What happens when a woman has done everything asked of her but is still waiting to be reunited with her child? Through the story of Nette, a First Nations mother in prison, this piece examines the intersecting impacts of domestic violence, motherhood, systemic disadvantage and a justice system that can leave women trapped in limbo.
I walk into the low security side of the prison. It’s warm, there’s not a single breeze in the air and yet the seed-pod tree rattles as I enter the gates. I never know what I’m in for when I come in those gates. There’s always a buzz, with women having yarns and the officers being called on for forms or programs. Today, it’s different. There’s no one to be seen and the grounds are quiet. Maybe because it’s getting hot up here.
Winter has left the building, and it is only September. The women are likely taking refuge in their rooms where they have air conditioning. Except for one woman, Nette.
Nette sits on the bench seat near the phone box, crocheting. As I pass her to sign in I say hi and leave my bag next to her, telling her I’ll be back down in a minute. She barely looks up from her work. I have come to know Nette over the last month. I visit this centre once a week, to deliver release planning. Nette was one of the first women I sat down to talk with about her plans for release. Nette is a Murri woman, Waanyi, from parts of this country so remote that for half the year it’s cut off from rain.
A month ago, on my first visit, Nette told me about her son. He’s just a little bub, turning three this year, just 17 months old when he was taken away from her. Her only child, and most treasured son.
She wants him to come in to be with her, the process has been approved, but this country is a big place, and Queensland especially – there are long distances to travel to get to where she is. Her son needs to be transported from 10 hours away to get to her. His father is without a licence or financial means to take him on the long journey across this state. So he remains with his father, for now. She asks me if there’s anything I can do. I tell her we will send some clothing to take the financial pressure off the father, but to also send a gift from mum. Nette was grateful.
This week when I enter, Nette tells me the progress of what’s happening, and tells me about what she’s going through right now.
Nette longs to take her child back on country and teach him about river. About water. Dreamtime stories and how country is life, and how we belong to this land, not the other way around. She wants him to know all the Dreaming of this country, language and lore. She’s been separated from her son for too long now. Torn from his arms after being embroiled in domestic violence. Nette doesn’t even remember how she ended up in the watchhouse. She remembers what led to the drinking that got her there though.
She tells me about how when her baby was born she was so in love. Her son, the most beautiful little baby you could ever imagine. Quiet, adoring, wise. She has a photo frame with pictures from the birth – the only photos she has ever framed. Pictures of the father cutting the cord, and of the baby lying on her chest. The most precious of moments caught on film, framed, to cherish forever.
Nette was a loving and devoted partner too. She looked after her man when he needed surgery, pushing aside her pull to return to country, to ensure he had the support he needed to get well. She cleaned, cooked, tended the garden and cared for their child. The longing to return to country was deep and the pull back was strong. She asked if she could take their son back to country, to teach him all the things she dreamed of. Her ideas were not agreed to by her partner. So she stayed. And grew resentful.
As the relationship soured, he began to drink. When he drank, he was mean. Violent. Neglectful. He lost his job and they were made to pack their house and move from the accommodation that came with the job. Nette packed the house, cared for their child and worried about where they would go. He sat on the couch and drank.
On the last night, after enduring the nasty threats and degrading commentary from her partner for days on end, Nette gave up and drank too. She got two bottles of rum and a 10-pack from the shop, and that’s the last thing she has ever been able to remember. She woke up in the watchhouse and was transported to prison not long after – where she has been ever since.
Nette doesn’t know some days where her child is, who has him or if he is safe. Her days are filled with worry and angst – is he loved, does he know me, will he remember me, is he being cared for? It is emotional torture for a mother to sit in prison and wonder ‘what if’. No way to access information, slow painful request processes, broken promises and long waits between the smallest snippets of information. The shame that’s not hers to carry but weighs so heavy regardless.
Her parole hangs on the completion of a program not always available in prison, which takes three months to complete.
The program is a ‘rehabilitation’ program; it runs a few times a year and goes for about 12 weeks. She could be going home because she’s eligible for parole right now, but bureaucracy madness will have her here for at least another four more months. She’s done every other course available to her, written letters, taken accountability, made plans for release and even accepted responsibility for actions that weren’t entirely in her control. So her wait to be reunited with her son continues.
She holds on to hope that her life will be different when she’s released, that she will return to country and be able to show her son all the things she dreams of. For now though, they are just dreams that she holds on tightly to, because that’s all she has to get her through.
This June, Project:herSELF is asking the community to support the work they do by giving just $30 by 30 June. She is Me is a collection of stories from women with lived prison experiences, published by Project:herSELF and authored by founder, Tahlia Isaac. You can purchase a copy of She Is Me this June here.