I grew up just a short drive away from Mandala, Australia’s first gay commune, and had no idea about it until last year. I first heard about Mandala when collaborating with , the Tweed’s first-ever LGBTQIA+ digital history project.
Tweed Valley on the NSW North Coast is known for being that hinterland halfway point between Byron Bay and Gold Coast. Never in a million years did I think it was home to the most unexpected of communities, tucked away on a lush private property in the forest. Mandala was an escape. It was an abode for an otherwise ostracised minority group of those times. From the 1970s until the 1990s, Mandala and its queer radical allies paved history for the regional queer community. They created a safe space. A place of freedom, of inclusion, of love.
Finding out about the Mandala community has changed my perspective on growing up gay in a regional town in more ways than one. The area I grew up in has a rich queer history after all and I was completely unaware for so long. The discovery of Mandala’s history has inspired me to write more regional queer stories, to keep their legacy going in one way or another.
The area I grew up in has a rich queer history after all and I was completely unaware for so long.
The community was established by David Johnston in 1973, six kilometres from the village of Uki. Johnstone lived in Melbourne before founding Mandala, working as a television producer and director. However, he had a vision for something far different than working in the commercial TV industry. Johnstone had been involved in the early counterculture of art and cultural festivals, including the historic Nimbin Aquarius Festival.
Those gatherings inspired him to experiment with a rural lifestyle. And so he packed up his Holden and relocated to the North Coast, buying the same rural oasis that would become home to Australia’s first piece of rural land owned and run by homosexuals for the benefit of the queer community.
Not only was Mandala a safe space for the gay community, but it was also a place for those who needed time for healing. As the years went on, the Mandala community grew vastly in size and infrastructure projects were built on the property. Promoted as “the gay alternative”, the community soon attracted the interest of gay press, inspiring city folk to come and experience something a little different with a visit to Mandala.
Not only was Mandala a safe space for the gay community, but it was also a place for those who needed time for healing. Source: Courtesy of Australian Queer Archives and Small Town Queer
In the 1980s, Mandala held several gatherings and events for gay men and women, with always at least four to five permanent residents on the commune.
One thing that fascinates me about Mandala and the cultural gatherings of those times is their intrinsic similarity to the a recreational festival culture I grew up close to in the Tweed, and still engage with from time to time. These gatherings where dance music and art bring people together in a rural setting. A place where you switch off from the outside world, even just for a weekend. While Mandala was far different in many ways, they are both esoteric countercultures in their own unique ways.
But Mandala wasn’t just a queer utopia. The collective also campaigned to have the voices of regional queer folk heard.
But Mandala wasn’t just a queer utopia. The collective also campaigned to have the voices of regional queer folk heard. They regularly entered floats in the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras to represent the queer community from rural areas, and did so until 1992, when Johnston ended the collective and re-settled in Cambodia, where he passed away in 2017.
Looking back on queer history is crucial, because it shows the long road it took to reach where we are today, and how far society has progressed in the process. Through Mandala, our queer radical allies remind us that building a community can lead to groundbreaking feats, not only by creating a safe space, but by shaping history for generations to come.
For me, growing up queer in the Tweed felt a little alienating at times. There was no gay culture there, or education on how to navigate through early years. This was something I went out and discovered for myself after leaving high school. I travelled and lived in various places in Australia and Canada for a few years, only coming back to the Tweed to visit my family. But that all changed when I became part of Small Town Queer last year. And I’ve never been happier to live back here.
Looking back on queer history is crucial, because it shows the long road it took to reach where we are today, and how far society has progressed in the process. Source: Courtesy of Australian Queer Archives and Small Town Queer
For many years, I kept thinking that regional towns needed more queer representation. Whether that be community groups, education, or festivals. Last year, when I received that unexpected message from the Tweed Regional Museum asking if I wanted to be a part of their project, it was an instant yes from me. And so I met with the curators and participants. We wrote the words we needed to write. We spoke those words in the Small Town Queer podcast. And shared our experiences of what it was like growing up queer in regional Australia. It was only then that I began to see the Tweed through a different lens. A lens of pride, and of community, something I hadn’t previously seen in my hometown. I’m now prouder than ever being a small-town queer. And if I can keep being that queer dude I wished I knew when I was younger, then I think I’ve served my purpose.
Jordan Clayden-Lewis is a writer, content editor and dog dad based on the North Coast of NSW. His work has been published in the paperback anthology This Was Urgent Yesterday by Currency Press, and online in numerous publications. Jordan is currently working on a number of queer fiction projects. Follow Jordan on Instagram .
