Angus Withers

For South Australians, local history is a valueless exercise. Churches are quaint but never compelling. The state's founders are just meaningless names attached to places: John Hindmarsh, Robert Torrens, Lord Glenelg. An identity that relates beyond a number of popular brands and events is misguided, if not ridiculous. Yet, if one looks into our past, several abnormal histories emerge that make us ask if we can rightfully afford to neglect it: none more bizarre and startling than that of Ellen Turner and Edward Gibbon Wakefield.

Ellen Turner, the 15-year-old daughter of a printing works operator in Cheshire, was attending a boarding school in Liverpool, England. One day during her residency in 1827, the school's headmistresses received an urgent message from a servant named Edward Thevenot. He claimed that her mother had become paralysed and needed to see Ellen urgently. Though there were some causes for concern about the request, such as Turner’s failure to recognise Thevenot and the letter requesting that Turner not be made aware of her mother’s condition, the request’s gravity took priority - and Turner was released to Thevenot without delay.

Turner wasn’t aware of the paralysis but vaguely knew the issue concerned her mother and so was anxious to return home. However, Thevenot informed her they would need to procure a doctor from Manchester before they could return. It would be there that she would meet the man responsible for the crisis: Edward Gibbon Wakefield, a man who go on to lead the colonisation (process) of South Australia.

Wakefield, at this time, was not yet a notable figure. At thirty-one, he felt caught between his material circumstances and his ambition. He had come from a reasonably wealthy family and held the education to work as a diplomat, but still lacked the means to fulfil his aspirations of entering into parliament. Recently widowed, he devised a scheme to realise his goals: he would kidnap the wealthy Ellen Turner and force her to marry him.

Upon meeting Turner, he informed her that the story surrounding her mother’s paralysis was false. In reality, she had been taken out of school because her father’s business had collapsed and he had fled to Carlisle to evade his creditors. By the next morning, her father was no longer just in debt but actively wanted by the law. There was, however, one way of resolving this issue.

Wakefield had spoken to one of the bankers after her father, and found out they were willing to transfer her father’s estates to Ellen’s husband. Thus, if Ellen agreed to marry Wakefield, he would be able to reclaim the properties and save her family. To further convince her, Wakefield had his brother fabricate a story about having met her father and received his blessing for the marriage. Under such multifaceted pressure, the adolescent Turner hesitatingly agreed to marry Wakefield, and the group travelled to Scotland where the more lenient marriage laws would allow the ceremony to occur.

Ellen would eventually be recovered by her brother in France, and Wakefield was arrested in Dover a short time later. He was sentenced to three years in prison, where he would devise and publish the "systematic colonisation" policies which were used as the guiding principles in the founding of the colony of South Australia. Once out of prison in 1831, he became a major figure in the colonisation process, and is today commemorated in the suburb of Port Wakefield, with various location names and a large plaque on Adelaide’s Parliament House.

With such an extraordinary history that directly touches upon many modern polemics - such as the nature of consent, abuses of power, and even viably paedophilia, all performed by a celebrated coloniser - it seems remarkable that the general population knows so little about Wakefield’s actions. After all, in a period marked by historical reexamination, how could such a perfect villain escape the throws of controversy and protest?

The chronicles of Wakefield have never been difficult to find, but in an environment where nobody is looking, this is of little importance. One could blame how minimally local history features within the educational curriculum, the reactionary history wars that suppressed the dissemination of Australian history, or even the cultural cringe Australians are alleged to feel in the face of cultural reflection. Any argument can seem self-evident in hindsight. What matters is the prevailing sentiment that South Australian history is not worth knowing, likely because Adelaide is not an interesting or important place.

Rather, we care about what comes from the place where things matter: The United States of America. Looking at many of the major protests that have found their way into Adelaide in the last few years - Black Lives Matter, anti-vaccination and lockdown marches, abortion rallies - it’s clear that our population is more preoccupied with American politics and history than our own. While it goes without saying that we share many of the same issues, it’s clear that it matters very little how present they actually are here. This is because at the most basic level, we do not look to discuss Australia; we are really looking to discuss America through the veneer of Australia. We translate their issues instead of localising them, and If their woes somehow happen to match ours, then that is but a meaningless bonus. Even Wakefield’s intrigue is derived in part from what his actions mean in the realm of American politics rather than in our own.

One could argue that in such a largely globalised world, the distinctions between local and world politics are becoming increasingly blurred. One could even argue that Australians wouldn’t be asking these questions if it weren’t for foreign influence in the first place. However, though the matters of foreign nations are of incredible importance and help us build an understanding of our world, they are no substitute for addressing our own.

By allowing ourselves to remain ignorant of our local circumstances, we allow unjust treatment to pass in the one place where we can influence it the most.