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ABC News
6 days ago
- General
- ABC News
Tasmanian Aboriginal resistance warriors battled against overwhelming power, but have no recognition
It evokes one of the most powerful scenes in Tasmanian history. On January 7, 1832, the last 16 Aboriginal warriors from the Oyster Bay-Big River resistance walked down Elizabeth Street in Hobart, spears in hand. WARNING: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers are advised that this article contains images of a person who has died. The warriors were on their way to meet governor George Arthur at Government House to finalise an armistice, bringing an end to the largest domestic military offensive in Australian history. The Black Line. The leader of the Aboriginal resistance to this show of force was Tongerlongeter, a man who paid the ultimate price for defending everything he ever knew against the overwhelming might of British colonial power. "He'd lost nearly everyone he'd ever loved, his first wife had been abducted, never to be seen again," Dr Clements said. "He'd lost his child. He'd lost his arm in battle. Tongerlongeter — like others defending their lands against the world's most powerful empire — is not recognised in statues, memorials or plaques. The scene could not have been more different than one from 60 years earlier, when European explorers first started landing in Van Diemen's Land. Dr Clements describes these explorers as curious and generally well-intentioned towards Aboriginal people — compared with what was to come. As colonial expansion rapidly increased by the 1820s, there was soon conflict. The kidnap of women and girls by sealers and some settlers, and the competition for scarce resources, like kangaroos, saw the start of more organised Aboriginal resistance taking in multiple bands, led by men like Tongerlongeter. "Tongerlongeter was defending his homeland, but there were more proximate causes. For example, the systematic abduction, rape, and murder of Aboriginal women and children," Dr Clements said. Aboriginal people would attack solitary huts during the day, while Europeans would attack at night, Dr Clement said. Then came the Black Line — the conscription of 2,200 soldiers, convicts and settlers to capture the remaining Aboriginal people. While the campaign itself was largely unsuccessful, the show of force proved overwhelming to Tongerlongeter. Historic records show he suffered a catastrophic injury to his arm, requiring amputation by his comrades without anaesthetic, the bone ground smooth with rock before the wound was cauterised. The group agreed to an armistice, or truce, but in their ultimate meeting in Hobart, Dr Clements notes that governor Arthur did not keep records of what was discussed. Tongerlongeter and the others were exiled to Flinders Island, losing his only child on the way. But he continued to be a leader while in exile, before dying of illness in 1837, aged 47. "We just need to get over this sense that this wasn't a legitimate war and that these people don't deserve the same sort of recognition as those who fought in our overseas conflicts," Dr Clements said. "It should be a conversation for all Tasmanians so that we can all feel a part of this because, after all, someone like Tongerlongeter, we can all admire a man like that. The idea of women and girls being kidnapped from their families to live with sealers on remote islands is something that Nala Mansell often reflects on. It was the reality faced by Walyer — a young north-west Tasmanian Aboriginal in the 1820s. "Her childhood would have included freedom, culture, being taught by her elders," Ms Mansell said. "I can only imagine the terror that she would have felt … being captured and kidnapped and taken to a foreign island with white men that she'd never seen before. Walyer was known for her determined attitude and cunning nature, likely driven by the trauma she had experienced. She observed the use of firearms by her captors, and was able to escape. Walyer engaged in forms of violent resistance; Ms Mansell said she led others in helping to cause terror among white settlers in Tasmania's north. She was again taken to remote islands, where her resistance continued to the end. "I just think she embodies the Palawa spirit," Ms Mansell said. Walyer — and the other women and girls kidnapped during the Tasmanian colonial period — are also not physically recognised in the state. The Tasmanian government this week announced it was no longer pursuing a treaty with the state's Aboriginal people and would instead establish a truth-telling and healing commission. There was previously a push, which included the RSL, to establish a memorial to the frontier conflict near the cenotaph in Hobart, but this ultimately did not go ahead. Tasmania is also the only state that does not have an Aboriginal-run cultural centre, originally proposed for Macquarie Point, but now also cancelled. Instead, plaques and monuments — such as one that celebrates Abel Tasmania for his "discovery" of Tasmania — have prominent positions, remaining a source of frustration for the Aboriginal community. That plaque sits on the public-facing side of a government building in Launceston, used as offices for the Tasmanian premier. Ms Mansell said stories of Aboriginal resistance are vital for Tasmanians to be aware of and to reflect on. "It's up to the state government or the local councils who have the ability and the funds to be able to install some type of acknowledgement, but to work without the Aboriginal community so that we can find ways to honour and celebrate Aboriginal people," she said. In a statement earlier this week, Aboriginal Affairs Minister Jacquie Petrusma said the truth-telling and healing commissioners would promote respect and self-determination. "It is a critical and necessary step towards recognising past injustices, gaining a greater understanding of the contemporary challenges being faced by Tasmanian Aboriginal people, and making real progress in healing the wounds of the past," she said.
Yahoo
29-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
Fred Anzevino, founder of Theo Ubique Theatre, dies at 67
Fred Anzevino, a touring Broadway performer turned Chicago director who created one of Chicago's most distinctive and successful neighborhood theater companies, died Monday at home in Evanston at the age of 67. Anzevino's death was announced Monday night by the board of directors of the Theo Ubique Theatre Company, the company he founded. He had been in the midst of rehearsals for his next show. Anzevino was the passion behind the strangely named Theo Ubique, a Greek-Latin hybrid meaning 'God present in everything,' a theater company he founded in 1997. He said at the time that he had grown weary of the increased commercialization of musical theater even though he had been a busy touring actor. 'Theater heals through honesty, concentration, simplicity, awe,' he told the Tribune. 'If one can evoke elements of the spiritual on stage, it can heal all people.' He relished staging Broadway musicals in a tiny space. First at the Heartland Studio Theatre, then at the 60-seat No Exit Cafe, both in in Rogers Park, and finally in a custom-designed theater on the Howard Street border of Chicago and Evanston, Anzevino worked his magic through countless jewel-box productions of titles from Stephen Sondheim's 'A Little Night Music' to 'Pump Boys and Dinettes.' Several Chicago companies went on to produce so-called micro musicals in the city, but Anzevino was the first to do so with equal measures of integrity and success. His secret sauce was his ability to spot, and then snag, formidable young talent. And then figure out how to make them shine. His musicals often were cast with recent graduates of the city's leading musical-theater training programs, thrusting forward the careers of young graduates, many of whom went on to major careers. He also was able to forge relationships with two highly talented musical directors in Austin Cook and then Jeremy Ramey; Ramey worked with Anzevino on 42 shows over a 12-year period and said Monday night that he was 'heartbroken and devastated.' 'Fred was an institution and a teddy bear, all at once,' said Sawyer Smith, an actor currently working at the Signature Theatre near Washington, D.C. 'I remember meeting him for the first time. I was so nervous. All of the actors I admired had cut their teeth at Theo with Fred. He saw you intimately and knew how to get you to dig deeper. Once you were under his wing, he was your biggest champion. He fought for who he believed in, for what he believed in.' 'What Fred did for storefront musical theater in this city will always be unmatched,' said Christopher Chase Carter, a choreographer who worked at Theo Ubique. 'He set the standard.' Born in 1957 in Providence, Rhode Island, Anzevino showed early promise as a baseball player but instead studied theater at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York City, at Rhode Island College and at George Washington University. As a young actor, he was part of the national tour of the Tony Award-winning musical 'Big River.' Although the cause of his death has not yet been determined, Anzevino was open about being an AIDS survivor and was a man who long had lived with HIV. He considered himself deeply fortunate, and it was that seriousness of purpose that informed both his work with collaborators and his deeply emotional productions. At its creative peak between about 2008 and 2016, Theo Ubique shows dominated local awards ceremonies. Memorable productions also include stagings of 'Jacques Brel's Lonesome Losers of the Night,' 'Evita,' 'Chess,' 'Cabaret' and 'The Light in the Piazza.' Anzevino was not daunted by complexity nor by the seeming size of shows; everything, he believed, could be staged intimately, if you had talented collaborators. He staged 'Cats' in a room that many would have felt was barely big enough for a litter box. With help from supporters and Evanston officials, Anzevino managed to raise enough funds for a new theater space which opened on Howard Street in 2018, just managing to get on its feet prior to the pandemic. Thereafter, Anzevino, anxious to give younger artists opportunities and fearing his generation was becoming out of step, stepped back some. But at the time of his death, he remained Theo's artistic director and was in rehearsal for 'Diana: The Musical,' which he was co-directing with long-time collaborator Brenda Didier. Theo board chair Stephanie Servos said Monday night that the company's board of directors were devastated by Anzevino's death and that she hoped the company would be able to rename the theater in Anzevino's honor. 'Fred was like a father to me,' Servos said. 'The larger the theater gets, the more external problems there are and the more difficult it becomes for honesty to appear,' Anzevino told the Tribune in 1997. 'Spiritual and holy theater can only be performed in small and dingy spaces.' Dingy disappeared over the succeeding years. But never the small, and never Anzevino's insistence that his art, and his artists, had sacred purpose. Survivors include a sister, Joann Benedetti. 'He worried so much about me even though he was my little brother, Benedetti said Tuesday. 'Fred was just a very humble person. I'm going to miss him so much.' Plans for a memorial service are pending. Chris Jones is a Tribune critic. cjones5@
Chicago Tribune
29-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Chicago Tribune
Fred Anzevino, founder of Theo Ubique Theatre, dies at 67
Fred Anzevino, a touring Broadway performer turned Chicago director who created one of Chicago's most distinctive and successful neighborhood theater companies, died Monday at home in Evanston at the age of 67. Anzevino's death was announced Monday night by the board of directors of the Theo Ubique Theatre Company, the company he founded. He had been in the midst of rehearsals for his next show. Anzevino was the passion behind the strangely named Theo Ubique, a Greek-Latin hybrid meaning 'God present in everything,' a theater company he founded in 1997. He said at the time that he had grown weary of the increased commercialization of musical theater even though he had been a busy touring actor. 'Theater heals through honesty, concentration, simplicity, awe,' he told the Tribune. 'If one can evoke elements of the spiritual on stage, it can heal all people.' He relished staging Broadway musicals in a tiny space. First at the Heartland Studio Theatre, then at the 60-seat No Exit Cafe, both in in Rogers Park, and finally in a custom-designed theater on the Howard Street border of Chicago and Evanston, Anzevino worked his magic through countless jewel-box productions of titles from Stephen Sondheim's 'A Little Night Music' to 'Pump Boys and Dinettes.' Several Chicago companies went on to produce so-called micro musicals in the city, but Anzevino was the first to do so with equal measures of integrity and success. His secret sauce was his ability to spot, and then snag, formidable young talent. And then figure out how to make them shine. His musicals often were cast with recent graduates of the city's leading musical-theater training programs, thrusting forward the careers of young graduates, many of whom went on to major careers. He also was able to forge relationships with two highly talented musical directors in Austin Cook and then Jeremy Ramey; Ramey worked with Anzevino on 42 shows over a 12-year period and said Monday night that he was 'heartbroken and devastated.' 'Fred was an institution and a teddy bear, all at once,' said Sawyer Smith, an actor currently working at the Signature Theatre near Washington, D.C. 'I remember meeting him for the first time. I was so nervous. All of the actors I admired had cut their teeth at Theo with Fred. He saw you intimately and knew how to get you to dig deeper. Once you were under his wing, he was your biggest champion. He fought for who he believed in, for what he believed in.' 'What Fred did for storefront musical theater in this city will always be unmatched,' said Christopher Chase Carter, a choreographer who worked at Theo Ubique. 'He set the standard.' Born in 1957 in Providence, Rhode Island, Anzevino showed early promise as a baseball player but instead studied theater at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York City, at Rhode Island College and at George Washington University. As a young actor, he was part of the national tour of the Tony Award-winning musical 'Big River.' Although the cause of his death has not yet been determined, Anzevino was open about being an AIDS survivor and was a man who long had lived with HIV. He considered himself deeply fortunate, and it was that seriousness of purpose that informed both his work with collaborators and his deeply emotional productions. At its creative peak between about 2008 and 2016, Theo Ubique shows dominated local awards ceremonies. Memorable productions also include stagings of 'Jacques Brel's Lonesome Losers of the Night,' 'Evita,' 'Chess,' 'Cabaret' and 'The Light in the Piazza.' Anzevino was not daunted by complexity nor by the seeming size of shows; everything, he believed, could be staged intimately, if you had talented collaborators. He staged 'Cats' in a room that many would have felt was barely big enough for a litter box. With help from supporters and Evanston officials, Anzevino managed to raise enough funds for a new theater space which opened on Howard Street in 2018, just managing to get on its feet prior to the pandemic. Thereafter, Anzevino, anxious to give younger artists opportunities and fearing his generation was becoming out of step, stepped back some. But at the time of his death, he remained Theo's artistic director and was in rehearsal for 'Diana: The Musical,' which he was co-directing with long-time collaborator Brenda Didier. Theo board chair Stephanie Servos said Monday night that the company's board of directors were devastated by Anzevino's death and that she hoped the company would be able to rename the theater in Anzevino's honor. 'Fred was like a father to me,' Servos said. 'The larger the theater gets, the more external problems there are and the more difficult it becomes for honesty to appear,' Anzevino told the Tribune in 1997. 'Spiritual and holy theater can only be performed in small and dingy spaces.' Dingy disappeared over the succeeding years. But never the small, and never Anzevino's insistence that his art, and his artists, had sacred purpose. Survivors include a sister, Joann Benedetti. 'He worried so much about me even though he was my little brother, Benedetti said Tuesday. 'Fred was just a very humble person. I'm going to miss him so much.' Plans for a memorial service are pending. Chris Jones is a Tribune critic.
