Written by Keira de Hoog, Community Development Officer at Allwood House
In July 2021, I travelled to North-East Arnhem Land as part of my job working with Why Warriors – an organisation that works together to empower Yolŋu people, building community capacity, and furthering mutual respect and understanding between First Nations people and mainstream Australians.
I posted many beautiful photos during that trip – the beaches of Elcho Island, pandanus weaving at Buku-Larrnggay Mulka Gallery in Yirrkala, and hunting trips in wild mangroves. It was an incredible privilege to witness one of the oldest living cultures in the world continuing to practise their language, Madayin law, kinship and ceremony on Country.
But alongside that beauty was another reality that many Australians never see.
While I was in the grocery store on Elcho Island, someone pushed past me to pin up an advertisement for handmade wooden coffins. During the short time I was there, there were 13 funerals in a row. Bodies were constantly being flown in and out of the community. It was deeply confronting.
One of the people who helped me better understand that reality was Dianne Gondarra.
I was heartbroken to recently hear of Dianne’s passing at just 57 years old – an age that, tragically, has become far too common amongst Yolŋu people experiencing the impacts of ongoing health inequity, cultural disconnection, systemic failure, and the exhausting burden of living between two worlds.
Dianne was a Yolŋu leader from Elcho Island, a linguist, educator, health advocate, cultural teacher, co-producer, and an extraordinary bridge-builder between Yolŋu and non-Indigenous Australia.
I still remember arriving in Darwin before travelling to Elcho Island and feeling both nervous and aware of how much I didn’t know. At the time I wrote, “I feel amazingly privileged to work with Dianne (Biritjalawu) Gondarra. The next two weeks will be a huge learning experience for me – hoping to connect better across two worlds and learn more from each other.”
That is exactly what Dianne dedicated her life to- helping people walk between worlds with greater understanding and respect.
She often spoke about the importance of Yolŋu children being grounded first in their own law, culture and identity before being expected to navigate mainstream Australia.
“Children have to be educated in the creator space, where they come from,” she said, “before they can ever think about walking across to the other world. So they can walk back and forth on that bridge. Yolŋu respecting their side first so when they walk across, they can walk with respect.”
She also told me: “Never forget that we share the same common ground. The first thing I see in you is the humanity.”
Dianne was the eldest daughter of the late Rev. Dr Djiniyini Gondarra OAM – a highly respected Yolŋu clan leader, lawman, spiritual leader and civil rights advocate who spent decades advocating for justice, dignity and self-determination for First Nations people.
Like her father, Dianne had an extraordinary ability to explain the complexity of living between Yolŋu law and mainstream Australian systems. She worked tirelessly through organisations including Why Warriors and Hope for Health to improve health education, cultural understanding and community wellbeing in Arnhem Land.
What many Australians do not realise is that remote communities are often navigating enormous challenges simultaneously, such as:
- chronic disease and dialysis dependence
- overcrowded housing
- youth suicide
- grief and funeral fatigue
- barriers to healthcare and communication
- internet and technology access issues
- language barriers
- cultural misunderstanding
- and systems designed without genuine Yolŋu leadership
During my time on Elcho, I saw how difficult it was for health information to reach people in meaningful ways. Many resources existed only in English, internet access was unreliable, and community workers were stretched beyond capacity.
One Yolŋu woman asked us what the word ‘percent’ meant? The doctor had told her that her sister had ‘2 percent kidney function.’ My boss at Why Warriors, Richard Trudgen, asked what picture she had in her head when she heard that word. ‘None at all,’ she responded. Richard then drew a kidney on a piece of paper. He drew ten lines down it and ten lines across. “This is a kidney with 100 boxes over it,” he explained. “What the doctor was talking about was just 2 of these boxes inside the kidney are good and functioning. But the rest is no good.” The woman broke down, crying. “Has your sister gone already?” Richard asked gently. “Yes, she didn’t last long after that. I wish I’d known what the doctor meant.”
While it’s easy to translate tangible words such as ‘tree’, ‘cup’, ‘stand’, ‘sit’, etc. into another language, words that describe academic concepts can easily be lost. For example, the English word ‘serious’ is translated by Yolŋu people as ‘terminal’ or ‘you’re gonna die soon’. There are thousands of other concept words, especially in government and healthcare situations, that affect the lives of indigenous people.
Part of my work with Why Warriors was to help relay information about Covid-19 for Yolŋu people. There were many issues with healthcare workers flying into remote communities and forcing vaccinations on people without answering their questions in language. Yolŋu people have sophisticated knowledge about animals around them that are safe and unsafe, where they live, and their lifecycles. So when it came to Covid-19, they wanted the same level of information that relates to what they already know and expect. The “gakal” – modus operandi of the virus. They needed to know where it lives, how it presents itself, its lifecycle, how it reproduces, its characteristics, its persona.
When talking about vaccines, a common message from the government was simply: “it’s safe!”. Rather than telling Yolngu the “dhuḏi-dhäwu” – the whole story – that the vaccine may make some people sick, but that sickness is only usually short-lived and is nothing compared to the life-threatening sickness of Covid-19 itself.
Amongst these communication breakdowns, I also witnessed incredible story-telling, strength, humour, generosity and education within the community.
I remember sitting with Yolŋu women collecting mud worms, hearing stories about clan groups and kinship systems. I watched volunteers drive house to house checking on families. I saw women weaving together outside the communal kitchen while discussing recipes and health education. I saw children freely moving between bush, beach and community life with deep connection to place and family.
What struck me most was that Yolŋu culture was never simply “tradition” or “heritage” – it was a complete system of law, governance, education, kinship, discipline, environmental management, spirituality and care.
As Dianne explained:
“It would be good if we could move past the situation where we just see Yolŋu culture as just ‘culture’ rather than systems of protection, nurture and care.”
That sentence fundamentally changed how I think about First Nations knowledge systems in Australia.
Recently, Why Warriors founder Richard Trudgen shared these words following Dianne’s death:
“Losing her means we’ve lost a true warrior.”
Hope for Health described her as the woman who inspired the movement – someone who continued educating and supporting others despite spending years on renal dialysis herself.
A few weeks before her passing, Dianne made the deeply personal decision to stop kidney dialysis treatment after many years of fighting illness. Her family and colleagues have spoken openly about the immense physical, emotional and cultural burden she carried navigating “a world dominated by another culture.”
Her passing is not just the loss of an individual. It is the loss of language, knowledge, leadership, humour, memory and cultural wisdom that Australia cannot afford to keep losing.
For many non-Indigenous Australians, places like Arnhem Land remain distant and abstract. But they are part of our shared country and shared future. If reconciliation is ever to become meaningful, it must begin with listening to the lived realities, systems and voices that have existed here for tens of thousands of years.
One of the most powerful ways to begin understanding this is through the documentary Luku Ngärra: The Law of the Land, co-created by Dianne and her father, Rev Dr Djiniyini Gondarra OAM.
Filmed over five years in North-East Arnhem Land, the documentary offers an intimate and confronting insight into Yolŋu law, culture and the crisis facing many remote Indigenous communities today. It challenges simplistic narratives and asks Australians to rethink what reconciliation, respect and justice could truly look like.
There is currently a free Mother’s Day screening available online here: Luku Ngärra: The Law of the Land
You can also support Dianne’s legacy by donating to future health campaigns through Hope for Health here: https://hopeforhealth.com.au/donate
Our First Nations Fridays series at Allwood exists to continue building understanding, communication and connection between Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians. Stories like Dianne’s and the work she dedicated herself to, reminds us how vital it is to educate ourselves and strengthen bridges between both worlds.
