“The Other One Was Half and Half,Half-Caste”: A Qualitative Exploration of Colonial Narratives Used to Represent Aboriginal Children by Non-Indigenous Foster Carers in Australia

Subaltern Theory in Context

The term subaltern was coined by philosopher and political theorist Antonio Gramsci whose work concerned the dominance of a particular social group’s worldview and values as they are imposed on minority groups (Gramsci, 2020). Subaltern theory stems from a subaltern studies group; a collective of South Asian academics formed in the 1980s to oppose mainstream narrations of colonial history where colonised people were systematically excluded and silenced (Guha & Spivak, 1988). The group sought to put the subaltern at the centre of the narratives of history, as a remedy for colonial biases and to allow for redesignating the production of knowledge away from dominant western paradigms (Guha & Spivak, 1988). This challenge to authoritarian rule draws into sharp focus the epistemic violence found within colonial narratives and structures (Abdelnour & Abu Moghli, 2021). By re-narrating history from the perspectives of the subaltern, a language emerges that captures different aspects of subordination, as well as the agency of the subaltern in reversing it, recognising the agency of the subaltern acquired over time and from a diverse range of social contexts (Masiero, 2023).

In her 1988 seminal essay, “Can the Subaltern Speak?” (Spivak, 2023), Spivak details subaltern responses to colonial authority, articulating peasant rebellion and its role in subverting authority. The subaltern engages an agency that responds to it, emerging as an active subject that identifies sources of oppression and leverages its own voice, affording subaltern perspectives and their role as agents of resistance and change. The context from which subaltern theory arises is situated in institutionalised oppression, which denies voice to those who act towards change (Das, 2023; Masiero, 2023). Indigenous peoples are subaltern; that is, a group of peoples with limited or no access to cultural imperialism, and who inhabit a space of difference (Spivak, 2005). The work of Spivak (1988/2023) acknowledges that subaltern community members have a voice; they just have no place to use it. In essence, the subaltern can speak, and it does so loudly; the problem lies in the recipient, who does not listen (Behera, 2023).

Globally, Indigenous peoples have resisted silencing and have spoken out, even in historical moments when social structures were overwhelmingly against them (Pandey, 2006, 2011). Acts of resistance and survival are crucial aspects of agency for subaltern groups. Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples have shown agency and resistance through activism, land rights movements, and cultural revitalisation, reclaiming voice, identity, and sovereignty in defiance of imposed colonial systems (Brown et al., 2021). Yet the intersections of racism, colonial law, and systemic inequality have led to significant structural oppression. At its core, subaltern theory focuses on these structural root causes, as opposed to forms of cultural misunderstanding, and representation of Indigenous peoples as subaltern groups is political and often mediated through dominant frameworks and narratives (Spivak, 2005). In the context of outsourced child protection and social services, governments commonly take a hands-off approach, which can further entrench cycles of disempowerment for (subaltern) Aboriginal children, parents, and family members (Foote, 2022). This positions organisations to present best practice partnerships as legitimate and morally sound, even though Indigenous voices are often excluded, perpetuating the very power imbalances they purport to address (Turkina, 2024). As such, these partnerships are not genuine democratic engagements but are primarily outcome-based bargains designed to subvert and erase antagonistic Indigenous perspectives. They also reinforce a social objectivity where child removal, as child protection, is seen as inevitable and needed (Banerjee, 2022). As part of this exclusion, subaltern groups do not have access to cultural, educational, or economic systems held by the dominant culture, causing entrenched marginalisation and institutional oppression (Hamilton & Maslen, 2022).

Inspired by this theoretical tradition, our Elder-led research team has developed an analysis to highlight the ways that Aboriginal children and families are spoken about both in public forums and behind closed doors in the homes where children removed from their families and communities are raised. In doing so, we claim this space as a place for voice, shining light on persistent patterns of cultural oppression.

Government Intervention as Colonial Practice

In Australia, institutional racism, land dispossession, intergenerational trauma, and legal–political exclusion are not isolated issues but connected systems of subjugation (Brown et al., 2021; Dudgeon et al., 2010; Mohamed et al., 2021). There have been a plethora of government inquiries and welfare policies that have historically constructed Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples through deficit lenses (Dawson et al., 2021; Pyle et al., 2018). They are typically referred to as “at-risk,” “disadvantaged,” and “troubled,” with strengths and self-determination rarely featured (Fogarty et al., 2018).

The NTER exemplifies how deficit framings and colonial narratives are mobilised through political rhetoric. In May 2007, The Little Children are Sacred (LCS) report into Aboriginal communities in the Northern Territory, was released (Wild & Anderson, 2007). The report was co-authored by the NT Public Prosecutor (Wild) and an esteemed Aboriginal health and social justice advocate with decades of experience. On June 21, 2007, the then Australian Prime Minister, John Howard, with reference to the LCS report, publicly announced, with multi political party backing, the NTER to address various perceived problems in Aboriginal communities in the Northern Territory (Howard & Brough, 2007). Messages were delivered using emotive political rhetoric (Gottweis, 2017). Howard presented an image of suffering children for whom the Australian public ought to feel sympathy and take responsibility to care for and protect, saying “we are dealing with children of the tenderest age who’ve been exposed to the most terrible abuse . . .” (emphasis added) and “. . . to help the vulnerable, the young and the children” (Howard & Brough, 2007).

Howard (2007) also used these narratives at his opening speech at the Sydney Institute, where he presented a grave image: “Tonight, in our rich and beautiful country, there are children living out an Hobbesian nightmare of violence, abuse and neglect.” The “Hobbesian” nightmare, a term used to describe the breakdown of society into violence and disorder if there is no governing structure, evokes images of uncivilised and unruly savagery, and is another example of the historical language used to justify European invasion and settlement in Australia (Broome, 2002). Howard then compounded this image by adding the foreboding phrase “as the generation we’re supposed to save sinks further into the abyss,” an image with vivid connotations of despair (Howard, 2007). Howard complemented this dramatic image by saying “without urgent action to restore social order, the nightmare will go on – more grog, more violence, more pornography and more sexual abuse” (Howard, 2007), emphatically claiming that all readers of the report would reach the same conclusions.

There were complex connotations of race running through Howard’s speech. Although the LCS report was about the circumstances and experiences of Aboriginal children in the Northern Territory, Howard almost never described them as Aboriginal children, his rhetoric rendering Aboriginal children as being without race (Baird, 2008), creating an image of Aboriginal places, inhabited by Aboriginal adults, where raceless children were suffering. Policies to justify the NTER have been heavily condemned as racist, rushed, and did not meaningfully include Aboriginal voices in their development (Roffee, 2016). It is important to note that the LCS report recommended increased funding and community consultation, in contrast to the NTER policies of removing economic support and quarantining welfare (Johns, 2008). The authors of the LCS report condemned the NTER policies for ignoring almost all of their recommendations (Marr & Peatling, 2007).

Referring to Aboriginal communities in this way dovetailed with existing prejudices in mainstream Australia (Abjorensen, 2009). This was powerful because it amplified the underlying tensions and prejudices lodged in the Australian psyche. These tensions were not about history, but rather a more current conflict of legitimacy between Australia’s two different histories. Until quite recently, the 60,000-year history of the world’s oldest living culture was not recognised. According to history lessons in the education system, for example, the Australian nation was birthed at British invasion. This has resulted in prejudices, conflict, and difficult emotions about national legitimacy and the reasons for the disadvantage in Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities (e.g. Properjohn et al., 2024). Howard’s press conference indirectly addressed these anxieties, allowing non-Indigenous Australians to take a moral high ground, and to feel they were doing a good thing for disadvantaged and suffering children, reinforcing the dominance of western worldviews and values as they were imposed on Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities as subaltern groups (Gramsci, 2020).

We call out this rhetoric of the suffering abused child in need of rescuing as not specific to political justifications for policy decisions such as those related to the NTER. It is deeply embedded in contemporary child protection policies and practice (Harrison et al., 2018). For Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander children, removal from family most often results in placement in foster care managed by outsourced mainstream, non-Indigenous organisations. Persistent failures to comply with the ATSICPP and maintain children’s connections to their kin, culture, and community have been widely criticised (Krakouer, 2023; Krakouer et al., 2023; Liddle et al., 2022; SNAICC, 2022). The coming analysis explores how Aboriginal children in non-Indigenous OOHC were spoken for and about through foster care narratives.

Participants and Data Collection

Purposive sampling was used to recruit participants. Agency social workers identified relevant foster carers and requested permission to share their contact details with the team’s Aboriginal Researcher (author: LJ). Between April 2023 and August 2024, 27 foster carers looking after Aboriginal children volunteered to participate in interviews. All participants were non-Indigenous, female, and aged between 35 years and 67 years.

Data were collected using a research topic yarning approach. Yarning is a fluid process of knowledge sharing and respectful communication that has become an established research method in Australian and global Indigenous studies (Bessarab & Ng’Andu, 2010). It is flexible, allowing for adaptations that might be required to support language or literacy difference and suitable for both Aboriginal and non-Indigenous participants (Bessarab & Ng’Andu, 2010; Hamilton et al., 2020). Most yarning interviews were conducted in person, while nine were undertaken via telephone.

Data Analysis

The data analysis was multi-phased and took place immediately after data collection. Following the interviews, the transcripts were read collectively by two insider researchers (authors: SH and RM). Using subaltern theory as a framework, the researchers developed codes to reflect the language used by carers about the Aboriginal children in their care for example, raceless, savage other, neglectful, invisible. These codes were then reviewed and deductively applied to all interviews by both insider researchers and a third outsider researcher (author: AWB) to increase study rigour and confirmability of findings. The coded interviews were then manually analysed using thematic network analysis (Attride-Stirling, 2001). Research team members, including the Elder child protection expert knowledge holders, regularly met and reviewed data themes before deciding collectively on final themes and interpretations, speaking these otherwise hidden narratives as an act of resistance. These reviews further ensured consistency in data interpretation and ensured the centring of Aboriginal voices, while increasing rigour by considering multiple perspectives at all iterations.

Protecting “Suffering Children”

Our analysis of the discussions with carers found strong use of emotive language and assumptions about family circumstances. Critically, in questioning of carers over the status of this knowledge, it became apparent that the children’s histories and futures were imagined, rather than based on information provided to them by the Department of Communities (the Department) or agency workers.

In the following, this carer articulates a narrative suggestive of “suffering children” in a Hobbesian nightmare, and in need of rescue:

So, Mum obviously needs help and obviously her family couldn’t help her either. There’s too much uncertainty for these boys’ future. And their safety is the biggest thing that I worry about. I fear for them if they go back without Mum having any help at all. It’s not going to end nicely . . . I don’t know whether she was unsafe back then or what. But I just don’t want to see, after everything that’s happened to him by the hand of the Mum and then going back. (Carer, Interview 4)

Critical to our understanding of the status of this narrative is this same carers’ lack of knowledge of the family situation. They said:

Nobody’s given me any information and every time we’ve tried to contact her [Mum] for whatever reasons, no one knows where she is. So, she’s not been in contact with the Department. (Carer, Interview 4).

We see in other accounts, despite a lack of knowledge about families, the use of colonial and oppressive narratives that link stereotypes of Aboriginal peoples to assumptions about homelife in which children were not worth the time of their families:

Dad was incarcerated due to a domestic violence incident with him and Mum. Mum was pretty good wasn’t she, for a while, quite consistent [with contact]. And I think the minute he’s come out of prison both of them dropped off the contact. I think they’re together again (Carer, Interview 3)

I know with Mum. I think she does have other kids in care as well who are under 18-year orders who she hasn’t seen for years. She does have a dependence on drugs so I’m wondering if maybe she’s just gone back that way and not worried about the kids. Not worried about them, I don’t know . . . (Carer, Interview 15)

The use of the language I think, I’m wondering, and even I don’t know is critical here, as imaginaries rather than retellings of factual information.

The following carer talked about the children’s mother using stigmatising, dehumanising primitive/savage language. Note again here the imagined status of this knowledge:

I would assume he was born in Perth . . . I think Mum, there’s something wrong intellectual wise or nervous wise. So, she was living with Grandma . . . and then Grandma passed away so he had to come into care because Mum couldn’t cope. And that little bit I do know is that she has a few problems herself coping with life in general, I think. I don’t know what you call them, we used to call them simpletons or slow learners, but I think she’s got a problem somewhere. (Carer, Interview 10)

These imaginaries of suffering children were used as the basis to justify why a child is disconnected from their family. In these narratives, carers focus on assigning blame to families:

They [the Department] just don’t get the information because Mum’s not there to provide it. Every now and then she checks in with them just to sort of say, “hey, how are the kids?” But she doesn’t follow up on anything that she says she’s going to do as far as that goes. (Carer, Interview 16)

See, that’s one of the problems I have with [name] because Nan, I don’t think she has a very good relationship with [child’s] Mum’s side of the family. So would it be disrespectful on our behalf to explore that other option because I don’t want her to be upset. But she’s just totally overwhelmed and she’s not always available, which is sad. (Carer, Interview 5)

One carer described the arrival of a child into their care, who had been removed from a remote community located thousands of kilometres away. Given that this child would have been placed with a temporary carer as part of an emergency placement on removal, and had social worker and agency involvement, it would be very unlikely she arrived with “prickles in her feet.” The narrative of this carer epitomised racelessness, or the active ignoring of culture, and the suffering child in need of rescuing:

When she came down to us, she had two words, and they were both swear words. She was in a size 00 clothing at two. She had helicobacter, giardia, head lice and boils, and her feet were just covered in prickles. (Carer, Interview 19)

In the next quote, the carer represented the views of a young child who had a diagnosed intellectual disability (ID), using colonial narratives that draw on the stereotypical tropes commonly used to describe Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. It is unlikely that this would be the language used by a young child with ID:

If foster father says to him “Oh next week we’re going to [place], we can see Dad,” he would then say, “oh I don’t think that’s safe, how am I going to protect you? So he goes, ‘the black people are really scary they drink alcohol’.” It’s the “they drink this stuff, they have stuff, they drink stuff that makes you go crazy.” I think he has a bit of an understanding of what the bottle would look like, so obviously he’s been exposed to that . . . (Carer, Interview 2)

In some cases, carers offered a complete package of deficit, racist, and saviour narratives, representing Aboriginal children as disadvantaged and troubled using emotive language, reconstructing their identity and presenting them as raceless, suffering children:

But those stories can come, not only from Elders and that. They can come from you. You can write them down and you can have that as a Mob story that you can share. Because in all cultures, you’ve got to be progressive. Because, you know, in all cultures . . . that’s why [child’s name] likes the story, because I say that I was looking for him. I’ve been looking for him to come to our family and I was searching everywhere. And he loves that story. “You found me, didn’t you? You found me. You were looking for me” . . . he loves that story. (Carer, Interview 5)

We just get a kid. In the past, because I’ve fostered a few kids, I don’t mind until you come across something like this where they are part Aboriginal. And he is showing signs that it’s in his nature, there’s certain things that are in his nature. He likes cuddly animals like turtles and things; you know cuddly toys. So, it [culture] is obviously in his genes without being taught or having anything to do, it’s obviously in his nature. And yeah, sometimes though, there’s a couple of things he’s done since he’s been here and we think, oh yeah that’s coming from Aboriginals. Just little things that you notice (Carer, Interview 10).

Families as Non-Knowledge Holders

One of the responsibilities that the Department and foster carers are policy-bound to meet is compliance with the ATSICPP to ensure children are connected to their cultural ties. In discussing this connection to culture, foster carers discussed family members, particularly mothers, as if they had no knowledge of the obligations for compliance with the ATSICPP, or knowledge about culture. For example, this carer said:

Mum’s not got a clue really. I mean they [the Department] asked Mum what she wanted for [child’s name]. Just to learn the didgeridoo. There doesn’t seem to be any understanding of her own culture . . . I don’t think family would be any good because I don’t think Mum has got enough knowledge. And her parents are both dead now. So, it would have to be somebody outside the family. (Carer, Interview 3)

These responses were to questions about the contact children had with their families, and their answers were a way of justifying why children did not have contact with their parents:

She’s supposed to see her [Mum] every second week, but it doesn’t always come off. Just problems with Mum. It doesn’t happen. She hasn’t seen her now for six weeks. She has a brother [in other care]. (Carer, Interview 14)

Nobody’s given me any information and every time we’ve tried to contact her [Mum] for whatever reasons, no one knows where she is. So, she’s not been in contact with the Department (Carer, Interview 12)

Downplaying Culture

Other carers worked to deny the existence of an Aboriginal culture to connect to. In the following comment, we see how this carer notes that the child learns about many cultures at school, using language of people as cultural “mongrels”:

He does learn about Aboriginals at school, and I know that they learn about different cultures not just Aboriginal. They do Italian, Spanish, because there’s a mix. As far as I’m concerned, we’re all mongrels anyway . . . (Carer, Interview 10)

The narrative of this carer represents a “raceless” child and suggests that this child could not possibly be an Aboriginal child as his presentation and demeanour did not fit the stereotypical “savage” child from an Aboriginal family:

I’m sure once we meet family, we’re going to see. Look I’m telling you I’ve fostered a few kids, he is the gentlest natured, delicate, little person you’ve ever met. I think he’s only ever lost his temper once and that was because we tried to give him some medicine, and he was scared. Apart from that, he’s just placid. Yeah, it’s like, where does this kid come from? It’s just not right. (Carer, Interview 10)

This carer went on, explaining why they have not met the family or kept this child connected with his family and culture with a narrative that excluded and silenced family members. They were dismissive of the knowledge families can share and of the way of being for Aboriginal children’s families:

We find with fostering kids, if you meet their [family], it can get very complicated. So, like they’ll be sitting there telling you, “this is what we do, and this is how we do it.” And we’re sitting there thinking well we don’t do that at our house and we’re not going to start now . . . you just think, hang on a minute you’ve had your kid taken off you, you know? Yeah, so just leave it alone. (Carer, Interview 10)

Where carers acknowledged the existence of culture, there was often some discomfort. The following carer showed a lack of recognition for Aboriginal people inhabiting a space of difference, extinguishing their ways of being and doing:

I’ve never been to an Aboriginal funeral before, and it was very different to anything that I’ve ever been to. Quite confronting. They like to cover the coffin, bring shovels out. My husband and I are British, and we were like, what is this? [Name]’s Mum did most of it. Yeah. It was weird. (Carer, Interview 14)

Carers represented the “raceless” Aboriginal child, spoke about them in ways that deconstructed or reconstructed their identity and questioned children’s identity, often in demeaning ways:

When [name, a young child] came into our care, he couldn’t even say the word Aboriginal. He didn’t identify as being Aboriginal. Actually, there’d always been a question was he or wasn’t he [Aborignal]. (Carer, Interview 5)

So yeah, look at my skin; and she’s quite dark . . . I’ve got a grandson that’s whiter than I am and he’s half Aboriginal. I’m not going to turn around and say you’re an Australian Aboriginal . . . she’ll identify herself when she’s ready. (Carer, Interview 6)

So, I think they’re actually more half-sister/brother, but she refers to them as Aunty. But again, that’s their culture. They do that. (Carer, Interview 3)

We have a granddaughter. She has literally grown up with [foster child] which is great. They’re like brother and sister. Colour’s not an issue for them. We call them our little salt and pepper duo . . . (Carer, Interview 19)

We identified instances where colonial language was used to diminish children’s identities, reflecting practices that were inconsistent with contemporary understandings of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander identity:

The other one was half and half, half-caste. I think his Mum was Aboriginal, his Dad was white . . . they are part Aboriginal. (Carer, Interview 10)

This raceless language was used as a justification for permanency in children’s placements, representing a lack of understanding for obligations to the ATSICPP:

We don’t see [Name] as a foster child. We see her as our child because we’ve had her since she was born. It would be different if they were just giving her to us just now, but because it’s been since birth we don’t see her as a foster child . . . I’m from [overseas] and my husband’s from [overseas], so she has that culture. (Carer, Interview 14)