Too many Indigenous women are killed by domestic violence. They are more than just numbers

This article contains references to and the names of people who are now deceased.

Australia’s latest homicide data^[1] lay bare a grim reality for Indigenous women: lethal domestic violence is not abating.

The Australian Institute of Criminology’s report confirms what communities have long known – Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander women are killed at rates up to six times higher than non-Indigenous women, overwhelmingly by intimate partners (76%) or family members.

Just eight weeks into 2026, four more Indigenous women have died violently in such circumstances, including the devastating Lake Cargelligo killings^[2] of Sophie Quinn along with her unborn child, “baby Troy”, her partner and her aunt, Nerida Quinn.

For grieving families, the questions are raw: are we just another statistic? Will there be justice? And what does justice even mean?

Over-representation is entrenched

The institute’s National Homicide Monitoring Program^[3] offers a stark longitudinal picture: 574 Indigenous women killed from 1989 to 2025, with at least two-thirds killed by an intimate partner (based on reports from previous years). There’s no significant downward trend.

Since the institute began tracking the victimisation rate in 2011, Indigenous women have remained far more likely to be killed than non-Indigenous women.

Yet as the 2024 Senate Inquiry into Missing and Murdered First Nations Women and Children^[4] found, quantitative data alone do not translate to justice. Systemic racism in policing, inadequate investigations and “woefully inaccurate” records compound the loss families experience.

The Lake Cargelligo case exemplifies this crisis. The alleged shooter, Julian Ingram – Sophie Quinn’s former partner – remains at large after the deaths of Sophie, her unborn child, her aunt and her partner. The community is in both fear and mourning.

Media fixation on the manhunt often eclipses the brunt of the devastation. Sophie and Nerida were daughters, mothers, aunties and kin. John Harris was a brother, son and partner. They were not just abstract victims.

A fragmented system

Beyond the killings, families face a labyrinthine aftermath. There’s no single agency to guide them through criminal processes, trials (if it gets that far), coronial inquests, death reviews, media scrutiny and social media storms.

Fragmented services – such as state-based victim support to time-limited counselling – demand families navigate complicated systems largely on their own when they are most vulnerable.

Coronial processes are often criticised^[5] as culturally unsafe and re-traumatising. These can take place after criminal proceedings, sometimes years later, and can prolong trauma.

Indigenous families report^[6] feeling the stories of their loved ones being silenced or stigmatised, or only partial narratives being shared. These public versions can clash with the memories they have of their loved ones.

In New Zealand, the Family Violence Death Review Committee has advocated a “super-advocate” model^[7] with dedicated cultural support.

Here in Australia, even landmark inquests into Indigenous women’s deaths^[8] yield slow government responses, or none at all, leaving families to contest public stories alone.

Public discourse often reduces^[9] Indigenous women to pathology or risk, disregarding the kinship webs that defined them as loving and valued members of our communities. They deserve to be honoured as so many other Australian women have been: through dignified memorials, public acknowledgement and stories of their full humanity.

But sadly, as First Nations women, we are not. Without a mandated advocate to shield families and centre Indigenous accounts through the aftermath of a homicide, grief becomes a rollercoaster of conflicting portrayals.