Skip to main content

Stitch across time-a small Eureka moment.

A stitch, a rhythm, a picking over and pulling together. 

History takes hold of a thread, and with a deft twist it can expose an underbelly, repackage a perspective or reveal a new truth.

Tomorrow puts the yarn in my hand (the hand of the present) and offers the chance to remake some fabric of a story. I will be restitching the Eureka Flag, to its original proportions and using the same techniques, though not the same skills, as the original seamstresses. 



The Flag of the Southern Cross.
Eureka Flag, Museum of Australian Democracy at Eureka, Ballarat. Image Anna Sublet


The Eureka Flag carries with it the sound of a call for democracy, a voice for those 'diggers' who were brutalised by colonial officialdom. It speaks of slaughter in a canvas camp, where the flag flew above the screams of an early morning injustice. Unfurled, fluttering, standing to attention above the hill.

What can our present stitching together tell us of this nation, this citizenry? Are we a proud nation, these days? Our sporting triumphs may meld some sort of pride in Commonwealth and Olympic medals, but when we look at our country, what do many of us see about our Australia Fair?

This flag of the Southern Cross staked a claim in history, in ownership of a story. Though the diggers' licences may have ostensibly given them the right to dig some dirt, the flag and the oath sworn beneath it staked a claim for a certain form of citizenship until then denied the men who worked their lots and the women who worked with them.

"We swear by the Southern Cross to stand truly by one another and fight to defend our rights and liberties." 



The Flag of the Southern Cross.
Detail, Eureka Flag.




What rights and liberties now need defending? The rights of the less advantaged in society to fairness and compassion, human rights of asylum seekers, a sense of equity in education, the 'common good' as opposed to the demands of interest groups and lobbyists and ideologues? 

We wave the flag of family history across oceans and generations. Emigrants that never returned to homelands as planned. They planted their feet and grew old here. This flag of the Southern Cross has a beauty that goes beyond our borders. 

Tomorrow I will stitch across time. I will wonder about the land that Australia has become, and the lives of those who stood under the Flag of the Southern Cross, nearly 160 years ago in Ballarat.

© Anna Sublet 2014


The remaking of the Eureka Flag is taking place at the Museum of Australian Democracy at Eureka, M.A.D.E Ballarat.


Further sessions are planned in August. See M.A.D.E. for details.

To read about the remaking of the flag by descendants, see also this piece on ABC Ballarat website.


Update:


A variation on this piece was published by The Ballarat Courier, p 17, 5th December, 2014


To see another version of my comment piece, see Eureka's Children newsletter, April 2015

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A morning too early, a morning too late

Sensing  the  future It was our last morning in New York City. It was a morning too early to be leaving, and as it turned out, a morning too late. Dad was on his final lap of life, and we were making a dash home to cheer him along as he hit the home straight .  I went down to breakfast with a heavy heart. The bar was buzzing. Halloween scenes were already playing out in the streets. A kind waiter asked me 'have you got your costume sorted for tonight?' To which I stumbled, 'no...I I I have to go home. My dad's sick...' and began to cry. The dear boy was shocked, 'Oh, I'm so sooorreeee. Do you wanna hug?' I could barely breathe. NO, I managed. I ate cereal alone, and had grapefruit juice. Dad loved grapefruit. I packed the last of my things, and stumbled out through the lobby, past glamorous girls in fabulous costumes. Mark had already run off to explore the neighbourhood after checking out of the hotel early. It didn't seem...

Coming of Age

The bricks were always cold underneath my bum. Cold and hard. I could feel their sharp edges. In the nights we sat and talked, my brother and I and the neighbourhood boys. The smells of sour smoke and saliva on one, body odour on another, and menace on the other. The fluorescent globes hummed from the train station platform across the road, and the street lights pooled at the corner. Inside was out of bounds to these boys, so we met on our side stairs. The frosted glass door between us and our home. These were the kids we didn’t trust, the boys from the wrong side of the tracks. Where were their parents? Absent fathers, unsighted mothers, these boys roamed the streets and set me on edge. The attraction to the dirt, to the smell of one’s mouth...I can still feel it now. It was an urge, but not an infatuation.  The hearts of these boys remained hidden. It was as if they walked in costumes, played their parts, and kept their distance. One day, my mum greeted me at...

Weaving my own way

In my first weeks of University life, I unzipped a heavy blue bag and found myself bent over a skinny cadaver with a scalpel in my hand. Smelling the formaldehyde. Over the course of the next year, we carved flesh from his buttocks, separated muscle from cartilage, and pulled and probed his ligaments. Lab sessions with the stiffs were fascinating, but I didn’t really want to be doing Medicine. I had never liked biology and was not at all interested in seeing patients with medical needs. So how did I get to be there? Surgery days, pic Anna Sublet It was always expected in our family that we would attend University, preferably to do medicine or law. Coming from a family of parents and grandparents who valued tertiary education, who had been lawyers, doctors, engineers and inventors, this was an unquestioned path. Of course, at the Catholic school, there was also the option of becoming a wife and mother, something seemingly so appalling to me that I rejected such a notion for ...