Writing Indigenous History

A Historian’s Dilemma: How Non‑Indigenous Scholars Can Write Indigenous History Responsibly

Over Christmas I read Roy Hay’s 2018 article in Investigator magazine on Albert “Pompey” Austin. It prompted me to know more about the author, and that had me listening to a 2020 radio interview with him on 3CR Monday Breakfast. What struck me was not simply the story Hay told, but the way he told it. Here was a non‑Indigenous scholar speaking about an Indigenous athlete from the 19th century with a mixture of precision, humility, and self‑awareness that felt increasingly rare in public discussions of Australia’s past. His reflections raised a larger question that continues to challenge historians today: how can non‑Indigenous scholars write Indigenous history responsibly?

This dilemma is not abstract. It sits at the heart of every attempt to reconstruct Indigenous lives from archives created almost entirely by white institutions: newspapers, mission records, police reports, and the files of the Board for the Protection of Aborigines. These sources were never designed to preserve Indigenous voices. They were designed to regulate, contain, and often erase them. Any historian working in this space must therefore confront a fundamental truth: the archive is biased, incomplete, and shaped by colonial power.

Hay does not shy away from this. In the interview, he emphasised that the surviving records of Pompey Austin’s life were written by people who would have regarded him as a curiosity, a threat, or, at best, an anomaly. Yet he uses these sources not as neutral accounts but as windows into the assumptions and prejudices of the time. By reading them critically – and sometimes against the grain – he reconstructs a picture of Pompey as an active, skilled, and determined participant in the sporting world of colonial Victoria.

This emphasis on Indigenous agency is central to Hay’s method. Rather than treating Indigenous people as passive subjects acted upon by colonial forces, he highlights their choices, strategies, and adaptations. In his telling, Indigenous athletes were not simply influenced by white sports; they observed them, assessed them, and decided, ‘We could do that’. They brought with them skills honed through traditional practices such as Gorri, a game that cultivated anticipation, timing, and the ability to read movement – abilities that translated directly into football. Far from being marginal figures, these athletes were innovators who reshaped the sporting landscape from within.

Yet Hay’s most striking contribution lies not just in his historical findings but in his methodological humility. He speaks openly about the limits of his own knowledge, describing himself as increasingly aware of how much he does not know. He does not claim to speak for Indigenous people or to offer a definitive account of Pompey Austin’s life. Instead, he presents his work as one contribution among many, grounded in the evidence available to him but always open to reinterpretation. His refrain, ‘That’s my truth. Now you tell me yours’, is not a rhetorical flourish. It is a methodological stance.

This humility extends to his reflections on cultural identity. In the interview, Hay described contemporary Australians, Indigenous and non‑Indigenous alike, as ‘mongrels’. The term, provocative at first hearing, was not used to diminish identity but to challenge the idea of cultural purity. Since the late 18th century, Indigenous communities have been in continuous contact with European settlers and other migrant groups. Knowledge systems, practices, and identities have blended, overlapped, and evolved. For Hay, acknowledging this complexity is essential if we are to avoid romanticising Indigenous cultures or ignoring their diversity and complexity. It also helps explain how individuals like Pompey Austin could move between worlds, adapting skills and forging identities that defy simple categorisation.

It was at this point in the interview that the host paused to interrogate the power dynamics of the conversation. As a white interviewer speaking with a white historian about an Aboriginal man, she asked whether they were perpetuating the very structures they sought to critique. Her questions reframed Hay’s ‘co-mingled society’ comment into a challenge about agency and voice, reflecting the sensitivities of a political environment in which non‑Indigenous scholars must continually justify their presence in the conversation. Rather than simply accepting Hay’s framing, she pressed him to explain how he navigated the risk of usurping Aboriginal perspectives, and how he ensured that his work did not overwrite the voices of those whose histories he sought to illuminate.

Hay’s response to these concerns is shaped by his self‑identification as an empirical historian. He works from the surviving evidence, reading it critically but refusing to stretch it beyond what it can bear. For him, responsible history is grounded not in ideological alignment but in disciplined method: assembling what the archive contains, acknowledging what it does not, and remaining open to correction when new material emerges. His empirical approach doesn’t always sit comfortably alongside today’s emphasis on questions of voice and authority, but it is his commitment to evidence that keeps him from speaking over Indigenous perspectives or assuming authority that isn’t his. His humility is methodological as much as ethical – a recognition that the historian’s task is to interpret the record, not to overwrite the experiences of those whose stories it contains.

Crucially, Hay does not treat his research as a closed narrative. He engaged with Pompey Austin’s descendants, sharing what he had found and listening to what they knew. Their knowledge – family stories, memories, and community histories – filled gaps the archive could not. In turn, his archival work offered them material that had been inaccessible or unknown. This reciprocal exchange is a model for how non‑Indigenous historians can work ethically: not as owners of the story, but as collaborators in its reconstruction.

From Hay’s approach, we can distil a set of principles for non‑Indigenous scholars writing Indigenous history:

• Acknowledge your position. This means recognising the limits of your perspective and the privileges that shape it.
• Interrogate the archive. This involves treating sources as products of their time, shaped by bias and power.
• Recognise Indigenous agency. Do this by highlighting people’s action, skills, and decision‑making, not just the oppression.
• Avoid purity narratives. Ensure you embrace the complexity of cultural exchange and adaptation.
• Engage with Indigenous communities. Share findings, invite correction, and respect community knowledge.
• Treat history as provisional. Offer interpretations, not conclusions; offer contributions, not ownership of the debate.

Listening to Roy Hay in that 2020 interview, I was reminded that responsible historical work is not simply about what we know, but how we know it and how we choose to tell it. His reflections offer a model for non‑Indigenous scholars who wish to contribute to Indigenous history without appropriating it. They show that humility, critical method, and collaboration are not signs of weakness but foundations of ethical scholarship.

Writing Indigenous history responsibly is not an endpoint but a practice – an act that requires constant reflection, openness, and a willingness to listen. Hay’s work on Pompey Austin demonstrates that when approached with care, respect, and intellectual honesty, non‑Indigenous historians can help illuminate stories that deserve to be known, while leaving space for Indigenous voices.