In February Australian Human Rights Commission found in its report systemic racism present at Australian universities. Prior to this Debbie Bargallie a professor at Queensland’s Griffith University and an honorary professor in the Centre of Critical Indigenous Studies at Macquarie University explained her own journey and experiences that today inform her work unmasking Australia’s racial contract – the title also of her award-winning book.

In her lecture in Ljubljana she built from Cedric Robinson’s work on how racial systems survive through constant recalibration, rewriting policies, shifting language, and adapting institutions to sustain white supremacy and preserve the status quo, similarly to Alana Lentin’s argument of continual “restitching” of the old to keep pace with new social and political conditions. She talks about Indigenous knowledge, belonging and resistance, emphasizing that what is needed is a change of the system and not a change within it.

Questions asked and the interview transcribed and edited by Kristina Božič

Many believe that in Australia the »project« of integrating the Aboriginal people into the society can be seen successful. How do you see these processes – what was it like to gain education in a system of settler colonialism and become a scholar?

The idea that Aboriginal people have been successfully “integrated” into Australian society is deeply misleading. Education under settler colonialism was never designed to include us. It was designed to assimilate us, often by limiting expectations rather than expanding opportunity.

Some of the earliest Aboriginal people to attend university, for example Margaret Williams‑Weir in the late 1950s and Charles Perkins in the 1960s, were only able to do so then, telling us how long higher education remained inaccessible to Aboriginal people.

My own path reflects this. I grew up about an hour south of Sydney and went to school in the 1970s and early 80s. Like many Aboriginal people of my generation, I left school early. University simply was not really something on the horizon for us. I only entered higher education later, around the age of 30. Becoming a scholar has not been a story of smooth inclusion as it demanded navigating institutions shaped by settler‑colonial values and expectations. Aboriginal presence in universities is often read as success, yet it has occurred despite the system, not because of it. Therefore, the question is not whether integration has worked, but what cost the Aboriginal people have paid to be recognised within the system.

What made you leave school early?

I grew up in an industrial, coal-mining town, Wollongong. I am the first in my family to gain university education. I left school at 15, after completing Year 10. I had wanted to become a PE teacher, but my head teacher told me I was not smart enough. I believed it for a long time.

Choosing higher education later in life was therefore also a pushback– a way of saying: I am good enough, and I can do this.

After leaving school, my father paid for me to go to secretarial college, and then I worked, travelled, and kept working. Over time, I realised there had to be more. I did vocational training, obtained a Diploma in Community Welfare while working, then started a Bachelor of Social Science and entered the Australian Public Service, working across Indigenous policy and programs.

My path was shaped by class, race, low expectations, and exclusion. This is what stories of “integration” miss. They ignore how many Aboriginal people were actively discouraged from education, and how much resistance and persistence it takes to claim it later.

What kept you going?

Being told in school that I was not good enough, I think. I never set out to be an academic. I was working in the Australian Public Service when my mum suffered a major stroke. Flexible or remote work were not an option. I could not leave my mother alone on life support, so I left. After about a year and a half I was offered a lifeline with a small PhD research scholarship and from there, one thing led to another. I persisted and refused to accept the limits placed on me.

Has the experience of working in the public sector additionally supported your work, research and analysis?

Absolutely. It informs my work. I research the experiences of Indigenous workers in the Australian Public Service and how systemic, structural, and everyday forms of racism intersect. These dynamics are not abstract. They are lived, institutional, and deeply embedded in how workplaces function for Indigenous people.

Where has progress gone? There have been backward slides in educational attainment, the racism has grown also with the recent referendum on Indigenous rights and representation. Is it possible to get ahead of this ever-evolving system?

It depends on how we understand progress. Structurally, Indigenous Australian peoples remain at the bottom of almost every socioeconomic indicator: health, education, employment, incarceration. In that sense, progress has stalled. In some areas we have gone backwards.

The 2023 referendum sought to amend the Australian Constitution to recognise Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples and establish a constitutionally enshrined Indigenous advisory body, commonly referred to as the Voice to Parliament. It was overwhelmingly rejected. The debate leading up to the vote, and its aftermath, revealed a clear racism backlash. Long‑standing prejudices, misinformation, and resistance to even modest forms of Indigenous recognition were openly mobilised and normalised. What is often contained within institutions became visible.

At the same time, access to education has expanded. More Indigenous people are entering institutions that once excluded us. But being in the system is not the same as the system working for us. Often, we are fighting the system from within. There is a very limited space at the top, and that space remains overwhelmingly non‑Indigenous. In the few cases where Indigenous people do reach senior positions, it is often tokenistic. Power to drive structural change is little, and frequently accompanied by backlash if a meaningful change is pursued.

The referendum made clear how resistant the system remains to even the most limited forms of Indigenous voice.

A Palestinian from ’48, resident of Israel, said that despite appearance of equality, if as a Palestinian in Israel you want to succeed, once you step out, you have to forget and even deny your Palestinianess. Is this common for all racist systems stemming from colonialism?

Yes, this is a common feature of racist systems shaped by colonialism. What was described is a familiar colonial pattern. Across different contexts, racialized and Indigenous people if they wish to succeed are expected to leave the expression of who they are at the door. In Australia, Indigenous peoples are expected to leave outside our indigeneity. Inclusion is conditional: you are welcome only if your history, politics, and claims to justice are muted or contained.

Indigenous people are in Australia encouraged to enter institutions that were never designed for us. We are counted, showcased, and sometimes consulted, but only within narrow limits. We are expected to advise on ‘cultural issues’ but not to challenge power, to demand structural change, or name racism directly. When we do, we are disciplined, sidelined, or treated as a problem.

So, while these systems speak the language of equality and inclusion, their requirements are compliance and silence. This is true for Indigenous peoples in Australia, and it echoes what Indigenous Palestinians describe in Israel.

It is not inclusion. It is containment and depoliticization of Indigenous identity, whether Indigenous Australian or Palestinian, in exchange for conditional access.

How do you interpret the attack on policies that promote equality, despite knowing these policies were more tokenism than honest respect and inclusion?

Attacks on equality and inclusion policies are not about whether those policies work. They are about power. Even if largely symbolic, these policies still unsettle the status quo by naming inequality and making it visible. For many, even such tokenish recognition feels threatening – it challenges the idea that existing systems are fair.

In Australia, inclusion policies are mostly grounded in multicultural frameworks. These assume equity is about representation and so they try to fit different groups into existing institutions. For Indigenous Australian peoples, this is deeply inadequate. We are not migrants or minorities seeking inclusion. We are Australia’s First peoples. Our relationship to sovereignty, to institutions, and to the state is different and cannot be addressed through generic diversity and inclusion agendas.

And the system offers no recognition of this?

Yes. The system is structured around simplification and logics of divide-and-conquer. Indigenous Australians are often treated as a single, homogeneous group. In reality, there are hundreds of distinct nations with different histories, priorities, and visions for the future. Indigenous people today hold multiple political positions, they are in all major political parties, have opposing views … There has never been one unified Indigenous voice.

But the system does not recognise this complexity and so inclusion becomes superficial and selective. We do not need better representation within existing frameworks, but systemic and structural change. Without it equality policies remain symbolic, and resistance to them is just another mechanism to maintain existing power.

Where does change need to start?

It must start with recognising Indigenous sovereignty. Taking seriously Indigenous voices, knowledge, and ways of doing things. There is still a deep reluctance to accept that Indigenous Australians know what is best for us and for our futures. Too often, decisions are made about us rather than with us. And these decisions are framed through systems that were never designed to reflect Indigenous priorities.

The referendum failed. Even some Indigenous peoples were against it. Some politically refused yet another process that would leave the underlying structures unchanged.

Moreover, the version that was voted on had been significantly narrowed from the original vision of voice, treaty, and truth. This is important twofold: to understand the outcome and what a genuine change would require.

The calls for reparations and restitutions for colonial crimes are gaining in strength and visibility. How important are they in Australia and do they present the underlying fear of many?

Calls for restitution are becoming louder. They do unsettle the system but not always for the reasons people assume.

In Australia, decolonisation is often reduced to the idea of land being handed back. In practice, it has never happened. Native Title claims have been sitting in courts for decades. Even when they succeed, the state usually retains control. There has been no genuine transfer of power.

Personally, I struggle to imagine what restitution would look like. It cannot be framed only around land or money. It is not about compensation in a narrow sense. What is needed is structural change. Restitution must involve Indigenous control and governance over the systems that shape our lives: health, education, justice. Particularly justice, given the ongoing over-incarceration of the Indigenous peoples.

The financial framing also exposes the limits of our current frameworks: who to compensate and how? Individuals like me with relative security or communities who lack adequate housing, infrastructure and access to basic services. These questions matter, but they miss the larger point.

First, we need a recognition that Australia is unceded Aboriginal land, and that Indigenous peoples know best how to determine our futures. Restitution cannot be assimilation into the existing systems. It must mean ending the control, the containment and the policies that serve settler advantage. And this is what the system fears: any meaningful form of restitution requires admitting harm and shifting power, not symbolically but actually.

The useful fear seems to be, if the Indigenous peoples get the land back, will we, settlers be thrown into the sea?

The fear you mention, the idea that settlers would be “thrown into the sea” if Indigenous people regained land, reflects what Indigenous Australian scholar Aileen Moreton-Robinson theorises as white possessive logic. It is the deeply ingrained belief that the nation, the land, and its resources are owned by settlers and must be defended against Indigenous claims.

This logic places strict limits on how far recognition of past crimes and injustices can go. Indigenous peoples can be granted some acknowledgment, but not too much, perhaps symbolic inclusion, but not too broad. Most certainly they should not be given real power, land, or decision-making authority. This would present a threat to settler security, property, and entitlement.

What is interesting, is that this fear has never been a reflection of Indigenous demands. Aboriginal peoples never wished anyone to leave. What we are asking for is recognition, justice, and the right to determine our futures on our own terms.

You mentioned yesterday that Indigenous understanding of sovereignty is not legally recognized. What does Indigenous sovereignty entail?

Indigenous sovereignty cannot be understood through modern, state-based definitions. It is incommensurable with them. Indigenous sovereignty is grounded in the understanding that we belong to the land. We are of the land, rather than that the land belongs to us. Sovereignty, therefore, lies beneath the soil, not above it. This is not something symbolic or abstract. Indigenous sovereignty is not exercised through parliaments, courts, or legal titles. It is neither something that can be granted by a state. It is material, relational, and enduring. It is lived and enacted through everyday practices, obligations, and responsibilities. In this sense, we do sovereignty in how we live our lives.

Indigenous governance, law, and knowledge systems may not be recognised by the Australian state, but they continue to exist and operate within a settler legal order and despite its constraints. Because the state does not recognise it, this does not extinguish Indigenous sovereignty. Legal non-recognition is a political choice. It is not a statement of absence.

We, Indigenous peoples, know who we are, where we come from, and what are our responsibilities to Country. We continue to live our sovereignty regardless of whether the institutions built on our dispossession acknowledge it.

Settler colonialism has very successfully destroyed Indigenous ways and knowledge. How present is this awareness today in Australia?

Settler colonialism was very effective at disrupting Indigenous knowledge, languages, and ways of being. But it did not erase them. Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples continue to carry this enduring sense of who we are, even if the knowledge has been interrupted.

Among younger generations we see a strong desire to reconnect with culture and Country. This was impossible because of forced removals, displacement, and the suppression of language and cultural practice for many of their grandparents. Today we no longer see loss, but regeneration.

Early colonial Australia actively suppressed Indigenous languages and cultures. Today, they are reclaimed and revitalised. We know that we belong. Cultural knowledge continues to be transmitted, and the interest in Indigenous ways of knowing, being, and doing is growing.

How to ensure this does not create a rift but connects?

Non-Indigenous Australians do not need to know our cultures in detail. What they need to do is recognise and respect that we are the original custodians of Australia. That means listening and accepting that Indigenous peoples know who we are and what we need.

There is now a substantial body of scholarship across disciplines on Indigenous knowledge systems. The work and knowledge are there. Now we need willingness to read, to learn, to unlearn, and to delink from Eurocentric assumptions about knowledge and authority. There are other ways of understanding this world, and they have always been here.

How widely accessible and well spread are however, these sources on Indigenous knowledge?

The challenge remains but largely because of wilful ignorance. The sources about Indigenous knowledge are there, the scholarship exists, but there is often also a refusal to engage with it seriously.

I connect this to how belonging is understood. Many non-Indigenous Australians say they belong because they were born here and this sense of belonging is framed in national terms through symbols like flags, citizenship, or cultural rituals and celebrations. Indigenous belonging is different. We are of the land, not simply on it. Our connection is relational, lived, and grounded in responsibility to Country.

And this is what is often missing: this deeper sense of connectedness to land. Without it, Indigenous knowledge is treated as optional, cultural, or symbolic, rather than as a legitimate and authoritative way of knowing the world.

It is difficult to know what other people feel, but we can be clear about how different forms of belonging are organised. Nationalistic belonging is largely about ownership, control, and entitlement to land. It is tied to the authority of the state and to the ideas of possession and defence.

Indigenous belonging is fundamentally different. It is grounded in being from the land rather than owning it.

Some non-Indigenous Australians reject nationalist ideas of belonging and speak instead about responsibility and care for the place. But this is not equal to Indigenous belonging or sovereignty. Rather, it reinforces the need to centre Indigenous presence, agency, and political authority within contemporary settler colonial systems. There is also the risk of treating settler colonialism as a universal model that looks the same everywhere. Hawaiian scholars, for example J. Kēhaulani Kauanui have cautioned that an overemphasis on the figure of the settler can obscure Indigenous agency and sovereignty. Context matters. Indigenous peoples are not simply acted upon. We continue to assert our own ways of belonging.

We must not ignore and delete the resistance against the settler colonial systems that is ongoing?

Yes, this is crucial. Settler colonialism is a useful framework to explain structural power and settler complicity, but there is a real risk that it recentres the settler and sidelines Indigenous continuity, resistance, and rights. If this happens, the Indigenous peoples appear only as objects of domination rather than political actors. And it is at this point where the postcolonial approaches often fall short when they intersect with Indigenous studies. Too often, they miss Indigenous ways of knowing, doing, and being, and overlook how Indigenous peoples actively resist, govern, and sustain community life under ongoing colonial conditions.

Resistance takes many forms. It happens in universities, but also in Aboriginal-controlled organisations that run health services, pursue legal challenges, and advocate for community wellbeing. It is visible in national political struggles and in international advocacy, including bringing Indigenous claims to forums such as the United Nations. Mobilisation is diverse and ongoing, but the aim is shared: to challenge colonial power and improve the collective conditions of Indigenous peoples.

How do erasure and cultural appropriation play out?

In Australia, erasure was initially explicit and total. There was a belief that Aboriginal peoples would die out. Our languages, cultures, and ways of survival were actively suppressed. When this did not come about, the strategy shifted to assimilation. The logic has never disappeared, only changed form.

Today, assimilation often operates through appropriation. Indigenous culture is celebrated in selective, romanticised ways. Our art is displayed, our food is consumed, our symbols are embraced. But this appreciation is carefully detached from history, resistance, and power. Culture is welcomed, while Indigenous sovereignty, political struggle, and ongoing injustice are avoided.

What is consistently erased is Indigenous resistance. This includes contemporary forms of epistemic violence, particularly in academia when Indigenous scholars may be cited or showcased symbolically, but our work is often not taken seriously, engaged with, or allowed to challenge dominant frameworks. We are visible but contained.

And so, erasure and appropriation work together. First removes Indigenous peoples as political actors, the second consumes Indigenous culture without confronting the structures that continue to dispossess us.

What is the fear that drives this violence?

Fear of losing power. It is the fear that recognizing Indigenous sovereignty and resistance would destabilize settler authority and challenge the idea that the current order is natural or deserved.

But you are less than 4 percent?

It is delusional. And this makes it revealing. The fear has nothing to do with numbers or individual loss. It is the fantasy that if Aboriginal peoples are given ‘too much’, we will somehow take everything. It is a delusion fuelled by misinformation and racist myths about Indigenous privilege, and it produces a constant state of hysteria.

You see it in public debate and in media commentary. One of the defining features of racism in Australia today is its denial. Few people believe they are racist, even as they daily help reproduce racism.

This is how structural and everyday racism work together to sustain white supremacy. And white supremacy here is not about skin colour per se. It is a technology of power: a set of practices, policies, laws, and institutional logics that organise who holds authority and who is marginalised. Historically, it justified the taking of land. Today, it operates through legislation, bureaucratic systems, norms, and entitlement. Anyone can be complicit in it and benefit from it, regardless of race.

How then to not be complicit?

It starts with recognising power and being willing to relinquish it. Not symbolically, but in practice. Sharing decision-making, ceding space, and changing how one behaves, relates to others, and moves through institutions.

It requires actively working against systems that exclude Indigenous peoples rather than quietly benefiting from them. That can involve creating opportunities, opening doors, and supporting Indigenous leadership, even when it challenges existing hierarchies.

Above all, it means refusing comfort. Not going along with arrangements that feel neutral but in fact, reproduce inequality. Non-complicity is not about good intentions. It is about choosing to act differently within systems of power, even when it comes at a cost.

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