BY SIMON TAYLER
As we drive into Villawood Immigration Detention Centre, the first thing I feel is the place's isolation from the world around it. To the south, only just visible, is the local industrial area — book printers and truck yards. Somewhere round here are the sprawling suburbs of western Sydney. But not near the detention centre. Here there's only the shells of old dormitories.
I'm told later that this is where they used to house new immigrants to Australia, but no one lives here now. The buildings you drive past are abandoned; the windows broken in, the doors falling off their hinges.
Then I see the fences. Not small, suburban fences or commercial cyclone mesh fences, but 5-metre barriers, two or three deep, topped in thick gleaming razor wire. I'd never seen razor wire with my own eyes; only in television pictures of the Berlin Wall and the borders in the Middle East.
We park and get out of the car. My companion shows me the spelling of the name of the first man that we have come to see, and I memorise it as quickly as I can. We must pretend that I have met him before, or else they won't let us in.
We move toward the gates for the Stage Two area. There are already a dozen people there, waiting for their turn to go through the gate. We stand with them, exchanging awkward smiles.
Two signs posted next to the gates are telling. The first quotes Philip Ruddock. "There will be no amnesty for illegals" it tells us, with the word "no" written in red. "If you are living in Australia illegally, it is only a matter of time..." We are left in no doubt that the immigration minister means this very literally, and that the government is proud of its hard stand on "illegals".
The second sign is a reminder, written in plain text, that "people smuggling" is illegal. It implores us to "dob in" people smugglers, and assures us that our information will be kept confidential. It's not signed by a welfare or police officer. Instead, the name endorsing the statement is that of the immigration department's business director. I suppose that I shouldn't be surprised; I'm standing inside a private prison after all.
Eventually, we are led inside in small groups through a set of double gates, and everything is locked as we walk through. We empty our pockets onto a tray and walk through a metal detector. We are presented with "Application Forms" to fill in so that we can see the detainees. I wonder to myself how many "applications" this company turns down.
The guard takes my form and checks my ID. I wonder if perhaps I should have put a false address, because I realise that I have no idea where the information on the form goes.
We are let out into the visiting yard as the guards page our friend. We walk out onto the muddy yard, and I look around.
Visiting hour is in full swing. People sit on aging chairs under the run-down picnic shelters. Those with groups too large to fit around the wobbly tables sit on the muddy grass, trying to create the air of a normal Sunday with their loved ones inside the fenced yard. In the corner, two priests are starting a church service with five detainees. A couple, embracing, try to find a spot where they can get away from everyone to talk to each other. It proves futile; all the quiet spots are already taken by others trying to do the same.
Our friend comes through a gate. He greets my companion and shakes my hand warmly. He and my companion begin talking in a language that I don't speak. Sometimes my friend translates for me. She tells me that he is very happy that I am here, that someone on the outside is taking notice of his plight. He says he wishes that he could speak better English, so that he could talk and be friendly with me.
While we are talking, a group of children are led by an Australasian Correctional Management (ACM) staff person out of the visiting area and into the compound proper. They follow her the way lonely school-children follow their favourite teachers in the playground. Near the gate, a new layer of fence is being erected.
Our detainee walks goes off to bring us someone new to talk with. "He's been here 27 months", says my friend. I ask her, "What would the situation be for him if he were to be sent back to his country?" "He would be executed", she replies.
After leaving Stage Two, we head off to find Stage One. Taking a wrong turn amongst the empty buildings, we are followed part of the way by an ACM staffer in a ute.
My friend tells me that the detainee we have just seen has twice been awarded a bridging visa, once in a court case that he was not allowed to attend. Both times, the immigration minister has intervened and kept him locked up. Twenty seven months he's been hanging in limbo.
On my way to Stage One, my friend confides that she has been told by her doctor not to visit the detention centre, because of the stress that it puts her under. "But what can I do?" she asks.
We find Stage One. My friend explains to me that this is where people who are to be imminently deported are kept.
To get to the visiting area, we must go through seven doors. Two of them are doorways through 3.5 metre-high fences made from steel and topped with spikes. It's bizarre and grotesque to think that the people kept here are not murderers or drug runners. Their only crime is to be here in contravention of a government's political convenience. Nothing more.
We are told to wait outside until room is made in the visiting space. We wait for 30 minutes. The process of letting us in takes another 10.
The visiting room is small, hot and smelly. Inside, there is a babble of voices in different languages. Here is the real multicultural Australia; the government is deporting people from every nation on Earth.
We meet two young men who remind me of school buddies I used to play at basketball. Their English is slightly better than my last detainee, yet somehow I doubt that ACM or the Howard government have done much to help that. Their eyes also light up when my friend tells them that I have been helping the campaign on the outside for the refugee cause, they turn and thank me in English.
It strikes me that I have not seen a sign all day in a language other than English.
Visiting time is over. The guards don't grant us any leeway for the delays in letting us in. The guards come and tell everyone to leave; slowly breaking up the groups of friends and couples that are crammed into the space. Everyone tries to smile to each other as we leave, but some can't quite do it.
We catch a ride out with someone who offers to take us to the station. As we come out of the driveway, it's the houses and shops that remind me that we're in a Sydney suburb. This shouldn't happen here, I think. Then I correct myself. This shouldn't happen anywhere.