I did something very unusual the other evening. I actually went out...on a week night!
I went to see an aboriginal activist talk about black sovereignty. What a depressing talk that ended up being. The man was just so angry (and, unfortunately, I think he will be angry for the rest of his life). He sees himself as a victim. He spoke about genocide and oppression by white people and white people's laws (I felt so profoundly sorry for all the white people sitting in the audience).
I later spoke to one of my gallery friends who has spent decades working directly with senior indigenous artist and she tells me that the aboriginal elders she got to know were such joyful, gracious people that were intent on moving forward (despite being directly touched by the protectionist and assimilation laws that saw their displacement from traditional lands and the creation of the stolen generations). In those people, she never saw or felt any resentment whatsoever.
So...the contrast...the bitter urban activist and the joyful desert-dwelling elders.