Bold truth: a birth certificate isn’t just paperwork—it can change a life, reconnect a family, and acknowledge a long history of injustice. This is the story of Maisie Harkin, a member of the Stolen Generations in Western Australia, who finally received her birth certificate at age 88. The significance goes far beyond official recognition; it’s a tangible link to identity, roots, and a future that had been out of reach for decades.
Note: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers should be aware that the following piece includes imagery of people who have died.
Maisie, a Nanatadjarra woman from WA’s Goldfields, is among 164 Aboriginal people over 50 whose births were recently registered by the state in the past six years. Speaking at a Perth registry office, Maisie expressed the profound impact of being formally recognized: “I’m somebody now. I did think, ‘She might be an alien or something.’ To be identified as a person is really important.”
Her journey from the desert to nursing illustrates how essential birth records are for belonging and legitimacy. Aboriginal midwives delivered Maisie in 1937 in the Great Victoria Desert, where generations of knowledge shaped birth care and postnatal treatment. She emphasizes that her life’s trajectory owes much to their work: “If I’m alive today, it’s because of what they did.”
Maisie’s childhood began with removal: at age two she was taken to Mount Margaret Mission, near Laverton in WA’s Goldfields. The mission, founded in 1921 by evangelist Rodolphe Samuel Schenk, operated within a government policy that saw many Indigenous children forcibly separated from their families from 1910 into the 1970s, a historic period now referred to as the Stolen Generations.
A solitary thread of Maisie’s early life survives in records from anthropologist Norman Tindale, who noted her entry at Mount Margaret and later checked in when she was 15. Amid the hardships of the Depression and drought, Maisie recalls that records indicated she and her cousin arrived at the mission emaciated. For years she avoided those records, but eventually chose to confront them and seek closure.
Leaving Mount Margaret as a teenager, Maisie attended school in Bunbury and stayed at Roelands Mission. She trained as a nurse and built a career delivering care across hospitals in Australia. During much of this time, she lacked a birth certificate, relying instead on anthropological evidence to attest to her identity.
Her first attempt to obtain a birth record came in 2007, when she hoped to travel to Israel with her church. The lack of a birth certificate blocked her passport, and a letter verifying the nonexistence of a birth record only deepened her disappointment. After years of frustration, the search paused.
When Maisie returned to the Department of Transport to obtain a photo ID a little over a year ago, a new opportunity emerged. Registry staff reached out to Aboriginal History WA (AHWA) to locate missing documents. Marnie Giles, from the Registry’s Community Engagement team, notes that it took eight months from when Maisie’s case landed on her desk to securing the necessary documents to register Maisie’s birth. Key sources included Mount Margaret mission records and Tindale’s anthropological notes, uncovered with AHWA’s guidance led by Mark Chambers. Giles emphasizes that the vital information often boils down to a few essential details: birth date, parents, and place of birth—the kinds of facts that can be extremely hard to locate for people born on country or affected by past government practices.
Dwayne Kelly, Aboriginal History WA’s Coordinator of Engagement and Education, explains that several applications like Maisie’s come in each year. The work is complex, as researchers comb through hundreds or thousands of records across multiple repositories and agencies to assemble a coherent identity for someone who has been disconnected from official recognition.
For Maisie’s family, the birth certificate is more than an ID card—it is a declaration of belonging and a corrective moment in a family history that has carried the weight of dislocation. Her niece, Maria Meredith, describes the certificate as a reminder that the country’s First Nations people include the first generation out of the bush, with Maisie as the family matriarch who provides guidance and grounding.
Maisie’s grandson, Linden Brownley, views the moment through a broader lens: while the recognition of Maisie’s birth is meaningful, it also highlights a past in which Aboriginal people were erased or deemed nonexistent. He hopes for a future where Indigenous communities have greater opportunities and where past wrongs are acknowledged as a step toward a shared, inclusive future for all children.
Closing the gap in birth registrations remains a national challenge. A UNICEF Australia report (2024) found that between 2017 and 2022, an average of 12,600 babies per year were not registered by their first birthday. The data show a higher lag among First Nations births, with 17 percent registered after age one—compared to 3 percent for non-First Nations births—and regional and remote communities facing rates above 22 percent. WA’s Attorney General Tony Buti acknowledges historical barriers, alongside current difficulties accessing registry offices in remote areas. The outcome matters: without primary identification, critical services—such as opening bank accounts, obtaining driver’s licenses or passports, and accessing entitlements—can be blocked.
To address this, the registry has increased outreach with communities, including participating in Aboriginal Justice Open Days. Since Maisie’s certificate, her family has returned to Maisie’s homeland for the first time since she left as a child. She recalls visiting the place of her birth and mother’s birthplace in the desert, noting the notable contrast with the present-day mine that now sits there.
This story illustrates a powerful truth: formal recognition of birth can be a catalyst for healing, belonging, and future empowerment for Indigenous families—and it invites ongoing conversation about how societies can rectify historical harm and build a more inclusive record-keeping system for everyone.
