Image source: https://www.ruleoflaw.org.au/crime/criminal-trial-processes/criminal-law-processes-court-jurisdiction/youth-koori-court/

 

In the solemn theatre of the courtroom, where every word is weighted and each gesture scrutinised, it is the lawyer’s and barrister’s role to craft a narrative, to engage the judge in a delicate dance of legal arguments, all with the aim of securing the best possible outcome for their client. The atmosphere is tense, and formal, with every eye in the room trained on the key players; every set of eyes, that is, except for one.

For Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples, the simple act of avoiding eye contact is not a sign of disengagement but a deeply rooted expression of respect. Yet, in the cold lens of Western courtroom norms, this gesture can be misinterpreted as evasiveness, dishonesty, or a lack of interest. The weight of these cultural differences can make navigating the legal system an isolating and disorienting experience for First Nations people, where even an innocent glance, or lack thereof, can shift the tides of justice. The need for culturally aware practices in these high-stakes environments has never been more apparent.

Before starting Law School, I thought I had a reasonable grasp of the inequalities faced by Indigenous peoples in Australia. As a Wiradjuri woman, I was aware of the challenges our communities endure, but I didn’t fully grasp how deeply those challenges are entrenched within the legal system itself. Growing up, I knew about injustice from a personal and cultural perspective, but it wasn’t until I began my legal studies that I saw just how systemic it truly is.

Australia’s legal system, built on colonial foundations, often doesn’t account for the cultural values, traditions, or lived experiences of First Nations peoples. From the way courtrooms operate, with their formal protocols, to the rigid application of laws that don’t reflect the complexities of Indigenous lives, the system can feel like a hostile, alienating place for our people. The weight of these structural barriers is heavy. Language, culture, and tradition meet rules that seem indifferent to them.

It was through stories from mob that I started to see the real human cost of this disconnect. Stories of restoring birth and death records for Indigenous mothers in remote communities, reconnecting them with lost pieces of their history, for example. It’s a small act in the grand scheme of things, but for those women, it meant everything. This isn’t something you learn in law school: the power of reclaiming stories, and the profound impact it has on people’s sense of identity and justice. It opened my eyes to the importance of Indigenous voices within the legal space, and how vital it is to create a system that understands, respects, and reflects our cultural values.

For me, entering the legal profession is not just about learning the law, it’s about transforming the very foundations of a system that was never built for us. It’s about ensuring that the law becomes a tool for healing and recognition, not punishment and exclusion. As Indigenous people, we need more than representation; we need a legal system that works for us, that honours our stories, and that holds space for our unique ways of knowing and being.

Aunty Jo, or Ms. Joanne Selfe, has been thinking about this for decades. As the Ngara Yura Project Officer at the Judicial Commission of NSW, she has spent over 30 years breaking down barriers between Indigenous communities and the legal system. The Commission established the Ngara Yura program in response to the recommendations of the Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody that judicial officers should receive instruction and education on matters relating to First Nation’s people’s customs, culture, traditions and society. This report and the National Inquiry into the Separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from Their Families exposed the deep injustices facing First Nations people and laid the groundwork for Aunty Jo’s mission: to enhance cultural understanding and increase access to justice for Indigenous people.

Aunty Joanne Selfe

It’s not just these cultural barriers, though, there are much deeper, systemic issues at play. As Aunty Jo sees it, the path for Indigenous people to become lawyers and barristers isn’t solely about the obstacles in the courtroom. It’s about centuries of history, the lasting effects of colonisation, and an ongoing struggle with a legal system that has often been a tool of oppression against Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people.

“I actually think there’s a few [barriers],” she tells me. “There’s the historic implications of working for a system that has been historically used against you, and that just can’t be underestimated in any way, starting with invasion.” Her words hang in the air, a reminder of the heavy burden Indigenous legal professionals carry.

When I reflect on this, I see how the layers of injustice aren’t just individual courtroom battles but entrenched in the very foundations of the legal system. The struggles of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people in the legal profession go beyond personal achievement, they are about challenging a system that was never designed to serve them in the first place.

“It’s the broader stuff. I’m not so inclined to think of those individual battles that lawyers might fight in a courtroom. I look at the bigger picture. I look at the systemic stuff, and I try to understand that. Not because I think I can break it down by myself, but to start to learn about where those things are and untie those knots.”

Aunty Jo’s words are a powerful reminder that justice doesn’t always come in the form of a verdict or a sentence. Sometimes, it’s about reclaiming what’s been lost to the cracks of bureaucracy and time. Aunty Jo recalls the early days of her work; “So we did a visit,” she says, “and we’d go up and do a culture and law day. The Aboriginal women in the community, they told us that they’d had babies that had died, and they had no records of them.”

“In those days, in the old days, those records were stored in courthouses. We went to the courthouse, Sophie, and we worked to provide documentation of their being.”

It wasn’t a grand victory, perhaps not even something that would appear in the eyes of the law as a significant act. “Doesn’t change the world, right? But it did for them.” For those women, it was a step toward reclaiming their stories, a form of justice long overdue.

This small, yet meaningful, act reveals how deeply intertwined culture and justice are for Aboriginal people. Justice is not merely about navigating a court system, but about honouring lives, histories, and identities too often erased.

The journey of Indigenous people in law is not just about representation or changing the statistics. It’s about challenging the deep-rooted assumptions and injustices that have been in place since colonisation. It’s about being able to stand in those courtrooms with the knowledge that the rules of engagement are different, and that this difference often remains concealed.

Aunty Jo talks about the importance of cultural identity and how law has always been an intrinsic part of Aboriginal life. “We’re law people,” she says. “No wonder it’s a calling to many in our community, because law is fundamental to survival. How we respect our elders, how we dance, how we know our songs, and care for country; they’re all elements of law. And I think for that reason, we’re drawn to it.”

When discussing the clash between Indigenous values and Western legal frameworks, Aunty Jo doesn’t mince her words. “A Western notion of equity is quite frankly a foreign concept,” she says. “We don’t have words that talk about that in languages that I’m aware of, because it exists naturally in our culture.”

As I listen to Aunty Jo, I can’t help but think about how much this legal system demands of Indigenous people; demands that they conform, demands that they adapt. But what if, instead, the system learned from Indigenous practices? What if, instead of focusing on cross-cultural training or superficial awareness, the deep knowledge and wisdom inherent in Aboriginal law was genuinely embraced?

Aunty Jo’s reflections extend beyond the courtroom and into the devastating realities faced by Indigenous people in Australia’s justice system. The issue of Indigenous incarceration is a national crisis, with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people being disproportionately represented in prisons. According to the most recent data, First Nations people make up just 3% of the Australian population but account for over 30% of the prison population. This staggering statistic is a reflection of systemic failure, compounded by a lack of culturally responsive legal practices and support systems.

First Nations People in NSW Legal Systems

As Aunty Jo recalls, her involvement with the Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody sheds light on these enduring issues. “One of the first things I did when I worked in the health department in the 80s, was oversee research into the morbidity and mortality of Aboriginal people in Western New South Wales between 1984 and 1987. Those dates parallel the Royal Commission’s investigation into deaths.”

Her voice carries the weight of lived experience, drawing directly from those early findings to the ongoing struggles Indigenous people face today. “What we didn’t realise at the time was that the research I was overseeing was a parallel to deaths that occurred of Aboriginal people in New South Wales in that particular period. And you know what, Sophie? Not one suicide, bub. Not one. Not one.” Her words are sobering, a reminder that the systemic neglect of Aboriginal health, well-being, and justice has roots going back decades if not centuries and effects linger today.

The Royal Commission, which handed down its findings in 1991, made 339 recommendations, many of which are still unimplemented. Aunty Jo reflects on her ongoing work, stating, “I work on two of them today. To this day, I still work on two recommendations, 96 and 97. Those two recommendations indicate that the judiciary needs to be educated on all matters to do with Aboriginal people, both historic and contemporary and that that is to be done in a no-holds-barred manner.”

Despite the findings of the Royal Commission, Indigenous deaths in custody remain an ongoing tragedy. There have been over 500 deaths since the Commission’s report, a grim testament to the systemic inequities that still plague the justice system. Indigenous incarceration continues to be a symptom of broader societal issues, poverty, disconnection from culture, and intergenerational trauma. For many Aboriginal people, imprisonment is not just an outcome of crime but a consequence of decades of systemic neglect.

Aunty Jo’s perspective reinforces that surface-level reforms cannot achieve justice for Indigenous people. “We have examples of what does work, in Circle Sentencing, Youth Koori Court and the Walama List, the judiciary works directly with Elders, and the results speak to the success of this approach.” The Youth Koori Court has been instrumental in providing culturally sensitive pathways for young Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander offenders, while the Walama List continues to champion rehabilitation and restorative justice, seeking to break the cycle of recidivism through culturally appropriate sentencing.

Listening to Aunty Jo, it’s hard to miss the motif of how persistent these systemic issues are. The legal system is not just failing to deliver justice for Aboriginal people; it’s actively contributing to their harm. From the over-policing of Indigenous communities to the failure to address the root causes of crime, such as trauma and poverty, the system continues to reinforce colonial patterns of control and punishment.

These cycles of disadvantage are not accidental, they are the direct result of a legal and social system that has failed to adapt to the needs of First Nations people. Aunty Jo’s work, and the work of countless other Indigenous leaders, highlights the urgent need for systemic change. It’s not enough to tweak the existing system; we need to rebuild it in partnership with Aboriginal communities, listening to their knowledge, and respecting their culture.

At the same time, it is essential to acknowledge that the legal system has also been a powerful tool in reclaiming Indigenous rights. Without the legal system, we would not have gained Native Title or landmark decisions like the Mabo case, which redefined the relationship between Indigenous peoples and the land. Mob have worked within the framework of this system to achieve critical outcomes, proving that while the system may be flawed, it can still be leveraged for justice when we persist and assert our rights.

The message is clear: much of the law, as it stands, is not working for Indigenous Australians. But within that law, Aunty Jo sees hope. “For our young ones, and for those who work in the space to feel assured that they’re actually working in an area that is so consistent with our culture—they should be proud,” she says. There is power in law, and for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people, reclaiming that power, on their own terms, is both a challenge and a calling.