When I finished reading this book I began to think of what I would read next, but I’m haunted by this memoir by Archie Roach, one of the ‘stolen generation’. He has written his story with style, grace and honesty. I was continually reminded of Nelson Mandela who was miraculously upbeat and positive despite the hardships he had endured.

That the state would simply swoop in and round up children and take them away to orphanages and then foster homes seems incredible. And this was my generation. Archie was born in 1956. His account shows that this resulted in not better, but far worse outcomes for the children. I was continually shocked to read of what happened to them and particularly by the fact the indigenous Australians and Torres Strait Islanders were not counted in the census until 1971.

Perhaps it was Archie’s music which saved him, but also the fact that he did find his brothers and sisters and discovered where he had come from and was able to make some re-connections – but with the burden of grief and anger and a realisation that injustices continue. It is amazing that he continued to stress inclusion and love for everyone in his counselling work, his writing and his music.

I was able to find his music online, and listened to it as I read the last few chapters. His voice is as clear and warm as the narration of the book, the chapters of which begin with lyrics of his songs. It was a relief that so many musicians and producers supported him to record and release his music (Tim Finn is mentioned), and that it led to his touring world-wide, making connections with many musicians and particularly with First Nations people (a term which came to be applied to indigenous Australians too) in North America who shared similar stories to his own.

Key to Roach’s recovery was his wife Ruby Hunter who has also recorded albums of her own music. She was also a stolen child, able to reconnect with her people.

More online research told me that Archie had died in July 2022, just three years after the book was published. He was 66 years old. Ruby died in her 50s. Their hard lives did not set them up for longevity. There were news interviews with people who knew them following Roach’s death – presented by slick white news presenters. There was a memorial to them both unveiled, with white officials congratulating each other, and First Nation Australians on the fringes. With the failure of the ‘Yes’ vote in 2023, I remain somewhat cynical about the sincerity of the gesture.