Imagine a place where sun-kissed beaches and crystal-clear waters hide a haunting secret. Unbeknownst to many, the idyllic Rottnest Island, a popular tourist destination off the coast of Perth, Australia, sits atop a tragic history of unmarked graves and colonial injustice. Known as Wadjemup to the local Aboriginal Noongar people, this island paradise holds a dual identity—one of breathtaking beauty and another of profound sorrow.
From the shores of Perth, a majestic blue hill rises on the horizon, seemingly within reach on some days, while shrouded in mystery on others. 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, alternately revealing and concealing itself. But this picturesque landscape belies a darker truth.
And this is the part most people miss: Wadjemup, just 19 kilometers off the coast of Fremantle, is not just a haven for Instagram-famous quokkas and beachgoers. It’s a sacred site for the Noongar people, a place where, according to their traditions, the spirits of the deceased journey westward to the islands—a realm of ghosts. But its spiritual significance deepened tragically after colonization, becoming the site of Australia’s largest number of Aboriginal deaths in custody.
Aboriginal Australians, one of the world’s oldest continuous civilizations, have been the custodians of their land, seas, and skies—their ‘Country’—for over 65,000 years. Yet, when Britain claimed eastern Australia in 1770 and its First Fleet arrived in 1788, violent conflicts erupted between the colonizers and the Indigenous people. In 1838, Wadjemup was transformed into a prison for Aboriginal boys and men, many of whom were accused of trivial offenses like stealing livestock or flour rations.
But here’s where it gets controversial: These men and boys were thrust into a system they didn’t understand, charged and sentenced in a foreign language. Some were transported from as far as the Kimberley region, over 2,000 kilometers away, often chained by the neck, arms, and legs—a brutal practice of the time. Once on the island, they were forced into harsh labor, mining limestone and building the very prison that would confine them, along with other infrastructure like the jetty, cottages, and the governor’s house.
Life inside the prison was a nightmare. Overcrowded and disease-ridden, conditions were made worse by cruel superintendents like Henry Vincent, a one-eyed veteran of the Napoleonic Wars who chained, beat, and even shot at prisoners. Shockingly, Vincent was never held accountable for his crimes, and a street on the island bore his name until 2022.
By the late 19th century, as mainland prisons expanded and the island’s recreational potential grew, calls to close the prison intensified. In 1902, after 93 years of operation, it was finally shut down. Nearly 4,000 Indigenous men and boys had been incarcerated there, with 373 dying and buried in unmarked graves.
Today, tourists flock to Wadjemup, blissfully unaware of its harrowing past. They cycle along its roads, snorkel in its reefs, and enjoy ice cream in its colonial town. But this idyllic scene starkly contrasts with the island’s buried history. Shortly after the prison closed, the main cell block was converted into vacation accommodation in 1911, erasing its heritage. Worse, the burial ground of the deceased inmates became a campsite called Tentland, where, for 90 years, vacationers slept just two feet above one of Australia’s largest Indigenous burial sites.
This raises a thought-provoking question: How can a place of such tragedy also be a place of joy and beauty? Glen Stasiuk recounts visiting Tentland in the 1970s, falling ill repeatedly, only to learn from his grandmother that the land was ‘warra’—bad. Despite skeletal remains being discovered in 1970, the campground didn’t close until 2007, and the former prison ceased operating as a tourist resort in 2018.
For the Noongar people, Wadjemup remains deeply symbolic—a sentinel, a lighthouse illuminating its history. Efforts to honor this past are underway, such as the Wadjemup Project, which aims to acknowledge the island’s history through truth-telling, ceremony, and memorialization. In 2024, the Wadjemup Wirin Bidi, or Spirit Trail, brought 200 Aboriginal people together for private ceremonies to lay the 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. Local Noongar guide Casey Kickett, director of Koordas Crew, organizes activities for children to introduce them to Wadjemup’s positive culture, hoping to prepare them to learn its darker history later.
But the question remains: Can we truly enjoy a place while acknowledging its painful past? Len Collard, a Noongar Elder, insists that Wadjemup is still a beautiful place, despite its history. ‘My people are buried there,’ he says, ‘and I enjoy it so much when I go over and say g’day to them.’ Kickett encourages visitors to honor the land with a simple ritual: throw sand into the water upon arrival, introducing themselves to Country and its ancestors.
So, the next time you visit this stunning yet complex island, take a moment to reflect. Say hello to the spirits of those who suffered there, and commit to honoring their memory. Because Wadjemup is more than a paradise—it’s a place of remembrance, resilience, and reconciliation. What do you think? Can a place of tragedy ever truly be separated from its past? Share your thoughts in the comments.
