At 23 years of age, Rhett Burraston has experienced much, and possibly learnt more than most people twice his age. But even he, a self-described “deeper thinker”, recognises the complexities and urgency of the problem facing policy makers and Aboriginal communities seeking to reduce Australia’s appalling rates of Indigenous incarceration.
One thing Rhett does know however is that it’s both government and Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities themselves that have the responsibility for solving this crippling issue.
“I didn’t know I was Aboriginal until I was seven or eight; and I do remember feeling really special when I found out,” says Rhett. “But it wasn’t long before I started making the connection that the only Aboriginal people I knew at the time in my neighbourhood, weren’t the best role models.”
Raised on a public housing estate in Campbelltown in Sydney’s south-west, Rhett was exposed to more than his share of Australia’s social problems, including crime.
“My biological father was one that had been in and out of jail ... and my uncles, some not much older than me, were getting locked up too. I started to feel that being Aboriginal wasn’t so special ... and that something was wrong,” says Rhett.
There was a “negativity that prevailed [in Campbelltown’s Aboriginal community]”. But it is important to understand what underpins this, stresses Rhett, “... entrenched mental health issues, drug and alcohol problems [and beneath this] intergenerational sorrow and trauma. Unfortunately, past government policies haven’t put Aboriginal people in the best position ... this trauma is real!” Rhett finishes emphatically.
When asked what can be done to tackle these issues and reduce the resulting rates of Indigenous incarceration, Rhett returns to the twin needs for both Australia’s policy makers as well as Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities to be involved.
“For Aboriginal people in urban areas, I think the solution is to strengthen [their] identity ... and connect them back to their culture. [This is] where they’ll learn about positive values,” says Rhett. “That’s where communities need to take responsibility ... and where Aboriginal Peoples have an advantage,” he says.
“A lack of identity and positive role models can be a problem for all youth, but we’ve got thousands of years of culture to [fall back on]. [So then it’s] ... about providing quality access to that. [But while] Aboriginal communities have a responsibility, we need the mechanisms and support. And that needs to come from government,” says Rhett.
On where to deliver this support and build this identity, Rhett believes the juvenile justice system is well placed to help some kids. “We have had some great results with programs such as the ‘Learning Circle’ being conducted at the Reiby Juvenile Justice Centre [in Airds, NSW],” he says. Incorporating the values of Respect, Patience and Observation, Rhett — now an Aboriginal Education Officer at Dorchester Education and Training Unit (within Reiby) — is encouraged that programs like this can help prevent Aboriginal youth from becoming institutionalised by the justice system as well as reduce reoffending.
“But this program would work equally well in the community to help divert Aboriginal kids away from the prison system in the first place,” he says. “And this is preferable.”
Photo: Lara McKinley/OxfamAUS
Des Rogers is an Arrernte man who has lived in and around Alice Springs most of his life. As a teenager and young man, he spent four and a half years imprisoned for what many Australians would consider relatively minor crimes including car theft and “break and enter”.
Des was first in trouble with the law and imprisoned at the age of fourteen, before reoffending and returning to jail in his late teens.
His experience is that Aboriginal men and women who prosper after spending time in jail do so despite the prison system, not because of it. “Just locking people up is not the answer,” says Des. “[The justice system’s] ... focus is too weighted towards prison. Putting aside for the moment that Aboriginal and non-Indigenous Australians can be treated differently and receive different punishments for the same crimes, incarceration provides inadequate rehabilitation, reintegration and broader life options for Indigenous Peoples once they get out,” he says.
Des was one of the fortunate ones. Despite being jailed in Alice Springs and spending a further four years in South Australia’s Yatala jail — approximately 1,500km from his family and community — he resolved to turn his life around. This he did, going on to establish his own business, holding senior positions in Bushfires NT, the MacDonnell Shire Council, as well as the position of Chairperson of ATSIC and of the Indigenous Housing Association of the Northern Territory.
“Prison tears communities apart, it doesn’t rebuild them. People are generally more violent on leaving the prison system; this includes domestic violence. Offenders come out of prison angry. And I think one of the reasons they are angry, and it sounds like a bizarre statement, is they’re coming from a system that provides on one level a sense of ‘security’, and are being thrown back into a world of hopelessness,” says Des. “One in which they are often seen as worthless … and so the cycle repeats itself. This ‘revolving-door’ hasn’t changed since I was in jail 40 years ago.”
Des believes governments need to rethink and invest resources away from the prison system. “Aboriginal people will follow the rules. But, like everyone, they need to be presented with options to change their lives. Imprisonment reduces these opportunities.”
“If we don’t provide our people with options, then we’re always going to be behind the eight-ball,” says Des, referring to Indigenous disadvantage and attempts to improve community safety.
He thinks programs developed in genuine consultation with Aboriginal people, and delivered by them, would see some very positive outcomes.
“I’ve seen it all my life, particularly in remote Australia,” says Des. “People come, most with good intentions, but the good intent has negative consequences. [This is because outsiders] … come with an imposed agenda. They have a predetermined outcome of what they want,” he says.
“We need genuine consultation, but we also need long-term and adequate funding for Aboriginal organisations to deliver diversion programs as an alternative to jail. That’s the crux of it.”
Photo: Lara McKinley/OxfamAUS
Vickie Roach was nine years old when she started running away from her foster family, and 13 when she left for good. Removed from her mother at just two, Vickie felt powerless and out of place most of her life. Her mother, too, was from the Stolen Generations and by the time a teenage Vickie finally reconnected with her, the damage had already been done. Vickie found solace in the underworlds of Sydney and Melbourne, a community of people that she says gave her a purpose and identity for the first time in her life.
Vickie’s experience of the juvenile justice system was so bad that, when she was arrested at 15, she lied about her age and gave a false name rather than face ‘juvie’ again. Her first experience in an adult jail was terrifying. However by then, Vickie was well immersed in the seamier side of life. Too young to access government benefits, she turned to prostitution to support herself.
“I had to figure out how to support myself. I was squatting and I got into drugs and that was the biggest thing that happened back then. I had my first shot of heroin and that was the start of my habit,” she says candidly.
“I was seventeen when I got done for self-administration of heroin. The cells they put me in at first were pretty scary; they were underground with concrete floors and cement walls, like dungeons, but with lights that never turned off. Your bed was a pallet and you were given these smelly, unwashed grey army blankets. I went to jail for six months.”
“I got out for four months then I went back in again for credit fraud. After that, it was ten years before I went back inside. I got married, got off the dope and had a son.”
But life was still a struggle. Her marriage breakdown, violent relationships and an acrimonious custody court case where an alcoholic ex-partner was awarded full custody of her son eventually broke Vickie down, and her hard-fought battle to stay clean was lost again.
“The last time I was inside really changed me. I was in for four years and got out in 2008. I’d already been in for nine months thirteen months prior to that which was when I got charged with the police pursuit. I hit another car and the other driver was badly injured when both cars burst into flames.”
Vickie had been escaping a violent relationship that had almost killed her several times and her ex-partner eventually tracked her down and forced her into a ‘smash and grab’ at a local convenience store. A police chase ensued, ending in disaster. But what followed was the start of her new life.
“When I went away that last time, things had already started to change for me,” Vickie says. “I started studying sociology philosophy and literature. I’ve always been an avid reader and had a strong sense of justice, and started talking with the community lawyers and activists who were coming into the jail.”
“When I was young, I felt like I had no power to do anything. All I could do was rebel in my own way and run away. But my focus shifted while I was inside. And I knew for certain that something had to be done about Indigenous incarceration.”
In 2007, Vickie was instrumental in a High Court challenge that struck out legislation banning prisoners who were serving three years or less from voting. Now 56 and on the other side of the law, Vickie is a passionate advocate for change in the criminal justice system.
“Nothing is being done because there has been no will to do anything. Governments are too scared to do anything because they’re worried about alienating the voters,” she says.
“And there’s nothing to be gained from a purely punitive approach; it doesn’t deter crime. I’d like to see more diversionary approaches to family violence like the Koori courts, like a circle of Elders.”
“There will always be people that society has to be protected from, and they have to be somewhere secure where they can’t harm other people but why does it always have to be a jail? I’d like to see alternatives that don’t make things worse for the offender.”
“We know the solutions – investment in housing, education and health – that’s what makes a difference and what helps communities stay strong and healthy.”
“The only way to get people out of the criminal justice system is to have an alternative that’s healing, that’s not punitive. You have to give people dignity and everything about the criminal justice system takes that away. The criminal justice system damages people – it damages women, children, men, entire communities.”
“We have to start diverting everybody from the criminal justice system and not just to community corrections.”
Photo: Lara McKinley/OxfamAUS
Those who know Kobie Duncan well are effusive in their praise for him. The impressive young boxer and rapper, and now mentor to other young men, says life was a struggle from an early age. But, within the space of just six months, he’s managed to turn his life around.
By the time he was 12 years old, Kobie had already started experimenting with marijuana and ecstasy and soon found himself selling drugs to fund his increasing habit. It was the beginning of a spiral out of control that saw him getting arrested and hospitalised
“I was arrested at 16 for searching cars, it was mostly just easy money. I started doing it with my mates and I was on a curfew for a bit,” says Kobie. “I was also arrested for trespassing when I went with one of my mates to a motel and jumped into the pool.”
“I had another incident where I took about seven pills in one night and ended up in hospital. That was a real wake-up call. My mate who’d done the same didn’t come out 100 per cent and I think that could have been me.”
Kodie admits that boxing saved him.
“Before, I’d just be sitting around in my room, sleeping, smoking pot, up all night and sleeping all the next day. Now that I’m training, I’m glad to be getting out of the house,” he says.
He has started competing in boxing competitions, and writes and performs his own rap songs. Recently, his work with the WEAVE Justice Reinvestment Campaign for Aboriginal Young People saw him perform for the Governor General.
“Growing up, it was just me, mum and my little sister,” Kobie recalls. “I was in Year Seven when I started doing pot, cigarettes and ecstasy. I started selling just to get more drugs. I just felt I needed to escape from everything.”
Kodie admits that serious family issues along with not having met his father until he was 12 all had an impact. He says it was the thought of becoming a better role model for his siblings and not adding to his mum’s constant worry that finally brought him to a turning point.
“I was doing nothing with my life; I wasn’t a really good role model for my brother and younger sister. I thought moving away might help but I just went more downhill, drinking and taking drugs, life was hectic.”
“I got to the stage where I was sick of how I was living. I decided that I had to do something with my life and I had to be a role model for my family. I started boxing six months ago and it’s turned my life around.”
For those who knew Kobie back then, including his boxing trainer and mentor Brad Hardman, the change has been nothing short of a miracle.”
Brad, a former professional rugby player, is also mentor to other young men. He knows the struggle, having battled his own demons, and it is these that help him to relate so well to the young men he works with.”
“When I was 15, I was partying with some mates and there were five of us that jumped into a car. We were travelling at 200km an hour when we hit a telephone pole that split the car in two,” Brad says. “One of my mates died and my leg got ripped off in the impact. My hips were fractured and I had to learn to walk with a prosthesis.”
“I’d been getting into a bit of trouble, drinking and fights. It took me a long time to recover from the accident and I started drinking again. One day, I got a call from the legendary boxing trainer Johnny Lewis and he asked me to do some training with him. I’d been a boxing fan since I was a kid and to get that phone call was pretty big. I started training against former world champions and really dedicating myself to getting fitter.”
“I go back to where I used to live and it’s the same people doing the same things. That’s what I try to tell the young boys, train hard and discipline yourself. It’s all about putting your heart and soul into it.
“I think about how different my life could have been. I’ve had the opportunity to do so much. Instead of being stuck in the same old things, I’d rather get out there and enjoy my life when I can. It’s hard trying to change your life but you can do it if there’s help and support. There are speed bumps left, right and centre but it’s worth it.”
Photo by: Mahala Strohfeldt