UNESCO to make final world heritage assessment on WA's Murujuga rock art

Australia Broadcast Center

a day ago

From the air, the meaning of Murujuga becomes clear.
The Ngarluma-Yaburara word translates to "hip bone sticking out".
It paints an evocative bird's-eye view of the Burrup Peninsula, which juts into the Indian Ocean north of Karratha, 1,500 kilometres north of Perth.
In 2023, the Murujuga Cultural Landscape was nominated for inclusion on the World Heritage List, culminating in a multi-generational campaign for international recognition.
The referral is contentious among activists, who have condemned the federal government for extolling the area's heritage values while simultaneously approving heavy industry nearby.
A final decision from UNESCO's World Heritage Committee is expected in the coming week.
Central to the bid are between one and two million petroglyphs dotting Murujuga's rocky red mounds and shadowy ravines.
It is arguably the densest single concentration of rock art on the planet.
Traditional custodians say these ancient engravings inscribe a living cultural tradition and human creative genius.
Here are some of those stories, handed down for more than 50,000 years.
Aboriginal people have gathered at Murujuga for millennia.
Five language groups, known collectively as the Ngarda-Ngarli, have connections to the land: the Ngarluma, Mardudhunera, Yaburara, Yindjibarndi, and Wong-Goo-Tt-Oo peoples.
Yindjibarndi man and Murujuga Aboriginal Corporation (MAC) director Vincent Adams says the rock art is a "cultural signpost" for those travelling on country.
He stops at Nganjarli, one of Murujuga's most prominent "galleries", to point out a ghostly carving near the gorge's entrance.
Hundreds of visitors pass the figure unawares, with photography of the image prohibited according to cultural law.
"We call that the Marrga in Ngarluma-Yinjibarndi," Mr Adams says.
"He's normally classified as a six-toe, six-finger figure, different to us, always dressed in headgear."
The Marrga features in a host of Pilbara creation stories from "when the world was soft", like how the kangaroo got its tail and how the emu lost the ability to fly.
"We couldn't just walk up onto anybody's country. We needed permission," Mr Adams explains.
"How we got that permission? We see this significant site, and we know people are close.
"[We] make fire, smoke. People inside the gorges will see this smoke, they come out to see who it is."
The Marni, as the petroglyphs are called, signify the practical and religious significance of Ngurra, or country.
They constitute a visual language: "footsteps" crossing boundaries of speech, marriage, and skin groups to form the basis of local lore.
"We have symbols that have been marked around the Burrup that tell us we are in a sacred place, a special place," Mr Adams says.
Stepping deeper into Nganjarli, Mr Adams recounts the meetings between cultural groups that once took place there.
Yinjibarndi people would travel to the coast from inland and convene with the peninsula's first inhabitants, the "saltwater" Yaburara people.
"Yaburara … meaning sea, sea breeze," he says.
Mr Adams says the Yinjibarndi sought out the Yaburara during the season of Muhlu, when the days grew shorter and the weather cooler.
They bartered for bush tucker and the fruits or "sweets" budding by the ocean.
But in the late 19th century, the custodianship of Murujuga changed forever.
One of Nganjarli's later additions captures what is thought to be Francis Thomas Gregory's ship, the Dolphin, which anchored off the peninsula in 1861.
The settlers' arrival had a life-changing impact on the local Aboriginal communities.
Colonial-era violence at the hands of settlers and local police, such as the 1868 Flying Foam Massacre, devastated the Yaburara people.
The Ngarda-Ngarli adopted Murujuga, dubbed "orphan country" because its owners could no longer care for it alone, melding artistic traditions and interpretations.
"They depict stories of connection to country: how me, you, everyone here today connects to this place," Mr Adams says.
He describes a kangaroo-like motif with three stripes on its back.
It also taught hunters what game they would find.
"When we want something to eat, we go to the supermarket," Mr Adams says.
"Here [it is] no different."
A handful of the creatures recorded by the rock art are frozen in time.
"You'll see animals that are no longer here … megafauna, they call it," Mr Adams says.
"He still got a songline today, belong to us even though he's gone."
Some petroglyphs act as "increase sites", where rituals are performed to replenish resources.
"If we run low on emu, we do ceremony; next year, big mob [of] emu," Mr Adams says.
Special configurations mark paths and ceremonial grounds for men's and women's business, as well as warnings to unwelcome intruders.
There is even, not pictured for cultural reasons, a tableau of a man and woman in what Mr Adams refers to, with a booming laugh, as the world's "oldest sex education" lesson.
A short drive from Nganjarli, the spinifex-strewn hills give way to a sheltered bay.
This is Hearson's Cove, so named for a member of Francis Gregory Thomas's crew mistakenly shot by his fellows as they headed ashore.
Long before, it was known as Binabarranha.
When Ngarluma woman Belinda Churnside looks out at this landscape, she sees her "old people", including her mother.
"She's a very proud Ngarluma woman … I wouldn't be doing this today if I didn't acknowledge and support her fight, determination, and leadership," she says.
As MAC vice-chair, Ms Churnside departed on Sunday for Paris, where a delegation of custodians will hear the UNESCO World Heritage decision firsthand.
"To actually carry the fight for your old people … they want us young people now to support them and fight the fight until we do get this World Heritage," she says.
Both MAC and the federal government have protested against a draft decision knocking back the bid amid fears industrial emissions could damage the petroglyphs.
Others say it is a rallying cry for stronger protection.
For Mr Adams, the looming outcome is immaterial in the face of deep time.
"One day, [industry] will be gone, [but] this will still be here," he says.
"People like me will be telling that story in 200, 300 years' time."