Burn the Colony: Crafting a Play About Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Deaths in Custody

Nazaree Dickerson* and Sarah Woodland**

Sheetala Bhat

Abstract

This article takes the form of a conversation between Wardandi/Bibbulman Nyoongar, Burmese theatre maker Nazaree Dickerson, and non-Indigenous theatre scholar Sarah Woodland. As Nazaree embarks on producing Burn the Colony at Melbourne’s Malthouse Theatre, the discussion explores the complexities of addressing deaths in custody within the context of contemporary First Nations theatre for activism and protest in Australia. Burn the Colony presents a unique perspective, raising critical questions about the limits of allyship, the readiness to mobilise for justice, and the dire consequences of ignoring Black deaths in custody. Nazaree reflects on a creative process marked by urgency and challenge, one that takes a toll on her mental health while serving as a plea for Australia to acknowledge the ongoing crisis and take decisive action to end it.

Keywords: Australian theatre, First Nations Australian playwrighting, Aboriginal deaths in custody, anti-colonial dramaturgies

Introduction

First Nations peoples have had enough of the corrupt justice system. It was designed to stop us from existing and it is effective. A fine could mean jail time. A police interaction could end in death.^[1]

More than 30 years after the Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody in Australia (Johnston), the tragic trend persists, with over 568 deaths reported since the Commission and 44 since 1 January 2024 (“Deaths in Custody Australia”). Despite comprising just 3% of Australia’s population, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples account for 32% of all prisoners in 2022 (“Prisoners in Australia”). This stark overrepresentation is rooted in racist systems of over-policing, punitive welfare, and the criminalisation of poverty and disadvantage, which have endured since colonisation.

Contemporary First Nations Australian playwrights and theatre makers have steadfastly resisted these systemic injustices, making powerful works that celebrate their survival and sovereignty. This artistic resistance dates to the 1960s and 1970s, exemplified by Kevin Gilbert’s 1968 play, The Cherry Pickers, written during his 14-year prison sentence. From Jack Davis’s Barungin: Smell the Wind (1989) to Declan Furber Gillick’s Bighouse Dreaming (2019), First Nations Australian theatre makers have fearlessly tackled the issues of over-incarceration and deaths in custody.

This article takes the form of a yarn^[2] between Wardandi/Bibbulman Nyoongar, Burmese theatre maker Nazaree Dickerson, and non-Indigenous theatre scholar Sarah Woodland. As Nazaree completes the writing phase of Burn the Colony for Melbourne’s Malthouse Theatre, the discussion explores the complexities of addressing deaths in custody within the context of contemporary First Nations theatre for activism and protest in Australia.

Melbourne’s Malthouse Theatre where *Burn the Colony* will be staged. Photo: Shkuru Afshar/Web/Creative Commons

Nazaree: I am a Nyoongar yok originally from Boorloo Western Australia. At 13 years old I ran away from home. On the streets of Boorloo, the police knew me well. In juvenile detention they knew me so well I had a nickname—Glitter Girl. In 2003, at 21 years old, with my three-year-old in tow, I began studies in performing arts. I had found purpose as a storyteller. I struggled to juggle home and study. By third year I was completely burnt out and I had to quit six months before I graduated, but theatre kept calling me. In 2012, I relocated Naarm (Melbourne) and began to unpack my own intergenerational trauma. It was through theatre work that I gained understanding of how much it affected me and my family. In the last 10 years I have evolved from performer to change-maker. I will never take my privilege for granted. My mother was forced into domestic labour and paid with rations; the alternative was jail. I write because I have to, even when the story is painful. It helps me understand my place in the world, and maybe I can help someone else understand theirs.

Sarah: I am a non-Indigenous Anglo-Australian with European settler ancestry. I was born in 1970s South Africa, very briefly witnessing the terrible injustices of the apartheid era before moving first to Bolivia and then to Australia. I think these early experiences of other cultures and power struggles contributed to my lifelong interest in pursuing ideals of social justice. For nearly 30 years, my professional life has been focused on applied theatre and community engaged participatory arts as a practitioner and researcher. I am ashamed to admit that my introduction to genuine cross-cultural artistic collaborations began long after my formal education: it was in Brisbane Women’s Correctional Centre, where I began leading theatre projects in 2011 for my then doctoral study. Over time, more and more First Nations women from Australia and Aotearoa New Zealand joined these projects. I began working with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander artists and knowledge holders who, along with the women in prison, became my teachers and mentors in navigating this space. This is a lifelong project

Snap protest in response to the death of an Aboriginal woman in Dame Phyllis Frost Centre, Melbourne, 2021. Photo: Matt Hrkac from Geelong /Melbourne, Australia, CC BY 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons

We, Nazaree and Sarah, have known each other since 2022, when we met as part of a team working with ILBIJERRI Theatre Company on developing a theatre-based model for sexual health education in communities (Woodland, Bell-Wykes, and Godwin). We also share an office at Victorian College of the Arts and have team-taught a first-year undergraduate theatre subject. We come to this conversation as colleagues who are interested in foregrounding the voices of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander theatre makers in a scholarly context, where the work has previously been either marginalised or heavily mediated through a non-Indigenous lens (Syron).

Burn the Colony presents a unique perspective, raising critical questions about the limits of allyship, the readiness to mobilise for justice, and the dire consequences of ignoring Black deaths in custody. In this yarn, Nazaree reflects on a creative process marked by urgency and challenge, one that takes a toll on her mental health while serving as a plea for Australia to acknowledge the ongoing crisis and take decisive action to end it.

***Burn the Colony*: a Work in Development**

It’s 2026 and Australia is entering civil war. When an explosion rocks the central business district, Charisma—a regular citizen—is racially profiled and blamed for the attack, accused of being part of Blak grassroots activist group The 7s, and vilified by the authorities and the media. Following the attack, Charisma and four other random people find themselves locked down together in a convenience store. Forced to coexist, the group grapples with privilege, misinformation, racism, and humanity. Through their eyes, we see how the colony has evolved into what it is today and how the media has influenced attitudes towards First Nations peoples and protected the image of the police. We see the dying politics of White Australia that enforces these lies. With people giving their lives for their countries every day, the play considers how far Australians are willing to go to protect a lie. Or will they finally understand why we need to Burn the Colony?

Sarah: So, let’s talk about why you’ve decided to make this work and why now?

Nazaree: Yeah, I guess, as a playwright, I want my work to challenge society. It was time for me to share my feelings about the way First Nations peoples are treated by the police in this country—in particular, deaths in custody, police violence and the broken justice system. For a Blakfulla [colloquial], a police interaction could mean death. The violence continues and if we don’t address this as a nation, something worse could happen, something that we can’t turn back from.

Wow, yeah. And does the play deal with what that something really bad could possibly be?

Yeah, it definitely poses a situation that if this event occurred, it would be a turning point for the worse in our nation’s already bleak history. We look at events in other countries from the safety of Australia believing we won’t have those things; we don’t have bloodshed on our streets in the way that some places like Syria do. We don’t have the conflict like what is currently happening in Gaza. We aren’t seeing that type of bloodshed on our streets, but there are things happening. What if we don’t stop Aboriginal Deaths in Custody now—we could easily get to that place.

Yeah. So, what stage are you at in the writing?

I’m at the end of what’s been a pretty long two years. I started writing in 2022. I thought my question was clear to begin with. What if an Aboriginal person committed an act of terrorism? We haven’t seen that before, but what if? The events that have unfolded over the course of my writing have changed the narrative in unexpected ways.

What events are you talking about?

The Voice referendum was a NO vote—Australia denied a First Nations Voice to Parliament.^[3] All of the conversations that played out in the lead up and beyond really highlighted to me the mentality towards First Nations peoples. The majority of the nation said NO. It was and still is shocking. That was the big thing that changed during the process of writing.

That had me questioning my approach. I was being too polite, I had to dig deeper. 2023 was the deadliest year on record for Aboriginal deaths in custody (“Deaths in Custody Australia”). It was no longer a choice. I must write this work.

So, there is an intersection of social and national events, and then you’ve also talked about things that are personal to you. In what ways have those things changed your approach to the work?

I’m coming at it from a truth telling perspective, more hardcore now. I’m still new to writing, I’ve got a couple of plays under my belt and getting this commission was a big deal for me. So, I wanted to make sure that I was writing something that was going to be palatable for audiences and the company Malthouse and share a message for the greater good.

Yeah.

I began with more “cotton wool cladding” and was looking at it with a satirical lens. In earlier versions of the script there was more humour, more comic relief. I suppose humour is a way I deal with grief. That’s changed now. I’ve tried to capture the diversity of Australians good and bad. My characters’ attitudes and beliefs are based on reality, drawn from media platforms, lived experience and historical records. It should shock. Look at the world: Palestine, West Papua, Myanmar; we see the brutality of humans. What if someone decides the only option left to have their voice heard is an extreme act?

I’ve had many conversations over the years: how long must we play this reconciliation game? Reconciliation^[4] means once we were at peace, let’s get back to that. The majority of the nation just denied us a voice and still there is a call for reconciliation. People are angry and ready to fight, what have we got to lose? We’re at a marker in history where people need to be heard. During COVID, Australians took to the streets over wearing a mask. We cannot underestimate people power. The media controls the narrative. Misinformation represents us negatively every chance they get. Nothing is changing.

Yeah, I remember hearing after the referendum, some of the leaders said, “We’re done with reconciliation now. We’ve tried that and it’s not working. We have to try something else.”

This year the theme for Reconciliation Week was “now more than ever.” Once again First Nations peoples are expected to rock up and play nice when this awful taste from the referendum lingers and deaths in custody continue.

And then there’s this weird cognitive dissonance for me around the fact that you don’t see anything now about the referendum result in the media. As soon as there was NO vote, it was all gone, we moved on to the next thing in the news cycle.

There has been a lot of sweeping it under the rug. Total disbelief for First Nations peoples and our allies. It speaks volumes about our nation. There is little care, we’re still reeling from it and the media has gone silent on it. Silence is violence.

Media outlets control the narrative. Evidence shows when there is a positive story, like a young Blakfulla becoming a millionaire by winning a fishing competition (Garrick), there will always be an attempt to mar that positivity. There is little appetite for anything pro-First Nations in the mainstream media unless it strengthens our nation’s image internationally. Most Australians form their opinions and attitudes about us from mainstream media.

Yeah, so with Burn the Colony, what type of work is it? What style or approaches are you using?

A political tragedy steeped in dark satire? It will be highly physical with the aim of affect. I want people to feel what it’s like to be First Nations in this country.

Political tragedy, yeah great. So, I’m sensing that it’s not naturalistic?

I have been inspired recently by Reza Abdoh. I want the madness of Bogeyman to resonate in this work (Marowitz). It’s heightened, it’s cruel, it makes demands of you. As a Blak maker there is pressure to make “nice” work that informs and educates, that champions reconciliation and healing. Sometimes you don’t want to. My work is my way of expressing myself and right now, I’m angry and I’m not the only one. I want this work to challenge the most allied person to question, ‘How far will I go to support First Nations peoples?’

Yeah, so this a great theme: the limits of allyship—how far allies are willing to go to support people is a fascinating question.

We all have causes we care about, whether it’s standing against bullies, violence against women, or standing with First Nations peoples. How far does that allyship extend? Would you raise fists against the police to stop deaths in custody? I have an adult son. It was my duty as a parent to teach him about the police: “Do not oppose them because they will kill you. They don’t care.” It sounds harsh but that’s our reality and we’re over it.

The police must be held accountable at all costs. So, if we strike, they will strike back, and when our communities get bombed, will people stand with us? Will all the YES voters create a blockade for us? Will they take a bullet for us? We haven’t seen this unrest since the civil rights movement which led to the ‘67 referendum where we were finally counted in the census as humans. People fought side by side against the authorities. We can stop Aboriginal Deaths in custody if we come together but are you willing to fight?

Yeah, a very provocative question. So, what do you hope this work will do? You said already you want the audience to be pushed and to be challenged and to feel something. Is there anything else?

I hope that this work will be a call to action or a warning. Australians have been complacent long enough. I don’t want to see any more of my people’s bloodshed. I don’t want to fire a gun or shoot someone. But I’m also angry and ready to fight. I would give my life if it meant no more deaths in police custody.

…and when you say the work is a warning, do you mean First Nations communities, or the wider community?

I’m an advocate for First Nations peoples. I believe in equity for all creatures. I want peace, not war. Until everyone has peace none of us should rest.

It sounds like you’re coming from the perspective of a pacifist who does not want to see violence and bloodshed. But I guess in any protest or activist ecology, there are different perspectives, some of which are more radical and more willing to go the distance towards violence. And others who take a very different approach, and we see that reflected in the First Nations activist space in this country. How does your work speak to that?

First Nations peoples are all expected to have the same politics. We’re expected to back each other no matter what and that’s simply not the case. Most people no matter their politics don’t like violence and certainly not extremism. I’m both. Violence served me in the past, to protect myself and my family. We are all capable of violence though and some Mob [colloquial] are willing to go further, take up arms—they’re ready to fight back.

It’s not far-fetched when you look at the reasons people radicalise. When a person is feeling extreme angst and becomes desperate to have their voice heard, they will do anything. Even taking their own life and the lives of others for a greater cause. There are First Nations peoples out there feeling extreme angst and what shall they do with that angst in a country that denies their right to a voice? Then you have the different factions and degrees of tolerance for the radical voice. It’s easy for those who have not been affected to say violence is not the answer. Yet far-right white nationalists have infiltrated every part of Australian society, including the police force since the Frontier Wars (Spearim).

Yeah, and it raises the issue that came up during the American civil rights movement and again during Black Lives Matter, there was a debate about what type of protest is acceptable to the mainstream; the idea that the (White) mainstream praises Black activists using peaceful protest as a kind of well-behaved gold standard, but we’ve seen that it doesn’t always work.

Exactly. Young people these days are creative in the ways that they protest, but even then, there’s this social activist culture or this online activist factor, where a cause becomes trendy and might get a lot of airtime for a month or so, but as soon as the cool kids lose interest, the rest of the world does too. That is exactly what media and the powers that be want us to do so they can debunk our standpoint. We’ve seen this with the Voice referendum.

So, what worries you about this work?

A lot. I don’t want to fuel negative energy in the world. Am I reinforcing negative stereotypes? Will people miss the point? Will I do more damage than good? Maybe. The characters show diversity of attitudes towards First Peoples but it’s not easy to digest. So, my biggest worry is that I’m going to miss the mark and offend people without reason.

I actually had to step away from writing this story completely for a few months because it was too much. People might take this as me saying we should start a war, but the war has been going since 1788 and the only way to stop it is to burn the colony.

This play is truth telling and foreshadowing. Despite my worries, I must share the truth and foreshadow our future if we don’t change.

Yeah, yeah, it’s a speculative fictional view, so that’s a really tough balance to manage. Do you think that it’s possible you might get some backlash?

I was, for a long time, but the fire has grown in me over the last few months of seeing more of the same. Deaths in custody and no police accountability. I can’t care anymore. I’ve got to write this work for me, to heal some, and to channel this feeling into something positive. If nothing else I hope this work starts conversations because at least if we are talking about it together, then change is possible.

Yeah, fantastic. So, Burn the Colony obviously builds on a strong legacy of Black activist performance in Australia that highlights issues of over-incarceration, deaths in custody, and other systemic injustices.

I guess so…

So, how heavily you will draw from or build on that legacy? Who have been your influences in that space?

My Mum was stolen from her family at two.^[5] The “Protector of Aborigines” took a special interest in my family after my ancestor, William Harris, led a deputation of Nyoongar men to see the Governor of Western Australia and demanded better conditions for Aboriginal people. Raising a First Nations man in this country, many times I questioned my choice to bring him into this world, because what did I bring him into? These things influence my work a lot.

Powerhouses like Rachael Maza and Kamara Bell-Wykes, who are total bosses at their craft but do it with love and integrity. People like yourself, using theatre to empower. I draw my strength from these examples because I’ve experienced the power of theatre. In primary school, I saw two Aboriginal actors perform Bindjareb Pinjarra for me and my class. I’d never seen Aboriginal people on stage, and it set my trajectory to become an actor. My theatre elders taught me who paved the way—trailblazers who started the National Black Theatre and Nindethana Theatre. The activism that birthed Blak theatre was revolutionary. They could protest without being arrested; the police still tried to intervene, but their own laws prevented them. I draw strength from all those storytellers and freedom fighters, our early theatre makers like the late Bob Maza and Uncle Jack Charles.

And there’s a lot of comedy or satire in those works as well. Is there still a place for that in Burn the Colony?

I will provide relief, and these are the moments we see the humans behind the politics. Face to face they are confronted with the reality of their ideals. If there is humour it speaks to the notion that ‘we are more alike … than we are unalike,’ to quote Maya Angelou.

Beautiful. And so, how will you keep (or how have you so far kept) yourself mentally well, given that this is so connected to you and your own story and your own lived experience?

I had to take about six months off, so coming back to my writing, I’ve been keeping myself well by acknowledging the spiritual labour it’s requiring. Lots of self-care and long walks on the beach.

Yeah, and time with your dog, no doubt, as well. Is there scope for this within Malthouse’s commissioning process—are they giving you space to do that?

Well, I had to take the time. My deadline for this work was at the end of 2023 and Ijust had to say I can’t finish it yet; I need more time. It didn’t occur to me earlier how much of an impact this work was going to have on me. Lots of research, looking at case studies, looking at the real world, politics … I had to reassess. I now space out the work with lots of time on either side of my writing blocks. This shift has been so beneficial because now I feel like I’m in a really strong position to get the final draft in. Yeah, I just feel like it’s time now. It’s time for this work. Also having a creative team who understand the complexities of this subject—my dramaturg, Amy Sole, is a First Nations person, which is the ultimate safety factor for me. I don’t have to explain my feelings to them, they get it.

It takes the time it takes. And you mentioned case studies. I’m assuming you mean like specific case studies of deaths in custody?

That’s right. I’ve read case studies, I’ve looked at high-profile cases that have been in the media, and how they were reported on. I’ve spoken to friends, family and community members about their experiences. I’ve also looked at historical attitudes towards First Nations peoples and how some have evolved into White nationalism. I have family members who were murdered by the police when they needed medical assistance. Do you know how hard it is to hold the police to account? They get the benefit of the doubt every single time. I’ve been mistreated by police on numerous occasions. Dislocated joints, nerve damage from tight cuffs. When I was 15, they kept me in an interview room for hours with no access to a toilet. I had to soil myself and they came in, sprayed air freshener everywhere, and laughed about how much the room smelled. I’ve seen my brother beaten and my son’s father attacked multiple times, even hospitalised. One time his face was swollen, eyes closed over, from the police beating him. They said he was drunk and fell over. What could we do? It’s our word against theirs. Abuse from authorities is normal to us; we expect it. Who polices the police?

Yeah, so I was thinking about Archie Moore’s work “kith and kin,” which won the Golden Lion at the 2024 Venice Biennale, which traces his ancestry going back 60,000 years on the wall, and then stacked on a table in a pool of water are hundreds of records of Aboriginal deaths in custody (Bremer et al.).

Stunning work…

And you know, I guess I’m thinking about your own very direct experience of this, and that of people in your family. How do you see your sense of responsibility in terms of your own relatives and friends and people you know—and yourself to a degree—what’s your sense of responsibility with this work towards them?

I have to be a part of truth telling. Theatre is my weapon, my flamethrower. I will share what it’s like to live as a First Nations person in the colony. I can see why a White Australian doesn’t care about First Nations peoples. It’s confronting and it threatens their identity as an Australian. I want to show how damaging that fear has been and could be if we don’t take accountability. Justice for all or Burn the Colony!

A vigil for the Australian frontier wars in Canberra, 2013. Technoevangelist, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Acknowledgement: Burn the Colony was originally commissioned by Malthouse Theatre. It has been generously supported by ILBIJERRI Theatre Company and Australian Plays Transform.

Endnotes

^[1] Nazaree Dickerson, Burn the Colony project proposal, 2023.

^[2] Yarning is now gaining prominence in scholarly research as a legitimate form of knowledge generation and reporting that recognises the strong oral traditions within Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander cultures and privileges First Nations’ ways of knowing, being, and doing (see Barlo et al., Thorner et al., and Woodland et al.)

^[3] In October 2023, the Australian government held a constitutional referendum to establish whether the people were in favour of enshrining an Indigenous Voice to Parliament. This was the culmination of extensive work by the Referendum Council to achieve consensus across Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Communities to present the Australian public with a proposal for Voice, Treaty, and Truth through the Uluru Statement from the Heart in 2017. The referendum was defeated, with most Australians voting “NO,” which has been attributed in part to a lack of bipartisan support (McAllister and Biddle). This was a significant blow to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander rights in Australia, with a damaging and divisive debate dominating the media in the lead up to the vote.

^[4] While Australia is one of the only colonised nations that does not have a treaty with its Indigenous peoples, a push towards ‘reconciliation’ has nevertheless dominated debates around Indigenous politics since the 1990s. While there has been some positive progress from this discourse and associated initiatives, the idea of reconciliation implies that there was conciliation in the first place, and some argue that there has been an uncritical adoption of this concept without a true acknowledgement of the continued conflict, structural violence, and inequity that exists in Australia (Little and McMillan).

^[5] The landmark report Bringing them Home: Report of the National Inquiry into the Separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from their Families (Wilson) detailed the extent and impacts of government policies of forced removal that were carried throughout the early nineteenth century up until the 1970s. For many in Australia, the term “Stolen Generations” has become a kind of short hand for the cruel acts of separation, institutionalisation, physical and sexual abuse, and neglect that have resulted in widespread intergenerational trauma among aboriginal peoples.

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*Nazaree Dickerson is a Wardandi/Bibbulman Nyoongar and Burmese person from Boorloo (Perth), Western Australia. Naz is an actor, writer and director, currently based on Gunditjmara country. A performer for many years, Naz has worked with leading theatre companies including State theatre of SA, JUTE theatre (QLD), Ilbijerri Theatre Company (VIC) and Ensemble Theatre (NSW). nazaree.dickerson@unimelb.edu.au

**Sarah Woodland is a Senior Lecturer in Theatre, Victorian College of the Arts, University of Melbourne.She is a researcher, practitioner, and educator in applied and socially engaged theatre, with expertise in theatre in prisons and criminal justice, and theatre in health education. She has over 25 years’ experience in the arts and cultural sectors in Australia and the UK and her work features in leading arts and interdisciplinary journals and publications. sarah.wooldand@unimelb.edu.au