I'd like to downsize (upscale?) to a LightPhone from my iPhone, however I need 2FA authentification app to log in to various work systems.
Does LightPhone currently support any such app?
I imagine with it a whole number of people in Tech would consider switching.
> White man got no dreaming, > him go 'nother way. > White man, him go different. > Him got road belong himself. > > — Muta, a Murinbata elder
Before the word for time was coined,
there was this: the land, already storied,
already old in the only way that mattered —
not behind, not ahead,
but beneath the feet,
alive in the walking.
The ancestors did not pass.
They settled into the waterholes,
the ridgelines, the hollow trees —
present in the pattern of things,
the design that was not made
but found, and found again,
each generation finding it
exactly where it was.
No Golden Age yearned for.
No progress promised.
The Dreaming was, and is, and will be — everywhen.
To call this timeless is a European error.
It is not outside time —
it is time, bent into a circle,
the way a clan bends kinship
until every stranger has a name.
The other people came with clocks.
They came with a God who lived
outside the world and judged it.
They came with a history
that moved in one direction only,
like a spear already thrown.
They had heaven as a destination.
They had grace as a remedy.
They had prophets racked by the knowledge
that men could be otherwise —
could be better, could be saved,
if only they would try.
One people stood inside the world.
One people stood above it,
looking down from the scaffold of progress,
calling it God's view.
The ships arrived in the month of summer.
On the shore, two kinds of curiosity
regarded each other across the water.
The Governor wrote of confidence.
He believed in it as a principle,
the way his century believed in reason —
with great force and without experience.
He could not imagine
that two such communities,
so differently constituted,
could not live together without friction
simply because he wished it.
The Dreaming had no category for this:
men who believed the land was empty
because they could not read it,
men who made the country legal
by writing it down in another language,
in a building on the other side of the world.
By the end of 1790,
the colonists no longer needed
to know if the Aborigines could help.
They could get along by themselves.
This is where the silence starts —
not in malice but in arithmetic:
we do not need them,
therefore we need not see them.
The historians came after
and wrote a century of books
about the making of a nation —
the squatters and the selectors,
the gold, the federation, the fallen —
and in all of it, a great blank space
in the shape of a people
who were there all along.
Not a lie. Not a conspiracy.
Something quieter and more durable:
a habit of not looking.
Meanwhile, on the stations,
a man the colour of the country
rose before the white man woke
and knew the water-holes by memory,
by smell, by the way the parrots flew.
He was paid in rations.
He was paid in the right to stay
on land whose name he knew
in a language the deed did not contain.
The lawyers said: this is Crown land.
The lawyers said: your wandering
does not constitute possession.
The lawyers said: time has not run
against the Crown.
And he, who had no word for time
as an abstraction, could not argue
in a language built entirely
from the premise that land is owned
by those who mark it, measure it,
and write it down.
An old man — Stanner saw him once —
burning something in a fire.
The sacred object. The connection.
The symbol linking him to country,
to the source of his own life,
to all the continuities of his people.
He was coming in.
He had decided.
He was destroying the road belong himself
because the other road
would not permit two roads.
Stanner wrote: there is nothing within our ken
that remotely resembles it.
He was right.
We have no ceremony for this.
We have no ritual
for killing what you are
in order to survive.
Another man burned nothing.
He came in because he had heard
there was something called a school,
and it was good for children.
He brought them in
to find a new life and a new identity —
this is what love looks like
at the end of a world.
The metaphysic assents.
It does not rail against the terms of life.
It says: this is what men have to be,
because the terms of life are cast.
The other metaphysic strains.
It says: men might become otherwise.
It says: grace, redemption, progress,
the consummation of history.
It says: nature is to be conquered.
These two things met on a continent
and one of them won,
not because it was truer
but because it had ships,
and guns, and a theory of property,
and a God who had given it
explicit instructions.
What defeats the blackfellow, Stanner wrote,
is his transcendentalism —
so much of his life concerned with the Dreaming
that it stultifies his ability to develop.
But read it again.
Spend a few nights in an Aboriginal camp
and experience the unique joy in life
attained by a people of few wants,
an other-worldly cast of mind,
a simple scheme that shapes a day
so it ends with communal singing
and dancing in the firelight.
And then ask what it cost
to bring that to an end.
And then ask who paid.
We are not simply a people without a history.
We are a people who defeated history —
who bent time into a circle
and lived inside it, whole,
for longer than your history is long.
White man got no dreaming.
Him go another way.
Him got road belong himself.
And the road does not end.
It only widens.
And we are still here,
standing in the space it opened.