looked to be in her eighties, but was probably closer to sixty. Boe perched next to her and they started talking. She told him she thought things had been better in the missionary days. Palm Island was spotless then. Everyone had a job, even if they weren’t paid. There was a market garden, stockyards, a turtle farm, boat builders. All the houses were immaculate, and gardening competitions ensured that everyone’s yard was beautifully maintained. There were Christmas trees for the children. Dances. A football team. Drinking was banned. There was far less violence.
Like most older people I met, this woman, a half-caste, had been taken by police from her parents, from the “retarding influence of the old myalls”, the traditional Aborigines, and sent to live in Palm Island’s dormitory. This was an island of stolen children.
Across Australia, it is estimated, between one in three and one in ten Aboriginal children were forcibly removed from their families in the period 1910–1970 and transported to distant missions, orphanages or foster families. Many children were separated from their siblings. They were often told that their parents had died, and they were given new names. One Palm Island woman, Bethel Smallwood, told me that her mother was haunted all her life by not being able to remember her own mother’s appearance. She could picture her outline, but could never give her a face.
Children in the Palm Island dormitory were ordered out of bed at 5 A.M. , and made to attend church three times on Sunday. The missionaries found it easier to teach children that Jesus would save them; adults were grounded in their traditional beliefs. Children caught speaking tribal languages had their mouths washed out with soap. Beatings were routine. Often there was not enough to eat.
“You were given a tin plate and cup, and if you forgot it, had to wait for others to finish and then look through the slops for what you could bear to eat,” Bethel Smallwood said. Girls wore dresses made from burlap bags and if they misbehaved they had their heads shaved. Native police escorted the girls everywhere. One of the girls was Amy Atkins, who now lives in Brisbane. She told me that in the 1950s the dormitory windows were nailed shut so the girls couldn’t run away. When she cried for home she was locked in jail for the night. The girls were taught basic literary, numeracy and housekeeping. When they came of age they were often sent to the mainland to work as domestic servants.
During the 1940s, Cameron’s mother was raised in the girls’ dormitory at Doomadgee; his stepfather, Arthur, in the boys’. The couple were sent to Palm Island in their early twenties, and like most people were allowed to raise their own children until they turned five, then the children were required to live in the island’s dormitories. Cameron Doomadgee’s three eldest sisters, Henrietta, Carol and Victoria, were taken from Doris, and so that she could see them for more than a few hours a week, she took on a dormitory job. Henrietta Doomadgee was making a cubby outside the dormitory in some long grass when “a white man”, not realizing she was there, poured out petrol and set it alight. She died in her mother’s arms.
That night on the jetty the lawyers and I also met three boys. They looked no more than thirteen, but said they were sixteen. One, who had a cigarette butt tucked behind his ear, sidled up to Andrew Boe and asked him for a smoke. Boe shook his head. Of his six children, the eldest, an Aboriginal foster son, had been in trouble with police. He was only a few years older than the smooth-skinned, keen, curious boy who now sat alongside Boe, wanting to talk.
The boy boasted that he drank Jim Beam. He teased one of the others, a quiet, chubby kid, for drinking camel’s piss, XXXX beer. He took the butt from behind his ear and tried to light it and when finally he succeeded the three shared the tiny stub between them. I asked the third boy
Like most older people I met, this woman, a half-caste, had been taken by police from her parents, from the “retarding influence of the old myalls”, the traditional Aborigines, and sent to live in Palm Island’s dormitory. This was an island of stolen children.
Across Australia, it is estimated, between one in three and one in ten Aboriginal children were forcibly removed from their families in the period 1910–1970 and transported to distant missions, orphanages or foster families. Many children were separated from their siblings. They were often told that their parents had died, and they were given new names. One Palm Island woman, Bethel Smallwood, told me that her mother was haunted all her life by not being able to remember her own mother’s appearance. She could picture her outline, but could never give her a face.
Children in the Palm Island dormitory were ordered out of bed at 5 A.M. , and made to attend church three times on Sunday. The missionaries found it easier to teach children that Jesus would save them; adults were grounded in their traditional beliefs. Children caught speaking tribal languages had their mouths washed out with soap. Beatings were routine. Often there was not enough to eat.
“You were given a tin plate and cup, and if you forgot it, had to wait for others to finish and then look through the slops for what you could bear to eat,” Bethel Smallwood said. Girls wore dresses made from burlap bags and if they misbehaved they had their heads shaved. Native police escorted the girls everywhere. One of the girls was Amy Atkins, who now lives in Brisbane. She told me that in the 1950s the dormitory windows were nailed shut so the girls couldn’t run away. When she cried for home she was locked in jail for the night. The girls were taught basic literary, numeracy and housekeeping. When they came of age they were often sent to the mainland to work as domestic servants.
During the 1940s, Cameron’s mother was raised in the girls’ dormitory at Doomadgee; his stepfather, Arthur, in the boys’. The couple were sent to Palm Island in their early twenties, and like most people were allowed to raise their own children until they turned five, then the children were required to live in the island’s dormitories. Cameron Doomadgee’s three eldest sisters, Henrietta, Carol and Victoria, were taken from Doris, and so that she could see them for more than a few hours a week, she took on a dormitory job. Henrietta Doomadgee was making a cubby outside the dormitory in some long grass when “a white man”, not realizing she was there, poured out petrol and set it alight. She died in her mother’s arms.
That night on the jetty the lawyers and I also met three boys. They looked no more than thirteen, but said they were sixteen. One, who had a cigarette butt tucked behind his ear, sidled up to Andrew Boe and asked him for a smoke. Boe shook his head. Of his six children, the eldest, an Aboriginal foster son, had been in trouble with police. He was only a few years older than the smooth-skinned, keen, curious boy who now sat alongside Boe, wanting to talk.
The boy boasted that he drank Jim Beam. He teased one of the others, a quiet, chubby kid, for drinking camel’s piss, XXXX beer. He took the butt from behind his ear and tried to light it and when finally he succeeded the three shared the tiny stub between them. I asked the third boy
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