You’d be forgiven for picturing a predominantly male, rugged crew when you think of bushfire fighting. That’s the image we’ve been fed. But the reality that’s emerging from Australia’s fire-prone landscapes is something far more nuanced — and far more powerful. A groundbreaking report released this month reveals that supporting First Nations women in fire and land management isn’t just a nod to diversity. It’s a critical, grossly underutilised strategy for protecting communities from the escalating threat of climate-driven disasters.
The report, titled “Women in Fire: Indigenous Leadership and Community Safety,” was led by the Firesticks Alliance in partnership with the University of Melbourne. It draws on interviews with more than 80 Indigenous women across northern Australia, the Kimberley, and the southeast. And the findings are stark: these women already hold deep ecological knowledge — passed down through generations — about how to read country, when to burn, and how to manage fuel loads. Yet they remain largely excluded from formal fire management roles, training pathways, and decision-making tables.
“We’ve been doing this work for tens of thousands of years,” says Dr. Bhiamie Williamson, a Euahlayi man and research fellow at the Australian National University’s Centre for Indigenous Policy Research. “But the narrative has always been male-dominated — both in the media and in policy. What this report does is pull back the curtain on the women who are already on the ground, often without pay or recognition, keeping their communities safe.”
Look, it’s not just a social justice issue. It’s a practical one. Australia’s fire seasons are getting longer and more intense. The 2019–2020 Black Summer bushfires burned over 18 million hectares, destroyed thousands of homes, and killed 33 people. Since then, every state has scrambled to boost its firefighting workforce. But they’ve largely ignored half the population — and specifically the culture that has been managing this land for millennia.
The Cultural Burning Revival
Cultural burning — or “cool burns” — is nothing new. For at least 60,000 years, Aboriginal people have used small, controlled, low-intensity fires to reduce fuel loads, promote biodiversity, and protect sacred sites. But colonisation brought a ban on these practices. For decades, Western firefighting focused on suppression — putting fires out fast — which paradoxically allowed massive fuel buildups that supercharged later blazes.
Now, there’s a revival. Organisations like the Firesticks Alliance, the Indigenous Women’s Fire Management Network, and the Kuku Nyungkal women of Queensland’s Wet Tropics are leading the charge. They’re conducting burns during the cooler months, in the right weather conditions, and with careful attention to seasonal indicators — what plants are flowering, where animals are nesting, how the soil feels underfoot.
“It’s methodical, it’s deliberate, and it works,” says Dr. Jessica Weir, a senior research fellow at the Institute for Culture and Society at Western Sydney University who studies Indigenous land management. “But the state fire agencies still treat cultural burning as supplementary at best. They don’t allocate real funding for the women doing this work, and they don’t recognise it as a formal qualification pathway.”
The irony is painful: the very knowledge that could prevent the worst of the megafires is being sidelined because it doesn’t fit into a bureaucratic box. And while a handful of male Indigenous rangers have gained some recognition, the women — who often hold the most detailed knowledge of fire ecology — remain invisible.
Breaking Barriers: Women Leading the Way
Take Vince (Vincentia) Swan, a Kuku Nyungkal woman from the Daintree region who has been running cultural burns for over a decade. She doesn’t wait for permission from the state. She works with her family, their traditional lands, and a deep sense of obligation. “We burn for the endangered species,” she told researchers. “We burn for the waterholes. We burn for our kids so they know this country is alive.”
Women like Swan are not just preserving culture; they are actively reducing the risk of catastrophic fires that threaten nearby towns. But the report notes that they often lack basic equipment, insurance coverage, and even access to firefighting vehicles. One participant described using a garden hose and a rake to manage burns that could otherwise explode into infernos.
And it’s not just about firefighting. Britain Swelters in Record-Breaking June Heatwave — events like that are a reminder that climate change is global, and so is the need to adapt. But while the UK is scrambling with new heatwave preparedness plans, Australia already has decades — centuries — of Indigenous knowledge on how to live with fire and drought. The question is whether we’ll have the wisdom to listen.
The report also highlights a double burden: First Nations women often face racism and sexism simultaneously. “They experience discrimination in the RFS [Rural Fire Service] and also within their own communities where fire roles are seen as men’s work,” Williamson says. “They’re navigating two sets of stereotypes just to get a foot in the door.” That needs to change, not just for fairness but for effectiveness.
Economic and Safety Impacts
Here’s where the numbers get interesting. The report estimates that scaling up cultural burning programs led by Indigenous women could save Australia $100 million annually in firefighting costs and property losses. That’s conservative. A separate analysis by the Bushfire and Natural Hazards Cooperative Research Centre found that every dollar spent on proactive burning saves up to five dollars in suppression costs. Now imagine if we doubled the skilled workforce — by including women.
“It’s not about charity. It’s about smart resource allocation,” says Dr. Jessica Weir. “You have a highly skilled, underutilised labour force that is already motivated and connected to the land. The return on investment — in terms of community safety, biodiversity, and cultural continuity — is enormous.”
But the biggest payoff might be in community safety. In remote Aboriginal communities that are surrounded by flammable savanna woodlands, cultural burning by women has been shown to buffer homes from fast-moving grassfires. In the Northern Territory, the Warddeken Land Management Group — which includes many women — has successfully reduced fire frequency in the Arnhem Land plateau by 60% over the past decade. That’s not a fluke. That’s science.
Policy and Training Gaps
The report makes three key recommendations: first, create specific funding streams for Indigenous women’s fire management programs; second, develop culturally appropriate training pathways that recognise traditional knowledge as equivalent to formal qualifications; and third, include Indigenous women in state and national fire planning bodies.
Currently, the National Indigenous Fire Knowledge Centre — launched in 2020 — is a step forward, but it’s underfunded and largely advisory. It doesn’t have the teeth to force agencies to change. And while the federal government’s CSIRO bushfire research acknowledges the value of Indigenous burning, the translation into on-ground jobs remains sluggish.
“There’s a disconnect between the science of fire ecology and the lived practice,” says Williamson. “The researchers and the politicians are in Canberra, but the women are in the bush. We need to bridge that gap with real money and real policy, not just acknowledgement.”
So what does this mean for the average Australian? It means that the next time you see a smoke haze in autumn, it might not be a sign of danger. It could be a Nyungkal woman carefully lighting a patch of grass. It could be a group of Yolngu women protecting their sacred billabong. And it could be the most effective climate resilience strategy we’ve got.
We need to stop romanticising Indigenous knowledge and start investing in it. We need to fund the women who are already doing the work, pay them properly, and give them a seat at the table — not as a token gesture, but as core to our national disaster response. Because the megafires aren’t waiting for us to catch up. Neither are the women.
Forward-looking thought: The next major test will come this summer, when the Bureau of Meteorology predicts another elevated fire risk. Whether communities are safer will depend, in part, on whether the politicians finally act on what this report makes clear: First Nations women are not a niche interest; they are a frontline necessity. And the window to act is narrowing fast.
Frequently Asked Questions
Q: What exactly is cultural burning, and how is it different from hazard reduction burns?
A: Cultural burning is a low-intensity, cool-season burning practiced by Indigenous Australians for thousands of years. It focuses on small, patchy fires that reduce fuel loads while protecting biodiversity and cultural sites. In contrast, hazard reduction burns are often larger, use hotter fires, and are primarily designed to reduce fuel for property protection — they can sometimes damage ecosystems if not done with local knowledge.
Q: Are there any successful examples of First Nations women leading fire programs in Australia?
A: Yes. The Kuku Nyungkal women in Queensland’s Wet Tropics run regular cultural burns that protect both the Daintree rainforest and nearby towns. In the Northern Territory, the Warddeken Land Management Group — over half of whom are women — has reduced fire frequency in Arnhem Land by 60% over a decade. These are documented, measurable successes.
Q: How can I support First Nations women in fire management?
A: You can support organisations like the Firesticks Alliance through donations or advocacy. Write to your local MP urging them to fund Indigenous women’s fire programs. If you live in a fire-prone area, attend community fire planning meetings and ask how Indigenous knowledge is being included. And if you’re in the media, amplify the voices of women like Vincentia Swan — not as a story about diversity, but as a story about effective fire management.
