Birth alerts are meant to help children at risk of abuse. They are routinely used against Aboriginal mothers

The Guardian

17-06-2025

At the end of 2024, Rachel* was days away from giving birth. Her feet were dangerously swollen and she was sleeping rough outside an Aboriginal support service in the city.
Her reluctance to seek antenatal care meant the usual routine of scurrying between midwives and doctors appointments for ultrasounds, blood tests and screenings was absent.
Pregnant with her second child, she was terrified to seek help from a hospital, fearing her unborn baby would be taken away from her. Her first son was removed at just 11 months old.
'I knew I was pregnant with my second boy,' she says. 'But I didn't want to go to the hospital and have them tell DCP [Department of Child Protection]. I had the same feelings [of fear] I had with my big boy.'
A ward of the state herself, Rachel's experience speaks to a national crisis: the overrepresentation of Indigenous children in out-of-home care, a system that the former federal senator Pat Dodson likened to genocide. This overrepresentation begins before children are born, with prenatal birth alerts triggered during hospital or health assessments if there are concerns for the wellbeing of an unborn child.
When Rachel eventually presented at a northern Perth hospital, she was diagnosed with pre-eclampsia, a serious pregnancy complication, and told she would be induced the following week. After being transferred to King Edward memorial hospital, the child protection department was notified – without her consent.
'Nothing was supposed to be said,' she says. 'It was all supposed to be confidential. But the hospital told DCP I was pregnant. They rang them later that same day.'
Rachel had been flagged under WA Health's 'child at risk' alert policy, drafted to reflect the statutory responsibility of healthcare workers as mandatory reporters of suspected child abuse. Though designed to ensure child safety, the policy can have wide-ranging consequences for families involved.
Rachel says she struggled to cope after her first son was removed. 'I started using more drugs because they took my baby off me,' she says. 'They could have helped me.'
After giving birth to her second son, she was discharged. But her newborn, who was experiencing breathing and feeding difficulties, remained in hospital. 'They wouldn't let me stay with my baby,' she says. 'They couldn't accommodate me. I don't know why.'
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Though social workers arranged a phone and referrals to shelters and rehab services, navigating multiple appointments across the city without transport or a stable home was overwhelming for the new mother.
'I tried to go back every three or four hours to feed my baby,' she says. 'But if I missed a feed, they said I was neglecting him.'
Hospital staff told her the baby wasn't getting enough milk. 'Every time I breastfed, they came with bottles.'
Aleisha*, a mother of three and a former domestic violence support worker in New South Wales, recalls being told by child protection staff that being Aboriginal was considered a risk factor. 'Social workers would say to me, just being Black's a risk,' she says. 'The agency I worked with classified being Aboriginal as a risk of harm.'
In a statement, the NSW Department of Communities and Justice denied that Indigenous identification was part of risk assessments, saying staff worked to ensure children were safe and properly protected.
Aleisha says she saw the bias against First Nations mothers first-hand when she gave birth to her third child. Her Indigenous midwife wasn't on shift and the attending midwife dismissed her pain. Less than an hour later, Aleisha gave birth in the hospital bathroom.
'The panic button was pushed,' she says. 'Five strangers ran in. They just caught my son before he hit the ground. She [the midwife] just stood in the doorway, staring at me.'
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While Aleisha had a safe home, not every new mother does. Those experiencing domestic violence, unstable housing, or substance use are often placed on long waiting lists, with a lack of comprehensive support.
Dr Jacynta Krakouer, a Mineng Noongar academic at the University of South Australia, is researching how best to prevent babies from being removed, amid concerns raised by Aboriginal midwives. Her work focuses on unborn child notifications, sometimes called birth alerts, triggered when health professionals identify issues such as homelessness, domestic violence or substance use during pregnancy.
Though mandatory across Australia, Krakouer says the risk assessments behind these alerts aren't always culturally informed. 'There are a range of different reasons why people can be reported,' she says. 'It's not always fair. It's not always clear and transparent.'
These alerts can be poorly communicated, traumatising vulnerable families. 'That distress, that fear, that trauma – it all gets exacerbated,' Krakouer says. 'It's reminiscent of the Stolen Generations. There's a lack of transparency in the practice.'
Renna, a Walbunja woman, was living in Perth when she gave birth to her third daughter. In a difficult relationship, she had begun planning her exit – searching for rentals, visiting Centrelink and developing a safety plan.
When social workers met her in hospital, she welcomed the contact. 'I thanked them for caring about my daughter,' she says. 'I was upfront and transparent because there were causes for concern.'
But five days after the birth, as she packed to leave, she was met by police and child protection workers with court orders to remove her newborn – and her three-year-old daughter, who was staying with relatives.
'I was not supported,' she says. 'I was blindsided. I thought I was being discharged to take my baby home. How can you go into court and make orders without letting me know there's an issue?'
More than 20 years later, Renna says the trauma still lingers. 'I've had a lot of trauma in my life. But nothing compares to that.'
Her daughters, now adults, were raised in kinship care and maintain a relationship with their mother.
'It takes a lot to rebuild and repair,' she says. 'But I will always be waiting with open arms, grateful to my babies, my greatest gift.'
Renna rebuilt her life, studying social work and contributing to trauma-informed, culturally grounded research. She's now working to establish a residential centre for mothers and babies. 'If there's a need to remove a child for safety, then you must be able to offer the non-violent parent an option to be with their baby,' she says.
Krakouer says the nine months of pregnancy is a vital opportunity for families and support agencies. 'You've got this window of time to actually wrap support around the mother and break the cycle of child protection involvement,' she says.
For Rachel, daily supervised visits with her baby and eldest son are all she has. But she hopes to soon have a home where they can be together.
'I could have had my son. I could have both of them with me.'
*Names have been changed
In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is 13 11 14. The Indigenous crisis hotline is 13 YARN, 13 92 76