WARNING: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers are advised that the following story contains images of people who have died.
Leonie Ebsworth was around 19 years old and enjoying a night at the Empress Hotel in Redfern, New South Wales, when a man approached her and said the impossible.
"He looked me in the face and said, 'I know you from somewhere. You look like my mum," Aunty Leonie Ebsworth, now 69, reflected.
For many, that comment might sound strange and be quickly dismissed, but for Aunty Leonie Ebsworth, it made sense.
After chatting about family connections, she had a revelation: She was talking to her big brother, Manual Ebsworth, who was taken by government authorities the year she was born.
When Aunty Leonie was two, the 'welfare' returned and removed her from her family home on the Bourke reserve in regional New South Wales and took her 600 kilometres away to the Cootamundra Domestic Training Home for Aboriginal Girls.
The Bringing Them Home inquiry found as many as one in three Aboriginal children were torn from their families between 1910 and 1970 under government legislation, such as the Aborigines Protection Act.
That harrowing day in 1957 was the last time Aunty Leonie, at the tender age of two, would see her mother again.
"We lost our family, no mothers, no dad, I never met my brothers [again] til I was 16," she said.
"[People] don't understand that we lost our family, that's what hurts the most."
The painful memories of Coota Girls Home
When Aunty Leonie entered Cootamundra Girls Home, she was stripped of her name and Aboriginal culture and given a new title: 'number seven'.
The youngest of five children, her two older sisters — Loretta and Lorna — were already at Cootamundra, while her brothers were going through a at Kinchela Boys Home in Kempsey, New South Wales.
Only one of her brothers narrowly escaped government authorities after swimming across a river.
The Cootamundra Girls Home was a government-run institution that operated from 1912 to 1969, training young Aboriginal children to become domestic servants.
Aunty Leonie was one of the last girls to leave.
"[It was] very, very hard and we was treated very hard too," she said.
"We'd be scrubbing floors six o'clock in the morning, cooking, cleaning, go to school, come home and do the same thing every day."
She recalls many days in the dead of winter where she and the other young girls would cuddle each other around a chimney to escape the freezing cold.
Her older sisters made shoes from peppercorns to keep her bare feet warm, as socks and shoes were only allowed for school or church.
It's a traumatic past that still causes a lot of agony for Aunty Leonie today. This is the first time she is sharing her story publicly.
"I want [my kids and grandkids] to know what I went through before I go. There's only me and my brother left now," she said.
Aunty Leonie holds a picture of herself standing in front of a group of children at the girls' home, those she will forever call her sisters.
She can't remember what year it was but Aboriginal singer Jimmy Little and rock and roll singer Col Joye visited the home.
It was the first time she had seen another Aboriginal man since she was taken.
"This was a big day for us at the girls' home, a really good day it was," she said.
It's one of very few good memories Aunty Leonie has from 14 years at the home.
"I didn't like talking about it, but when I seen the photo with the little girls it kept coming back to me."
The rippling effect of generational trauma
Aunty Leonie started her own family when she was 20 years old, with the birth of her eldest daughter Charmaine Riley.
She now has eight kids, and around 60 grandkids and 'great grannies' (grandkids), but to this day she holds fears they could be taken away, just as she was.
"I've got a big family, and I keep them together here, I don't want them to go through [what I went through]," she said.
It wasn't until Charmaine was 20 years old that her mum opened up about her time in the institution.
Over the years, Aunty Leonie has shared more with her kids and grandkids.
But the ripple effect of her childhood continued to impact the next generation.
"Mum couldn't show love or affection to her kids, because they didn't have it [in the girls' home]," Charmaine said.
"Because of all the trauma she went through, we suffered as descendants of the Stolen Generations too.
"We didn't have a perfect life, but what we had, we were grateful. We had each other."
The policies of the time forbid speaking in traditional language and practising Aboriginal culture was denied within the institution.
"We wasn't allowed to talk about Aboriginals. If anything came on about Aboriginal people the matron would turn the TV off, or if any of our family came to the home, she'd make them go," Aunty Leonie reflected.
"We grew up with white people, knowing nothing about our Aboriginality."
Aunty Leonie said it wasn't until she got home to Bourke that she was taught the traditional ways of her people.
"My dad was a stockman, and he was initiated. He knew about all the bushtucker. I was happy when I went back home, seeing all my people," she proudly said.
This disconnection from culture has affected Charmaine and her children, too.
"She lost all her culture. I didn't know much about where I came from or my tribe," Charmaine said.
"I only found out about 20 years ago."
Remembering the National Apology
Thursday marks 17 years since former prime minister Kevin Rudd apologised on behalf of the nation for the wrongdoings of the past — a landmark moment in Australia's history.
For many survivors it represented a significant milestone in the pathway towards healing, after suffering as a result of past government policies.
But for others, like Aunty Leonie, the words 'sorry' came too late.
"I went down for [the Apology] with my daughter. But it doesn't mean nothing," she stated.
She cried when she heard the word 'sorry' but she said it brought up feelings of hurt about what she, and the other Cootamundra girls went through.
"You can't come back years later and say, 'sorry girls'," she said.
"They shouldn't have done it in the first place. They took our life; they took our childhood."
While Charmaine agrees with her mum, this year, she is recording her mother's story and sharing it at a local community event to ensure what the Stolen Generations went through is not forgotten.
"Embedded in these aunties and uncles is trauma and no one understands what they went through," she said.
"I just want to be a voice for my mum and for the Stolen Gens and let [Australians] know what we went through."
If you or anyone you know needs help: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander helpline on 13 YARN (13 92 76)
