A year on…
So here we are, and once again I feel the need to turn to the coping mechanisms I’ve developed along this difficult road to acceptance.
Writing is always therapeutic for me, it helps me to encapsulate vague troubling feelings into something more tangible, something that has a new meaning and can be shared with others, and then reverberates for them — sometimes in ways I hadn’t imagined.
Of course what I’ve learnt about the events leading up to Mia’s death has been harrowing, and to know how preventible it all was is devastating to learn. But that doesn’t mean I feel vengeful, or bitter, or destructive. I still feel strongly that guarding your heart against negativity is the most likely way to create a positive outcome.
So what has happened as a result of the deaths?
We revisited the hostel where Mia and Tom died, and although the owner Shelley wouldn’t see me, I gathered that things haven’t really progressed there. They’re taking less by way of deposits, and don’t seem to take passports any more — I imagine they’re biding their time until I stop campaigning and normal business can resume — but we still met young people who had been attracted by the promise of work and had gradually got into debt, waiting for that work to materialise. Sat in a hostel, in a tiny town with very little to occupy them, waiting … for … work, and paying rent. Effectively they’d been lied to, and here they are, nowhere to go, nothing to do. So they buy alcohol from the local shop, (the bar run by the hostel may now be legal, but it is still prohibitively expensive).
One day a couple of months ago Shelley crossed the road from the hostel to the park where some hostellers were having a quiet drink (the park where I planted hibiscus and frangipani around a Buddha’s head so that stressed travellers would have a quiet place to meditate — all since removed by Home Hill council). Shelley approached the backpackers, snatched the bottle they were sharing, and emptied the contents onto the ground. She then called the police.
I imagine by this stage the police were tiring of call-outs to Home Hill; by all accounts the place was notorious, and gained the name of Hell Hole through the horrible atmosphere and regular alcohol and drug-fuelled fights that were frequent occurrences. A young man who helped us with the planting came for a drink with us in the evening; he was in pieces, having had just a couple of days work over an entire two months. Having created this predicament on the false promise of work, the charming Shelley of Home Hill Hostel had no compunction in exacerbating his problems by turning him out onto the streets.
So no change there then.
And in the Malpass Hotel in Home Hill, a local character— originally from England — caught my eye, and obviously wanted to talk. He’d known Tom, and he was friends with two young women who worked as barmaids in the Malpass Hotel bar. The young women had told him that they’d refused to do their 88 days, and had picked up work in the pub in order to save money to travel. The reason for their reluctance was that they’d heard that in the fields of the Burdekin, young women can finish their 88 days and go to ask for their payslips and their piece work agreements (as evidence to present to immigration of completed days), but the farmers then insist they have sex in exchange for the paperwork. Our new friend from the bar was horrified, he couldn’t believe this could be true, so he then went to a family of farmers he knew well, and asked them to verify it. They said yes, this practice was rife across the Burdekin.
Does this explain why my beautiful daughter, so slight and evidently unsuited for hard physical work, was prioritised for work immediately on arrival when others had been sat around waiting for two to three months? Or why she was placed in a room with a disturbed but nevertheless valued employee? One who was known already and had been promoted to supervisor on this return visit to Home Hill? Was Mia some kind of placatory gift to him? Does it explain why subsequently another eye-catchingly beautiful 19-year-old Georgian girl was offered work on arrival, preferred over older stronger Italian guys, and older heftier Finnish women, who were being left to get into debt until they were forced to borrow money from any source they could find?
Let’s face it, these are questions for which I’ll never get answers.
Since An Australian Story went to air, I have become a point of contact for distressed backpackers and for young people who contact me to ask for help in finding workplaces. An example: a Dutch girl contacted me in distress after she had been rescued by police.
My name is __________, I’m a 25-year-old Dutch girl. I’ve done farm work in the outback near Mundubbera for a man named _________
He has a 15.000 acre cattle property. The position required me to cut posts for a 15 km fence, welding, horse riding & taking care of the horses, two pups and the dogs (20 dogs in total).
I learned a lot of things about living isolated, meaning living on a generator for maybe 1/2 hours a day, no phone reception and showers from the creek.
There’s been a few occasions where he was verbally abusive towards me for no reason. And sexual comments. After these few occasions I talked about his concerning behaviour with my colleague and we agreed that it was not okay. Her name is; __________, an Australian citizen working for him for a full year in total.
After this chat we continued our work. [the farmer] was cutting a tree with a chainsaw, he was already very tense. When the tree didn’t drop the way he wanted he lost it and just started swearing and complaining about all sorts of things. Then he shouted out that we should bring the ute out. While we were driving I noticed two dogs in the back of the vehicle were fighting, so I asked [colleague] to stop the car very calmly. I broke up the two fighting dogs and [farmer] yelled out ‘what’s going on!’ So I explained, he lost it again… hit the dog that actually didn’t do anything wrong that was being attacked by the other dog. He hit that innocent dog in the jaw that looked like it was out of place for a fair bit. Then I said, ‘What the hell that is not okay _____!!’ He just said shut up you fucking cunt & get the fuck in the car.
After this so far I lost count verbal abuse to me, I just had enough and decided I want to leave but I have to think this through… so I got in the car (he told me to get the fuck in the car you cunt) so I did as I was told.
Tears in my eyes we drove home where I went straight to my room, cried a little bit and decided I want to have a conversation with [farmer] about what just happened, that I do not accept that and I want to look for a different job. I made it clear I respect him as a farmer, but talking to me like that numerous of times and treating animals the way he does… I didn’t accept that. And I would like my paperwork & money as soon as possible. He had been promising me this for a few weeks but nothing happened. He was mad again telling me I was useless, then in the same sentence he would say he wouldn’t want me to leave then was mad again and wouldn’t get the paperwork sorted for me. In the end he “promised” to get the paperwork the next day (Tuesday) and be back late in the afternoon and I can fuck off after. I’m just like all the city bastard and I belong on the beach.
I agreed about the plans for the next day, in my head I’m thinking I need to get out of here. So I left him sitting at the table and went to my room locking the door and thought about me leaving. The next morning ( Tuesday) I left the farm with a little backpack full of my personal stuff and told them [farmer and colleague] that I was going in to town to look for new work. I took his car, went to the police office where the oic notified his colleague in [name of town]. He’s obviously known by the local police. Questions were: ‘is he talking to himself?’ “No” Has he got weapons? “Yes” ‘Has he threatened to use them?’ “Yes, he mentioned he didn’t like the government or law enforcement in any way and he will shoot”.
Anyway that was enough information to make them go back to the farm with me to get my stuff. They (two officers) took extra weapons and bulletproof vests. I took [farmer’s] car, drove in front police car behind me to the property, thank god [he] wasn’t at the house. So I took my stuff with one officer looking out if [he] was coming in yes/no and the other one making sure I was okay. After that I left his car there and left with all my stuff. Even the officer said let’s get out of here before he comes back. That’s where I noticed the extra guns in the back of the car again and the bulletproof vests laying beside me.
On our way back in town we talked about what happens next and they sorted out a safe place to stay at the local caravan park where I stayed in a caravan right behind the owner’s house until I could take the next bus to Bundaberg or anywhere really. Stayed at the park for two “sleeps”, still in shock, been well look after & then took the bus to Bundaberg yesterday. I’m at friends parents house in Bundaberg at the moment. Busy looking for work, trying to get my paperwork & money. The most important thing is/was my safety. I’m safe now, but the next thing is I’d really like the 5 weeks I worked 7days a week all day long to be signed off for my second year visa apply & get my money. I haven’t been paid since I’ve been working there.
A wonderful contact from the Salvation Army did her best for us— from the middle of a wedding ceremony in Cairns — and found someone who lived locally and was apparently an incredibly helpful person. I explained what I knew to date. The woman was evidently not in any way inclined to lift a finger and in fact was openly hostile, ‘Our farmers are good people, they might swear a bit, but she needs to get used to that!’ This was evidently the local response to the campaign, and I gritted my teeth and insisted this wasn’t an over-reaction on the girl’s part. The woman said she’d do some research for me as she knew everyone locally, including local police.
She came back a few hours later, no apology, and no sense of irony. ‘Oh we couldn’t possibly go in to this situation, the man is unstable. There’s nobody I would ask to go in to this house without a police escort!’ So not your 20-year-old daughter then? And yet, my 20-year-old daughter (if she were still alive) can answer an ad on Gumtree and end up in this man’s house any time he wishes to recruit.
I have done my best to solve this problem by asking backpackers to review hostels and workplaces, which we’ve added to a website designed to direct them to decent employers. But unless immigration are prepared to promote this — and we know they won’t — I’m on a highway to nowhere. By the time the backpackers find it they’ll already be knee-deep in cow dung, wondering how come the federal government are allowing psychopaths to partake in a federally imposed ‘cultural exchange’.
I still think as I did before the pan-Australia trip, that the solution to this lies with the Australian public. I’ve done what I can to get the message out there, that this is unacceptable, and I regularly get messages from wonderful Australians, saying how much they agree with me, and how they’d never allow their own kids to work under these conditions. They have got the picture, post Australian Story, and they know about the lies, and extortion and exploitation and neglect of young people. In fact a number of people have been aware of all this for years in their specific geographical locations, and have been routinely rescuing backpackers. A woman in Western Australia told me about a hostel local to her which carries out the usual scams. She has rescued backpackers who were suffering from malnourishment and untreated wounds.
So the will for change is out there, on the ground, all over the country. A migrant nation who appreciate the need to keep the next generation of would-be settlers safe, and to give them the respect they deserve. This energy needs to be co-ordinated, and it needs to be done now. No more reports, or committees, or legislation, or deliberation…
Australia, you need to organise.
