Dance photos reminder of a troubled trainee

Sydney Morning Herald/February 12, 2005
By Robert Wainwright

There is a personal file on Cornelia Rau kept at the Mary Street offices in Surry Hills.

It is not clear why. The young woman who has focused so much public attention on mental illness has not been to a workshop or lecture of the self-help group Kenja Communications for more than six years.

They asked her to leave in 1998 because, says Kenja co-founder Jan Hamilton, it was clear Cornelia Rau was ill and in need of psychiatric help beyond the capacity of an organisation established to "enhance the self-empowerment of individuals". She had been attending classes - on and off because of her job - for six months.

Ms Hamilton makes no excuse for Kenja's attitude: "We are not an organisation set up to help someone like Cornelia. We are for people who are seeking to enhance their abilities," she said.

Cornelia did not fit in. Although her attendance to classes such as ballet, choir and drama was infrequent, her "scattered, disorientated" behaviour was noticed. She was asked to leave after she "walked off" at a Kenja eisteddfod in Melbourne, according to Ms Hamilton.

As Ms Hamilton spoke, defending the role of the organisation, her lawyer sat with the green ring binder that summarised six months of Cornelia Rau's life; observations and evidence of the state of mind of a young woman who was about to topple into a mental nightmare that would end up in the Baxter detention centre.

Among the documents are several letters, some typed, others handwritten, from Cornelia to "Ken and Jan and everyone" - the husband and wife team of Ken Dyers and Jan Hamilton who founded Kenja in 1982. The last letter is dated October 3, followed by a card the next day, thanking the couple.

She wrote: "Thank you very much for all the increased life force that I have gained through the Kenja training. The skill levels I have reached with the Kenja training have increased my creativity level in all areas of my artwork. This has enabled me to put my artwork in exhibitions much sooner than I would have dreamed possible. Thanks, Love Cornelia Rau". Ms Hamilton could not shed any light on why Cornelia began Kenja classes in early 1998. The group has "hundreds, even thousands" through its doors in Sydney, Melbourne, Canberra and Parramatta each year.

There is no actual membership, just attendance (at a cost) to "energy conversion" meditation, lectures on self-confidence, workshops called klowning, and classes on dozens of activities from ballroom dancing to music and aerobics.

The walls of the dance studio at Surry Hills are lined with photographs of beaming Kenja devotees. Cabinets are filled with trophies for Kenja competitions, all stamped with the group insignia - the fearless bunyip.

It's just before 6pm. There is an energy conversion workshop starting at 6.20 and the offices are busy; one man finishing his dancing lesson, some women organising tomorrow's activities, families arriving with prams.

Ms Hamilton, neatly coiffured and in her mid 50s, is unflustered by the activity around her. She admits being uncertain about how much to say about Cornelia.

She rejects stories about Cornelia being involved in a love tryst or being "shamed" into leaving because of her behaviour.

"We are not responsible for Cornelia's condition . . . we are not a cult. It's a witch-hunt," Ms Hamilton says, offering a booklet which details the group's ethics, including a warning against "gossip".

So what was the behaviour which prompted their concern?

"Cornelia was scattered, disassociated. After she walked off during the show in Melbourne I told her that she needed help; that she needed a psychiatrist and we couldn't help her. She agreed and accepted the situation. There was no anger."

Why was she remembered among hundreds passing through each year? "Her behaviour. She needed help. I find what happened to her remarkable; very sad."