In the Yolŋu worldview, land and people are not separate things. They are interwoven—spirit, soil, and songline one and the same. Few embodied that unity more steadily than M Marika, a senior elder of the Rirratjiŋu clan, who died this month in north-east Arnhem Land. He was 64.
For more than three decades, Mr Marika stood as a pillar of his community—not by force of volume or title, but through a quiet, resolute commitment to his people, their future, and the land that held them. He was among the first Indigenous rangers appointed in 1992 to care for Country through the Dhimurru Aboriginal Corporation, a role that blurred no lines between tradition and responsibility. He rose to lead the organization. The job, in truth, had already chosen him.
Mr Marika inherited a legacy of leadership. His father was a prominent land rights advocate, and his clan descended from what some describe as Yolŋu royalty. But rather than elevate himself, he turned that inheritance into a generational project: to protect the environment, link Yolŋu youth with culture and purpose, and assert that traditional knowledge was not a relic, but a guide for the future.
To many in the region, he was simply and reverently known as a peacemaker. In 2004, faced with mounting social unrest, Mr Marika helped found the Larrpan patrol, a community-led response to youth dislocation, substance abuse, and crime. His answer to disorder was not punishment—it was presence. Foot patrols, kinship, and cultural grounding were his tools.
He was instrumental in founding the Learning on Country program, which braided Yolŋu ecological knowledge into school curricula. He did not seek to replace Western education, but to root it more deeply. His efforts offered a model for others: that Aboriginal governance, land management, and social health could be addressed together—and must be.
Recognition followed, reluctantly accepted. He was Nhulunbuy’s Citizen of the Year in 2020. He received a Lifetime Achievement Award in land management that same year. He was nominated as a Local Hero of the Northern Territory in 2025. These were not accolades he pursued. He preferred walking the shoreline, clearing marine debris with rangers, or preparing his sons to carry on the work.
The personal costs were great. He endured the early deaths of both a son and a grandson. Yet even in mourning, he remained steadfast—training his remaining children in leadership, making plans for the future of the clan. He lived not for recognition, but for continuity.
His Christian faith sat comfortably beside his cultural obligations. Both taught him that strength could be gentle, and that service was sacred. To those who knew him, he was a rock—steady, weathered, alone at times, but never unmoved. “Caring for Country,” his colleague and fellow leader Djawa Yunupiŋu told Australian Broadcasting Corporation, “was caring for culture, identity, and spirit.”
In the loss of Mr Marika, north-east Arnhem Land has not just lost an elder, but an architecture of trust. His absence leaves a silence that echoes. Yet the tracks he left—across beaches, through boardrooms, and within hearts—will guide others still.
NOTE: with regard to the use of Mr. M Marika’s image with this post, I gave careful thought to the cultural protocols that many Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities observe around naming and depicting deceased people. In the case of Mr. M Marika, I chose to publish the tribute using his name and image because the Rirratjiŋu Aboriginal Corporation, which represents his community, had already done so publicly in their own tribute, as had other local sources.
I recognize that practices vary across the more than 200 Indigenous nations in Australia, and that customs around bereavement are deeply important and deserve respect. Where possible, I try to follow the lead of the individual’s community, and I appreciate the responsibility we have as journalists and storytellers to engage thoughtfully and sensitively, especially when sharing stories about First Nations peoples.
