In this article, we continue our previous exploration of David Malouf's Remembering Babylon, and how it disputes conventional, colonial accounts of Australian culture and history. How are the foundational Australian myths and narratives of colonial violence challenged in Malouf's novel?
Albert Namatjira - Haasts Bluff country, 1956
Challenging Foundational Myths of Australia in Remembering Babylon
Remembering Babylon rebukes cultural narratives that form substantial parts of Australian foundational myths. In a vacuum, foundational myths are not necessarily problematic. Their primary functions are defining and solidifying the fundamental principles and cultural characteristics of a nation, which is an integral part of nation-building. However, issues arise when the core narratives behind foundational myths erase the lived experiences of significant segments of the nation’s population. In Australia’s case, much of its key cultural narratives centre the monolithic colonial experience of Australia (as a distinctly foreign land that needed to be modified to fit colonial standards of "civilisation" before it could be considered a legitimate nation), which historically has resulted in pre-existing Indigenous conceptions (informed by centuries of lived experience on Australian land) being suppressed and therefore displaced out of larger societal understandings of the nation. Dismantling such colonial foundational myths is thus crucial to retrieving previously suppressed, yet pertinent aspects of the nation’s spirit.
The most relevant foundational myth in regards to the text is of the hostile Australian bush, a barren, inhospitable environment that needed to be overcome and tamed by colonial settlers in order to be made habitable: which incidentally, serves as a justification for the colonisation of Australia. This idea is captured in the settlers' worries over the land and its climate:Â
"Out here the very ground under their feet was strange. It had never been ploughed. You had to learn all over again how to deal with the weather: drenching downpours when in moments all the topsoil you had exposed went liquid and all the dry little creek-beds in the vicinity ran wild; cyclones that could wrench whole trees up by their roots and send a shed too lighty anchored sailing clear through the air with all its corrugated iron sheets collapsing inward and slicing and singing in the wind." (9)
In this extract, there is a pattern of natural imagery spatially conjuring devastating elements of colonial settlement (agriculture as represented by the "topsoil [...] exposed" by a settler, and settlement as represented by the "shed"), from which the reader can derive the settlers’ conceptions of Australian nature — a hostile, destructive force antithetical to their efforts at establishing colonial society.Â
It is perhaps this fear that leads them to conclude: "Good reason, that, for stripping [the earth] of every vestige of the native; for ringbarking and clearing and reducing it to what would make it, at last, just a bit like home." (pg 10). This assumption reinforces a core premise behind the myth of the "hostile Australian wilderness": that Australia, as a colonised land, only becomes an actual "homeland" (or "nation", even) when the native environment is drastically reshaped into the image of Western society. Such a concept devalues Indigenous understandings of human society as interconnected with the natural world, which predate colonial perceptions of the Australian land by hundreds, if not thousands of years. It also echoes an idea central to ecological Imperialism — that a colonised land with an ecology so different from the colonial homeland must be changed before it can be made "liveable", fit for proper settlement and "civilisation".Â
Even outside of the main setting of the Queensland settlement, characters reveal their grievances with the Australian climate, their contemplations betraying a belief in the antagonistic nature of the landscape. As Ellen McIvor recalls her and her husband Jock's time in Brisbane, she remembers how "She was the one who had to insist that the heat was not too bad, or the steamy rain when it gushed down, or the clouds of mosquitos that blew in from the mangrove-choked islands in the river's mouth, and whose bites made his eyelids swell; or the cockroaches, big as wrens, that came flying in at every open window and ran over their faces in the dark" (pg 75). While she positions herself as downplaying these concerns, the cumulative listing of various natural elements inconveniencing the McIvors reveals an underlying frustration with the Australian environment, even framing it as a source of overwhelming distress; a hindrance preventing them from peacefully settling into their new home.Â
However, Malouf introduces perspectives that question the validity of the"hostile Australian wilderness". Through the influence of Gemmy, some characters begin to regard the Australian land in a new light, one of the most obvious examples being Mr Frazer. Having opened his mind to Gemmy's knowledge of the natural world (and by extension, that of the Indigenous Australians who taught him) and observed firsthand the alterity of the Australian environment, Mr Frazer comes to new conclusions, which directly rebuke the legitimacy of the "hostile Australian wilderness" as a cultural narrative:
"We have been wrong to see this continent as hostile and infelicitous, so that only by the fiercest stoicism, a supreme resolution and force of will, and by felling, clearing, sowing with the seeds we have brought with us, and by importing sheep, cattle, rabbits, even the very birds of the air, can it be shaped and made habitable. It is habitable already. I think of our early settlers, starving on these shores in the midst of plenty they did not recognise, in a blessed nature of flesh, fowl, fruit that was all around them and which they could not, with their English eyes, perceive, since the very habit and faculty that makes apprehensible to us what is known and expected dulls our sensitivity to other forms, even the most obvious. We must rub our eyes and look again, clear our minds of what we are looking for to see what is there." (129)
The fact that the early settlers’ "English eyes" are unable to see "even the most obvious" of their surroundings, the superlative amplifying the conspicuousness of their environment, highlights the sheer limitations of their sight, and by extension, of Western centric subjectivity. By positioning the settlers’ vision as inadequate in perceiving the present reality of their Australian surroundings, Frazer articulates the limitations of the settlers’ Eurocentric perspectives as a whole, which fail to comprehend and thus appreciate alterous environments that do not abide by, or cohere fully with, its own standards. He thus concludes that the notion of Australia as an inherently "hostile" land is ultimately "wrong", a value judgement borne out of biased Eurocentric interpretations, rather than present reality. The language of morality in that statement even frames the settlers’ perception of the land as a fault that must be corrected through human will. In presenting Mr Frazer's reflections and the new insights he gains, Malouf exposes the flawed philosophy underlying such a major cultural narrative, and thus denies it any sort of legitimacy.
At the same time, Mr Frazer’s contemplations betray a lingering Eurocentric bias in spite of his newfound revelations. In labelling the flora and fauna of Australia with religious language of "blessed nature", Frazer frames the natural Australian world as specially endowed by God, thereby imposing Christian value onto a land whose people have developed an entirely different type of spiritual connection with it, outside of Eurocentric or occidental epistemology.
However, Gemmy offers a different understanding of the Australian landscape as informed by Indigenous understandings of nature, which better epitomises Frazer's call to "rub our eyes and look again, clear our minds of what we are looking for to see what is there". As he retreats into the wilderness in Chapter 19, he reflects on the bushfire surrounding him:
"[...] the sky was a smoky glow, cloudless because what filled it was a single cloud, blooming with a light that might have been that of the fallen sun, its ashes shaken out now and even the deep core failing. The forests up there had all day been climbing into the sky and drifting down again to cover all this side of the range with ash; a breath out of the heart of the country. There was no finality in it. [Gemmy] knew that. One life was burned up, hollowed out with flame, to crack the seeds from which new life would come [...]. The seasons here were fire, ash, then the explosion out of blackened earth and charred, unkillable stumps [...] the hard seed tormented with flame till it splits, springs open, then a hissing as the first raindrops plump and spatter, and the new forest, leaf by leaf in its old shape [...] breathes out of charred sticks and smoulder" (180-181).
Here, the imagery of fire and ash, elements that might otherwise be framed as apocalyptic signs of destruction or signs of nature's brutality (indeed, as they are in part of the novel's epigraph, taken from John Clare's While Smoke Seas Roll) are instead positioned as regenerative forces, part of a process of cyclical rebirth where the burning of one form of life gives way to new ones. The specific deictic reference to the "seasons here [of] fire, ash" in Australia also foregrounds the present locality and connection to Indigenous land. It also implies, by extension, a contrast with seasons elsewhere (such as in the settlers' home country of Britain), and perhaps indicates Gemmy's ability to properly distinguish the two and thus respect Australia's climate for what it is. Instead of imposing discursive meanings of harsh devastation onto the bushfire, Gemmy appreciates the new life that sprouts in the wake of it. He recognises the "unkillable stumps" of the forest, the striking negation emphasising their innate resistance to even the most ruthless of natural disasters; he understands that the Australian "forest" continues to live with undying persistence (seen in the personification of the forest 'breath[ing]', a clear sign of life).
Through Gemmy’s reflections, Malouf provides an alternative premise on which Australia, the nation, may be defined — based on an ability to perceive the world as is without imposing logocentric biases from one’s original cultural perspective, or perhaps an acceptance of pre-existing Indigenous perspectives, informed by centuries-long experience with and deep-rooted understandings of the land. Perhaps by internalising these premises, one may be better equipped to recognise the true spirit of Australia.
Disputing Narratives of Colonial ViolenceÂ
A significant portion of Remembering Babylon can be interpreted as a direct response to conventional historical narratives justifying colonial violence against Indigenous Australians. Especially during colonial times, settlers would rationalise any extreme violence taken against Indigenous Australians as preemptive measures intended to safeguard the colonial community from supposedly dangerous groups — a disputable narrative, considering the history of Indigenous Australians’ innocuous actions being misconstrued by colonialists as proof of their supposedly violent nature. Even into the mid-20th century, these narratives of colonial violence would remain influential in most white Australians’ understanding of their national history, thus perpetuating the dehumanisation of Indigenous peoples as innately violent beings, deserving of colonial suppression.
The settlers of the novel also espouse this line of thinking. Spurred by Andy McKillop’s accusations of Gemmy being given a nefarious stone by two Indigenous Australians, the settlers kidnap and attempt to drown Gemmy. These initial accusations seem to validate the settlers' preexisting fears of Gemmy (and for that matter, of Indigenous Australians as a whole) secretly possessing a violent nature that may endanger their community. Near the beginning of the novel, well before McKillop’s accusations, the settlers foreground these sentiments, which they regard as facts of their lives:
"Of course, it wasn't [Gemmy] you were scared of. [...] It was the thought that next time it might not be him. That when you started and looked up, expecting the silly smile, what would hit you would be the edge of an axe. [...] For at any moment — this was the fact of the matter — they might be overwhelmed." (42)
However, Malouf is careful to highlight how the settlers’ fears are unfounded in reality, considering the facts of the meeting McKillop observes. For one, the stone Gemmy allegedly receives is not real; neither do the settlers verify its existence. Rather, it is a spontaneous lie created by McKillop to substantiate his false claims of Gemmy's malicious nature, and yet the settlers respond as if it is an imminent threat. The settlers fail to ascertain any supposedly destructive qualities of the stone. When questioned by Jock McIvor on the effects of the imaginary stone, one of the settlers, Barney Mason, cannot give a response, with Jock's queries of "What's it supposed to do aeneway, this stone? [Sour] the [cows]' milk? Set haystacks on fire?" (pg 105) going completely unanswered. Barney’s silence suggests that the settlers, in instigating attacks against Gemmy, are not acting on an identifiable, concrete threat, but on a nebulous suggestion that simply confirms present anxieties regarding Gemmy.
It is also worth noting that the meeting McKillop observes between Gemmy and the Indigenous Australians is not sinister, nor does it even concern the settler community. Rather, as Gemmy details it from his perspective at the start of Chapter 12, it acts as a communal experience allowing him to reconnect with the natural world, with the Indigenous Australians "bringing what would feed his spirit" (pg 118). In light of this, McKillop's unwavering belief in Gemmy and the Indigenous Australians’ guilt appears foolishly presumptuous. The declarative statements he describes their intentions with come across as irrational:
"What he had just seen, he told himself fiercely, was just what he [...] had all along suspected. The bastard was in touch with them. Always had been, secretly, and was ready now to do it openly."(95)
Altogether, Malouf's narrative renders McKillop's accusations, as well as the settlers' fears of Gemmy, baseless. The violence they later undertake against him is thus framed as instigative and needlessly cruel (rather than defensive). Put differently, the settlers seem less like righteous vigilantes protecting their community, and more of a senseless mob searching for any justification to attack someone predetermined as a threat, regardless of tangible evidence.
Malouf further complicates narratives surrounding colonial violence by exposing the root of colonial fears towards the violent, racialised Other. Rather than being grounded in real, external possibilities of Indigenous violence, he posits that such fears ultimately stem from internal flaws of the colonial mind (and of colonial epistemological frameworks). This is illustrated through one of Jock’s most pertinent reflections in Chapter 10. After pointing out to Barney the absurdity of fearing a stone when "[he’s] got a shotgun" (pg 105), Jock comes to a crucial realisation about the colonial community:
"The shotgun he had evoked to balance that other threat [of the stone] had no weight. The two forces were not equal; not in his own head nor in Barney's either [...]. He had brought them to the very edge [...] of a world where what was cleared and fenced and in Jock's own terms reasonable — all their education, their know-how, yes, and the shotguns they carried — might not be enough against — against what? Some vulnerability to the world that could only be measured [...] by the dread it evoked in them?" (105) Â
The fact that the shotgun, a weapon capable of inflicting physical damage, fails to nullify the threatening nature of the stone in Barney’s mind, indicates a deeper danger associated with it. Jock illuminates the nature of this danger by configuring a contrast between the "world" of the settlers, and the world of the Indigenous Australia (as represented by the stone). Whereas the former is understood in definitive terms of Western civilisation, and all objects within it are made knowable through processes of "clear[ing] and fenc[ing]" (the action of "fenced" also evoking a sense of enclosure that implicitly frames the colonial world as having isolated itself from other cultures), the latter domain seems utterly incomprehensible. Moreover, the modifier "only" conveys the fundamental limitations of the settlers' capacity to understand Indigenous society. Their colonial epistemological frameworks fail to encapsulate this drastically different cultural world, and because they have rejected Indigenous modes of understanding, they can only perceive it through raw, rudimentary emotions of fear. These expressed apprehensions seem like an extension of the settlers' previously articulated anxieties, that "[they] and all [they] stand for have not yet appeared over the horizon of the world" (pg 43), that the colonial project’s ideology may not be applicable to every and all contexts beyond the colonial centre, and thus may not be as universally objective as they had believed.
Therefore, it is not necessarily that the stone poses the threat of violence, but that in the minds of the settlers, it acts as a tangible reminder of an alterous world they are unable to fully comprehend with monolithic Eurocentric perspectives. The danger the settlers see in the stone, an embodiment of the Indigenous world, is emblematic of their fear of Indigenous Australia overall: it holds the potential to challenge the supposed universality of colonial ideological frameworks, and is hence seen as a threat to the settlers’ fundamental way of life, which must be eliminated. It is why McKillop "would have felt justified" in "[taking] a pot at" Gemmy’s gathering if "they had strayed even an inch to Barney's side of the boundary" (pg 94). He is more incensed by them intruding into a colonial space (effectively a literalised version of the racial Other entering and becoming visible in colonial discourse) than the actual possibility of them committing violence, a concern that applies to the rest of the colonial settlers, as implied by Jock’s contemplations.Â
The conclusion Malouf then poses is that colonial violence, rather than being primarily motivated by the altruistic desire to protect settler communities or rational fears of Indigenous violence, is fundamentally driven by deeper fears of encountering another world that cannot be easily encapsulated within the terms of their own. Such a narrative draws attention to deeply-rooted colonial bigotries that had often been neglected in conventional historical narratives concerning colonial actions (particularly colonial violence), highlighting them as the fuel for unjust violence taken against those deemed the Other.
Conclusion
Through his postcolonial reimaginings of various colonial tropes and narratives, Malouf delivers a compelling challenge to the supposed legitimacy of colonial ideologies. Initially drawing on conventional narratives, he complicates them as a test of their genuine validity. In doing so, he exposes the limitations of a monolithic Eurocentric worldview, which obscures the value of any cultures or contexts that fall outside of its standards. Through this, Malouf also dismantles the notion that European ideas are the default frame of reference, demonstrating that, like any other cultural perspective, they are inherently subjective, and grounded in cultural biases that may not be applicable in all contexts. Overall, the book offers a crucial conclusion — that if the modern Australian wishes to reconcile their place in Australia, they must avoid the trappings of a monolithic, Eurocentric perspective, and remain open, willing to integrate Indigenous Australian ways into their lives. It is thus through this text that Malouf offers a way for white Australians to make sense of their history and identity.
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