Imagine clutching the fragile bones of your long-lost ancestors, feeling an undeniable connection that confirms they're part of your family—only to learn they've been bartered as curiosities in distant museums across the globe. This poignant reality is finally changing, as Aboriginal remains are making their heartfelt journey back to their homeland.
Elizabeth Dempsey knew it deep in her soul the moment she touched them: these skeletal fragments belonged to her ancestors. 'I felt this overwhelming sense of completeness inside,' she shares. 'Every one of us there felt it too—we just knew they were ours.'
Dempsey and her siblings traveled from the remote Gulf region of northern Queensland to Sydney for a reunion that's been a century overdue. This emotional gathering followed the discovery of remains from their Waluwarra ancestors in three different institutions, including a university in Cologne, Germany.
The scars of Australia's colonial history are hidden away in the shadowy corners of prestigious global establishments. Thousands of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people's remains—gathered, auctioned off, and exchanged over generations—sit in museums, academic institutions, and private hoards, both within Australia and abroad.
Teams at eight Australian museums are tackling the delicate and emotionally charged job of sending these remains back to their ancestral territories, yet the task feels endless. Every month, new discoveries outpace the repatriations: bodies unearthed during construction, revealed by natural erosion in national parks, or stumbled upon in forgotten storage on old farms.
But here's where it gets controversial: How did something so sacred end up treated like merchandise?
Around three months ago, Dempsey and her sister Sylvia Price, acting through their native title organization, the Bularnu Waluwarra Wangkayujuru Aboriginal Corporation, got an email from Australia's federal arts department. This government body helps bring First Nations ancestors home from overseas collections.
The message informed them that Aboriginal remains, likely from a cattle ranch on Waluwarra lands near Mount Isa, had surfaced at the Institute of Anatomy at the University of Cologne. The sisters grappled with a whirlwind of feelings, as Price explains: 'I wondered, "How could our own Australian government let our ancestors' remains be taken out of the country?" Then I realized this was part of history—we can't undo it, but we must keep going.'
Further digging uncovered two more ancestors right here in Australia: one at the Australian Museum in Sydney and another at the Queensland Museum in Brisbane. Details came together through physical characteristics, old documents, and insights from the community. 'We're still piecing this together with the museum experts, like solving a giant jigsaw puzzle—one clue at a time—to understand their stories,' Price adds.
And this is the part most people miss: the shocking history behind how these remains were collected.
Two of the ancestors were sold to the Australian Museum under bizarre circumstances in 1905 by Walter Roth, then Queensland's chief protector of Aboriginal people. As an ethnographer, Roth amassed thousands of cultural items from northern Queensland before taking on a role enforcing the state's Aboriginals Protection Act—a law meant to 'protect' Indigenous folks by micromanaging their lives, often against their will.
Back then, body parts from Indigenous groups worldwide were prized as rare collectibles, studied or showcased in colonial homes or museum displays. In Australia, some came from victims of frontier massacres, while others were dug up from graves. Roth's deal—selling 2,500 artifacts, including 97 human specimens from the very people he later oversaw—to the Australian Museum for £450 (equivalent to about $85,000 today) sparked public outrage, leading to his resignation the next year.
From Roth's collection, one Waluwarra ancestor's remains was swapped in 1936 with a German university professor for the skull of an ancient Inca person from Peru, according to records.
The third ancestor's story began when road workers near Mount Isa found the body in 1973. Police forwarded it for analysis, determining it was over a century old. It stayed in a forensic lab under the state coroner's care until 2016, when it moved to the Queensland Museum's repatriation specialists.
This month, all three ancestors were joyfully reunited with their living descendants. Ceremonial welcomes in Sydney and Brisbane brought them home, where they'll be kept securely while the Waluwarra community plans their final return to country.
During a smoking ceremony in Sydney, as the remains were handed over, Dempsey's mind drifted to her grandfather. 'He'd play clapsticks, or if he didn't have them, he'd tap his long fingernails on a tin—I could almost hear those rhythms echoing in my head right there,' she recalls.
Representatives from the Australian and Queensland museums offered sincere apologies to the Waluwarra people. 'We don't hold any grudges against them,' Price says. 'The staff have gone above and beyond to help us bring our ancestor home, and that's all that matters. It's like we've shed all our tears and mourned for long enough—now, it's time for healing.'
New discoveries are piling up faster than returns can keep pace.
Over the last 35 years, more than 1,790 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander ancestral remains have been sent home from 11 countries. Yet countless others linger abroad, their numbers unknown.
Australian museums have been working on this for decades. Recently, many have faced their own reckoning, admitting their part in this grim trade and forming Indigenous-led teams to guide repatriation. Each of the eight major museums can access up to $100,000 annually from federal funds to aid in returning ancestors and cultural treasures.
For Laura McBride, director of First Nations at the Australian Museum and the first Indigenous executive leader there since 2021, repatriation tops her priorities. 'These aren't just ancient relics,' she emphasizes. 'The remains we have are mostly from after European colonization—they're our grandparents and great-grandparents.'
The museum's collection fluctuates, but it includes hundreds of First Nations ancestors, McBride notes—exact counts are tricky.
The Queensland Museum faces a parallel struggle, holding around 840 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander remains, many gathered by the infamous native mounted police who violently crushed Indigenous uprisings in Queensland's frontier days. In just the past year, over 30 new remains have been turned in, including some found in family closets.
'Our community returns are being eclipsed by the inflow of new ancestors,' explains Bianca Beetson, the museum's executive director of First Nations. 'It's frustrating, like constantly playing catch-up.'
The process gets even more tangled with incomplete records on origins, disputes over native title, worries about grave vandalism, and limited money for research, community talks, and building secure on-country storage.
Still, Beetson insists it's vital to press on. 'This is the ultimate act of reconciliation,' she says. 'Do we really want these ancestors gathering dust in museums for another 200 or 300 years?'
What do you think—should governments do more to speed up these repatriations, or is there a risk of overlooking the scientific value of these remains? Share your thoughts in the comments below and let's discuss: Is returning ancestors a step toward true healing, or does it ignore important historical insights?
