Detention, By Decree

Part 1: The Arrest

It was supposed to be a normal day. A sunny winter’s morning on the Gold Coast, Australia. The kind of day that made me appreciate how far I’d come. How lucky I was to have rebuilt my life!

I kissed my daughter goodbye, told her I’d be home for dinner. Cuddled our dog, Charlie. Locked the door behind me without a second thought. I had no idea I wouldn’t be coming back.

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Then the call came.

Routine drug test. That’s what they told me.

I was at work—busy, laughing with Jason, one of my best mates—at a job I genuinely loved. A job I was proud of. A business built on ethics, rewarding in every way. I was building something good, something real. Something that was driving me forward.

Then there was the call from the parole office to come down for a “routine drug test.” I thought nothing of it at first. They had asked me to do it before. Nothing to worry about—I wasn’t taking drugs.

I went down to the parole office, feeling calm and upbeat.

And then I saw them.

Border Force.

The second I stepped inside, I knew. The drug test was a smokescreen. The trap had already been set.

Handcuffs. My phone—gone. Freedom—gone.

Fifteen months out of prison. I had been sentenced in 2020 for fraud committed in 2015 and had served two and a half years for that crime. As a non-Australian citizen, my visa had been revoked as a consequence. It was up to me to fight for my right to stay in the country. And I did. I took my case to the Administrative Appeals Tribunal (AAT)—an Australian body that reviews government decisions on immigration and visas—and I won. After my release, visa reinstated, I had been living in the community for fifteen months, doing everything by the book. Getting my life back on track.

And now, in an instant, it was all being stripped away. I couldn’t understand why this was happening… or why now?

As I sat in the back of that transport van, the reality of it started to crush me. The drive to Brisbane was long and silent, my only company the two stone-faced officers in the front—boots laced up tight, serious, disciplined, impassive.

Just another job for them. Just another name on a list.

But for me?

It was my life being torn apart.

And then there was my little girl. My darling daughter. The apple of my eye. This girl I had loved to infinity since the day she was born. She had already been through so much—enduring the pain of a father imprisoned, the fear of losing me forever when my visa was revoked. She had lived with that uncertainty, only to feel the relief and joy when we won the fight to keep me in Australia.

Now, she was going to come home to an empty house and have no idea what had happened. That thought alone nearly broke me.

Through fought-back tears, I finally reasoned with them—convinced them to give me my phone back for one call. Just one.

I rang Lauren. My true friend. Somebody I knew I could depend on.

She barely had to hear the words. Through the cracks in my voice, she knew enough. She just said, “Don’t worry, I’ll go to Keira.”

And that was it. No hesitation. She was already on her way.

But the anxiety didn’t stop there.

How the hell was I going to explain this to my family?

To my mother, my sisters, my aunts and uncles, my cousins—people who had already been through hell with me. People who had suffered enough. And now we were here again.

My sister Nicola had just visited me from my home country, Ireland, on her honeymoon. Ten years since we’d last seen each other. She had only left me days ago. She was still in Hong Kong, still in the afterglow of that long-overdue reunion. And now I had to shatter it with this news.

My mother, Ann. The woman who had been with me every step of the way. Who had finally started to believe it was all behind us. She had carried this weight since my arrest in 2015. She thought it was finally over. That she could live in peace, knowing her only son was with his only child.

My sister Karen, who had acted as my prison PA—organising my visits, keeping everyone connected to me while I was locked up. She thought she could finally hang up the gloves. That her fight was over.

But it wasn’t.

Because here we were again.

And as I stood in that processing room in Pinkenba Immigration Detention Centre, holding nothing but a clothing and bedding pack, the full weight of it hit me.

How did we get here?

I put my brave face on. The one that’s required for a custodial environment.

Then I found out why.

It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about anything I had done since my release.

This was about politics.

A non-citizen out on the streets had been charged with murder, and the Australian government was humiliated. The AAT had set him free, and they were being destroyed by the media. They needed a desperate show of strength—a bid to claw back confidence in them and, more importantly, votes.

And so Andrew Giles—the former Minister for Immigration (I say “former” because he was sacked a week or two after this happened)—went on a Gestapo-style purge.

Picking people off the streets. Reversing old decisions. Dragging men like me from their jobs, their families, their homes.

Not because I had done anything wrong since my release.

But because they needed someone to use as a scapegoat.

And that was me.

To be continued…

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