Djalu Yunopingo

I sat up slowly, the weight of my years pressing gently on my bones. My morning ritual of stretching my arms wide and feeling the cool air against my skin never lost its charm. I’ve done this for as long as I can remember.

Living in Tjuntjuntjara, Australia, now, my thoughts often drift back to the times when the world felt untouched and vast. As an aborigine from the Spinifex People, I was just a boy when I first saw them—those strange pale men speaking in tongues we didn't understand. They came with promises and warnings about the sky splitting open with fire. They were here to test nuclear weapons, they said. I didn't understand much then, but I remember the day they took us away.

Our family stayed in the Woomera Prohibited Area, despite the dangers. Planes overhead became a common sight, their rumble a constant reminder of a world that was changing too fast for us to grasp. I lost friends and family to strange illnesses, whispers of fallout lingering in the air.

Every day here in Tjuntjuntjara is a blend of old traditions and the new ways forced upon us. My granddaughter, all bright eyes and laughter, sits by my side often, asking me to tell stories of the old days. The pride in her eyes when I tell her about our return is the best part of my day.

Today, I’ll take a walk to the edge of our settlement, to the place where the red earth meets the endless sky. I’ll sit under the lone gum tree, feeling the breeze carry the songs of my ancestors. Despite all that has changed, this land still remembers us, and in my heart, I know I am home.

At 82, every step I take here is a blessing, a victory over the trials we've faced. The land holds our history, our pain, and our joy. This is our home, and it always will be.