
© AFP / Daniel Leal-Olivas Reuters / Peter Nicholls
I have only ever known Julian Assange in detention. For nine years now, I have visited him in England bearing Australian news and solidarity. To Ellingham Hall I brought music and chocolate, to the Ecuadorian embassy I brought flannel shirts,
Rake, Wizz Fizz and eucalyptus leaves, but t
o Belmarsh prison you can bring nothing — not a gift, not a book, not a piece of paper. Then I returned to Australia, a country so far away that has abandoned him in almost every respect.
Over the years I have learned to not ask, 'How are you?', because it's bloody obvious how he is: detained, smeared, maligned, unfree, stuck — in ever-narrower, colder, darker and damper tunnels — pursued and punished for publishing. Over the years I've learned to not complain of the rain or remark on what a beautiful day it is, because he's been inside for so long that a blizzard would be a blessing. I've also learned that it is not comforting but cruel to speak of sunsets, kookaburras, road trips; it's not helpful to assure him that, like me and my dog, he will find animal tracks in the bush when he comes home, even though I think it almost every day.
It is the prolonged and intensifying nature of his confinement that hits me as I wait in the first line outside the front door of the brown-brick jail. At the visitor centre opposite I've been fingerprinted after showing two forms of proof of address and my passport. Sure to remove absolutely everything from my pockets, I've locked my bags, keeping only £20 to spend on chocolate and sandwiches. Despite the security theatre that follows, the money gets nicked at some point through no fewer than four passageways that are sealed from behind before the next door opens, a metal detector, being patted down and having my mouth and ears inspected. After putting our shoes back on, we visitors cross an outdoor area and are faced with the reality of the cage: grey steel-mesh fencing with razor wire that is about 4 metres high all around. I hurry into the next building before going into a room where thirty small tables are fixed to the floor, with one blue plastic chair facing three green plastic chairs at each.
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