Except, perhaps, Australia’s indigenous population.
Here’s something from the book:
He’d seen something like this out in the red country, although he’d not been certain that it was art in the way Ankh-Morpork understood it. It was more like a map, a history book and a menu all rolled together. Back home, people tied a knot in their handkerchief to remind them of things. Out in the hot country there weren’t any handkerchiefs, so people tied a knot in their thoughts.
They didn’t paint very many pictures of a strong of sausages.
“’s called Sausage and Chips Dreaming,” said Dibbler.
“I don’t think I’ve seen one like that,” said Rincewind. “Not with the sauce bottle in it as well.”
“So what?” said Dibbler. “Still native. Genuine picture of traditional city tucker, done by a native. A fair go, that’s all I ask.”
“Ah, suddenly I think I understand. The native in this case, perhaps, being you?” said Rincewind.
“Yep. Authentic. You arguing?”
“Oh, come on.”
“What? I was born over there in Treacle Street, Bludgeree, and so was my dad. And my granddad. And his dad. I didn’t just step off the driftwood like some people I might mention.” His ratty little face darkened. “Coming over here, taking our jobs . . . What about the little man, eh? All I’m askin’ for is a fair go.”
For a moment, Rincewind contemplated handing himself over to the Watch.
“Nice to hear someone siding with the rights of the indigenous population,’ he muttered, checking the street again.
“Indigenous? What do they know about a day’s work? Hah, they can go back to where they came from too,” said Dibbler. “They don’t want to work.”
“Good thing for you, though, I can see that.“ said Rincewind. “Otherwise they’d be taking your job, right?”
“The way I see it, I’m more indigenous than them,” said Fair Go, pointing an indignant thumb at himself. “I earned my indigenuity, I did.”
This is, of course, satire. To his audience, Pratchett doesn’t have to say this kind of attitude is malformed, as they know it. Nevertheless . . . there are no indigenous characters in the book, save for the god who carries the entire universe around in a sack on his back.
I have to wonder if Pratchett chose this deliberately – avoiding that indigenuity for the sake of avoiding the argument completely.
This wouldn’t fly as well in America, land of sensitivity readers. Someone would surely complain about the lack of indigenuity, or the story of FourEcks being told through the eyes of, ahem, Whitey. Because it is, no bones about it. And not even a fantasy novel of a satirical nature would likely escape the SR sphere of influence.
I’m not sayi8ng it should, or that Pratchett should be wound around that particular axle. I am saying there are others who would happily wind him up and churn him around a bit for the insensitivity. Why, there are humanized kangaroos and crocodiles and sheep which get more play in this story than the indigenous human population.
Again, not saying the story isn’t delightful just the way it is. I love Pratchett. Nevertheless . . . an author with far less clout than Pratchett might find a fight on his hands, were he or she to try publishing this now in the United States.
Still, no worries, right?
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