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Le Rat Noir – Translation of Iris Clayton’s « The Black Rat » by T. Wignesan (Iris Clayton of the Wiradjuri tribe in New South Wales was born in 1945. One of nine children, six of the elder children were forcibly removed by the authorities and placed in « wardship » - according to Kevin Gilbert in Inside Black Australia, 1988 – which amounted to « slavery », having to work for a pittance ‘as cooks, housemaids, gardeners, stockmen, and quite often being sexually abused and used as concubines.’ This White Australia policy of « assimilation » was the motivating force behind the annihilation of aboriginal culture and traditions, even to the extent of severely punishing children at foster homes if ever they used aboriginal words. ‘A lot of the girls died from sclerosis of the liver, through alcoholism … some turned to prostitution, lots of them committed suicide.’ Iris had six children of her own and worked for the Australian Institute of Aboriginal Affairs in Canberra, and she was determined to let the world know ‘about the injustice, racism, slavery and abuse that still happens in this country today.’ ) T. Wignesan, Paris, December 17, 2016. Il habitait la cabane dont le sol la terre endurcie, La porte fut composée des sacs cousus ensemble. Il était un soldat, un Rat de Tobrouk jusqu’à quarante-cinq, Il faisait partie d’une poignée qui rentrait vivant. Blessé et martyrisé, il battait pour cette terre, Et dès qu’il rentra, tout le monde s’apprêta à serrer sa main. Le prix pour lutter pour la liberté de l’homme N’a guère amélioré la condition humaine de cet Homme Noir. Il était allé à l’intérieur, mais ne trouva pas des copains, S’il osa boire une bière, il risquait la prison et une amende. Il a dû vendre toutes ses médailles qu’il portait avec fierté, Elles n’avaient plus d’utilité pour lui dorénavant. Confus et solitaire, il errait partout En cherchant du travail sans pouvoir trouver le moindre. Des défilés d’ANZAC, il les avait évité, Et ses camarades l’ont bien compris qu’on lui avait oublié. Il luttait pour ce pays afin d’être libre, Mais il n’avait même pas pu voter malgré son calvaire au désert. Et ces années au désert lui avaient coûté chers, Il s’est allé là-bas un jeune homme mais rentra un vieux. Grand de taille, il appartenait à une tribu des Noirs fiers, Il s’éteint tout seul – personne à ses côtés. © T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
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