Aboriginal women are reclaiming traditions of fire

The earliest memory I have of Biri Biri, or fire, comes from when I was six years old. A soft smoky smell lingers, in from the rain. I’m sitting on the old couch in an open house made of corrugated iron sheets and wood, listening to my babysitter tell stories. I watch her cook over a bush-made stove, built from the same iron and timber as the house—the same timber I still hear crackling today.

As Indigenous peoples of the Wet Tropics of Queensland World Heritage site, on the vast coast of northeast Australia, we practice cultural fire management to keep our spirits, soils, and vegetation intact. It is living knowledge, a relationship that we practice on Country; we walk and observe the changes with our old people and youth. Biri Biri is our medicine for both Bulmba, our homelands, and Gulbul, our sea Country. It cleanses one’s spirit when we walk and practice fire. We yarn about the different arrangements in plants—structures from leaf layers to grass connectivity through to the root systems, soils, and Country types. We read Country and align the indicators from the soil to the sky, to tell us the right timing.

(How Australia’s Aboriginal people fight fire—with fire.)

Walls were never meant to separate us from our original home. As an Irukandji woman and knowledge holder, I face challenges not only with climate change, as we experience rapidly changing conditions and major weather events, but also with the Australian government, which remains slow to acknowledge and accept our land and cultural rights. Being a woman in the fire space brings challenges from all directions. I am told by men within our communities that women do not belong among Biri Biri, that traditionally we never practiced the burns.

We have always had a role and relationship with Biri Biri. The women have great knowledge of plants. Knowing how and when to gather them is like knowing how to weave them into the baskets we use to collect foods—it is a story in itself. For many generations Biri Biri has been a part of everyday living for us. I remember being with the Aunties, sitting on Country by the beach as we waited for the food to cook on Biri Biri. After a day gathering food, we sat close to Biri Biri for warmth while the wind wrapped around us.

When visiting Country, we always speak to our ancestors. You learn to listen to the sounds of Country and our old people, hearing their experiences and how things have changed in their time. Elders teach me to keep the knowledge and connection alive for the next generation. And if we are to keep the knowledge living on in our kin, we will need patience, just as we will need patience to keep our cultural practices alive. It’s just like seeing a plant for the first time and learning all you can about it, connecting with it, knowing its texture and smell. This I have learned from my Elders, and this I will carry on.

(‘There’s good fire and bad fire.’ An Indigenous practice may be key to preventing wildfires)