I am writing this from my country. Wiradjuri country.

I am at home with my parents. Together they have survived the worst Australia can throw at them. I say survived because some in their families have not. They have died far too young. They have been taken from their families. They have been trapped in poverty. They have been abused and neglected.

Mum and Dad are old. Dad is not well and needs constant support. That's why I am here. It is why my children, my siblings, my cousins are always here. This is what we do. This is who we are.

Our old people are precious. They are a library of knowledge. They are a well of compassion. They are unfathomable love. They are inexhaustible patience. Oh how they wait.

They are Yindyamarra. Respect. Quietness. Kindness.

And they are strong. So strong.

There's a world between us

I have sat with my parents watching the Prime Minister's announcement of the Voice wording. Behind him are people like me. My people. People whose families have trodden the same long hard road. I know them all. Without them, I am not here.

But I can't help feeling the distance between the halls of power in Canberra and my parent's little house in Wiradjuri country.

Space to play or pause, M to mute, left and right arrows to seek, up and down arrows for volume.

There's a world between Canberra and us. There are two centuries of history, bitter history. A flag and a constitution between us.

How do we find the words to bridge that divide? Can we?

That's the challenge of the Voice. The Voice that speaks back to power from the torment of our powerlessness.

Words matter. And when we reach for the words of politics we can't help but fall short. Already there is compromise.

The original mandate of the Uluru Statement from the Heart called for a First Nations Voice. Now we have a proposal for an Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Voice. What's the difference?

Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander are coloniser's terms. We were not Aboriginal until white people called us Aboriginal.

I am Wiradjuri. My mother is Kamilaroi. I have Dharrawal ancestry too. That means something. Our words.

Our nations. Our law. Our lore. Our culture. Our sovereignty.

I am a Wiradjuri man

I know what it means to say Balladhu Wiradjuri Gibir. I am a Wiradjuri man.

That's my father's gift. He has fought for our language to stay alive. He helped write the first dictionary of our language. He set up language teaching centres across our country in schools and jails and universities.

We have a saying Wiray Ngiyang, Wiray Mayinyi. No language, no people. Because of him and our precious old people who have fought for us, we are a people.

Not Aboriginal. Wiradjuri. Just as there are hundreds of nations across this land.

But Australia still does not know us. Australians are still learning our names. After 200 years Australians are only beginning to see us.

To speak to Australia it seems we still have to use the language of Australia. To speak to politics we have to find a political compromise.

Referendums are hard won. These words have been crafted for a political campaign. But they must also carry the weight of justice.

Our people have borne that weight. My parents carry that weight in their souls.

Can the Voice truly speak for us? Can the Voice take the words of Canberra and speak them in our languages?

Our own First Nations communities have different views on the Voice, as we should.

Australians are choosing their sides. There are political debates to be had and won. That's another day.

Politics is too small

But today I sit here with two beautiful people at the end of long lives. I am clinging to every moment I have with them. We don't talk much about the Voice. We laugh. We talk about family. Dad talks in our language. We remember. We always remember.