Den stulna generationen

Sitter och läser ur min skolbok. Mitt hjärta stannade upp när jag kom till delen om urbefolkningar i olika länder. Jag har nämligen en svagt hjärta för sånt, det blöder liksom. Jag har länge haft ett intresse för urbefolkningen i Amerika, en vacker dag skulle det vara fint att besöka någon stam, forska lite och skriva en bok om de. Men i nuläget får jag nöja mig med att skriva utifrån fakta och fiktion. Som nu... Ibland önskar jag att jag inte så lätt kan komma på en bra story. Mitt pluggande kom lite på kant för att så fort jag läste om den stulna generationen i Australien så bara PANG kom det. Detta fick jag ihop så länge. En liten novell kanske?

THE STOLEN GENERATION OF AUSTRALIA

I called my mother’s name and each time the white man laid his hand on me.

“You are never to speak that filthy language again!” 

I could not sleep. All I saw with my eyes shut was my mother’s face. She was crying and so I started to cry to. The wind danced in her hair like it had when I left
“Do not forget who you are.” She says to me. “Do not forget who you are.” Then she fades, like the wind takes her with him and she becomes only a memory that I hold on to so dearly.
                             The white man took all the children from their mothers. This was a rescue mission, we were a doomed race and we were to be saved from our savaged parents who had taught us nothing of use. Many years later I heard they had stolen approximately 100,000 children.
I was considered a “lucky one”. Because of my pale skin I was handed over to a white family. They tried to make it seem like it was adoption, but it really was not. Being a part of this family of four, I was not looked upon as a son of theirs but as someone who would do their dirty work. I would feed the animals, clean the house, put plates on the table, clear off in the kitchen after supper. I was by the way never allowed to eat with them or have the same amount of food as “my siblings”.
If the social services of today would have been alive at that time they would not have allowed this. But I can still wonder if they would have cared even today if an Aboriginal child was cleaning the house of a wealthy white landowner.

                             My cousin was not adopted into a white family because her skin was darker than water at night. She was, however, still taken from her family and placed in an orphanage where she was not made available for adoption. She was stored their like the cows of my white man until the day she took her own life.

In my new home I was not allowed to speak my language or practice the beliefs of my ancestors. I was forced into Christianity and was given a new, white name. You must know I was a very rebellious child even when still living with my mother; therefor I hardly ever listened when the family called my new name. I didn’t care if they hit me or beat me, anything was better than to be called a white name.

Okej, nu måste jag fortsätta läsa lite text! Ciao amigos!