THIS summer, Australia feels like a war zone. Cities and towns across the country are enveloped in a perpetual smoke haze, and the braying of fire sirens is as commonplace as birdsong. Every evening television commentators deliver grim-faced reports from the front lines.
Tired farmers look dazedly into the camera. Firemen with soot-smeared clothes and chilli-red eyes shake their heads and mumble that they have never known anything like it. As with every modern war report, helicopters make a ubiquitous backdrop. They dip down in front of shrinking reservoirs, then stagger towards the fire front, their water pouches swaying marsupial-like underneath their bellies.
"Why? Why, Kamarrang?" asks a tall, slightly stooped Aboriginal man from western Arnhem Land in the far north of Australia. He is Bardayal Nadjamerrek, an elder of the Mok clan, and he is talking to a grizzled white fellah named Peter Cook, an ecological scientist. They are discussing the disappearance of whole groups of animals from the plateau of Nadjamerrek's youth. He repeats the question, this time looking upward to address the Old People - his ever-present ancestors - with whom he habitually discusses such issues.
This scene opens a nearly completed film, Fire in the Land of Honey, of which I'm a producer. The work of filmmaker Kim McKenzie, it is one of a trilogy of documentaries about Nadjamerrek and his native land, which his people call Ankung Djang. Collectively, the films will tell how 50 years ago the Aboriginal people left this vast plateau, the size of Belgium, drawn by the lure of money, tobacco and other novelties offered by distant buffalo camps, mines, stock stations and missions ... Since his people left half a century ago, fire - a staple tool of Aboriginal life - has turned into an uncontrollable monster, careering across the landscape, devouring the plateaus trees, plants, birds, animals and insects.
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