My mother Geti was the only child born to Dada and Jacob Summers. Dada was a full blood Torres Strait Islander from Mabuiag Island. Mabuaig Island is in the near western island group in the Torres Strait. My father was Tom Loban. Tom and Geti’s surviving children were Ted, the eldest, Jean (Jean Non), then Frank and myself, Ellie Joan. Three of my mother’s children were not registered with the Registrar of Births. Their graves on Thursday Island are the only mark that they came into this world. From my mother I learned that she had given birth to seven children, but I have discovered there were nine. My late aunt, Mareja Bin Juda, said those who have not survived died from pneumonia. During my childhood, in the Torres Staits many young children died from pneumonia, measles or other ills because of the inadequate health care facilities and lack of antibiotics …
Tommy Loban did not come to Australia voluntarily. At 12-years-of-age he was sent by his mother to catch fish for the evening meal. He was snatched from his canoe, off the shore of his village, and taken aboard a pearling master’s schooner. He never saw his homeland or his family ever again.
Papa fretted and longed to see his mother Tunam or his sister Raminah. He spoke of wanting to hear news of them, anything to keep them in touch and alive in his mind, even if he couldn’t see them and talk with them. He travelled with his boss, Reg Hocking, who carefully avoided Banda Neira when my Papa was with him. Papa served his master as a ‘loyal coolie’ and travelling companion, polishing his boss’ boots, caring for his master’s clothes and doing all the chores expected from a ‘coolie’ or ‘boy’.
When Tommy Loban met Geti, their relationship was governed by government policy covering indentured labourers. Because the authorities believed that the men used marriage to an Australian citizen as a passport to freedom, meaning that they would not then be forced to return to the country of their birth, all the black races who were not indigenous Australians were required to abide by a ‘cooling off’ period before they married an Australian. My parents’ courtship and engagement lasted five years. But there as also another factor in this: my Aka Dadu needed time to see if my Papa was worthy of her beautiful daughter …
My education at the mission school [in Galloways, Australia] laid the foundation for my quest to achieve. Each morning my sister Jean and brother Frank and I travelled on horseback to school from Galloways. Joman’s teaching and the carefree environment gave me happiness, confidence and incentive. There was never any condemnation or criticism to destroy your will to think or desire to do anything. It may not have been very productive in white man’s terms. But my sense of myself as ‘somebody’ has grown as I have grown older. And it is all based in the young child I was and grew into, so many years ago at that little school …
We cantered or galloped briskly, and on arriving at school pastured the horses and ran into line at the school bell. In the breaks, between lessons, all the children taught each other new Island or Aboriginal dances or songs, or played Island games. Even before I was old enough for school, my parents told me and my brothers and sister the legends of our people. An afternoon ritual in our familiy, it gave me a strong sense of who I was, and of the rich culture of the Torres Strait. I grew up knowing our traditions. As I grow older, I come more and more to appreciate that sense of certainly. If a culture is destroyed or ignored, it robs people of a sense of self. As a child it is important to know where you come from, and who your people are, your family and the people of your own country, your own culture. Now I am in my sixties, I know it is important at all stages of life …
At 14, I returned to Thursday Island with my family and went to work as a shop assistant and receptionist for a pearling company. The manager, John Adrian, was my supervisor and trainer. He taught me basic book work and office procedures, as well as three-fingered typing – enough to be proficient, and enough to assist him. Later, when plastic replaced pearl shell in buttons and the pearling company closed down, I joined the staff of the local hospital as an assistant nurse. I enjoyed the work, caring for people and learning new things that were foreign to our lifestyle. Dorothy Spencer, one of the nursing sisters, suggested I go down south to do general training. She said I had the potential to become a good nurse.
Each hospital I contacted acknowledged my letter and enclosed particulars of the criteria for acceptance as a trainee nurse. My scholastic standard was inadequate: those early years of interrupted schooling stood in my way. I went to the local Anglican parish priest, pouring out my heart to him. He offered to tutor me for 15 shillings a fortnight. I was earning only 25 shillings a fortnight. This would leave me about $10.00 (in today’s terms) to live on. I accepted, attending his parish office two or three times a week, on an hourly basis. He gave me a prep-one and two book to read, then took himself off, socialising with his white parishoners at bridge parties!
Despite my youth, I had commonsense: you don’t need years to develop that quality. I knew I wasn’t getting anywhere. I received a letter from the Maitland Mater Hospital enquiring whether I had succeeded in my aim of raising my scholastic standard. Our priest looked at the letter, looked at me, and his words were crushing: ‘I couldn’t raise your scholastic standard Ellie, I’m not a teacher.’ I asked him why he misled me. He replied: ‘I wasn’t misleading you, surely you didn’t think for one minute that you’d be able to do the training and become a nursing sister, that’s only for certain types of people.’ I didn’t wait around. With tears streaming down my cheeks I left, but I could still hear his words. He meant that only educated white girls were able to do nursing.
Crying, I went nextdoor to the Roman Catholic church grounds to await my basketball team for training. I started practising at shooting goals, taking my hurt out on the ball and basket, smashing my shots into the goal. I was creating an enormous racket. The nuns and priest were preparing for prayer at the 6pm angelus. Out came the priest to ask me to quieten down. He found a crumpled and distraught athlete. The flood gates opened when he enquired whether I was all right, and so did my broken heart. He took me to Sister Mary Florence, the Mother Superior of the convent. She said: ‘I’ll assist you, Ellie, and you will become a nurse.’ More tears. Would I have to become a Catholic? No, ‘only if you wish to’. ‘How much will it cost me?’ I asked. ‘No money,’ she said, ‘only hard work and dedication, and when you are trained, return and work with your people and encourage others to pursue advancement.’ This was the early 1950s. More than 30years later, we are still trying to work towards self-management in the Torres Strait.
Ellie Gaffney (c) 1993
Ellie Gaffney was born on Thursday Island in the Torres Strait, just off the north coast of Australia, on 18 August 1932. She co-ordinated Mura (‘all’ – in Western Island) Kosker (‘women’ in Eastern Island) Sorority (‘sisters’ in English), working towards uniting all women in the Torres Strait and Northern Peninsula Area of Australia, and meeting the social, emotional, housing, educational, economic, health, cultural, spiritual and welfare needs of women and their children and dependents.
This is an extract from ”The Women’s Time has Arrived’ published in Glorious Age – Growing Older Gloriously, 1993, Artemis Publishing, Melbourne, Australia (Jocelynne A. Scutt, ed.).
