We are just monkeys in a cage to them
When the Daly River broke its own record in March 2026, it did not merely flood homes — it exposed the fault lines between government promise and lived reality for Indigenous Australians. Hundreds of evacuees from Palumpa and Nauiyu were moved to a fenced compound at Batchelor Institute, where security gates, nightly torch checks, and bag searches replaced the dignity of shelter. Seven weeks later, they were sent back to communities without power, clean water, or functioning clinics — a return that raises enduring questions about who is owed care, and by whom, in this country.
- Record flooding forced families from Palumpa and Nauiyu to evacuate twice in four weeks, displacing hundreds into a former education campus ringed by temporary fencing and round-the-clock security.
- Residents describe conditions that felt less like emergency shelter and more like detention — torches shone through windows at night, bags searched by male guards, every vehicle stopped, every exit logged.
- Aboriginal leaders, health services, and even a federal minister were turned away at the gates, while the NT government insisted the restrictions were necessary for safety and privacy.
- Promised rent freezes quietly failed to materialise, with payments continuing to be deducted and applied to existing arrears, leaving confined residents with little financial recourse.
- After seven weeks, residents were abruptly told to return — to homes still without power, under boil water alerts, with a destroyed clinic and a school operating from a tin shed in 35-degree heat.
- Community leaders note this is the fourth evacuation in a decade, and each return leaves less infrastructure standing — a cycle that raises urgent questions about whether these communities are being allowed to survive.
The Daly River reached 23.93 metres in March — a record — sending families from Palumpa and Nauiyu scrambling for higher ground for the second time in four weeks. The NT government moved hundreds of evacuees to the Batchelor Institute, a former education campus about 100 kilometres south of Darwin, promising a stable and culturally appropriate place to recover. What residents found was a compound enclosed by a ten-foot temporary fence, with security gates, nightly torch checks through windows, bag searches, and mandatory sign-in and sign-out procedures.
James Parry, a Nauiyu traditional owner, said it felt like a prison camp. Barak Sambono, from Palumpa, put it more plainly: "We are just monkeys in a cage to them." The restrictions extended beyond the fence itself — Aboriginal organisations including the Northern Land Council and Danila Dilba Health Service were blocked from entering without prior approval. When the Northern Land Council chair tried to visit traditional owners who had asked to see him, he was refused at the gate. The federal Indigenous affairs minister was also turned away shortly after residents arrived.
The practical failures compounded the indignity. Despite government promises, rent payments continued to be deducted from residents' accounts, with funds redirected toward existing arrears. Emergency flood relief payments were restricted in ways that left people with limited cash while confined. After seven weeks, residents were given days to leave or arrange their own 300-kilometre journey home.
The communities they returned to could barely sustain them. In Palumpa, 19 of 50 houses remained uninhabitable. There was no functioning power grid, no safe drinking water, no store, no clinic — the health facility had been destroyed, replaced by nurses on 24-hour fly-in shifts working from a residential building. School ran for three hours a day from a tin house and outdoor gazebos in temperatures above 35 degrees. Food arrived as dry goods with no refrigeration.
This was the fourth evacuation these communities had endured in a decade. Each time, they return to less. Ben Grimes of the Northern Australian Aboriginal Justice Agency observed that non-Indigenous Australians displaced by flooding would not be treated this way — a quiet but devastating observation about whose suffering is considered ordinary, and whose is considered acceptable.
The Daly River crested at 23.93 metres in March—a record that sent families from Palumpa and Nauiyu scrambling for higher ground for the second time in four weeks. Hundreds of evacuees were moved from a Darwin shelter to the Batchelor Institute, a former education campus about 100 kilometres south, where the NT government promised them a stable, comfortable, culturally appropriate place to recover. What they found instead was a compound ringed by a 10-foot temporary fence, with security gates, torch-wielding guards, and the daily indignity of having their belongings searched.
James Parry, a Nauiyu traditional owner, described the conditions plainly: it felt like a prison camp. At night, guards shone torches through his window to check if people were sleeping. Residents had to sign in and out at the security gate. Women's bags were searched by male security staff when they returned from shopping. Every vehicle entering or leaving was stopped and inspected. "That's not a home," Parry said. "This is because we are Aboriginal people. I just want my freedom."
The restrictions extended beyond the fence. Aboriginal organisations—the Northern Land Council, Danila Dilba Health Service, the Northern Australian Aboriginal Justice Agency—were blocked from entering without permission. When Matthew Ryan, chair of the Northern Land Council, tried to visit traditional owners who had specifically asked to see him, he was refused entry. He was told future visits would require 24 hours' notice and ministerial approval. The federal Indigenous affairs minister, Malarndirri McCarthy, was also prevented from entering the evacuation site shortly after residents arrived. The NT government called these controlled environments necessary to protect safety and privacy. They are not public facilities, a spokesperson said.
Meanwhile, the practical conditions deteriorated. The NT government had promised in March to freeze rent payments for evacuees, but residents discovered their accounts were still being debited. Leeanne Caton, CEO of Aboriginal Housing NT, confirmed that rent payments were continuing to be deducted without individual consent, with ongoing payments applied toward existing arrears. Emergency flood relief payments were restricted—the government said this was so families could replace spoiled groceries, but it meant people had limited access to cash in a confined setting.
After seven weeks in these conditions, residents were suddenly told they would be returned to their communities. On a Sunday in April, nearly half of Palumpa's residents were sent back despite a boil water alert and 19 of the community's 50 houses still uninhabitable. There was no power, no functioning store, no safe road access. The government gave residents until Friday to leave the evacuation centre or face a 300-kilometre journey home on their own.
Palumpa had no electricity grid—power relied on prepaid cards that required internet access and funds to activate. The clinic was destroyed and closed. A temporary health hub operated from a residential building with nurses working 24-hour fly-in, fly-out shifts. School ran for three hours a day from a tin house and outdoor gazebos in temperatures above 35 degrees Celsius. Food came in deliveries of dry goods with no refrigeration. The NT government said power would not be disconnected but residents would accumulate debt to be recovered later.
Barak Sambono, a Palumpa resident, said his community had lost everything. The evacuation centre experience had compounded the trauma. "We are just monkeys in a cage to them," he said. Ben Grimes, CEO of the Northern Australian Aboriginal Justice Agency, observed that non-Aboriginal Australians displaced by flooding would not be treated this way. The communities had been evacuated four times in the past decade. Each time, they returned to less infrastructure, less capacity, less stability. This time, they were returning to homes that could not sustain them.
Citações Notáveis
What they're doing to us, it's like a prison camp. At night guards shine their torches into the window of my room, checking if people are sleeping. You don't do that to people.— James Parry, Nauiyu traditional owner
We are just monkeys in a cage to them. This evacuation… It's the biggest nightmare I ever had.— Barak Sambono, Palumpa resident
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why were these evacuation centres set up with security gates and fences in the first place?
The government said it was to protect residents' safety, privacy, and wellbeing—to create a controlled environment. But the people living there experienced it as confinement. The fence went up after they arrived, not before.
And the searches, the torch checks at night—those were justified as safety measures too?
That's what the government would say. But when you're shining a torch into someone's bedroom window at night to verify they're sleeping, you're not protecting them. You're surveilling them. That's the distinction residents were making.
Why were Aboriginal leaders blocked from entering?
The government said these weren't public facilities. But the people inside—the traditional owners—had asked to see their leaders. Being denied that contact while confined is a form of isolation. It prevented people from getting independent advice or support.
The rent situation seems almost punitive.
It does. The government promised to freeze payments. Instead, they continued deducting rent and applying it to arrears. People were already traumatised by losing their homes. Being charged for housing they couldn't access added another layer of harm.
And then they were sent back to places that weren't ready.
Right. No power, no water safety, no medical clinic, no store. The government said it was a carefully staged return, but it felt sudden and coercive to the people living it. Stay in the detention centre or go home to nothing.
What's the pattern here across the decade?
Four evacuations in ten years. Each one leaves the communities weaker. Infrastructure doesn't get rebuilt. Services don't return. People get more exhausted. And the government's response—the confinement, the control—treats the victims as a problem to be managed rather than people to be supported.