Another year has gone by and still there is no treaty for the indigenous peoples of Australia. So we march again. From the makeshift aboriginal tent embassy, ‘illegally’ planted 44 years ago in front of the former Parliament House, to the present seat of Parliament. I’m sweating, not only because it is a searing Summer day, but because we cross the police line and front the seat of power. It’s nothing new, but this time I’m thinking about the police report required to complete my visa application. Of course this is small fry compared to accounts of aboriginal deaths in custody and the institutionalised racism that the loud speakers aim at the bullet-proof doors. All the same, authority prevails and making waves is a risk. But so is life and upholding ones ethics is worth it.