Witnessing violence: Stories from a migration support worker

First impressions

Loughnan: What were your first impressions of the work and places you were about to move into, after this hasty recruitment process?

Judge: Prior to landing in Nauru, we spent a night at the Novotel in Fiji. Laying by the pool in hammocks, we could not believe our luck. We were eager to arrive and could not imagine what would follow in Nauru. We landed in 40 °C heat standing outside for over an hour on the tarmac, waiting to be seen by immigration officers. We had joined with a couple of other Salvation Army members ⁶ ; they were deeply religious and made attempts to engage us in prayer for our ‘mission’. I thought this was odd but went along with it. We were greeted by the Salvation Army manager and taken up to the camp in a minibus. We drove past an elegant building near the airport: it was the only modern building I had seen there and I presumed that it must be our hotel. In fact, it was the Nauruan Parliament House. We were to stay in green army tents outside the perimeter fence of the camp.

We arrived on site and went into the office which was still under construction. The first thing I noticed was a sign on the wall which read was: ‘all staff to be trained on the use of Hoffman's knives’. ‘What's a Hoffman's knife?’ I asked. ‘A knife used to cut people down when you find them hanging’ was the response. This was the beginning of my reality check.Nicole Judge, soon after arrival at Nauru Offshore Processing Centre.

We entered the camp with no induction. There were 60 Sri Lankan men inside. Nauru's detention centre had only just reopened after having earlier operated between 2001 and 2008, and we were expecting up to 1000 men to arrive over the course of a few months. The camp was built in the central crevice of an old phosphate mine which was very dusty, extremely hot and it already stunk of faeces as there was no sewerage system. There was one lone tree providing minimal shade, where the men gathered. I attempted to introduce myself to the people detained there; I was immediately asked the following three questions, which I would be asked almost daily over the next 18 months: ‘Why are we here?’ ‘How long are we going to be here for?’ ‘Why can't they let us be free?’ I had no answers to these questions, and when I asked the Salvation Army staff for answers, none could be provided. I was told that I should never give asylum seekers any hope and that I should simply answer ‘I didn't know’ to all questions. Any information provided to the ‘detainees’ on their situation and how to assist them, was a dismissible offence, including providing details of lawyers, advocates, or other interested parties who might provide support and advice.

I stayed over 18 months at Nauru and Manus, much longer than I had planned. I had begun to form friendships with the men and others detained there and couldn't bear the thought of leaving them stuck on the island. While at Nauru, we received 500 single men at the camp. Every time I saw a plane coming into land with incoming detainees, I felt distressed. I prepared for intake, had a list of ‘ID numbers’ ⁷ to greet, and went through their possessions. When the asylum seekers arrived, I was made to inspect and hold up their belongings, usually a couple of plain T-shirts, shorts, and jocks, to make sure there were no mobile phones, iPods, or self-harming tools concealed within these items. I handed out bottled water and warned them not to drink the tap water.

Loughnan: The similarities between the processes used in immigration detention and those used in prisons are striking, evidenced by references to individuals as ‘ID numbers’. In her research, Lucy Fiske (2016: 20) cites one man, ‘Oman’ – detained by Australia under its border protection policies – who said:

When officer call me ‘0276’, I said ‘Oh God! I’ve got name. Your donkey, er your dog and your cat has name. I’m a human like you. Don't call me by number’.

We know that dehumanisation occurs in stages, commencing with naming practices that dehumanise a person – that is using ‘numbers’ rather than names – which foster ethical detachment. Violence is thus enabled by processes of detachment typically based on ethnic and racist ‘othering’ (Bauman, 1989). Can you tell us a bit more about such instances of systemic and discursive violence?

Judge: Yes, when we arrived, we were told to use the ID numbers of those detained there, instead of their names. The rationale was that this was quicker and easier – I was told that this was because their names were ‘too long and hard to pronounce’. Instead, I tried hard to memorise names, meanwhile attempting to keep my job, and not be seen as a ‘troublemaker’.

Loughnan: This refusal to ‘pronounce’ a person's name, is intrinsically racist, a trend observed in much of the research on migration control (Bosworth, et al., 2018; Parmar, 2020). For Parmar (2020: 176) ‘the productive capacity of the state to make and maintain race’ is increasingly enacted through bordering practices. On a professional level, you had to decide whether to remain complicit in this racism or resist. Those working in the system can have limited scope for exercising discretion or behaving respectfully towards those detained, but staff exhibit diverse and often conflicting responses: some legitimise violence (Ugelvik, 2016) others collude; some do what they can to show care; others leave in despair (Briskman et al., 2012).

Your stories are critically important considering the Australian government's introduction of ‘gag orders’ on staff in the immigration detention network (Tazreiter, 2020: 198). These secrecy provisions in the Migration Act have been sweeping in their application, applying to anyone providing ‘services’ to the Department: the criminal consequences have had a ‘chilling effect on the disclosure of publicly significant information’ (Gleeson, 2016: 275: Nethery and Holman, 2016: 1026). What motivated you to speak out, in the face of possible criminal charges, and a prison sentence?

Judge: I felt that if I was to leave, someone worse than me might take my place. I had a strong obligation to remain, to provide whatever support I could. But under this pressure, many of my colleagues were ‘let go’ for expressing opinions. Some also left the island: they could not be a part of this system. I wanted to stay so I could bear witness.

For example, on one occasion, while I was working in Nauru, a young Iranian man who had been on hunger strike for nearly 50 days, became unwell: he was emaciated and wearing pyjamas draping off his body. He asked me to take him to ‘medical’. ⁸ I notified the guards who said he should make this request himself. The young Iranian man got up and began walking to the gate but on the way, he collapsed onto his knees, falling forward into the dirt. He was taken out by stretcher by medical services. I felt entirely helpless and had no idea how I could truly help these men. It was then that I began toying with the idea of filming, as I knew no one would believe what I was seeing.

I had begun to form a friendship with a middle-aged Iranian man; he spoke no English, but every morning invited me over to say hello and smile. He was known as one of the most difficult men in the camp, he was often upset and yelling in Persian. He was beginning to fall apart, but I had built rapport with him, by telling him the English names of the food he was eating. I came in one morning and he had jumped the fence, was standing on a stack of metal and holding a large piece of glass. Everyone (including staff) was crowded around him watching. He began slashing his bare stomach in a large cross motion, screaming. I was asked to go and talk to him. I urged him to come down and back into the camp. He was suffering badly and, over the following weeks he had stitched his lips, attempted suicide numerous times, and began hunger striking. However, every morning he still offered a greeting and smile. He spent years in detention, escaping violence in Iran. But his physical and mental health declined. He also had a heart problem that was not properly treated. Sadly, he passed away alone in Sydney, shortly after he was released. Underneath his tough exterior, he was a kind gentleman.

Loughnan: This disturbing story shows that even after release, physical and mental health impacts of detention remain (Perera and Pugliese, 2021) including through inadequate access to health care.

Evidence that prolonged detention adversely affects a person's mental health and physical well-being is uncontested and has been in the public domain for at least two decades (Connor, 2007; Hedrick et al., 2020; Silove and Mares, 2018; Steel and Silove, 2001, 2006). As noted by a former director of psychiatric services in the immigration network:

We have here an environment that is inherently toxic … If we take the definition of torture to be the deliberate harming of people in order to coerce them into a desired outcome, I think it does fulfil that definition (Dr Peter Young cited in Nethery and Holman, 2016: 81):

A toxic environment

Loughnan: What did you observe about the toxicity of this environment and its effects?

Judge: On one occasion in Nauru, I was sitting in the outdoor mess hall teaching a young man basic English. To my left, I saw a young man sitting down and lightly hitting the back of his head on a metal pole. I was always on heightened alert in the camp, ready for the next incident, outburst or self-harm or suicide attempt. Something about this felt particularly off-putting. The young man then let out a scream and began rocking back and forth and hitting his head violently. He began yelling out ‘freedom’ and making deep guttural sounds. I stood up and walked towards him. I was told by Salvation Army senior management to sit back down and carry on as normal and not to focus on ‘attention seeking behaviours’. He then collapsed on the floor, hitting his forehead on the concrete. He had blood streaming from his forehead, and his friends came running. Management urged security to take him to the small medical clinic, colloquially referred to as ‘medical’. Eventually, he was taken away for medical attention, but not without the guards telling him that it was his ‘own fault’ and to ‘toughen up’. On another occasion, while at Manus Island, I was walking back to the staff mess area (dining space) when a man was quickly stretchered to ‘medical’ after he had slashed his wrists and passed out.

Suicide attempts were not uncommon. I was often asked to go and clean up. On one occasion, when I entered the ‘Delta Compound’ at the Manus centre, I was confronted by large pools of blood, over the door to a detainee's room, on the steps, and on concrete. There was so much blood that it had a distinct smell. It was so overpowering that I had to leave and hand over the job to someone else. The man survived, miraculously. But even now when I observe roadkill, I am reminded of this scene. The sensory experiences of being there are easily provoked long after the event, triggered by similar smells, sounds and scenes. I have found it hard to forget such experiences.

Loughnan: Such memories must be so difficult to hold! We know that smells and sounds comprise the ‘sensory’ dimensions of punishment and suffering (Herrity et al., 2021). You have recounted elsewhere that: ‘the men basically live in cages. There are padlocks on the doors, eight-foot-high fences and rooms with no windows. There are faeces and urine smell everywhere. The sewerage was always leaking so there was always sewerage around’ (Zajac, 2015). Emma Russell (2020) argues for greater recognition of these embodied experiences of detention as the ‘diffuse’ dimensions of ‘carceral power’. It is clear from your reflections that you experienced this, personally.

Conditions at Manus Island Detention Centre, after heavy rain.

Judge: Yes. My experience on Manus Island, PNG was the most difficult and traumatic experience of my life to date. I arrived at Manus having heard stories and being told by staff who had spent time there previously, to ‘never go there’. I knew it was bad but did not expect what I saw.

Our orientation to the camp began with a search for belongings. Australian Security held up my underwear whilst they examined my belongings. ‘We have a racy one here fellas’ as they examined my everyday clothing. And as if nothing was amiss, we were later shown around the campsite, ironically with our first stop to be shown where the bar was, down a walkway between Oscar and Delta compounds, past the medical buildings. We walked between the compounds and detained men shook the fence, yelling ‘hello! Please, help us!’ They had no shoes on, they had torn long pants and long sleeve shirts and made them into shorts and singlets, it was overbearingly hot, and again stunk of sewerage. They rattled the wire fences while the guard explained the opening hours of the bar. We walked past ‘Charlie compound’ which had a large green metal fence with thick chains: that was for ‘the crazy ones’ we were told. Detainees had no freedom of movement: even to travel 20 metres from Oscar compound to medical they were escorted in a security vehicle. I looked at my colleague and I said, ‘I don't think I can do this’. He looked back at me eyes wide and said I have ‘no words for this’.

Sleeping accommodation at Manus Island Detention Centre.

Loughnan: It is hard to imagine how brutal, overcrowded, unhygienic and dehumanising the conditions were at Manus Prison for those held there. Kurdish writer Behrouz Boochani describes it in this way:

One month has passed since I was exiled to Manus. I am a piece of meat thrown into an unknown land, a prison of filth and heat. I dwell among a sea of people with faces stained and shaped by anger, faces scarred with hostility. (Boochani, 2018a: 121)

It is often assumed that it is impossible or unlikely for empathy in these settings to develop between those subjected to this violence and the guards and other staff. Yet you formed friendships with those detained there. Can you tell us about this?

Judge: Yes, I did. For example, when I was working at Manus, I witnessed a serious physical assault by an Australian guard on an Iranian detainee. The man had been waiting outside in the rain whilst we conducted a change of rooms. He had been waiting for hours, and it had begun to rain. He walked briskly into the room with his bag of belongings, and past me. I was standing at the door and did not at all feel threatened. The guard immediately raced in, punched him repeatedly and twisted his arm backwards behind and around the metal bed frame. The man was injured and taken to the medical clinic. I filed a formal report against the guard and was told by my manager that it was ‘stupid, we are all on the same team’ and it ‘filing a report will do more harm than good’. I stood by my report and the following day I was interviewed by the PNG mobile police squad. ⁹ I was taken into a small interview room designed for two people, with four mobile squad police. They sat me down and asked me to review my statement. I stated that my report was correct. They asked me if I was sure, and whether I had changes to make. I was scared, alone and felt threatened. I changed my statement to make the guard appear less aggressive. I regret my decision to do so. Later the man who was assaulted presented me with a tea box wrapped in foil. Inside was a small doll made from string. This was his thanks to me for standing up for him, as well as an acknowledgement that he knew nothing could be done.

Loughnan: Your comments show that it is possible to make a choice about how we respond, even in places where how people in a chain of command often end up doing things they would not otherwise do because they do not hold ‘direct responsibility’ (Bauman, 1989: 162).

You witnessed terrible conditions in these sites: there was little relief for those detained in accommodation with metal roofs and plastic walls (Fleay and Hoffman, 2014: 7). ‘Unsanitary conditions’ were directly related to high rates of diarrhoea, gastrointestinal problems, and to ‘skin and eye infections’ (Fleay and Hoffman, 2014: 7). This quickly led to unrest. Protests were a collective expression of resistance, but you have said that you were protected by those rioting despite the withdrawal of guards from the compound. Can you tell us about how this unfolded in the centre at Nauru, where you witnessed the build-up to the 2013 riot? (ABC, 2013)

Judge: Yes, sometime in July 2013, in the offshore processing centre in Nauru – and before the evening of the July 19 riot which I describe below – I was acting as the team leader on the night shift, at about 10 pm. I was playing a game of ‘table soccer’ (flicking rocks across the table into ‘goals’) with a couple of Iraqi detainees I had come to know. Suddenly, at the front of the camp, a group of men began screaming ‘azadi’ (freedom) and knocking over plastic tables and chairs. Tensions had risen in the camp due to poor conditions: lack of fans in tents, unsanitary toilets and showers, limited time to contact family and the persistent lack of answers by management to endless questions from detainees about the status of their visa applications.

People had nearly been detained for a year by this stage. As the unrest grew, most men rushed to the front of the camp to see what was going on, including one of the Iraqi men with whom I was sitting. He quickly rushed back and informed me, and another staff member, that the entrance was blocked. We could only leave through the only front exit. A protest was breaking out. Although these were common, as staff we could not evacuate. The two Iraqi men yelled out for the others to make way and guided us out of the camp, lifted a different section of the fence and ushered us safely out. There was no security guard in sight.

Later in that month, I was sitting outside the computer room, making paper boats with other detainees to see whose paper boat would survive the longest in deep puddles across the camp. One of the detainees asked me if I would still be on the island this coming weekend, as there was a protest planned: the plan was for all the asylum seekers to leave the camp and peacefully march to Nauru Airport and request freedom. When I informed them that I would still be here, the young detainee stated to me that he wished I would not be, as he had a bad feeling about what might happen to them once they leave the front gates. I was supportive of protests and encouraged them to a degree, but I was always concerned that they might get out of hand. However, when I informed security and Salvation Army management that there were rising tensions and rumours of more serious protests, managers from the Salvation Army were not concerned, and security said, ‘let them go’, implying that they were happy for the detainees to take what action they wanted, and then suffer the consequences.

However, soon after, on 19 July 2013, Kevin Rudd, the then Prime Minister of Australia, announced that ‘no one who is seeking protection who has arrived by boat, will ever be resettled in Australia’. ¹⁰ It caused significant distress to the men in the camp as it meant their resettlement was not likely. Intense protests followed: the men made signs calling for freedom, for help, and to be let go. All staff, including security guards, were evacuated. I sat in the Od’n Aiwo Hotel in the township of Boe and waited for news. Hours went by, and then sirens sounded: fire trucks had begun speeding up the hill to the camp. Security staff were preparing to enter the camp. I remember very clearly and vividly the excitement of security staff. They were putting gloves on, yelling to each other ‘it's on boys, finally, they get what they deserve, let's go!’ Packing into minivans they sped up to camp. By this stage, we could smell smoke and see fire arising from the camp. Local Nauruans started dragging metal bars up the road towards the camp. Together with other staff, I was picked up and sat in the back of a truck speeding towards the Menen Hotel; we were told to hang on to our passports and wait, to enter a hotel room and lock the door and answer to nobody. We were told by management that we may be attacked when the asylum seekers left the camp. I knew this to be completely untrue – I remember responding by saying that if the detainees leave the camp, they’ll just want to have a beer at the bar like everyone else.

I sat with my friends in the hotel room and waited for news; texts were sent through to all Digicel phones to a call for assistance for anyone to help at the processing centre; this became an open invitation for a ‘free for all’. I decided to leave the room and walk by the hotel computers. My plan was to contact Australian media and spread the word on everything that happened. However, the computers were guarded by security and there was no chance to log on.

The following morning a staff meeting was held; amazingly no one had been killed. I was shocked. However, the centre was destroyed completely, arrests had been made, and we no longer had a Salvation Army office: all files were destroyed. Convenient I thought, no records of the last 10 months. The arrests were ironic: the men were essentially already under arrest, with no chance at freedom and no future. We were reminded, as we always were, not to contact the media and that our Facebook, email, and other social media accounts were monitored. We were also reminded that we could be sued, never hold another job in community service, and could spend up to 2 years in jail under The Crimes Act 1914 for speaking out.

Following the riot, I was told I would never go back to Nauru. I was to be sent to Manus Island to work in the offshore processing centre there, along with my friends. When I asked Salvation Army management why they sent us to Manus, they implied that it was to protect us from being further exposed to more violence at the Nauru centre. Nauru was over for us: we were told we were ‘traumatised’, and the risk of re-trauma was too strong. But we soon realised that this had little to do with it. We were being punished for trying to help detainees at the detention centre at Nauru.

I later found out that I had been deemed high risk, since I had made known bonds with detainees and was being internally investigated for possible breaches, such as providing those arrested with legal contacts. To reduce this risk, I was sent to Manus Island. I did end up returning to the Nauru family camp ¹¹ in 2014 but was denied access to ‘Bravo Camp’ where those whom I knew and had developed friendships with, were being detained. Many I never saw again. But if Nauru was bad, then the Australian Government had doubled down on Manus Island. This was far worse than Nauru. I had no choice but to enter the camp and begin work. I had work to do: I began to film and accrue information to show the world what was happening. If they knew the extent of pain and suffering there, I thought the public would never tolerate it.

Later, one evening once stationed at Manus, a man approached me with a heavily bleeding nose, blood streaming down his hands as he held a shirt to his face. When I ran over to the security checkpoint and asked the Australian guard to call medical, he looked at me as if I was crazy, but rang it through – the response from ‘medical’ was ‘tell him to stop picking it’. The guard then told me – ‘go on, tell him yourself. We can't do anything for him’. This response was common in medical cases on Manus Island, as we were usually instructed to tell the men to drink water or have a Panadol. ¹² Most medical cases were attributed to dehydration and were not investigated. Conditions were extremely unsanitary. Men could take no more than a few sheets of toilet paper which they had to access from the guard's station – even during gastroenteritis outbreaks. Often there was no toilet paper available.

Loughnan: Limited access to basic necessities, reflects Khosravi’s (2020) descriptions of ‘waiting’ as a border practice, whether for processing, for release, or just waiting for such necessities. This is experienced as punishment to deter people from making border crossings or even to encourage them to simply give up. Madeline Gleeson (2016) notes that those seeking asylum experience this ‘in both subtle and overt ways that allocate them to the lowest rung of human through the offshore detention regime: they must queue for hours for the simplest necessities, such as food, soap, water and access to a toilet’. How did you witness (and resist) these strategies?

Judge: I had begun to sneak in items to the men, clean toothbrushes, toothpaste, lollies, etc. When I was in Nauru, I was working a lot with a few underage minors who were separated from the rest of the camp. One young boy had dropped his toothbrush on the ground and was denied a new one; they were only offered every three months, even though we had a stockpile in the shipping container on site.

I brought this boy a toothbrush that I had taken from a hotel on my way to PNG. He seemed pleased. I left the compound and around 30 minutes later an alarm went out, he had attempted suicide and was being transported to medical. I rushed to my team leader and asked him what happened. He stated the boy had cut his wrists with a ‘sharp’, meaning any glass, cutting tool or razor that could be used for self-harm. I immediately thought it may have been my fault and told my team leader I had just provided him with a toothbrush. My team leader said ‘it’ll be on me’ if the boy dies as a result of sharpening down the edge of the toothbrush. I spent the rest of the day wondering if I had supplied the tool he had used and awaited an update on his condition. He survived, and I was later told he had used an aluminium can and I wasn't ‘to blame’.

On another occasion, during an evening shift at Manus, a detainee approached me and said the drinking water was possibly contaminated. It smelled and had an unpleasant taste. I went to inspect and agreed with him. He asked me to taste it myself. I refused. He said, ‘if you won't drink it, why would we?’ I approached security and asked if we could replace the water. Security refused to do so and stated they wouldn't replace it, that it ‘had only been pissed in’ and that it was fine to drink. I immediately went back to the asylum seeker men and told them to stop drinking it and discard all of the water they had been given that was like this. I went to the office and wrote a formal written complaint that the water was contaminated with urine. I left the complaint on managements’ desk. The following morning when I came to work, my complaint was in the bin and was never filed.

Loughnan: The refusal to follow up on complaints and wilful disappearance of records is alarming, especially of actions that were racialised and dehumanising. Some of the misconduct and behaviour were also highly sexualised.

These sites have a history of ‘pervasive’ sexual abuse and assault (Gleeson, 2016; Vasefi, 2021) towards those detained as well as amongst staff. Clearly witnessing – and experiencing – such harassment was distressing, including incidents that you have found hard to forget.

Judge: It was difficult. And there were other examples. After arriving at Manus, and when I entered Oscar compound (one of the compounds in the centre), I was metal detected by PNG Security: they waved the wand right up my thighs very slowly. I asked them to stop, as I had no contraband. The security officer then grabbed at my sunglasses which were hanging between my collar. I was told this would make the metal detector go off, and to put them on my head instead. I then had to turn around, at which point the officer flicked the back of my bra strap and asked, ‘what is this? Metal?’ I complained to my team leader but was told that ‘this is how it is on Manus Island, don't worry about it’. My time on Manus Island was spent feeling extremely degraded and on edge. I was referred to as a number rating out of 10 and was constantly sexually harassed by male staff including Australians and ex-pats. The environment was incredibly toxic, and I was not taken seriously as a woman.

Loughnan: The word ‘toxic’ comes up often in accounts of these environments. You have also conveyed strong memories about mistreatment of animals in Nauru and at Manus. Many local dogs were starving, roaming in packs. However, animals later became a source of comfort to those seeking refuge (Boochani, 2018b, 2021) figuring significantly in the everyday lives of those detained at Manus Island prison, especially during the 23 days of resistance by the men detained at Manus Island, late in 2017 (Boochani, 2018b). ¹³ Can you say something more about this?

Judge: Yes, there are two incidents regarding animals that stick out for me. When I first started at the camps, in Nauru, I had been advised to always carry a stick around to fend local dogs off, should they attack me when I was walking outside of the hotel. One night, I went with a friend to pick up fish and chips. I didn't bring my stick, and neither did my friend. Upon returning from the fish and chip shop, we walked the beach side back to the Menen Hotel where we were staying at that time. A pack of six dogs approached us, and we gently tried to navigate away from them. Due to the smell of the food, and the dogs being starving, they became vicious. We were told never to run from the dogs; my only option was to pick up rocks from the beach to throw at them, but it didn't work. I looked to my friend, and said ‘run!’ and began running back to the hotel. The dogs gave chase. Luckily there was renovation work being completed at the far end of the hotel, with scaffolding. We climbed up the scaffolding, worried that it might give way, waiting for the dogs to leave. The dogs eventually left, we climbed back down and decided never to walk beachside again back to the hotel.

On another occasion, quite soon into my early rotations in Nauru, I contacted three other colleagues from my former workplace in Australia, suggesting they apply to work in Nauru: they had seemed interested in the work and wanted to help however they could. Upon their arrival, as we approached the camp, we soon realised that we wouldn't be provided with our expected hotel accommodation. We were to camp instead in tents directly opposite the men's camp, with no fans, no appropriate bedding, just a stretcher and a mosquito net. My colleagues were all quite dismayed, and I encouraged them to come down to the boat harbour for a swim, to try and take our mind off the reality back at camp. We caught the transport bus down to the boat harbour – a service provided to staff to be transported to and from the camp to accommodation.

On the way, we passed the Od’n Hotel, and I saw a feral dog run out from the right side of the road. The bus driver was not slowing down, however. I yelled out to him to be careful. However, he just laughed and said ‘watch! We will speed up! Feral dogs!’ He sped the van towards the dog. I could hear the sickening crunching sound of the dog twisting under the wheels of the van, and the howling from the dog. The driver laughed and did not stop. In shock, I turned to my colleagues, seeing tears rolling down their faces, one was sobbing. When I asked the driver to stop and check on the dog, he refused, responding that letting it suffer was fine, the dogs were ‘just ferals anyway’. By the time we got to the boat harbour, it was closed due to an oil slick, and we had to return to camp. I reported this incident to management, but no action was taken. I eventually lost contact with these colleagues and had difficulty maintaining their friendship. I have not heard from them since they left the island.

Loughnan: This resonates with Boochani’s (2021) reflections:

In those early days, we saw armed soldiers chasing stray dogs. We later found out that the soldiers were ordered to kill a few dogs on occasion to control their population. Those dogs were already suffering from illness and hunger; you could count their ribs.

Whether animal or human, both were treated without dignity or care.

As Alpa Parmar has commented, much of the language about those seeking refuge is dehumanising and criminalising. This ‘coding’ of particular bodies in gendered and racialised ways, as ‘dangerous’, risky and ‘suspicious’ is crucial, she argues, to the constitutive power of border control practices (2020: 178). But what strikes me have been your accounts of the care extended to you by those whom the Australian Government frames as criminal and unworthy.

Judge: That's right: to give an example, when I was at Manus, on an afternoon shift, a commotion was occurring in Delta compound. I was in the opposite compound, Oscar compound. Locals had cut water supply to the tanks and climbed the fence with machetes, protesting lack of payment by the Australian and PNG governments for the detention centre to be built on their land. As I was in the back part of the compound, I had been left there. The entire personnel on the site, across all compounds, had evacuated, and I was alone with 500 asylum seeker men. These men ushered me to Oscar 4, and I sat inside their room and waited it out. They told me ‘you are our sister, don't worry, we will look after you’. Once the incident was over, I left, and no explanation was given as to why I was left on my own by management and guards when I had signed into the compound. Ironically it was the detainees who sought to protect me, rather than management.

Loughnan: Similar caring, respectful interactions have been described by artist Hoda Afshar who remarks that this humanity is not only being ‘unseen by the oppressive system of the offshore processing centre but actively subverted and suppressed’ by it (Afshar, cited in Loughnan 2020).

Calls for change

Loughnan: What are your closing thoughts about how these experiences have shaped you and calls you would make for change?

Judge: My time on Nauru and Manus changed myself and my friends’ lives. In speaking out, I was potentially subjected to a criminal sentence. We ultimately decided to take our witness accounts to the media. I had recorded footage on hidden cameras and held documents on incidents with the thought that once these were disclosed, Manus would be closed. I had hoped that I could make a difference, such as someone speaking out, to ‘alert’ the Australian community to the harms of this policy and to prevent future abuse. ¹⁴ Former detainee, Iranian Reza Berati was murdered on Manus in February 2014 during a riot, and a Senate Inquiry was held into the events leading up to his death. ¹⁵ The only change was that a higher fence was built around the compounds, to prevent another attack from locals during the events on the night of Reza's murder. With other staff there, I informed the Senate on conditions, violence, and health concerns. In my testimony I stated that there were people with severe foot infections, needing urgent attention as we did not provide adequate shoes. Hamid Khazaei later died of septicaemia which resulted from an infection in his foot. ¹⁶ There are still people detained in Nauru, Port Moresby, and detention centres in Australia. Their suffering has endured for over eight years, many with significant mental and physical health concerns, yet still without answers on why? How long will they be held? And why can't they be free? They feel as if no one cares. They have lost their youth, the best years of their lives, and deserve so much more than what we have provided for them. They deserve freedom.