Can Counter-Storytelling Enact Black Justice? – (But why?)

Counter-storytelling allows us to challenge dominant narratives, expose injustices, and advocate for meaningful change. Legal scholar Richard Delgardo describes it as a way to share stories that amplify marginalised perspectives, disrupting myths and questioning the narratives that reinforce systemic inequities. 

But why is this so important? Why must we share our stories and demand accountability? Because it’s through our voices, our resilience, and our light that we can enact Black justice and create a more equitable and supportive environment for all. Let us embrace the power of “but why?” – let us question, challenge, and change the status quo.

Growing up, we all pass through the “but why?” stage – a time when our curiosity shines brightest, casting light into the shadowed corners of the world. It is how we make sense of life, asking questions, uncovering truths. But why does this light dim as we grow older?

The institutions meant to enlighten us instead groom us into compliance, silencing our questions and conditioning us to accept the status quo.The civilising agenda of the education system serves to maintain existing power structures by discouraging critical thinking and reinforcing societal norms. One might argue that education and indoctrination are being used interchangeably. 

But why does this happen? Why are we discouraged from questioning the very systems that govern our lives? Because the systems of power thrive in darkness. They need silence and complicity to endure. To question is to disrupt – and disruption is their greatest threat. We see this in the fight for justice by our people demanding sovereignty, land rights, and truth-telling – calls that challenge systems built on colonisation and racism, and are too often met with fear, suppression and token gestures. 

As a mother, I’ve witnessed the brilliance of my daughter’s questions. Her endless “but why?” reminds me of the courage we often lose as adults: the courage to expose and speak out on injustice, no matter how uncomfortable it makes others. And while her questions can be relentless, I know it’s that same spirit of inquiry that fuels change. This is the light I want to protect in her – a curiosity that doesn’t just question the world but seeks to transform it. My journey, and this piece, is dedicated to her and all who dare to ask, “But why?”

As an Aboriginal woman with fair features, I’ve come to understand the privilege and naivety that come with my appearance. Throughout my life, I’ve faced scrutiny from various institutions, often internalising the blame – thinking I was destined for bad luck or that I simply wasn’t likable enough. I vividly recall an incident where my support person dared to ask “is it because Jade is Aboriginal?” The backlash was immediate: “Don’t play the race card” they said. Back then, it scared me. I didn’t “look Aboriginal enough” and I spent much of my childhood knowing my belonging but arguing that I was not adopted, influenced by relentless bullying and trying to understand the curious stares from strangers whenever I was with my parents.

But why was this question from my support person so threatening? Why was raising what I now see as a legitimate concern about racial bias met with such hostility? These institutions were quick to use me for their publications, boasting about their “cultural safety” initiatives. But the moment I raised questions about Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander staff rights or support, I became a problem –  a target.

This played out in even starker terms during my time as a nursing student. My final critical care placement, which should have been a defining moment in my studies, became a battlefield of microaggressions and systemic racism. A facilitator at the hospital created an environment of fear, repeatedly questioning my abilities in ways designed to undermine rather than support. She marked me down for failing to demonstrate cultural safety – a cruel irony for an Aboriginal woman who is deeply passionate about cultural competence in healthcare. But why? Despite excelling at my job and meticulously following protocols, I was the only one reprimanded for actions others also took. I silenced myself, convinced it couldn’t be about race because I didn’t fit the stereotype of what people expect an Aboriginal person to look like. Growing up with blonde hair, green eyes and fair skin, I’ve often had my identity questioned or dismissed. This left me doubting whether my experiences were legitimate, whether racism could apply to someone like me. 

Now, I see how deeply embedded racism runs – in beliefs, values, and I could be seen as a target purely from the act of proudly identifying as Aboriginal. But why does this happen? Because racism isn’t always overt; it often hides behind smiles, policies and “constructive feedback” that cuts deep. Systems of power are threatened by those who refuse to assimilate quietly. To them, shining a light on inequities is a dangerous act of rebellion. 

I chose to walk away from nursing to save my life.

But why does raising questions – about race and inequity – provoke such hostility? Because to question is to shine a light on injustice, to disrupt systems that rely on silence and complicity to function. Institutions like universities and healthcare systems often present themselves as beacons of progress, but they prefer to control the narrative rather than confront their flaws.

As Dr. David Singh explains, policies for complaints and accountability often exist not to help the complainant but to protect the system itself. My nursing education experience reflected this all too clearly. When I raised concerns about the Clinical Facilitator’s treatment, I was gaslit, dismissed, and told to simply “push through”. Complaints were met with defensiveness, not resolution. Why? Because admitting fault would mean acknowledging the rot within the system.

But counter-storytelling changes this dynamic. By sharing my story –  unfiltered and unedited – I reclaim the power that oppressive systems sought to take. Counter-storytelling doesn’t just expose the injustice; it disrupts it. It shifts the focus from individual blame to systemic accountability, forcing those in power to confront the harm they perpetuate. It is a way of shining light into the darkest corners of these systems, ensuring the next generation doesn’t feel as alone or silenced as I did.

My experience as an Aboriginal woman with fair skin adds another layer to this story. At times, my light has been mistaken for something it isn’t. My fair skin has afforded me moments of privilege, granting me access to predominantly white spaces that others in my community are denied. But this “white up” – this assumption that I belong in whiteness – has also been a source of pain. When I proudly identify as Aboriginal, I’m met with disbelief or hostility, as if my identity is a lie. Why? Why does my existence as both Aboriginal and fair-skinned challenge people so deeply?

This duality has forced me to live as a double agent, performing whiteness to navigate oppressive systems while holding tight to my cultural identity. 

I was once asked, “What has been the major difference coming into a new degree after the experience you had studying nursing?” The answer I came to was this: it’s not necessarily the courses that are different; it’s that I am different.

After leaving nursing, I transferred to a Law and Justice degree – a decision born out of necessity. I struggled with the rigidity of the law, its insistence on black and white solutions to complex, human problems. But the justice component of my studies offered me a way forward. It taught me that justice isn’t about punishment or fairness as defined by institutions. It’s about truth, accountability, and reclaiming power. It’s about standing in my light and refusing to let others dictate the terms of my existence.

For me, justice looks like using my voice to amplify others who have been silenced. It means creating spaces where Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander students can thrive without fear of gaslighting and retaliation. Organisations like the Carumba Institute are doing this by embedding Indigenous knowledge into research, education and opportunities like this, while individuals like Professor Chelsea Watego unapologetically challenge systemic racism and demand accountability. These efforts remind us what justice can look like: creating systems, where mob can lead, thrive, and be heard.It’s not about revenge; it’s about building systems of accountability where the next student doesn’t have to endure what I did. Justice is the courage to shine anyway, even when the world tries to snuff you out.

As I reflect on my journey, I think of my daughter  – the one who reminded me of the power of “but why?” I want her to grow up knowing her questions are her strength. I want her to understand that her light – the ability to see injustice and demand better – will always be her greatest gift. 

But why do I tell my story now, in this way? Because I want her to know she doesn’t have to silence herself to fit into systems that weren’t built for her. She can challenge them. She can change them. Justice isn’t something handed down from above. It’s something we create by asking hard questions, standing in our truth, and refusing to accept the shadows as reality. Her curiosity, her light, is a tool for transformation. And as long as she keeps asking “but why?”, she will never lose it.

This journey has taught me that counter-storytelling isn’t about sharing pain; it’s about using that pain to demand change. It’s about refusing to center the story around how others have hurt us and instead focusing on what we will no longer stand for. By telling our stories, we challenge the systems that oppress us and reclaim the power they sought to take. So, let us tell our stories. Let us shine our light. Because even when others try to snuff us out, we must shine anyway. And in shining, we make it possible for others to do the same. Let us keep questioning, keep challenging, and keep demanding better – because justice is not handed to us. It’s something we create, together.

Don’t centre the story around how people wound you. Centre it on what you no longer stand for.