linear 22 23 narrative but rather a series of fragmented recollections, some of the most 24 powerful of which have been underpinned by Bigali’s aesthetic experiences and 25 26 sensory understanding. Second, in doing so, the unraveling of this apparent 27 28 coherence re-frames difference, in Ahmed’s terms, as an outcome of historical 29 30 positioning, re-siting difference as the outcome of an organizational process 31 rather than reifying the illusion that difference is the outcome of ascribed 32 33 characteristics attributable to those who are categorized and classified as 34 35 different. As an important political act, this enables Bigali and so many others 36 37 like her to reclaim her pain, and her right to grieve her own past, a right that has 38 hitherto been denied her. As a reminder, in a way that powerfully reverses her 39 40 sense of being called to account, Bigali asks: ‘Whose pain is it? It is my pain, and 41 42 you can’t tell me what kinda pain I am allowed to have. It is not about protection 43 44 anymore’ (Bigali, Walking Tracks Back Home). 45 46 47 Here Bigali speaks directly to Ahmed’s point (cited in Swan, 2017) that when 48 49 white people ‘feel bad’ on behalf of Black and ethnic minority people, they 50 51 reproduce a fantasy that they know how the Other feels. This appropriation both 52 53 serves to contain the Other’s pain, and to co-opt it; in taking on others’ pain, 54 white people can demonstrate their capacity for identification and solidarity 55 56 such that empathic anti-racism becomes a kind of ‘character reference’ 57 58 (Srivastava, 2005: 44, cited in Swan, 2017: 7). Bigali reclaims her pain as her 59 60 own, stopping this appropriation in its tracks.

24 Page 25 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 4 5 In this sense, and returning to Huggins, Bigali’s story is profoundly 6 7 autobiographical in so far as it ceases to be an account for or to others, told with 8 9 the aim of persuasion; rather, it becomes poetic – fragmented, evocative, 10 figurative, ethereal, and generously shared. Unlike the seemingly coherent, 11 12 discrete narratives associated with accounts of difference that Ahmed (2000) 13 14 reflects on in relation to equality and diversity for instance, Bigali’s account is 15 16 difficult to fully or even partially ‘grasp’, and therefore appropriate or co-opt. 17 Travis (2010: 233), writing about the ethics and narrative distancing in Toni 18 19 Morrison’s novel, Beloved, makes a related point when she observes, ‘woven 20 21 through the narrativeFor of BelovedPeer is theReview motif of the fragment, a sign of the 22 23 ineffable and the disruption of epistemological certainty’. Both Morrison and 24 Bigali’s stories told on their own terms do not offer narrative coherence and, as a 25 26 result, ‘challenge us to refrain from reaching after ethical closure’ (Travis 2000: 27 28 233). Bigali reminds us of the need to be wary of our engrained disembodied 29 30 academic writing practices that lead us to want to create coherence and clarity, 31 to sound authoritative about the Other. Just as we should listen without 32 33 expecting to be taught, we need to craft embodied ways of writing that do not 34 35 seek to order, label or conclude. Rather, our writing as feminists needs to 36 37 involve stitching, weaving of complex, shifting realities (Sommerville, 1991). 38 Such writing might free us to write without needing to make a point and without 39 40 concern to make dents or have impact (Cixous, 2004; cited in Pullen and Rhodes, 41 42 2015, 87). Boncori and Smith’s (2019) reflexive narrative on miscarriage, and 43 44 Katlia’s (2019) auto-ethnographic account of becoming a mother are recent 45 46 powerful examples of this kind of immersive, embodied writing that retains 47 something of the ‘raw’, dirtiness of the text and refutes the impulse to clean it up 48 49 (Pullen and Rhodes, 2008). 50 51 52 53 In relation to our second ethical concern noted above, the ‘audience’ and the 54 need to persuade, we ask: How are we to respond to stories such as Bigali’s? 55 56 Butler (2005: 21) posits, ‘an account of oneself is always given to another, 57 58 whether conjured or existing and this other establishes the scene of address as a 59 60 more primary ethical relation than a reflexive effort to give an account of

25 Gender, Work & Organization Page 26 of 37

1 2 3 oneself’. For Butler (2015: 202) telling stories is a political act that can simply 4 5 take the form of ‘listening to, and recording, the details of the story that the 6 7 other might tell’; this ‘can come as the most extraordinary form of recognition’. 8 9 What does Butler mean when she states that listening is a political act, 10 embedded within a politics of recognition? Listening can perhaps enable us to 11 12 counter the ‘stranger fetish’ (Ahmed, 2000) that Indigenous feminist and anti- 13 14 racist writers have cautioned against, moving from a mediated knowing of the 15 16 Other to an immersive, proximal way of relating that can open up the possibility 17 of engaging in the kind of mutual recognition necessary to overcome a 18 19 hierarchical organization of difference that calls the Other to account. It can also 20 21 steer us away fromFor the impulse Peer to act, Review to ‘do good’, for the reasons discussed 22 23 above. Yet Swan (2017: 8), drawing on Dreher (2009), warns that this kind of 24 listening is not easy, it requires the listener to ‘hear how Others experience her 25 26 whiteness and her feminism’ based on the realization that ‘good intentions 27 28 count for very little’. We also need to recognize that ‘whiteness mediates 29 30 listening bodies, ears and spaces’ and that ‘our’ history and social relations will 31 affect our ability to listen (Swan 2017: 8). Swan (2017: 8) draws on Ahmed to 32 33 explain that the result of this is that we will already think we recognize who or 34 35 what the Other is before we meet them and as a result will have prejudged them, 36 37 rather than apprehending them in a particular encounter. To encounter the 38 Other we need to ‘develop knowledge of what is not fully present’, through what 39 40 Ahmed calls an ‘ethical communication’ that facilitates listening as the basis of 41 42 political action and the redistribution of material resources. This entails 43 44 listening without expecting to comprehend or fully ‘grasp’ the Other, accepting 45 46 incompleteness in the Other’s narrative and being willing to collectively, 47 reflexively interrupt our own epistemological project to reflect on the (often 48 49 inadvertent) impulse to act or to contain or ‘stranger’ the Other (Ahmed, 2000; 50 51 Swan, 2017; Travis, 2010). It problematizes the accounts that Others feel 52 53 compelled to give of themselves, framing these as instances of reificatory 54 identity-thinking through which one-dimensional linear narratives are required 55 56 to be constructed and evidenced. Through these narratives, as Swan (2017: 8-9) 57 58 has argued, 59 60

26 Page 27 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 We transform the Other into a pre-determined, prejudiced, universalized 4 5 figure rather than apprehending the particularity of our encounters with 6 7 them. 8 9 10 This kind of recognition-based ethical praxis of listening would require us to 11 12 question ‘the modes by which we are addressed and asked to take up the 13 14 question of who we are’ (Butler, 2005: 30). Recognition in this sense is a 15 16 simultaneously ethical, epistemological and political project. For Butler, it is the 17 act of showing and telling, suffering and acting, within a ‘crucible of social 18 19 relations’ that reveals how being called to account impinges upon, conditions 20 21 and limits our intelligibility.For Peer Yet when weReview disclose ourselves, we are able to act 22 23 on their schemes, ‘undoing’ them rather than being undone by them (Butler, 24 2004), challenging the norms of intelligibility that govern who is allowed to be a 25 26 speaking being, ‘subjecting them to rupture or revision, consolidating their 27 28 norms, or contesting their hegemony’ (Butler, 2005: 132). Drawing on Ahmed 29 30 and Swan, a recognition-based praxis of generous encounters understood in this 31 way is less about speaking or acting, than it is about listening and being ‘stopped 32 33 in our tracks’ by what cannot be articulated through coherent, narrative 34 35 linearity or documentary evidence. For researchers, it involves adopting a 36 37 posture of vulnerability that requires us to be receptive to the limits of knowing 38 and a willingness to stay with not knowing what to do or say (Page, 2017). As 39 40 Swan (2017: 12, emphasis added) puts it, staying with not knowing involves 41 42 listening 43 44 45 In ways that are elusive and not easily reduced to prescription … 46 47 encouraging us to challenge our ignorance-making practices of Othering by 48 49 listening to the unknowable and ungraspable. This means not fixing, 50 pinning down or knowing the Other. 51 52 53 What it might mean, however, is raising critical awareness of how organizational 54 55 processes and practices do so, accentuating Others’ pain whilst purporting to do 56 57 precisely the opposite. In thinking about this, we have considered here how the 58 59 sharing of Indigenous people’s narratives might be opened up through 60

27 Gender, Work & Organization Page 28 of 37

1 2 3 recognition-based politics of listening. In this vein, we do not offer a conclusion 4 5 or seek to make an ‘argument’ as such, but rather ‘another tentative beginning’ 6 7 (Pullen, 2006: 295) as this is articulated in Bigali’s own words in the film, 8 9 Walking Tracks Back Home. Here, Bigali reflects on how she has reconciled the 10 past and states with passion in her voice how she was determined to: 11 12 13 14 Make sure my children knew who their family were, where they’d 15 16 come from. I was gunna let them grow up and be proud of who 17 they are. Be Aboriginal: be proud. 18 19 20 21 References For Peer Review 22 23 24 Ahmed, S. (2000) Strange Encounters. London: Routledge. 25 26 27 28 Ahmed, S. (2002) ‘This other and other others’, Economy and Society 31(4): 558- 29 30 572. 31 32 33 Ahmed, S. (2004) ‘Declarations of whiteness: The non-performativity of anti- 34 35 racism’, Borderlands E-journal. 3(2): www.borderlands.net 36 37 38 Ahmed, S. (2005) ‘The politics of bad feeling’, Australian Critical Race and 39 40 Whiteness Studies Association Journal. 1: 72-85. 41 42 43 44 Ahmed, S. (2012) On Being Included. London: Duke University Press. 45 46 47 Alcoff, L. (1991) ‘The problem of speaking for others’, Cultural Critique, 20: 5-32. 48 49 Applebaum, B. (2010) Being White, Being Good. Boulder, CO: Lexington Books. 50 51 52 53 Biddle, J. (1997) ‘Shame’, Australian Feminist Studies, 12(26): 227-239. 54 55 56 Blackmore, J. (2011) ‘Bureaucratic, corporate/market and network governance: 57 58 shifting sites for gender equity in education, Gender, Work and Organization, 59 443-466. 60

28 Page 29 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 4 5 Boncori, I., & Smith, C. (2019). I lost my baby today: Embodied writing and learning in 6 organizations. Management Learning, 50(1), 74-86. 7 8 9 10 11 12 Broom, M. (2017) Bringing Tracks Back Home, filmed produced by Film and 13 Television Institute, Western Australia. 14 15 16 17 Butler, J. (1993) Bodies that Matter. London: Routledge. 18 19 20 Butler, J. (2004) Undoing Gender. London: Routledge. 21 For Peer Review 22 23 24 Butler, J. (2005) Giving an Account of Oneself. New York: Fordham University 25 26 Press. 27 28 29 Butler, J. (2015) Notes Toward a Performative Theory of Assembly. Cambridge, 30 31 MA: Harvard University Press. 32 33 34 Colley, L. (2013) “Not Codgers in Cardigans! Female Workforce Participation and 35 36 Ageing Public Services’, Gender, Work and Organization, 328-348, 37 38 39 40 Curthouys, A. (1994) “Labour History and Cultural Studies”, Labour History, 67, 41 12-22. 42 43 44 45 Cutcher, L. and Milroy, T. (2010) ‘Mis-repesenting Indigenous mothers: 46 47 Maternity allowances in the media’ in S. Goodwin and K. Huppatz (eds) The Good 48 Mother. , Sydney: Sydney University Press. 49 50 51 52 Choo, C. (2001) Mission Girls: Aboriginal women on Catholic missions in the 53 54 Kimberley, Western Australia, 1900-1950. Sydney: University of Western 55 Australia Press. 56 57 58 59 60

29 Gender, Work & Organization Page 30 of 37

1 2 3 Coulthard, G. (2014) Red Skin White Masks: Rejecting the Colonial Politics of 4 5 Recognition. Minneapolis, MS: University of Minnesota Press. 6 7 8 9 de Ishtar, Z. (2004) ‘Living on the ground research: Steps towards white women 10 researching in collaboration with Indigenous people’, Hecate. 30(1): 72-82. 11 12 13 14 de Ishtar, Z. (2005) ‘Striving for a common language: A white feminist parallel to 15 16 Indigenous ways of knowing and researching’, Women’s Studies International 17 Forum. 28(5): 357-368. 18 19 20 21 Dreher, T. (2009) ‘EavesdroppingFor Peer with permission:Review The politics of listening for 22 23 safer speaking spaces’, Borderlands E-journal, 8(1): www.borderlands.net. 24 25 26 27 Eveline, J. (2005) “Woman in the ivory tower: gendering feminised and 28 29 masculinised identities”, Journal of Organizational Change Management, 8,6, 30 31 641–58. 32 33 34 Eveline, J and Booth, M (2002) “Gender and Sexuality in Discourses of 35 36 Managerial Control: The Case of Women Miners”, Gender, Work and 37 38 Organization, 9(5), 556-578. 39 40 41 Eveline, J, Bacchi, C and Binns, J (2009) “Gender mainstreaming versus diversity 42 43 mainstreaming: Methodology as Emancipatory Politics”, 16(2): 198-216. 44 45 46 Foucault M (1961) The History of Madness. London: Routledge. 47 48 49 50 Gobodo-Madikizela, P., Ross, F., and Mills, E. (2005). Women's Contributions to 51 52 South Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Commission. New York: Hunt Alternatives 53 Fund. 54 55 56 57 58 59 60

30 Page 31 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 Goodall, H (1995) ‘Assimilation begins in the home: the State and Aboriginal 4 5 women’s work as mothers in New South Wales, 1900s to 1960s’, Labour History 6 7 (69): 75-102. 8 9 10 Haskins, V. (2001) ‘On the doorstep: Aboriginal domestic service as a contact 11 12 zone’, Australian Feminist Studies. 16(34):13–25. 13 14 15 16 Hasluck, P. (1956) Native, Welfare in Australia: Speeces and Addresses”, Perth: 17 Paterson Brokenshaw. 18 19 20 21 Higman, B. (2002) DomesticFor PeerService in Australia Review. Melbourne: Melbourne 22 23 University Press. 24 25 26 Holland, A. (1995) “Feminism, colonialism and Aboriginal workers: an anti- 27 28 slavery crusade”, Labour History, 69: 52-64. 29 30 31 Huggins, J. (1985) ‘White aprons, black hands: Aboriginal women domestic 32 33 servants in Queensland’, Labour History. 69: 188–195. 34 35 36 37 Huggins, J. (1998) Sister girl: the writings of Aboriginal activist and historian, 38 Jackie Huggins, St. Lucia, University of Queensland Press, 1-152. 39 40 41 42 43 Jacobs M. H. (2005) “Maternal Colonialism: White Women and Indigenous Child 44 45 Removal in the American West and Australia, 1880–1940”, Western Historical 46 47 Quarterly, Volume 36, Issue 4, 1 November 2005, Pages 453–476. 48 49 50 Katila, S. (2019). The mothers in me. Management Learning, 50(1), 129-140. 51 52 53 54 55 Kidd, R. (2007) Hard Labour, Stolen Wages, ANTaR report August. 2007 56 57 58 Kidd, R. ‘Aboriginal Protection in Queensland’, 59 60 Accessed at http://www.linksdisk.com/roskidd/tpages/t3.htm, 14 May, 2010.

31 Gender, Work & Organization Page 32 of 37

1 2 3 4 5 Kidd, R. (2002) ‘Discovering whiteness’, Hecate’s Australian Women’s Book 6 7 Review. 14(1). 8 9 10 Kidd, R. (1994) Regulating Bodies: Administrations and Aborigines in Queensland, 11 12 1840-1988, Unpublished PhD thesis. 13 14 15 16 Langton, M. and Barry, K (1998) “Aboriginal women and economic ingenuity”, in 17 Gatens, M. and Caine, B. (Eds). Australian Feminism: a companion, Oxford, 18 19 Oxford University Press. 20 21 For Peer Review 22 23 Maddison, S. (2009) Black Politics: inside the complexity of Aboriginal political 24 culture, Sydney, Allen & Unwin. 25 26 27 28 Maddison, S. (2011) Beyond White Guilt: The Real Challenge for Black/White 29 30 Relations in Australia. Sydney: Allen and Unwin. 31 32 33 Malkki, Liisa (1997) ‘Speechless Emissaries: Refugees, Humanitarianism and 34 35 Dehistoricisation’, in K. Olwig and K. Hastrup (eds) Siting Culture, pp. 223–54. 36 37 London: Routledge. 38 39 40 Moreton-Robinson (2003) ‘Tiddas talkin’ up to the white woman: When Huggins 41 42 et al took on Bell’, in M. Grossman (ed.) Blacklines: Contemporary Critical Writing 43 44 by Indigenous Australians. Melbourne: Melbourne University Publishing, p. 66. 45 46 47 Nicoll, F (1993) ‘The art of reconciliation: Art, Aboriginality and the State, 48 49 Meanjin. 52(4): 705-718. 50 51 52 53 Nicoll, F. (2004) “Reconciliation in and out of perspective: White knowing, 54 seeing, curating and being at home in and against Indigenous sovereignty” in A. 55 56 Moreton-Robinson (Ed.). Whitening Race, Canberra, Aboriginal Studies Press. 57 58 59 60

32 Page 33 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 Olick, J.K. (1999) ‘Collective memory: The two cultures’, Sociological Theory. 4 5 17(3): 333-348. 6 7 8 9 Page, T. (2017) “Vulnerable writing as a feminist methodological practice”, 10 Feminist Review, 115: 13-29. 11 12 13 14 Pio, E. (2007) “Ethnic entrepreneurship among Indian women in New Zealand: A 15 16 Bittersweet Process”, Gender, Work and Organization, 14(5): 410-432. 17 18 19 Pullen, A (2006) ‘Gendering the research self: Social practice and corporeal 20 21 multiplicity in the writingFor of Peer organizational Review research’. Gender, Work and 22 23 Organization. 13(3): 277-98. 24 25 26 Pullen, A. and Rhodes, C. (2015) ‘Writing, the feminine and organization’, Gender, 27 28 Work and Organization. 22(2): 87-93. 29 30 31 Reynolds, H. (1990) With the White People. Ringwood: Penguin Books. 32 33 34 35 Ross, F. C. (2003) ‘On Having Voice and Being Heard: Some After-Effects of 36 37 Testifying Before the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission’, 38 Anthropological Theory. 3(3): 325-341. 39 40 41 42 Simone, T. (2016) Aboriginal Stockwomen: Their Legacy in the Australian 43 44 Pastoral Industry. Unpublished PhD thesis, Institute of Koorie Education, Deakin 45 46 University. 47 48 49 Simpson, R. (2011) “Men Discussing Women and Women Discussing Men: 50 51 Reflexivity, Transformation and Gendered Practice in the Context of 52 53 Nursing Care”, Gender, Work and Organization, 18(4), 377-398. 54 55 56 Sommerville, M. (1991) ‘Life (hi)story writing: The relationship between talk 57 58 and text’, Hecate. 17(1): 95-103. 59 60

33 Gender, Work & Organization Page 34 of 37

1 2 3 Soni-Sinha, U. and Yates, C. (2013) “‘Dirty Work?’ Gender, Race and the Union 4 5 in Industrial Cleaning”, Gender, Work and Organization, 20(6), 737-751. 6 7 8 9 Srivastava, S. (2005) ‘You’re calling me a racist? The moral and emotional 10 regulation of anti-racism and feminism’, Signs: Journal of Women and Culture in 11 12 Society. 31: 29-62. 13 14 15 16 Sullivan, S. (2007) ‘On revealing whiteness: A reply to critics’, The Journal of 17 Speculative Philosophy. 21(3): 231-242. 18 19 20 21 Swan, E. (2017) ‘WhatFor are white Peer people Review to do? Listening, challenging ignorance, 22 23 generous encounters and the ‘not yet’ as diversity research praxis’, Gender, Work 24 and Organization, 24(5), 547-563. 25 26 27 28 Travis, M. A. (2010) ‘Beyond empathy: Narrative distancing and ethics in Toni 29 30 Morrison’s Beloved and J. M. Coetzee’s Disgrace’, Journal of Narrative Theory. 31 40(2): 231-250. 32 33 34 35 Unfinished business: Indigenous Stolen Wages, Senate Report, 36 37 http://www.aph.gov.au/SENATE/committee/legcon_ctte/completed_inquiries/ 38 2004-07/stolen_wages/report/. 39 40 41 42 Vachhani, S. (2015) ‘Organizing love: Thoughts on the transformative and 43 44 activist potential of feminine writing’, Gender, Work and Organization. 22(2): 45 46 148-162. 47 48 i Yindjibarndi people is the name of a distinct society of people who traditionally lived 49 50 in the area near the town of Roebourne in the Pilbara region of Western Australia. The 51 country of the Yindjibarndi people has been occupied for more than 40,000 years. The 52 area is bordered by Kariyarra and Nyamal land to the north, Ngarluma to the west, 53 Martuthunira and Kurrama land to the south and Nyiyaparli and Palyku land to the east. 54 It is around the area of the Fortescue River. (http://www.wangkamaya.org.au/pilbara- 55 languages/yindjibarndi-overview, accessed 2 March, 2019). Over 300 Indigenous 56 Australian language groups and dialects covered the continent at the time of European 57 settlement in 1788 (around 66 in Western Australia). Today only around 120 of those 58 languages are still spoken and many are at risk of being lost as Elders pass away. 59 Yindjibarndi is the strongest survivor of the many languages which came together in 60

34 Page 35 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 4 Roebourne, and is also spoken in Onslow and other Pilbara 5 towns.(https://www.waitoc.com/culture-experiences/aboriginal-culture/aboriginal- 6 7 languages, accessed on 2 March 2019). 8 9 ii We consciously begin with Bigali’s story rather than a more conventional 10 ‘positioning’ or siting of her narrative in academic concepts and concerns. 11 Reviewers encouraged us to share the story and Bigali’s contribution to the 12 paper in this way in order to enact its ethics and politics. 13 14 iii 15 Important parallels can be noted here with feminist critiques of the South African 16 Truth and Reconciliation Commission – see Malkki (1997), Ross (2003) and Godobo- 17 Madikizela et al (2005). As Ross (2003) emphasizes ‘having voice’ is not the same as 18 ‘being heard’. See also Coulthard’s critique of the ‘discourse of healing’ in Canada in the 19 1990s which, he argues, positioned indigenous people as needing to account for the 20 harm done to them rather than interrogating a system of acculturative violence 21 (Coulthard, 2014). For Peer Review 22 23 iv Here and throughout the paper, we are very conscious of the challenges posed 24 25 by bringing white western theory to bear on indigenous life stories; even the 26 term to ‘bear’ suggests adding weight – an unreflexive epistemological pitfall we 27 risk falling into – and connotes a ‘weighing down’, further containing rather than 28 opening up. We hope that our focus on is engaging and sharing rather than 29 further subjecting/subjectfying, but inevitably the process of producing an 30 academic paper carries this risk. We cannot simply ‘resolve’ this tension, and 31 32 trying to do so would be counter to the aims of the paper and wider project; 33 rather our hope is to highlight what listening to narratives such as Bigali’s might 34 enact politically and ethically by refraining ‘us’ (authors, readers) from engaging 35 in unreflexive action. 36 37 v The film Walking Tracks Back Home is part of a bigger project, Indigenous Community 38 39 Stories, that has recorded 100 Indigenous Elders from across Western Australia telling 40 the stories of their accomplishments and reflecting on their lives and culture. The 41 project aims to record these oral histories for the nation to share. 42 https://www.screenwest.com.au/news-events/2017/08/100th-indigenous- 43 community-story-filmed-south-west/ accessed 2 March, 2019. This paper is one 44 among several iterations (undoings) of a rich and complex narrative explored through 45 varying media and involving multiple voices and reflections. 46 47 48 49 vi We invited Bigali numerous times to co-author the paper with us, but she declined, 50 preferring instead to work with us collaboratively through Talila. Throughout the 51 process, we were conscious that the social fields in which Indigenous women especially 52 as situated are complex, and shaped by multi-layered historical processes and power 53 relations. 54 55 vii Throughout the paper we use the term ‘praxis’ politically and epistemologically; that 56 is, to refer to a dialectical relationship between theory and practice, thoughts and 57 58 action, and as a way of knowing that transforms what is known through acting upon it. 59 60

35 Gender, Work & Organization Page 36 of 37

1 2 3 4 viii Here and throughout the paper, we follow Swan’s (2017) use of collective pronouns 5 (‘we’, ‘our’ etc.) to refer to ourselves as the authors of this paper, and as the tellers of 6 7 this story, in this particular form. We use these terms to speak to women not in order to 8 re-centre whiteness but to ‘call it to account’ in Butler’s (2005) terms. 9 10 ix In this aspect of their work, feminist writers such as Butler and Ahmed draw from 11 phenomenological thinkers such as Merleau Ponty and Levinas in emphasizing the 12 importance of touch as more than a physical form of interaction, but rather as an inter- 13 corporeal, inter-subjective one. 14 15 x More than three decades ago, the then Prime Minister of Australia, Paul Keating, 16 acknowledged the failure of non-Indigenous Australians to engage in this form of 17 recognition in the much lauded Redfern Speech (1992): ‘It begins, I think, with that act 18 of recognition. Recognition that it was we who did the dispossessing. We took the 19 20 traditional lands and smashed the traditional way of life. We brought the diseases. The 21 alcohol. We committedFor the murders.Peer We Review took the children from their mothers. We 22 practiced discrimination and exclusion. It was our ignorance and our prejudice. And our 23 failure to imagine these things could be done to us. With some noble exceptions, we 24 failed to make the most basic human response and enter into their hearts and minds’. 25 26 xi Sister Kate’s was named after Katherine Mary Clutterbuck (1860-1946), an Anglican 27 nun, who ran orphanages for Aboriginal children in Western Australia. The Home was 28 funded by the Aborigines Department to house ‘fair skinned’ Aboriginal children. 29 30 31 32 33 34 xiii A fascinating account of this complexity can be found in Tauri Simone’s (2016) 35 thesis, Aboriginal Stockwomen: Their legacy in the Australian Pastoral Industry, which 36 documents not only the paucity of accounts of Indigenous women’s contribution to 37 Australian industry, but also the importance of developing culturally and 38 methodologically appropriate ways of addressing that gap. Of particular note is that, 39 40 whilst undertaking her research, Simone found that (because women were not allowed 41 to be employed as stockworkers), their employment was often not recorded in 42 government documents; they were literally written out. It was only through reading 43 older drovers’ diaries and notes that she was able to trace stockwomen’s histories. In 44 the process, she came across a number of cases of women, including a renowned 45 horsewoman called Maudie Moore, who ran the Durham River Station in the Kimberely, 46 who worked as Head Stockwomen. These women would have had responsibility for 47 organizing the station and managing a large team of workers and animals, yet their 48 stories have been excluded from dominant accounts, the complexity of their lives and 49 their achievements erased. As Simone has put it, ‘Aboriginal women are under- 50 recognized and under-acknowledged for the participation that they’ve had … these 51 were hard, strong women’ (Morris, 2018). 52 53 xiv Bigali was fortunate in that her case was well documented, and unlike many others’ 54 55 experiences, her documentation remained largely un-redacted. 56 xv 57 In Queensland in 2007 $19.5 million was paid to 5,553 ‘eligible’ claimants. 4,211 58 people received $4,000 and 1,342 received $2,000. 59 60

36 Page 37 of 37 Gender, Work & Organization

1 2 3 4 xvi The Aborigines Protection Act 1886 (Act no. 1886 (50 Vict. No.25)) was passed on 2nd 5 September 1886 and came into effect on 1st January 1887. This Act established the 6 7 Aborigines Protection Board and enabled the appointment of Protectors of Aborigines. 8 It gave wide powers to the Board and Protectors to involve themselves in the lives of all 9 Aboriginal people in Western Australia, including the care, custody and education of 10 Aboriginal children. The Act also empowered Magistrates to apprentice Aboriginal 11 children to work until the age of 21 years. Parts of this Act were repealed in stages, from 12 1889. 13 14 xvii Blackmore (2011) describes the routine positioning of Indigenous mothers as ‘unfit’ 15 within the normative regimes of racist governmentality that supported these practices. 16 17 xviii The Aboriginal English words ‘blackfella’ and ‘whitefella’ are used by Indigenous 18 Australian people when referring to Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians 19 (Appropriate terminology Indigenous Australians, www.flinders.edu.au/CDIP, accessed 20 2 March, 2019. 21 For Peer Review 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60

37