Seventeen hours airborne. Dosed on a diet of A24 films and a vegetable curry, I was bracing for customs as we landed. The plane’s intercom crackled:

“Qantas would like to acknowledge the Traditional Custodians of the local lands and waterways on which we live, work and fly. We pay our respects to Elders past and present”

Wait. What?

A land acknowledgment? Over the PA? I nearly aspirated a Tim Tam.

It wasn’t just once. It was everywhere. Airports, museums, even parks. My American brain whispered, “Performance.” But the repetition worked on me like sandpaper.

Back home, we say “Welcome” like we invented the place.
Here, it’s more like: “We stole this land. Respectfully.”

We rented a car and hit the highway. No one sped. No one tailgated. Everyone kept the same damn pace.

In the U.S., the freeway is bloodsport. Here? It felt like everyone had signed a secret pact to not be a dick.

It rattled me. Not because it was wrong. But because it worked. What I called freedom might just be socialized selfishness.

Sydney was L.A. on antidepressants. Melbourne, Chicago in flip-flops. Familiar, but uncanny. Like someone recreated a U.S. city from memory and got 85% right.

Is this what globalization looks like? Global cities in different fonts?

Most people I met weren’t natives. Anglo-Australians, East Asians, Brits. A beautiful patchwork. But Indigenous Australians? Barely visible. Like a foundational instrument muted from the mix.

Tall Poppy Syndrome. It’s a cultural code here: don’t get too big, don’t act extra special. In America, we hand out medals for ego. Here? Stick your head up, they lop it off. Success is fine—just don’t be loud about it. I bristled—until I remembered Janteloven: You are not better than anyone else. Then it clicked.

Even their healthcare follows suit. Kludgy hybrid, but more people are covered. More are satisfied. They live to work, not work to die.

This wasn’t collectivism out of fear. It was mutual care masquerading as chill.

The Sacred and the Savage

Then came Uluru.

Red dirt. A biblical swarm of flies. A rock that humbles. When night fell, the Milky Way roared. Stars like spilled rock salt on black crushed velvet.

Country isn’t just land. It’s story, spirit, lineage. I wasn’t on someone else’s turf. I was crashing a sacred party I didn’t know how to dress for.

The ferry to the Reef was gladiatorial combat with Poseidon. Waves slapped the hull like unpaid debts. Everyone around me projectile-prayed into paper bags.

I clung to my seat like a crash-test dummy, doped up on Dramamine. And still, I grinned.

This wasn’t nature as spectacle. This was nature as dominatrix. I felt alive.

The reef was a cathedral. Not a postcard. A pulsing, breathing epic.

The Quiet Revolution

Every event began with an Acknowledgement of Country. Not a Welcome—that’s sacred. But a bow to the land’s true custodians.

This isn’t fringe. It’s baked into the culture.

Unlike the U.S., which at least signed flawed treaties, Australia skipped the formalities. No sovereignty. Just acknowledgment.

Is it symbolic? Sure. Empty? Not entirely. Symbols matter. Repetition rewires.

The colonial history here isn’t a subplot. It’s the spine. Settlers didn’t just displace Aboriginal people. They imagined their disappearance.

That ghost still haunts.

Eighty-five percent of Australians say reconciliation matters. The gap between intention and impact is still a canyon. But there’s a map.

Young folks and immigrants are pushing the narrative. It’s messy. But it’s motion.

As someone stitched from Native American, European, Lebanese, and African lineages, this wasn’t academic. It was a homecoming of ghosts.

The Mirror Doesn’t Lie

I didn’t go to Australia to learn about Australia. I went expecting escape—and came back burdened with truths I didn’t bargain for.

Their contradictions echo ours. But their mirror is different. Dirtier. Braver.

Maybe power isn’t winning. Maybe it’s owning what you broke. And rebuilding anyway.

P.J. Keating, a former Australian Prime Minister, said, “We simply cannot sweep injustice aside.”

We left Sydney in silence, too tired to talk, too wired to sleep. I wasn’t sure if the exhaustion was from the jet lag or from staring too long into a mirror I couldn’t unsee.

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Agustin Sanchez is the founder and publisher of The Photographic Journal. A passionate product designer, photographer, and musician – he dedicates his time to making cool shit that matters.
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