Junk Explained: What Is Cultural Burning, And How Can It Help Us Against Bushfires?

Weeks of red smokey skies from sunrise to sunset, black debris floating in the air, and the sound of sirens blaring through the street — this will be how many of us remember the 2019/2020 Black Summer bushfires.

But through the eyes of Aboriginal people, those bushfires inflicted a different kind of pain. We saw our totems die and significant sites destroyed, left with nothing but memories of the places they used to be.

New South Wales alone lost five-million hectares of land (6.7 percent of the state) during the Black Summer bushfires, destroying nearly 3000 homes and tragically taking 25 lives. It caught the attention of media in other countries, including the US, who were battling tumultuous fires in their own backyard.

As the recovery process started, a Bushfire Inquiry began and several submissions highlighted the importance of including Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples in all facets of bushfire planning and response. One particular topic generated lots of interest with some calling it the solution to catastrophic wildfires: cultural burning.

So, what is cultural burning? And why has it taken so long for it to be part of the bushfire discussion?

What Is Cultural Burning?

Victor Steffensen, a fire practitioner and Tagalaka man from Far North Queensland has been advocating for the use of cultural burning for decades, reconnecting Aboriginal people with their role as caretakers of this land by teaching traditional practices that were stopped because of colonisation.

“The fear of fire comes from detaching yourself from the landscape,” he told the ABC in 2018. The very act of being scared of fire is taught by colonialism.

For First Nations people, Country is an intricate part of who we are — we do not own Country, it’s a part of us and it’s central to our wellbeing. Fire, when used right, is a tool that helps us care for Country (and has been for centuries) but since the invasion and the introduction of westernised land management methods, foreign plants and animals — it’s now critical in helping Country — and Indigenous people — heal.

In Victor’s travels around Country, he witnessed the devastating impact of wildfires some of which were caused by traditional practices being put to an end.

“I’ve been to a lot of Country that’s been totally disintegrated through wildfires… not one green leaf left on the trees, no grasses, no sounds of birds just total barren space… going into those places breaks my heart because we know that shouldn’t be happening and we know it can be prevented if we look after the land,” he told the ABC.

It takes skill and special knowledge to conduct cultural burning. It’s not something you can pick up — you need to understand how to read Country, the weather, and the animals living on it in order to burn the right way.

The process usually involves a ‘cool-burn’ approach where small controlled fires are lit in patches, helping to clear areas in a slow and managed way. By burning this way, it prevents damage to important parts of the land, like bush medicine seeds that lie within the soil, and sends a signal to animals to move away.

There’s also a marked difference between a hazard reduction fire, which is used by government bodies, and a cultural burn.

“We don’t want to scorch the canopy, that’s like lore of fire. These are the old parent trees of this country,” cultural fire practitioner Dan Morgan told the ABC. “There’s a lot of fuel load, it hasn’t been burnt for a long time, so we’ve just got to be patient with it We’ll get some nice plants coming back through, good medicine plants and bush foods.”

“Going into those places breaks my heart because we know that shouldn’t be happening and we know it can be prevented if we look after the land.”

Morgan and his colleagues from the Bega Local Aboriginal Land Council cultural burning crew demonstrated a cultural burn in November 2020. After a day of cultural burning, George Aldridge, who’s also a member of the team, came back to the site see the effects.

“You can still feel the moisture under the top layer of burnt fuel and it acts as a native fertiliser. Over time, that’ll all build up and become real spongy ground and healthier soil. There’s no scorching of the canopies either” he told the ABC.

And animals living close by were thankful for the burn too. “Bandicoot’s come and had a bit of a dig here, looking for a feed after the fire,” said George.

Just a little further out, George noticed a recent hazard reduction burn had been done and pointed out the difference between the two methods.

“It was obviously burnt way too hot, the canopies have been scorched and left a lot of dead leaves on the ground. You’re trying to get rid of fuel but you’re still ending up putting fuel back on the ground after a HR [hazard reduction] burn,” he said. “The ground was actually burnt too hot as well, it’s been scorched right down to the dirt. Animals won’t have any food in this area because of how hot it was burnt. It’s just having respect for all life in the bush.”

Cultural Burning Is Not Just Hazard Reduction

After the Black Summer bushfires, cultural burning became sensationalised in the media as the answer to stopping wildfires — and while it definitely helps — it’s so much more than that. First Nations people aren’t a homogenous group and each community’s practice around caring for Country is different — which applies to cultural burning as well.

While it’s often linked to men’s business, there are women who are knowledge holders of this cultural practice.

“It is really important for Aboriginal women to do cultural burning with their children, families and Elders because it allows passing on intergenerational knowledge,” said Bundjalung and Wonnarua woman Vanessa Cavanagh explained in the Cultural Burning In Southern Australia project. “Given the experiences of colonisation and the appropriation of Indigenous knowledge, people don’t want their knowledge and practises to be extracted and taken away from communities and have that authority lost or misappropriated by others.

“For some groups and nations in NSW, Aboriginal women don’t, or didn’t, participate in cultural burning traditionally, whereas for others they talk about women being the matriarchs, the fire-keepers, the holders of that knowledge. So, it’s not a one-size-fits-all approach.”

While cultural burning might’ve received attention for its ability to help with fuel reduction, for Aboriginal people it’s about protecting other species living within the ecosystem too.

“We called our fires ‘white smoke fires,” Noongar elder Aunty Carol wrote for the same project. “I didn’t see any black smoke until 1950 when the government started up the War Service Land Settlement Scheme. They mowed the bush down with big tractors and the following year burned hundreds of acres at a time. It was a huge cultural loss and grieving process watching the bushland disappear and the birds and animals fleeing in distress.

“People think cultural burning just means a group of Aboriginal people burning. It is not only about who is doing the burn, it’s more about when and where and according to reading nature. We need to see the weather, if there are strong winds, where is the wind blowing and the time of year and day. The government talks about reducing fuel load by clearing undergrowth, but animals and birds rely on it for food, nesting and breeding.”

“It is not only about who is doing the burn, it’s more about when and where and according to reading nature.”

Cultural burning is a holistic practice and much like a lot of other traditional practices, there’s always more than one benefit.

Palawa man Jason Smith has witnessed the effectiveness of cultural burning on Country first-hand working as a ranger with the Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre. Echoing the sentiments of Vanessa, Jason wants more opportunities created to give other Aboriginal people the opportunity to learn and look after Country.

“My old people were doing this burning for 40,000 to 60,000 years on this land and I grieve for for how the knowledge was taken away from our people just over 200 years ago,” said Smith. “We need to be put in charge so we can lead the way. I want to see job opportunities created for us to train up our young mob and other fellas in our community and women. The more we are out on Country, the better off we all are.”

Lessons From The Black Summer Bushfire

Colonialism has tried to eradicate traditional land practices, with many claiming it’s not relevant anymore, but in a recent study done in partnership with Banbai Traditional Custodians and the University of New England, they found cultural burning was more effective for reducing fire fuel load while protecting native plants than hazard reduction burns or bushfires.

“It is more evidence that cultural burning practices have an important place in managing our natural heritage as we try and reckon with the effects of climate change,” said lead researcher Dr Michelle McKemey.

First Nations people have been left out of the climate change conversation for some time, yet there’s a stark difference in the way disasters affect Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples compared to other Australians.

Research conducted by Bhiamie Williamson, Francis Markham, and Jessica Weir found that 1 in 10 children who were affected by the Black Summer fires were Indigenous. Researchers also found more than one-quarter of Indigenous people in NSW and VIC live in a fire-affected area — just one reason why it’s important Indigenous people have a seat at every stage of emergency or disaster planning.

Government bureaucracy, lack of sustainable funding and understanding around the benefits of cultural burning have been some of the areas highlighted within the Bushfire Inquiry that are being addressed.

And while the inquiry has created career pathways for Aboriginal people to be back on Country — including recent appointments of Aboriginal people to the Bush Fire Coordinating Committee (group who is responsible for planning fire prevention) — there’s still a lot of work to be done, and First Nations voices need to be heard.

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Tahnee Jash is an Aboriginal/Fijian-Indian journalist based in Sydney. You can find her on Twitter @tahneejash.

Photo Credit: David Gray/Getty Images