Imagine a place where sun-kissed beaches and smiling quokkas mask a haunting past. Rottnest Island, a popular Australian tourist destination, sits atop a history of unmarked graves and colonial brutality. Known as Wadjemup to the indigenous Noongar people, this island paradise holds a darker truth that many visitors remain unaware of. But here's where it gets even more chilling: for decades, unsuspecting campers slept mere feet above one of Australia's largest Indigenous burial sites, oblivious to the suffering that had occurred there.
From the shores of Perth, a majestic blue hill rises from the horizon, sometimes shrouded in mist, other times seemingly within reach. Glen Stasiuk, a lecturer at Murdoch University and director of the documentary Wadjemup: Black Prison — White Playground, poetically describes it as an entity with a heartbeat, a place that reveals itself on its own terms. Located just 19 kilometers off the coast of Fremantle, Rottnest Island attracts over 800,000 visitors annually, drawn by its pristine beaches, crystal-clear waters, and the iconic quokka, a marsupial whose smiling selfies have taken Instagram by storm.
But this idyllic setting holds deep spiritual significance for the Noongar people, explains Len Collard, a Noongar Elder and emeritus professor at the University of Western Australia. In Noongar tradition, the spirits of the deceased travel west to the islands, to the realm of ghosts. Wadjemup, Collard notes, was always a spiritual place, but its significance intensified after it became the site of Australia’s largest number of Aboriginal deaths in custody during the colonial era.
Aboriginal Australians, one of the world’s oldest continuous civilizations, have been custodians of their land, seas, and skies—their 'Country'—for at least 65,000 years. Yet, when Britain claimed eastern Australia in 1770 and its First Fleet arrived in 1788, violent conflicts erupted between the Aboriginal people and the colonizers. In 1838, Wadjemup was transformed into a prison for Aboriginal boys and men. The first prisoners, arriving by boat, slept in a coastal cave as they mined limestone and built the very prison that would confine them.
Most inmates were accused of petty crimes like stealing livestock or flour rations, says Stasiuk. The colonial justice system was entirely foreign to them, with charges, arrests, and sentences delivered in a language they didn’t understand. Suddenly, they were exiled to an island, uncertain if they’d ever see their families again. Some, like those from the remote Kimberley region over 2,000 kilometers away, had never even seen the ocean. Many were transported in chains, a brutal practice common at the time, according to Collard.
On Wadjemup, prisoners endured forced labor, mining materials and constructing the island’s infrastructure. 'The jetty, the cottages, the prison, the governor’s house—all built by Aboriginal prisoners,' Stasiuk notes. Collard adds that this labor justified the colony’s investment in the prison, as the Aboriginal people could later be exploited as cheap labor on mainland projects.
Life inside the prison was equally grim. Overcrowded and disease-ridden, conditions were exacerbated by Henry Vincent, a superintendent described by Stasiuk as 'barbaric.' Vincent, a one-eyed veteran of the Napoleonic Wars, would chain prisoners in their cells, beat them, and even shoot at them. Shockingly, Vincent was never held accountable for these atrocities, and a street on the island bore his name until 2022.
By the late 19th century, calls to close the prison grew, fueled by the establishment of mainland prisons and a desire to repurpose Wadjemup for recreation. In 1902, after 93 years of operation, the prison shut down. Nearly 4,000 Indigenous men and boys had been incarcerated there, and 373 died, most buried in unmarked graves.
Today, tourists cycle along the island’s wide roads, snorkel in its coral reefs, and enjoy ice cream in its colonial town, largely unaware of its harrowing past. The island’s transformation into a tourist hotspot began shortly after the prison closed, with the main cell block converted into vacation accommodation in 1911. As walls were demolished and modern amenities installed, the building’s heritage was erased, Collard laments. Worse, tourists were unknowingly sleeping, and even making love, in the very places where Aboriginal men had died.
And this is the part most people miss: The burial ground containing the unmarked graves became a campsite called Tentland. For 90 years, vacationers slept just two feet above one of Australia’s largest Indigenous burial sites. Stasiuk recalls visiting Tentland in the 1970s, before knowing its history, and falling ill twice. It was only when he told his grandmother that she explained, 'It’s warra—it’s bad.' Despite skeletal remains being discovered in 1970, the campground didn’t close until 2007.
To the Noongar people, Wadjemup remains a powerful symbol. 'It’s like a sentinel,' Collard explains, 'a lighthouse showing that something’s there.' In 2020, the Rottnest Island Authority launched the Wadjemup Project to acknowledge the island’s history through truth-telling, ceremony, and memorialization. The project includes honoring the burial ground, preserving the original prison building, and holding cultural ceremonies for healing. In 2024, the Wadjemup Wirin Bidi, or Spirit Trail, brought 200 Aboriginal people together to lay the island’s buried spirits to rest.
This complex history now intertwines with the island’s modern identity through Aboriginal cultural tours. The Rottnest Island Authority pledges to work with the Aboriginal community to share the island’s history openly and honestly. Casey Kickett, a Noongar guide and director of Koordas Crew, organizes activities for children to introduce them to Wadjemup’s positive cultural aspects, hoping to prepare them to learn about its darker history later.
Kickett sees her work as a bridge between the island’s beauty and its tragic past. 'It really is a beautiful place,' Collard insists, despite the horrors that occurred there. 'My people are buried there, and I enjoy visiting them so much.' Kickett encourages tourists to connect with the island’s history through a simple ritual: 'When you hop off the jetty, throw some sand in the water. Introduce yourself to Country, to our ancestors.'
But here’s the controversial question: As we enjoy this paradise, how do we reconcile its beauty with its painful past? Can tourism ever truly honor the suffering that occurred here? Share your thoughts in the comments—let’s keep this important conversation going.**
