ngiyanhi-gu ngidyi-galia

● Matte Ager-McConnell, ■ Rhiannon Brownbill, ⁕ Roger Miranda Navarro

The backyard is a contested logic. A dream based on violent erasure and suppression… 1

This is not a backyard, but Country.
baladhu Wiradjuri baladhu walumaldhaany
I am Wiradjuri; I am protector of Country

My home was not made for children, yet there I was …

… two adults, two kids, to an apartment. No backyard, instead—a vibrant sidewalk.

My backyard was a haven. My dad found refuge there. Nestled among a wild forest of his creation.

bila ngurambang (river Country) Image credit Matte Ager-McConnell (Dabee Country, 2020)

This continent colonially known as Australia has historically persisted with oppressive cartographic practices; processes of mapping reducing the physical realities of Country to arbitrary lots, lines and symbols on a page. These acts of cartography have resulted in the exploitation and essentialisation of Country to the architectural convention of “site”. This practice, entrenched in spatial discourse, discards Indigenous Knowledges, and contributes to the extractive capitalist project.2 It values place only by its utility3 as an object worthy of possession.4

Not a backyard, but Country.

Country’s living spirit severs the colonial dichotomy of nature and culture. “… Ontologically embedded within [Country] are spectral traces of agency and resistance” which value embodied Knowledges, reciprocity and relationality in place.5

The backyard remains a site upon which the cultural erasure and wanton assimilation of colonisation has been spatially legitimised. These continual practices of possession and development fundamentally transform our physical realities and ways of being. This conditions us to see this continent as a series of backyards upon which we extract and manifest a singular identity of the “Australian Dream”.

It assumes absence, but our stories resist.

By interlacing our three distinct stories we reject architecture’s erroneous perceptions of County as a submissive site. Our stories are not homogeneous, and neither are our backyards. They exist beyond binary distinctions and become both a site of colonisation and resistance; memory and erasure.

This is an act of storytelling.

An act of resistance.

bala-dhu winhangali Wiradjuri-giyalang balumbambal-gu-bu balugirbang-gu-bu
I’m remembering Wiradjuri belonging and identity for my ancient ones and ancestors

Not a backyard, but Country.

I have an incredible responsibility to this place. She evokes a deep, powerful and ancient relationship with myself, my family, and my ancestors: the people who have cared for Country through Kinship and connections for millennia. My “backyard” extends beyond a Colorbond fence to transcend time and space. She encompasses my family’s connections not only to land, but also water and sky; ecologies; Culture; Knowledges and Stories. She is spiritual, she is us.

A “backyard” can assume a space controlled and dominated by human transcendence. An ego-driven ordering of life that is human-centric and disregards all non-human being — plants, animals, rocks, water, air, sky and more — as secondary.6 Underpinned by “enlightened” colonial logics, this notion of the backyard fragments Country down into manageable portions that can only exist because of these very same colonial logics that separate the mind, from the body and from the earth.7 This mind/body/earth split acts through colonial impositions of hierarchy, establishing a certain humanity as above “nature”, rather than an Indigenous relationality with Country.

While the backyard can be a static entity of control, Country remains ephemeral. Sustained since the beginning of time,8 Country decentres this human authority. Instead, we form only one part of the interconnectedness She entails. We belong to Her and the damage of colonisation “is not permanent because resilience built over 120,000 years is hard to break.”9

ngiyanhi-gu ngidyi-galia
ngiyanhi-guyulgan-bul
We are here, here this day
We are strong

This resilience forms part of my story, forms part of me.

My family is on a profound journey of reclaiming and (re)learning our Wiradjuri being. We have been incredibly privileged to (re)awaken our relationship with a very special part of our Ancestral Country.

Not a backyard, but Country.

I do not know her true name as colonisation has disrupted the millenia-old relationship we have had with this place. A sacred place, now known as the Capertee River.

We too have a sacred place, far from here but always connected.

Pillipampa!

Located in the Peruvian Andes region of Ancash, my family cares for the land through sacred Knowledges shared and passed down from our earliest ancestors.

My parents arrived here in 1996, and I was born into a suburban Sydney apartment.
Our memories and acts, disregarded. All that made us us, intended to be erased.

“You’re an Aussie now!”

Growing up, I had come to know my ancestral heritage only through a screen and stories shared by my father. Traces of our Andean history were non-existent here. Our home was not made for us. My backyard, instead, a reimagined sidewalk.

As a child, the apartment assumed my absence.

Bleeding into the public realm, this was my “backyard”.

Two adults, two kids, to an apartment.

“From an Aboriginal perspective, non-Indigenous people, too, are always [within] the Country of Aboriginal people and hence always within Indigenous places”.10 Their being can either feed into these colonial logics, or act to resist. Country is sovereign, never neutral and multiple stories will exist within one place, the backyard too can become ephemeral to changing dynamics and power relations.11 While still enmeshed within colonial logics, the contemporary presence of a backyard can also reassert caring as resistance12 and fractures the singular identity of the “Australian Dream”.

Not a backyard, but a chakra.

Not a backyard, but a paradise hidden from pain.

Eventually we found a new home here.

A place where we could care for a backyard as we would our chakra.

A place to connect to our Ancestral heritage.

In Andean cultures, the Indigenous Quechuan term “chakra” refers to the vincularidad (interrelations) between Runas (people), Sallqas (all living organisms), and Huacas (all that is sacred).

Our Andean culture teaches us to nurture the chakra ritually, with love and respect. To consider all: the plants, animals, soils, waters, microclimates; the “backyard”.

Not a backyard but, Country.

Caring got our chacra now. Shown growing: ruda, huacatay, pumpkin plants and lemon trees. Image credit Roger Miranda Navarro (Sydney, 2021)

Our “backyard” is now a place of resistance, an act of memory for our heritage.

We care for it as we would Pillipampa.

I am forever reminded of and connected to our culture.

The cartographic carving up of Country, whilst attempting to erase what has always existed here, can give place and space to multiple realities and connections to Country.13 Here, we build upon long-standing and evolving histories of Country and Indigenous resistances to colonisation. While intertwined within epistemic foundations of a “home-away-from-home”, the backyard operates as a continuation of cultures and defies the question of “who really made the nation and who holds possession”.14 In place of ownership and control, the practice of care becomes central to our stories of the backyard. Common across our realities is a sense of caring, not for what is “‘owed to” or “belongs to” us, but to who, what and where we belong and what is owed to them.15

My sacred place, too, is a place of caring.
It is not only a place, but a sense of place. A sense of belonging to all that will forever hold home for me now.

Growing up in a nursery, my backyard was encompassed by the shade and smell of countless eucalyptus leaves.

Within its wildness hid the refuge of a troubled mind.

Struggling with drug use and mental illness, my Dad found safety there.

Hidden away from a world that didn’t understand him, and a world, which he in turn didn’t understand. My backyard was the product of his self-care and his love for us.

It is within his canopy I grew up.

It stood for many years as a testament to his memory but now no longer remains.

A home nestled amongst my dads garden. Courtesy of Rhiannon Brownbill (Bungendore, 1999)
Recently carved up and subdivided. In its place will soon stand 6 new backyards. New forms of erasure and continued colonisation. New memories and stories to be shared. When he died it felt like what remained of him stood alone in those trees and bushes. But no longer “belonging” to us, his grave has become that place of connection and memory for me. Everytime I’m home I care for it; for him, my grandma and my uncle. Corporally, what’s left of him not only lingers there, but within us. Within my brother and I. Within my face and our memories of him. While he might be “gone” I continue to care for him like he did our backyard.

Not a backyard, but Country.

In understanding my connections to that place as an act of memory and family, I can in no way fathom the belonging elicited within First Nation Peoples.
A belonging to Country; a connection and longing for family and Kinship embedded here. Not for my one generation, but for generations stretching through thousands of years beyond imagining.

My belonging can only exist through a continued history of colonial erasure and genocide.

Ancestral connections to my heritage can only exist through this very same carving up of Country from which my “backyard”—the chakra—emerges.

How can we claim to belong and resist when our being here presents a constant struggle which others must also resist?

Place and space have never been neutral. It is only through the dispossession and de-territorialisation of First Nations people and the cartographical carving up of Country that non-Indigenous attachments and connections to place exist.16 While our developed attachment exists here, it can never erase Indigenous belonging with place, and more importantly their continuing Kinship, connections and Custodianship with Country.

Within Country multiple realities and connections to place will always exist. Colonisation imposes fragmentation and control over the self, the community and the “other self”—the obligatory and often overlooked connections and relations we hold with all (non)human beings. Within Indigenous epistemologies control is an awareness of otherness beyond the human: an act of love, care, reciprocity and connection.

“If you/we are to live together in a good way here—as Kin or as Peoples in alliance with reciprocal responsibilities to one another and to our other-than-human relatives with whose land, water, and animal bodies we are co-constituted—the [Australian] Dream in any form, whether white supremacist or “progressive” cannot be our guiding hope.”17

My care of this Country is an act of care for many Countrys and ways of beyond-human being.

You don’t care for Country for the self but for the whole.

From the finest particle of mud to the largest star in the sky.

Yindyamarra is a word that doesn’t directly translate to english. It is not so much a word but a way of being. One part is the deep love and respect in caring for Mother – Country, in ways that the english language or western ways of thinking cannot begin to comprehend.

While here, at this special place, the bila (river), I became aware of the inherent love and connection I had with this Country, an intensification of the understanding and incredible responsibility of caring for Country, not by obligation, but somehow a need, a want. I am a part of this place, the ground, the trees, the water, the sky, the cliffs. I belong to her.

When being with the bila, listening to her, watching the life she provides for everything, you start to truly understand Yindyamarra. I watch the galing (water) flow onto other places. I watch the wambuwuny (kangaroo) and her joey bounce onto other places. I watch the gugubarra (kookaburra) fly onto other places. They know no “backyard”, much the same as my actions. Care extends beyond where I am, in much the same way my neglect or disregard could.

My Ancestors Kinship relationships may have only cared for a small part of the whole, but their care affected many others beyond, human and non-human, as did their relationship with Country, care for mine. Their care continues into and through me—the interconnectedness of Country.

As the rivers are ephemeral, ever-changing and connected to Country, so are our backyards. Through remembering our stories we challenge the singular identity of the Australian dream. Our backyards become the manifestation of all things at once. A rejection of assimilated colonial logics. Endlessly layered and enmeshed. Not only sites of colonisation but also sites of resistance. Sites of care, of memory and of erasure. They are not only enclosed through cartography but can extend infinitely beyond: towards a sidewalk, a nursery, a chakra, a river, and Country(s); creating spaces and places of multiple contradictions and belongings.

This is an act of storytelling.
An act of resistance.
An act of ancient belonging.

  1. TallBear, Kim. “Caretaking Relations, Not American Dreaming.” Kalfou 6, no. 1 (Spring 2019): 25-41. ↩︎

  2. Gómez-Barris, Macarena. The extractive zone: Social ecologies and decolonial perspectives. Duke University Press, 2017. ↩︎

  3. Porter, Libby. “Dispossession and Terra Nullius Planning’s Formative Terrain.” In Planning in Indigenous Australia, edited by Sue Jackson, Libby Porter and Louise C. Johnson, 55-71. Routledge, New York, 2018. ↩︎

  4. TallBear, Kim. “Caretaking Relations, Not American Dreaming.” Kalfou 6, no. 1 (Spring 2019): 25-41. ↩︎

  5. Foster, Shannon & Paterson Kinniburgh, Joanne. “Wingara’ba’nya Subject Outline.” Course work guidelines, University of Technology Sydney, 2020: 2 ↩︎

  6. Government Architect NSW 2020. “Better Placed Draft Connecting with Country”. NSW Government Design Framework. Accessed 05 March 2021, https://www.governmentarchitect.nsw.gov.au/resources/ga/media/files/ga/discussion-papers/draft-connecting-with-country-framework-2020-11-12.pdf>. ↩︎

  7. Moreton-Robinson, Aileen. The White Possessive: Property, Power, and Indigenous Sovereignty. University of Minnesota Press, 2015: xi ↩︎

  8. Pascoe, Bruce. Dark Emu Black Seeds: agriculture or accident? Magabala Books, Broome, Western Australia, 2014. ↩︎

  9. Pascoe, Bruce and Shukuroglou, Vicky. Loving Country, A Guide to Sacred Australia. Hardie Grant Publishing, Australia, 2020: vi. ↩︎

  10. Fredricks, Bronwyn. “’We don’t leave our identities at the city limits’: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people living in urban localities.” Australian Aboriginal Studies, (January 2013): 6. ↩︎

  11. Fredricks, Bronwyn. “‘There is nothing that identifies me to that place’: Aboriginal Women’s perceptions of health spaces and places.” Cultural Studies Review, 15, no. 2 (2009): 29-44. ↩︎

  12. TallBear, Kim. “Caretaking Relations, Not American Dreaming.” Kalfou 6, no. 1 (Spring 2019): 25-41. ↩︎

  13. Fredricks, Bronwyn. “‘There is nothing that identifies me to that place’: Aboriginal Women’s perceptions of health spaces and places.” Cultural Studies Review, 15, no. 2 (2009): 29-44. ↩︎

  14. Ibid., 7-9. ↩︎

  15. TallBear, Kim. “Caretaking Relations, Not American Dreaming.” Kalfou 6, no. 1 (Spring 2019): 36-39. ↩︎

  16. Fredricks, Bronwyn. “’We don’t leave our identities at the city limits’: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people living in urban localities.” Australian Aboriginal Studies, (January 2013): 2013. ↩︎

  17. TallBear, Kim. “Caretaking Relations, Not American Dreaming.” Kalfou 6, no. 1 (Spring 2019): 36. ↩︎

We are a collective but we are not homogeneous. Through our unique individual positions we resist the monotony of the contemporary architectural condition:

● I am Matte Ager-McConnell. I am Wiradjri. I walk with the strength of over 60,000 years worth of ancestral Knowledge.

■ I am Rhiannon Brownbill. I understand architectural embodiment through its complex relationships with dis/ability.

* I am Roger Miranda Navarro. I approach decolonisation through a global lens, formed by my Indigenous Peruvian ancestry and Australian upbringing.