film, Forgotten Australians, memories, Stolen Generations

Is justice yet to come?

by Rhonda Trivett (guest author) on 2 March, 2011

In these videos, Rhonda Trivett details some of her experiences from the age of 13, from 1974 – 1981, when she was interned in the maximum security adult ward (Osler House), in Wolston Park Hospital and her call for current reforms.

Part 2 contains explicit descriptions of abuse, therefore we have not uploaded it onto the website. However, if you wish you can view part 2 below:

Forgotten Australians, Responding to the National Apology

We were charged with being neglected

by Colleen Stevenson (guest author) on 15 November, 2010

Colleen Stevenson


My name is Colleen and I grew up in Neerkol orphanage in Rockhampton. I went to the orphanage when I was 11 years of age. We were taken off our parents and charged with being neglected. We were taken to court. The five of us were in court. My grandfather went there to try to stop them from taking us, but they wouldn’t give us to him. He went away and he was so upset. He was so sad. He was an old man but he wanted us so badly.

Well, life in Neerkol was no pretty picture at all. We’d get up 5 o’clock in the morning, go to church, then we’d come back and we’d have to do the dormitories and we’d just have to do a lot of things. If we didn’t do it properly we were given a hiding. We were given the strap. We just had to do it proper.

As a child we weren’t able to form bonds at all. We never really got to know each other as children. I think we were all scared of what would happen to us, not that we couldn’t but we just weren’t allowed to, we just didn’t feel like we could, you know, because of things that went on – sorry. Things that happened out there to different kids, kids were strapped and they were hurt very badly.

Being here today, the apology means today that it’s finally recognised as we were all telling the truth and not lying. Well, it helps move on a little bit, one step at a time. You can’t go – one day at a time – you can’t go any further than that. If you try to go any further you get nowhere.

My children when they were growing up I tried very hard. I made my mistakes because I didn’t really know how to bring them up but I did my best. I love them very much and people could see I loved them. I was also scared when my husband died that they would be taken off me. I was so fearful that they would be taken off me but they weren’t, thank God. And they turned into great kids.

Forgotten Australians, Responding to the National Apology, Stolen Generations

Fifth generation in the ‘care’ of the state

by Katie-Maree Sibraa (guest author) on 15 November, 2010

Katie-Maree Sibraa
Katie-Maree Sibraa


My name is Katie-Maree Sibraa. I went into care at three months of age, in foster care. With my story it’s the fifth generation in state care. My dad, my grandparents and my great-grandparents all in state care. Myself, I was in care under the minister right up until I was 18 in two separate foster families and also in an institution as well. My experience from the age of seven through to 12 being sexually assaulted by seven different men in the first foster family while under the minister or Children’s Services in Queensland. Then I ran away and when I ran away they put me in an institution for running away and I was only 12. So, yeah, it’s been pretty tough.

Life in an institution when I first arrived I arrived in the back of a paddy wagon, and it was in Wilson in Queensland. They had to hold you down. You weren’t allowed near anybody, unless they had doctors at you. You were totally humiliated. I was only young and frightened because I had already experienced years of abuse – sexual abuse, physical abuse – in the family I was in and I felt like I was being re-tormented, re-punished again. And no-one believed me – no-one. I mean, it was just something that you lived with and had to accept.

Life in the institution, I closed off and was very disassociate. I was very tiny and I never ate, maybe because I fretted or there was no love. There was one person who was a couple of years old who I have only just recently met here, and she used to be my protector. She’d say, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK, don’t cry, they’ll send you into isolation.’ I felt like she was sticking up for me, then she’d get punished and I felt really bad for that.

There was no privacy and it was just – your whole identity was stripped.  You had no self-esteem, it was just nothing, no visitors, and it was hard seeing others getting visitors. And when you didn’t have anyone visiting you and you’d just see these gates, it was – not good.

I had met my natural father, my dad, when I was eight in the foster family. I did not know that I was Aboriginal, Indigenous. They brought me up from the back yard playing and they said, ‘Oh, Katie, this is your real dad’. And my reaction to that was: ‘He can’t be, he’s black and I’m white’. I didn’t know. But then he was stopped visiting me. He used to visit me in holidays, but then no.

My natural mother I didn’t know because she had left me at three months on a railway line so I never knew where she was or anything. No, I didn’t have any family.

Being in a relationship or even entering a relationship I find, because I suffered the sexual abuse as a young child and the emotional and physical, I don’t trust very easy. You lose that and sometimes you look for love in the wrong areas and you think it’s going to be OK, but it’s very difficult because you don’t have that trust. And you don’t want to get close because you think, ‘Am I going to get hurt again?’

In Canberra here today, it’s very significant as I hold this piece of paper, hearing Mr Kevin Rudd’s apology to us Forgotten Australians. I find it difficult just holding this to know that my family’s fifth generation in the care of the state – it is very emotional. But as I’ve got here – this is my father’s great-grandfather, so that’s my great-great-grandfather who was in institutions and orphanages and on working farms in Queensland.

I am from the Stolen Generation. I am Indigenous. This is my father, who passed away last year, and these were his grandparents. Two months after this was taken he was taken into care at Nudgee orphanage because he, they said, wasn’t being looked after and cared for. So they were his grandparents.

Then another article last year when my son Adam came down, he was chosen from the Central Coast to come to Canberra for the Stolen Generation for our family representing. My father was dying of lung cancer at the time. He was very proud that his grandson was here representing. It’s so true what it says: ‘Portrait of an injustice’. For him to stand tall down here last year, and I was back in Sydney crying, to know the Stolen Generation and that it was generation after generation. The portrait of an injustice of knowing each generation, not one or two but five generations of our family have been in state care, how many more is going to be in state care?

articles/lectures, Forgotten Australians, memories, Stolen Generations

A violent, unjust and dehumanising system

by Adele on 29 September, 2010

Father Wally Dethlefs is Project Officer for Marginalised Students at Catholic Education in Brisbane but his involvement with the homeless and marginalised began way back in 1973 when he set up one of the first refuges for youth in Brisbane.

In an excerpt from Fr Wally Dethlefs’ book: Journey into Gospel Justice: The Faith Development of a Diocesan Priest (1998) (unpublished) Wally describes his experiences as a chaplain at Wilson Youth Hospital  and his establishment, with Father Pat Tynan, of Kedron Lodge.

A History of Wilson Youth Hospital

1928 – The Queensland Government bought a property called ‘Eildon Hill’ for £1400 and established the Wilson Ophthalmic School and Hostel – named after the then Minister for Public Instruction, the Honourable T. Wilson.

1930s – The Wilson Hospital was a specialised facility where eye diseases in children from country Queensland could be diagnosed and treated.

1950s – During the Second World War patient numbers at the Hospital fell drastically and it was due to the diminised numbers that the Wilson Youth Hostel began to treat orthopaedic, rheumatic and crippled children.

1961 – By this time the original purpose of the Hospital had been subsumed. In its place a remand, assessment and treatment centre for young males between the ages of eight and fourteen was established – The Wilson Youth Hospital. Initially intended to accommodate trouble-makers, emotionally disturbed children, and those who had broken the law, the Wilson was also ‘home’ to many orphans and homeless children.

1971 – A section was added to the Hospital to accommodate girls aged twelve to sixteen. Girls were often held not for committing offences but for being ‘emotionally disturbed’, ‘exposed to moral danger’ or ‘incorrigible’. In the 1973–4 financial year, for instance, only 57 per cent of Wilson girls had committed offences.

1977 – The Justice for Juveniles Group, previously known as the Wilson Protest Group, was established to bring about much-needed changes in Wilson through community education and action.  This group conducted successful campaigns around such issues as lack of education, solitary confinement, lack of legal representation in the Children’s Courts, etc.
By this stage the ‘Hospital’ accommodated 68 boys and 32 girls. It was considered a ‘closed’ institution meaning that children were not free to come and go at will.

1980 – The Justice for Juveniles Group assisted with formulating the proposal and seeking funding for the establishment of the Youth Advocacy Centre.

1981 – The Juveniles for Justice Group were eventually successful and Brisbane’s Youth Advocacy Centre was established.

1983 – Responsibility for the Wilson Youth Hospital was transferred to the Department of Children Services and it was renamed the Sir Leslie Wilson Youth Centre after the Governor, Sir Leslie Wilson.

1993 – The Centre was again renamed: Sir Leslie Wilson Youth Detention Centre.

1995 – The Wilson Detention Centre became the only facility in Queensland to accommodate young females.

1999 – The Forde Inquiry into the Abuse of Children in Queensland Institutions recommended that the Sir Leslie Wilson Detention Centre Close as a matter of urgency.

2001 – The Wilson Detention Centre was closed on February 7 by the local member Premier Peter Beattie. Later that year the Centre was demolished

An excerpt from Fr Wally Dethlefs’ book: Journey into Gospel Justice: The Faith Development of a Diocesan Priest:

Wilson Youth Hospital

In August 1973, we became involved in Wilson Youth Hospital, a remand, assessment, and treatment centre for young people, in fact a prison for juveniles, in the nearby suburb of Windsor.  It was to change my life drastically.  A woman phoned the Lodge.  Her fourteen year old niece who was in Wilson and who wanted to see a Catholic priest.  When Pat went to Wilson, he was told a Catholic priest had not visited for some six months.  When he came home, he told me about his visit and asked me if I would be prepared to share the chaplaincy with him.  I agreed.

In early September 1973, Pat and I formally applied to visit Wilson, as chaplains on a regular basis.  In December 1973, permission was given for Pat “to visit when required” and for me to “visit at the present time whilst Father Tynan is on annual leave and also when Father Tynan is unavailable”.[1] It was never made clear that I was to be merely a stand-in when Pat was not available.

From August 1973 until December 1974, Pat and I shared chaplaincy responsibilities at Wilson Youth Hospital – a juvenile prison for young people between the ages of eight and seventeen years for girls, and eight and fifteen years for boys.

On my first visits to Wilson, I could not believe what I saw taking place.  Most, but not all, of the young inmates found their way into Wilson through the Children’s Courts.  Many young people – in fact, most of the girls on their first admission – were placed in Wilson for non-criminal offences.  These were called ‘status offences’, like running away from home, being uncontrollable, living in moral danger, or likely to lapse into a life of vice or crime.[2] If these offences were proven, and hearsay evidence was sufficient, the young people often received a Care and Control Order, which meant that they were placed under the Care and Control of the Director of Children’s Services until they were eighteen years of age.  Under this Order, the Director could place his charges in secure custody.  Most of these young people were leaving home because of violence.  For the young women, the violence was often sexual.

I found many things which horrified me in Wilson.

Indeterminate sentencing was one of them.  Since most Care and Control orders were valid until the young person reached eighteen years of age, they could in theory, stay in custody until their eighteenth birthday.  Indeterminate sentencing meant, in practice, that young people never knew when they were to be released.  Their release depended on a number of factors: the way they responded to the ‘treatment’ they received while incarcerated, the availability of accommodation on the outside, and the way they reacted to being locked up.  Once they were placed on a Care and Control Order, they could, after release, be placed back in Wilson without reference to the Children’s Court.

There was solitary confinement, either in Open Tantrum or, as it was often called, “the fish bowl” (a room with a glass wall), or in Closed Tantrum which was simply a cell with a bed base built into the floor and a small window high up on the wall.  Regulations prescribed that young people should be placed in seclusion for one hour, and then only with a staff person in close attendance.  However, these regulations were often contravened.  In fact, many young people spent days at a time in solitary confinement.  One fifteen year old girl, Teresa, spent three and a half weeks in solitary before she was certified as being mentally unbalanced and transferred to Osler House at Wolston Park Mental Hospital, the lock-up section for adult women who were judged to be criminally insane.  But that was another long and sad story.

There were no trained teachers in Wilson and, therefore, no schooling, an obvious breach of the United Nations Declaration of the Rights of the Child, as well as of a State law requiring compulsory education to the age of fifteen.[3] In the words of the psychiatrist in charge of Youth Welfare and Guidance in the Health Department, Dr B.J. Phillips, “education for these children was contra-indicated.”[4] In fact, many children in Wilson were illiterate, but even they were not helped to gain basic literacy-numeracy skills.  Moreover, even a young person who had not been truanting and had been coping well at school was way behind his or her classmates when he or she returned to school because he or she was unable to continue with schooling while in Wilson.  Even if a young person spent only three months in Wilson, he/she was so far behind his/her classmates that he/she effectively lost a year of schooling.

Julie was fourteen years when she went to Wilson.  She was doing quite well at school in Year Nine, and wanted to continue with her schooling while in Wilson.  At first, she was refused.  After six weeks of persistent requests, she was allowed to do her schooling by correspondence, which meant that she had to sit in a room by herself all day, without any assistance.  She approached me, to see if I could obtain a book she needed for her French studies.  She also needed a tutor for maths with which she was having some difficulties.  I was able to obtain the book she requested and to enlist the voluntary services of a qualified teacher who was prepared to tutor her in maths one or two hours per week, at the convenience of management and staff at Wilson.

I approached the manager of Wilson, the Major, (he was a retired Army Major), to arrange for the handing over of the book and to organise for her to be tutored.  The Major said neither was possible – it would establish precedents.  “Other children would be wanting books and tutors,” he said, “and the whole thing could get out of hand very quickly.”  Unbelievable stuff.

Wilson institutionalised violence.  Most children had not committed serious crimes, contrary to what the Minister for Children’s Services, Mr John Herbert, often used to say: “Wilson is full of murderers, rapists and arsonists”.  In the three years I worked there, I met two arsonists, but never a rapist nor a murderer.  Most of the young people had run away from violence at home, been deemed uncontrollable by the court and incarcerated.  Many young women I met in Wilson had been victims of sexual violence in their homes.

The young people who were sent to Wilson were dehumanised, brutalised, victimised and criminalised.  On a number of occasions, staff told me that their young charges were “savages”.  I saw young people with broken arms which they had received from staff who were supposedly “restraining” them.  One girl suffered a fractured skull when staff dragged her upstairs by her legs.  Her head bounced on the edge of the steps, and she was later admitted to the Royal Brisbane Hospital for treatment.

Vicki, a very intelligent and courageous girl, told me about this incident.  She was so enraged by the violence of some of the staff that she fully intended to report the incident to the visiting magistrate who appeared at Wilson once every month.  However, she was prevailed upon by staff not to take any further action.  They told her, “Remember you have to live here.  Staff will not take kindly to you reporting them.  Also, staff members have families and your action could result in them losing their jobs and, if their families suffered, that would be your fault and on your conscience.”  When Vicki told me that she did not have the courage to write up a report for the magistrate, she broke down and cried.

There is no doubt in my mind that some of the staff were sexually abusing both boys and girls.  I knew of several cases that came before the courts, when staff were charged with sexual offences, but, as the courts were closed when minors were giving evidence, I was unable to find out the determination of the court.

In my opinion, staff were also using drugs to control the young people.  Young people were often injected with sedatives.  If some staff wanted to have a quiet shift, they were not above giving sedatives to their young charges.  Some young people who did not have a drug problem when they entered Wilson certainly had a raging habit by the time they were discharged.  I often spoke publicly about what I termed the misuse of legal drugs in Wilson.  On one occasion, I was given a verbal warning, supposedly from Dr B.J.Phillips, saying that if ever I mentioned it again I would be brought before the courts.  That worried me for a short time, but then I reasoned that a court case would be worth losing: the associated publicity would surely highlight the terrible things which were occurring in Wilson.  I continued to speak publicly about the misuse of drugs in Wilson and heard no more from “B. J.”

In Wilson, all young people were ‘treated’ with incarceration, and seen by psychiatrists.  If a young person was incarcerated for truanting, running away from a violent home situation, shoplifting, or a serious criminal offence, she/he was treated psychiatrically, with the result that the young person regarded themselves as “mad” because they had been treated by psychiatrists.  And, because they had been incarcerated, most young people upon release were also convinced that they were “bad”.  So the result of their time in Wilson was the double stigma of being “mad” and “bad”.  Years later, many young people are still struggling with this slur on their character and their consequent negative self-images.

I must admit that I found it difficult to believe that our so-called civilised society could treat vulnerable young people in such a harrowing way.  The only parallel situation which I had heard of was the psychiatric treatment of political prisoners in Siberia, by the government of the former Soviet Union.  On many occasions, I was all but reduced to tears by the stories I heard from young people in Wilson.

One story, one of many similar stories, may illustrate what I have been saying.  Glenn (a pseudonym) was the eldest of four children.  His father had left the family home soon after the youngest was born.  His mother battled on alone.  When Glenn was twelve years old, his mother had a nervous breakdown and could not get out of bed.  Glenn assumed responsibility for his mother, his brothers and sister for the next few days.  He cut lunches, got the children off to school, did the cleaning and the cooking, but his mother seemed to be getting worse and Glenn did not know what to do.

He spoke to his class teacher, who couldn’t assist him in any practical way.  He spoke to the neighbours, who didn’t want to become involved.  There was no food in the house, so Glenn reluctantly decided to steal some fruit and vegetables from the local greengrocers.  He told me three years later that he was not a thief, that he hated stealing, but did not know how else to feed his mum and the kids.

The greengrocer caught him stealing and called the police.  ‘The welfare’ were called in.  Glenn’s mum was placed in a psychiatric institution, his brothers and sister placed in children’s institutions, and his sister later fostered out.  Glenn, however, suffered a worse fate.  He was charged with stealing and placed on remand in Wilson Youth Hospital.  He appeared in Court, unrepresented, and was placed under the Care and Control of the Director of Children’s Services until he was eighteen.

Two weeks later, he was placed in a Church-run boys home which he told me he hated, because of the violence of the staff who bashed the boys.  The other thing he detested about the place was that, when a boy had infringed the rules, he was placed in a boxing ring with an older and bigger boy and thrashed in front of the other boys.  Glenn loathed this violence.  He coped in that place for three years by keeping his nose clean, his trap shut and learning to defend himself.  He told me that, when he was placed in the boxing ring with a smaller boy, he would not hurt him.  He would rather incur the wrath of the staff and the ridicule of his peers than participate in organised and institutionally sanctioned bullying.

Upon release from the boy’s home, Glenn had nowhere to go.  He hated Christians.  One night, he rang me at the Lodge, I don’t know on whose suggestion.  He had been living with two young men at Manly.  The eldest of the three was working and paying the rent, and had decided to move on.  Glenn said he needed accommodation and needed it immediately.  I told him we had a spare bed.  It was then that he told me his mate needed a bed as well.

I arrived there about eight o’clock.  The electricity had been switched off, and Glenn and his mate were sitting on the floor in total darkness.  I chatted with them for awhile and then asked them to get their gear together and come and stay with us at the Lodge.  They had a small bag each, in which they carried all their possessions.  They had no food.  Glenn told me that he had asked the local shopkeeper for some food and was not only refused but threatened with the police.  Glenn certainly did not want to steal, and absolutely did not want to have any involvement with the police.  He had decided to ask for help.

Glenn was at the Lodge three days before he found out that I was a Catholic priest.  He came to me and asked, “Are you a priest?”

“Yes,” I said. “Why?”

“If I had known that when you picked us up the other night, I wouldn’t have come with you.  I hate priests and I hate Christians”.

It was then that he told me about the treatment that was meted out to him and others in the church-run boys home.

I asked him if he wanted me to find another place for him and his mate to stay.

“You’re all right”, he answered.  “I’d like to stay on here until I get a job and can set myself up”.

Glenn did that.  He was with us for six months.  He kept on trying for work until he was taken on by a volunteer at the Lodge who ran his own business.  Every Sunday, he would get dressed up in his best gear, jeans and T-shirt, and catch a train to visit his mother who was still in a psychiatric hospital, and then his brothers, and finally his sister who was living with a foster family on the north side of Brisbane.  Glenn often said to me, “If only there had been help available, my family would not have needed to be split up”.

On a lighter note, I took Glenn to an interview for a job as a labourer one morning.  Glenn was fifteen or sixteen, well built and strong, but not very articulate.  There were thirty others applying for the one job and Glenn missed out.  On the way back to the Lodge, we dropped into Toombul Shopping Town.  I had to exchange a shirt I had been given for Christmas which was too small.

Glenn was dressed for work.  The lady shop assistant I approached looked at Glenn and intimated to me that we may have stolen the garment.  She said she could not do anything until she consulted her manager.  We waited until he came.  He was a little man whom I would describe as a ponce.  He gave us a lecture and mentioned the word ‘shoplifting’.  Finally, he offhandedly waved to a row of racks and told us to get another shirt from there.  I found one that I liked.  Glenn and I took it back to this little, impeccably groomed and well dressed manager who continued to berate us.  In the middle of the scolding, Glenn took me aside.

“Would you like me to re-arrange his face?” he inquired.

“No”, I said.  “He’s only doing his job.”

“I don’t like his attitude.  Nobody should be allowed to talk like that, particularly to you.  Just let me tap him on the face”.

“No”, I replied emphatically. “Thanks all the same, but violence is not the way to solve problems.”

We left the store soon afterwards.  That manager never realised just how close he had come to having his features altered.

Another story.  Mary Anne (another pseudonym) was still a baby when her mother sent her to her grandmother to be cared for.  As Mary Anne grew up, she called her grandmother “Mum” because her grandmother was a real “mum” to her and the only mum she had anyway, as far as she knew.  Nobody told Mary Anne anything different.

When Mary Anne was eight years old, her mother remarried and, on the wedding day, took Mary Anne from her grandmother to live with her and her step-father.  The experience was traumatic.  She tried hard to fit into the new situation, but could never bring herself to call her real mum “Mum.”  She called her mother by her first name, which her mother resented.  Her real mum and her step-father both drank heavily, and prevented Mary Anne from seeing her grandmother “mum”, who lived on the outskirts of Brisbane.

Mary Anne was a good student who caught onto things easily at school.  However, as the home situation became progressively worse, with her parents drinking and arguing most nights until the early hours of the morning, Mary Anne started skipping out of school and spending time with her friends, because as she said, “They are in a similar situation as me and because of that everybody understands everybody else”.

Her parents resented her spending time in this way and reported her to the police.  She was charged with being uncontrollable and, because she continued to skip out of home, she appeared before the Children’s Court and was committed to Wilson Youth Hospital where she stayed for six months.  During her stay in Wilson, she was unable to continue her school work and got further behind in her studies.  She asked to be sent to her grandmother upon discharge, but her request was refused and she was sent home to her mother and her step-father.  Of course, she ran away again and, subsequently, was returned to Wilson.  Her grandmother wrote to her while she was in Wilson, but the letters were withheld from Mary Anne.  Mary Anne also wrote to her grandmother, but the institution did not forward the letters.  Mary Anne often wondered why her grandmother never replied.  When she turned sixteen, Mary Anne moved back in with her grandmother.  She obtained a job in the supermarket in a neighbouring suburb, and never again came to the notice of the police.

These homeless, disadvantaged and incarcerated young people were an oppressed, voiceless and powerless group of people.  What was my God saying to me about them?  Verses from the Bible began to jump out at me: were these the poor Jesus wanted us to tell the good news?[5] If so, what was the good news he wanted them to be told?  Were these the prisoners Jesus had come to release?  Were these young people the oppressed Jesus wanted to set free?[6] There was no doubt in my mind that this was so.

Then I came across these verses from Isaiah,

“Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your doings from before my eyes; cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow. Come now, let us argue it out, says the Lord: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be like snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool.”[7] (my emphasis)

God, through Isaiah, was saying, that Wilson was where I ought to be, living gospel justice for these little ones who were voiceless, powerless and oppressed.

Pat and I attended Wilson for one half-day each week, and we saw young people mostly in one-to-one situations.  When they were nearing release, we gave them slips of paper with our name, address and phone number, and encouraged them to make contact with us if they needed.  We also went there on Sunday mornings to celebrate Mass.  It was not too long after we started work at Wilson that the young people who had been incarcerated in Wilson began turning up at the Lodge requesting shelter.  We took them in, and tried to help them to the best of our ability.

The first two young people whom we accommodated at the Lodge were girls from Wilson.  It happened this way.  I was woken by the phone very late one night.  It was the Juvenile Aid Bureau at the Clayfield Police Station asking if I would come over.  They had two young women, Katie and Karen, whom Pat and I had met in Wilson.  The police had contacted their parents, in fact, one of their mothers was at the police station.  The girls were homeless, the police said.  Their parents did not want them.  Karen’s mother said that she was about to enter into a new relationship with an airline pilot.  She tearfully told me that she did not want her daughter around to complicate things.  The police said that they were reluctant to place the girls back in Wilson as they had not committed a crime, and they were unimpressed with the way Wilson dealt with young people.  However, they had no alternative except, as the girls had mentioned, maybe, the Lodge.

I knew enough about Wilson at that time to agree totally with them.  I had never anticipated living with young people.  Here was a genuine need.  What else could I do but respond?  I took the girls home and made up beds for them in one of the upstairs rooms.

The next morning at breakfast, I said to Pat, “Did you hear the phone go last night?”  He hadn’t.

I said, “How do you feel about homeless young people living here?”

He was pleased that I had bought Katie and Karen home, rather than have them placed back in Wilson, but the questions were: what would we do with them, now that they were living at the Lodge?  How would we deal with Children’s Services?  What would these young people do each day?

From a Biblical perspective it was easy.  We had only to reflect on such readings as Matthew,

“for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me  …..  And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me'”.[8]

The Last Judgement text, as it is often called, spells out in a practical way what is important in the eyes of Jesus.  It points to a practical living out of our beliefs in the circumstances of our lives.  It specifically focuses on the stranger, the prisoner, the ones who are hungry and thirsty and calls them “members of my family.”  Who were Pat and I to argue?

The text did not, however, answer the practical questions.  It did not feed these young people or clothe them.  It did not tell us how we were to deal with them, except to indicate to us that they were special and must be treated with respect.  We trusted in our God, and decided to get on with it, reflecting as we went, acknowledging our mistakes and limitations, and often asking for assistance from our friends and those who had more skills than we did.

In a short space of time, the Lodge became a hive of activity.  There were live-ins for YCS and YCW members on a regular basis, and some YCS and YCW people who needed time out from home because of alcoholism were using the place from time to time.  There were various meetings, for example, YCS, YCW or Tertiary Students.  We celebrated Mass several times each week, and those who wished were welcome to attend.  Other groups used the place for one-off meetings.  On top of all this, ex-Wilson young people were calling in for a chat, or asking to stay.


[1] Letter from Manager of Wilson Youth Hospital to the Director of Children’s Services, dated 17th December 1973.

NB. This and subsequent similar material was obtained from files released under Freedom of Information twenty years later.

[2] Children’s Services Act 1965: Sections 60 & 61.

[3] United Nation Declaration of the Rights of the Child states that the child is entitled to receive education which shall be free and compulsory (Principle 7.)  Section 28 of the Queensland  Education Act (1964-1974) states that “every parent of a child being of the age of compulsory attendance shall, unless some reasonable excuse exists, cause such child to attend a State school on each school day”.  What applies to parents surely must apply to those acting in the name of parents (in loco parentis) and in the best interests of the child.

A number of the young people who had been incarcerated in Wilson and whose education had therefore ceased have often remarked that this played a significant part in condemning them to a life of poverty.

[4] See, for instance, the letter from the Hon. Mr Herbert, Minister for Welfare, to the Hon. Mr Knox, Deputy Premier and Treasurer, undated (but I estimate it to have been written in March or April 1978).  Mr Herbert states, on page 2: “The children who are undergoing psycho-therapy under the control of Officers of the Division of Youth Welfare and Guidance do not (receive education) because, on the advice of the Senior Medical director, Division of Youth Welfare and Guidance, remedial teaching is contra-indicated for these children”. (my emphasis)

[5] Luke 4:16-18.

[6] Luke 4:18.

[7] Isaiah 1:16-18.

[8] Matthew 25:35 & 40

Forgotten Australians

The betrayal

by Wayne Miller (guest author) on 17 September, 2010

The Betrayal – Born in Innocence Raised in Hell is Wayne Miller’s personal history of his life as a ward of the state, resident in St Vincent de Paul’s Boys Home, South Melbourne and St Augustine’s Boys Home, Highton, Geelong.

Wayne’s history was the basis of his submission to the 2004 Senate Community Affairs Committee’s Inquiry into Children into Institutional Care. Wayne’s testament is Submission no. 15 and may be downloaded from the Senate website.

articles/lectures, Forgotten Australians, Stolen Generations

Reap as you sow

by Adele on 14 September, 2010

In an essay published in 2007, convicted bank robber, prison escapee and author  Bernie Matthews discusses the tragic outcomes for former child inmates of prison-run institutions – the Parramatta Training School for Girls, Hay Institution for Girls, Tamworth Institution for Boys, Hartwell House, Kiama and Westbrook Reformatory for Boys, Toowoomba.

Read ‘Reap as you sow‘ on the Griffith Review site.

art, Forgotten Australians, poetry, Stolen Generations

Are we proud to be Australians?

by Rhonda Trivett (guest author) on 1 September, 2010

Below are some recent poems by Rhonda, a former inmate of Wolston Park Hospital. Lately, Rhonda has been working with kids in schools. She has visited four schools in the Canberra region, and talked to the kids to try and get to them before they start drinking and drugging.  Wherever there is a need Rhonda will help and her message is ‘God can make a message out of a mess’.

Are we proud to be Australians?

Australia’s made up of six states, all types of weather and land
Australia is a country its rich in lots of ways
Metal ore cattle wool are mans sweat hope and fears
Its sweet sugar cane and its wheat and fruits we bear
In all kinds of weather in all kinds of pain
On our nice green land and oceans deep and blue.
The hot equator right above us
Then left and right the Indian Ocean and the pacific
and the stars across its southern skies glow at night so great
As the skies tell a story leading Australians to see a brighter future
And the Great Barrier Reef is the shop for our tourist
Its islands and miles of coloured coral reefs
All the different beautiful fish and their living species
The strong proud Australian aboriginal people on their land
Survived desert and hard cold inhumane conditions
They have great knowledge of Mother Nature
Aboriginal folklore, the Dreamtime, to keep their stories alive,
They re-tell them in songs, fables, dances and cave and bark paintings.
In the past some dark clouds have over taking us
While our aborigines children tell their true stories
Some really great some not some about the stolen ones
That will shock and turn this country up side down
While there’s others who were just left and forgetting about
Abuse in many ways some children were killed some took their own lives
That I believe will really rock this nation wide and keep it on its toes
Where’s the answers? No one really knows how pathetic how inhumane
How did the so called great organised Australian system fail?
Let’s do the right thing and try to make the wrongs right
And let there be peace on earth which starts in and with us
I know we can be proud of our country so let’s fix it
Let our country Australia be our hope and future for our children

When I Look Up at the Sky

It’s beyond belief  the pictures  I see
The  clear  blue sky shines  like the face of god
With its sparking stars I hear him call
With the great  blue moon makes me see a life
The bright sun rises then stars slowly fade
until the next day  they slide across the milky way
Walking on clouds and flying on stars.
Through a powerful mystical beauty air
watching the rings of Saturn
And Mercury Venus and Mars move slowly by
Its beautiful magical ball
The brightness of its wonderful colours
Reflect against each other
Then fly down to the  passion universe earth
Above me I see my confidents just wanting me to dream
Its  magical wand  has many stories to tell
Creating new unexplained patterns
The creator’s holy imagination
Making the world a brighter place
In which passion flows bonds together
As your sons love takes its place in the sky
Where  holy angels sing and dance
There paradise it never disappears
And  night and day either do you god
You’re always there moving
Alive and you live forever
So let’s finally be at peace
And watch the heavenly body
The master at work.

My   Friends   the   Dolphins

Dolphins are a gift from the sea
Wonderfully beautiful and smart
Diving here and there swimming everywhere
Dancing beneath the rippled surface
Over the waves gliding through the sea,
So gentle and free I’m not alone
As I surf I feel their love their kindness
They talk they play and forceful my day
They are my healing peace within my soul
I feel so free when I surf with my friends
Their sun is my light there eyes are my stars
I can see I can fly what a feeling it’s not a dream
They comfort me with freedom and hope
I knew somehow they want to help
They picked me up when I feel down
When I touch them I feel so good

But I know that tomorrow is another day
When they will share there life’s with me again
To swim and ride the waves will be
Such a wonderful meaningful lovely day
The magic they share flows I know I have a dolphin within
As time go by they sing with their unique angel voices so pure.
Our spirits have joined with the truth in these waters
Swimming with them their fin in my hand puts aside my fears
This is where my healing takes place and where my pain is gone
When with them is worth me living and not wanting to die
I’m not afraid hurt or rejected there’s no sadness no pain
Just as a child they inherently loved and cared for me
In the ocean where life is full of freedom’s wonderful fun
As my friends leap around me and bring their love joy and happiness to me, so do I to them

Forgotten Australians, memories

The story of the nun I kept meeting on the bus

by Lana Syed (guest author) on 9 July, 2010

Lana was a resident of  St Vincent’s Orphanage, Nudgee, QLD, from the age of six months to 11 years. Here, in an excerpt from the book Lives of Uncommon Children – Reflections of Forgotten Australians (2009, Micah Projects – Queensland), Lana shares her memory of her reunion with one of the nuns who used to care for her at St Vincent’s.

The story of the nun I kept meeting on the bus

About five years ago, I used to go to West End, walk in, and take the bus to the city or from the city to West End. Each and every time I kept bumping into a SRM Mercy nun. First I saw SRM coming on the bus, I would say, “can I help you sister?” (she was loaded up with some packages). She would say, ‘no, thankyou!’ Okay another time in comes this Sister in the bus again and sits close to me, this time says nothing, just a smile. Third time she is loaded again with shopping I ran to help her, she says “thankyou” and sits right in front of me, I said “hello Sister, hang on”.

She says, “I know that voice, I never forget a voice”. She suddenly turns around to me, and pauses for a moment, “I know you. You’re not Lana are you?”

Oh! My god I was shocked, my face went red, I thought, I did something wrong, my mind froze then! How does she know my name? She said, “I know you, she said. “you are my little baby”.

She had never forgotten me – isn’t that just lovely. So she asked me to come over to the Mater Hospital to meet up with her, which I did. I thought I would die back then. Wow – I couldn’t believe my luck! I rang my friend Gloria up, and told her of my encounter, of SRM from Nudgee that used to look after us little tots and babies and little girls. The next thing she says, “Lana, I have got some photos to give to you, it is a picture of you and your twin sister”. My own family did not have a picture of the twin, but SRM did, she said she was cleaning out the photo she’s had, and were destroying them but will keep the two photos of me and my sister Lena – Lana. The rest went in the shredder.

My great Aunty Anne Remanous, was Archdishop Duhig’s personal secretary. She was a lovely great Aunty; though I never got to meet her. I have photos of her, and of the shop at West End in Hardgrave road, the shop called “Saint Veronicas”, which used to belong to her. She also adopted a son, from Papua New Guinea, she paid his way to become a priest, though they never knew I was in the orphanage. It was one of the biggest secrets. My mother never told anyone in the family that we were in there. If Aunty Anne knew, she might have adopted us – being family. Although Aunt Anne was my great Aunty, because my grand mother Renee, Aunty Theresa, Uncle Mick, Aunty Rose were all family and cousins to Aunty Anne.

Being at the centre of Lotus Place: we sit around having a yarn, with like-minded people, and we have a cuppa, and talk about things, like, what we saw on TV…Like last night, about the three dogs (two were dead) because the owner had to go to jail, the  police did not pass the information to the RSPCA. As a result, the dogs had to die, (the third dog) got lucky, he had a fit, then they found a chip in his neck and rang the owners, and found out that the dog was stolen two years ago and was in luck as the RSPCA had rung up the owner. The dog had a lucky happy ending and went home with his owner and some medication to make him better. Wow, what an ending. How it touches my heart.

Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry


by Peter Knight (guest author) on 7 July, 2010

Lana Syed forwarded this poem, written by fellow resident of Nudgee Orphanage, Peter Knight who died earlier this year:


 Please help me, a faint childlike voice calls.
Please help me, I am scared and lost in this
strange misty world.
I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s because
I am a welfare child.
Please help me, don’t let me die in this isolated
state of mind.
Believe me, please, I am sorry my mother was too
ill to take good care of us, and I am also very sorry
that my dad died.
I am very, very sorry for that time when I came to you
and begged for food, but I was so very hungry and
didn’t know what else to do.

I know that the tiny morsels of food that you gave us, so
you have often enough said, would feed an African family
for a week, so even if I’m hungry, I promise not to ask for
more, and I’m sorry I never look neat enough, and for the
way my clothes seem to fall apart at will.
I know that you are kind, kind people, so I have been told, work
your fingers to the bone to care for the likes of us welfare
kids. All I can say is that I’m sorry for being such an
ungrateful welfare child, and I promise to take the shame
and guilt you laid on me, to the grave.

© 2000 Peter Knight

Forgotten Australians, photos, Stolen Generations

Juanita’s photos

by Juanita Burr (guest author) on 29 June, 2010

Juanita Burr, nee Broderick, was a resident of Nudgee Orphanage, Queensland, from 1944 (the year of her birth) to 1961. These photos were taken because Juanita wanted to document the events surrounding the Queensland Forde Inquiry into the abuse of children in Queensland institutions. Juanita says, “These homes were hell-holes for thousands of children. They killed our dreams. They prevented us from being who we could have been”.

art, Child Migrants, Forgotten Australians, Stolen Generations, theatre

An Ode to Lamenting Souls

by Gloria Lovely (guest author) on 17 June, 2010

Here Gloria shares the speech that she wrote and performed in Memoirs of the Forgotten Ones staged in Brisbane, Queensland in March 2007.

Friends, I beckon you to come out of your darkness, your shell, your hell, no more are you there, to cower or cry.

You are alive anew with a free spirit; let it soar; soar high above the depths of despair. Take hold, have faith in what you do and what you are. You are no longer that timid little child to be used and abused.

You are strong now; you will speak up and out; you will be heard and justice ought to prevail. Keep on being strong; keep growing Friends, to the beautiful people you are now; and keep moving on.

art, Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

Gloria’s story

by Gloria Lovely (guest author) on 17 June, 2010

Gloria Lovely was taken to St Vincent’s Orphanage, Nudgee, Queensland, in 1943, when she was 18 months old. She was then sent to a foster family at the age of ten.  Here, in an excerpt from the book Lives of Uncommon Children – Reflections of Forgotten Australians (2009, Micah Projects – Queensland), and her poem A Child’s Despair (2005), Gloria writes about her experience in foster care.

He was murdering me. He was murdering me every day. I didn’t want to wake up of a morning because I knew what I might face. Another day of fear. Have to hurry, do the chores, then off to school – an escape. I’m free of fear there for a while, a positive advantage. School is the best time of day, learning to be smart and a little educated, making me feel good.

I absolutely love to learn, anything and everything, trying to fill my mind with knowledge, and remembering it all. I loved going to school; it was my sanctuary, but then I had to go back to my foster home, my home of fear and dread. And my foster parents. My foster father was a sinful man, using my body for his sexual gratification. No on else knew he was doing it on a weekly basis. It was my hell; he was destroying my spirit, and my foster mother was very cruel, punishing me for not doing the chores right. Like scorching a white shirt, peeling too much skin off the potatoes and onions.

But to the people of the community, they were such wonderful people, because they fostered other children from the orphanage as well, and going to church every Sunday, letting people know they were looking after their foster children. What wonderful people, but behind the scenes, behind closed doors, we foster children were suffering daily. What a charade. We were their slaves, and I was his bedroom slave. I was the housewife in every sense of the word.

Hence my thinking of him killing me – killing every part of my being, my soul, my all. Who can I turn to? No one. Were the other foster children feeling the same as I? Are they living in their own hell? Do they fear them as much as I do? I feel they would like to go back to the orphanage like I would. Oh, please God, help us all. This is the part of my life which I was lucky enough to survive this living hell. It is in the past now, and I thank my lucky stars that it came to an end when it did, and I grew to adulthood.

A Child’s Despair
(From Orphanage to Foster Care)

A girl-child sleeps at night
A stranger, she is not, to fright
She wakes, suddenly,
“Will he come tonight?”
This poor unfortunate, in such a plight.

To these unkind people she was sent,
No one knew, they were so bent.
Her body, he took, by force, times again
“My God, protect me”, once again.

“Our secret”, he says, “do not tell”.
His sick mind, he hid so well
And her (so cruel) she could not tell
That belt, the belting she could foretell.

She screams in her soul, no one can hear
She cannot cry out, she lives in fear.

Her body tells day by day
People do not read that way
“The child is slow,
She was born that way”.

Over the days, months and years
She carried on, despite her fears.

She now has grown to womanhood,
And all she likes to give… good.

Gloria (left) and Juanita with the statue of the orphan child, Brisbane 2010
art, Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

Six institutions, six poems

by Gloria Lovely (guest author) on 17 June, 2010

Barbara spent time as a child in Opal House, Opal Joyce Wilding Home, Wilson Youth Hospital, Vaughan House, The Haven and at Wolston Park Hospital (Osler House) between the years 1970 and 1979. Here are Barbara’s poems Remembering Osler House, Time, Tomorrow, Too Much!, Young and Word Games.

Remembering Osler House.

Screams echo down the hallway of my mind, as they did the cells
and hallways of that house of endless horrors, through the years.
My body still remembers all the shame of what I witnessed,
And the corrosive, all-pervasive acid-urine smell of fears.

I was thirteen years.

The sobbing, wailing background noise that ate away the night;
The soul-shattering, too-sudden… cessation of the screams,
These joined the tortured memories I buried in the abyss,|
To carve away my childhood, brutally, as they stole my dreams.

I was only thirteen.

The milling, naked bodies in the showers with no doors;
The excrement and sanitary pads, my first time, on the floors.
Betrayed by my own government, the state that had my care,
In an adult asylum for the criminally insane; I’d pulled out all my hair.

I was only a child.

Hollow-eyed people, shock-treatment blank, helpless,
And no longer knowing their names;
The intellectually disabled and terrified children
Still haunt in their drugged, bruised and bare-naked shame.

I was thirteen years old.


Master of Earth,
Dictator by Nature,
With Universal Power,
Sits in His Tower,
Solving all mystery,
Success or Failure,
Truth or Lie,
By and by.
In Time you’re paid
What you’ve earned;
In Time the hands
Of clocks are turned;
In Time understand what,
With Time, you have learned.
Possessive Guard
Of Past and Future;
Undefeated, Eternal Master:
Won’t move slower,
Won’t move faster.
His Word is Law;
You can’t break away.
There’s nothing more:
There’s just Today.


Always tomorrow.
Whatever it is,
it’s always left…
’til tomorrow.
Just a slight delay…
But not Today.
Today we are
too busy
Dreaming and planning
for tomorrow.
It’ll be a big day
with all that we have planned
for Tomorrow.

Too Much!

Too many thoughts
Spinning around:
Too much to think about.
Too many thoughts,
And too many thoughts
That I could do without!
Too many people
all in my thoughts:
Wish they’d all go away.
Too much can happen,
And all crammed into
A twenty-four hour day.
Too many things
that I should do
When I don’t want to do any.
Too many people;
Too many thoughts;
Too much!
Too many!


You can grow old,
‘Though you were born young.
With impermanence weak,
You can be strong.
And, yes, you can walk,
‘Though you’re learning to crawl.
You have an idea,
Yet younger, saw all.
For you can eat fruit,
‘Though you suck from the nipple:
A stone’s throw’s a universe,
Seen through a ripple.
But always know this:
What you are, you can be.
You can open each door:-
Only you have the key.


I wrap words around their intent,
And knock pretext to its knees.
I push protests off their perches,
And with words, do as I please.

I pack speech with all its content,
And condemn the need to tell
With embellishment and pretence,
‘Cause exaggeration’s hell.

I write off the need for falseness,
And I verily will say
That all politic diplomacy’s
In over-use today.

I like truth without adornment,
(If the garnish leads to lies),
With no semblance of pretension,
With no mask and no disguise.

articles/lectures, documents, Forgotten Australians, memories

Steps up and steps out

by Diane Tronc (guest author) on 11 June, 2010

Diane Tronc was born in 1961 and was a resident, with her five siblings, of Silky Oaks Children’s Home in Manly, Brisbane from 1962 until 1974.

Diane shares her submission to the current Senate Review of Government Compensation Payments.

To Committee Secretary
Senate Legal and Constitutional Committee
P.O. Box 6100
Parliament House
Canberra ACT 2600 Australia

Re: Review of Government Compensation Payments

Dear Committee Members

My name is Diane Tronc.  I am a Survivor of Abuse whilst in Care and I am a Forgotten Australian.

I wish to put submission into this Inquiry.

Firstly:   This year is the 10th year since the Forde Inquiry.

The last 10 years has been for a lot of Forgotten Australians a compounding and overturning painful journey of repeating our lives over and over and reliving this painful journey through Redress and still suffering today to see some form of positive outcome for all Forgotten Australians.

With services in mainstream congested and waiting lists so long we take our ticket and still stand in line waiting. We’ve walk your line for long enough.  We need ACTION, STRUCTURE, FOUNDATION, and STEPS UP AND STEPS OUT.  Support services more involved with career paths, workforce, TAFE, university.

A lot have such difficulty in filling in forms making the first step up and step out.  We need Mentors working with case workers supporting our people with visits to hospitals, appointment and home visits.

We also need a small bus e.g.: Libraries, our memorial, for events/ outings etc.

And a directory of services directing and referring our people and supporting through the process for their goals to be achieved to a comfortable area in their lives to move on….from start to finish.

Healing Journey when will that start, Family Histories, Reunions, and Bringing us all HOME.

Also like to see Legacy more involved as a lot of fathers and grandfathers/families of Forgotten Australian went to war and so did some Forgotten Australian themselves served..

We call for a Gold Card for all Forgotten Australian we should have Priority Access due to the damage inflicted upon us as innocent children now adults our needs and wants need  to be met.   Health, Dental, Housing, and Education and Training, exempt of fees.

Within our service centre I personally feel we need more steps up and step out and more support.

Foster Care/Adoption  was not part of Redress in Qld nor did it get a State Govt Apology.  We where under the STATE.

I personally would like to see a Royal Commission Inquiry into past practices and services today.

We will fight to our END to see things right for our past and for all our futures ahead.

We have a lot of strong good solid caring, compassionate and committed people amongst us all.  That should be given every opportunity to excel and be given the chance to work with services in a paid position.

A lot of us are Volunteers and put in a lot of hours and time to help our people when services are closed or to help assist within telephone support and  getting to visits, appointments or lend a hand  when needed.  I would like to see more funding given to Volunteers under some form of incentive scheme payment through Centrelink.

As a lot of our people are also on disability this would help in the transition step up 123 to TAFE, university or workforce part time or full time?

Also I have noticed a lot of people needing assistance who are in full time work area.  Some struggle to keep their jobs.  Pushing themselves to the limit all the time.

And not being able to service the services due to their working hours.

Looking for a constructive outcome for all.

And more community projects for our people.

Diane Tronc

art, Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

Remember Them, Those Poor Souls

by Sue Treweek (guest author) on 10 June, 2010

Sue Treweek was a resident of Abbortsford Convent from 1968 – 1970. At the age of 11, she was sent to Warilda, in Brisbane. She was also a resident of the Bush Children’s Home in 1973 and Nudgee Orphanage from 1978 – 1979, both in Queensland.

For the simple act of rocking herself to sleep, the nuns sent Sue, at the age of 12, to Lowson House, a mental health ward at the Royal Brisbane Hospital. Even though the psychiatric assessment stated that she was not mentally ill, no children’s homes would take her and so she was admitted to Wilson Youth Hospital. She was then transferred to Osler House, from 1980- 1988, the maximum security ward for adult female psychiatric patients at Wolston Park Hospital. A feature-length documentary film is current being made about her life: Scab Girl Asylum.

Sue has founded No-Problem Cleaning Services which provides:

  • family lifestyle coaching
  • yard clean- up and rubbish removal
  • specialised cleaning services
  • cooking and nutrition training
  • child care/supervision
  • office cleaning

Here are Sue’s poems; Remember Them, Those Poor Souls, Out of the Ashes, A Child Cries, Jesus Loves the Little Children, People of the Cloth and Those of Faith Stand Up.


Remember them, those poor souls

Today I sit and wonder what became of them, those poor souls I left behind.
A deep sadness fills my soul.

Their bodies racked by illnesses confusing to some.

Their pain can’t be seen only heard through their cries for help.

The uncertainty to what is real; a deep fear dismissed, no logic found by those in charge.
Still these people feel the pain no rest for them those poor souls.

An act of ignorance papers are signed another poor soul loses their rights.

Abused and dehumanized in the name of therapy their worst fears are realized.

Not knowing any different they settle in to a life of pain and uncertainty no mercy for them those poor souls.

Awake again the daily ritual begins, the turn of a key their here again, who this shift, will they be cruel or kind, showered and dressed wait to eat pills to take before you eat.

The drugs take hold the voices are silent for awhile, reality strikes as for a brief moment they remember what once was their life as the memories flood in, tears well in their eyes as they wonder what is happening  to them, and for those who have never known different they wonder why were born not right.

Cruel words spoken sink to their soul those they trust hardest of all, told they are  unacceptable till they can bear it no more succumb to the pain you know you must, sent away from societies eyes, stay away you must.

Their silent screams for understanding and acceptance fall on deaf ears only those innocents that watch their suffering yet have no power, hear their screams and remember them.
In dreams and on the wind they hear and understand those poor souls and will never forget.

The turn of a key they’re back again what today when will death come for me.

For some death does come like an angel in the night, swept away on the wings of an angel they feel no more pain.

Accepted now for who they are at peace within no fear, the confusion is gone.

Shame on those trusted to care, forget them not, those poor souls.


Out of the ashes

Out of the ashes we walk alone charred from the flames of a childhood
Spent in care,

Still we live luckier than some, are we.

In shock we wander through life wondering what could have been, had we been dealt a different hand.

Each day a challenge just to stay,  still we stand alone,

The beginning of new, for some bring life to our world, a child to love maybe a spouse
Feelings of joy replaced by pain, the battle begins, learn the mistakes of those who had the
power, don’t repeat, or the next generation will walk alone from out of the ashes they to will

Packaged now, for justice and change, not with out more pain to come for those who speak out,
we watch as one by one our generations fade no justice found; finally, now they listen to those
who walked alone.

United we stand, now our voice is strong and clear, grouped together for effect and support,
some sink deep from the weight of their past others wander in shock yet again, a few move on
and realize their dreams.

The fight renewed society screams out in anger as more with power are exposed, fear have some
who carry their guilt, with the knowledge they failed their duty of care.

To the top they walk together, on common ground that binds them all.
Their voice is loud, all can hear; people with position back them in their fight.

In disbelief they watch society and government react with guilt and remorse
Promises made that have no truth, reports and recommendations gather dust.

Too late for some the changes come rest in peace with the knowledge your fight is over. For those
left behind the fight continues till no other will suffer as they did and history will show that those
who had the courage tasted victory and realized their dreams.

 A child cries;

A child of 13 sits waiting to be judged, two sisters of god sit either side.
A woman in white flanked by two men, approach the child, and lead her to hell.
The lift rises from floor to floor the sound of screams shoots fear to her core.

A child cries.

A woman screams for help no one listens the child listens and wants to help.
A naked woman sees the child looking through the small holes into the cell.
Help me child tell someone. The child tells but no mercy to be found for her.
A woman yells as her delusions take hold you child you are the one,
my children are dead, you the devils child you must be punished.
Punched in the head as another patient act’s out her delusions, many more to come, weakest are you.
Confusion sets in. 

A child cries.

A woman quenches her thirst; cup of urine in her hand, down it goes no thought of what.
She turns on the child and it starts again more abuse, no escape to be found,
she can’t help it she’s sick is the reply.
The child protests and is punished, labelled, drugged and isolated now she knows she is in hell.

 A child cries

Another day passes in hell assessed and processed yet again no illnesses found.
Frustration by all at no illness found labels are many. The child is confused,
words slice deep into the child as her soul dies, fear is overcome by rage.

A child cries

This child learns fast the hell she is in.
Punished for differences that make her stand out told she must change she wonders into what.
Caught again banging her head no harm has she done, remove her pillow see if she stops
Taunted and teased by staff, who must make this child conform it is their job.

A child cries

The child fights to change without knowing into what.
Hides her head banging by rocking side to side with care not to be caught.
Not acceptable was this, manipulative is she
Punished again for inappropriate behaviour and dress, back in the cell.

 A child cries

 Another Dr out of bed another needle in her leg, Striped naked and left in this cold dark cell,
Drugs take hold to cold to sleep, sat on the floor back to the wall,
rocking front to back the only comfort to be found,
prayed for sleep my only friend or death, either will do.
Awake again in this cold dark hell as the child fights her body’s pain.
Fear of death, her screams are now ignored by those who care.
Her pleas to be let out are dismissed as attention seeking, don’t listen or it could reinforce,
teach her a lesson, more time for her in that cold hard hell.
Pain shoots through her body as she holds in the wee, mustn’t have an accident no toilet to use.
A puddle in the corner sometimes more to be punished for, shame, shame on you, you dirty girl.
Judgement is made out of ignorance and frustration, trapped in hell.

A child cries as her childhood dies.

Jesus loves the little children

 A child sits cold and terrified by those charged to care
No thought of the future the child will conform
Break its spirit destroy its faith make it take the pain
It cries for mercy none to be found

 Abused and left in that cold hard cell, their guilt is hidden deep in their souls
Mistakes are many the child waits, and rebels the pain enforced
By those charged to care, in the depths of hell the child remembers the song once heard which comforted her before.

 A deep breath the pain subdued, as the child remembers the words through her drugged state,
they tell her to shut up and stop those words she struggles to stand as they knock her down again,
still she sings that song from deep inside her soul, the words strike hard the consciences of them all,
in their sleep they can’t escape, these words haunt them and always will as they remember the child they continued to abuse in that cold dark hell

Her only weapon the verse of a song called Jesus loves the little children; all the children of the world, red and yellow black and white, all are precious in his sight.

 Fury spurred by their guilt, they attack the child no thought for her,
Shut her up she must not sing, this song is an attack we must, stop, how dare she sing this song.

 The despair is relieved by the words she sings, her pain is comforted by the one she can’t see, but sing his name, louder now for all to hear
She gathers strength from the words she sings, with the knowledge she is loved by one who cares.

 With her faith she takes it all, sometimes wondering if she will finally die and meet her friend, the one who stood by her side through all the pain and suffering, he was there,
He sacrificed his life to save our souls, now he stands beside this child,
She feels his presence in that cell, fear subsides, she is not alone.
Til the next wave of pain in the name of therapy and discipline, is enforced upon the child, til
she can take no more, again Jesus stands by her side and shares her pain.

 The lord watches the struggle, as the child fights to hold on to her faith,
The lord steps in and takes her soul, wraps it in his arms protect it he can, what’s left will survive or join her soul.
Grown now is the child, survived the past her soul intact, an act of mercy from the lord he saved her soul, only now she sees the truth and knows she must never forget.
The love of the lord out lives it all.

What’s left of shattered dreams

 As a child we dream of years to come with innocence and a sense we can.
An astronaut will I be, a doctor, nurse, teacher, I’ll climb the highest mountains.
Or a general in charge of a war
Or a ballerina a great dancer or maybe a mother that cares

 All to soon we learn we can’t, as our dreams are stripped from us one by one,
Left with what could have been if dealt a different lot.
Trying to dream the child has forgotten how,
What a shame is what we hear, that child could have been.

 The ones who lived there dreams are now the ones who destroy,
Feeding on the child as does the ravenous beast to its prey,
As dignity and innocence are replaced by fear and humility,
The child learns from those told to care, how worthless they truly are
As they endure the horrors dealt out to them their soul shudders at more to come and their dreams turn into nightmares relived day after day
No harm done the child will forget, we will rehabilitate it

As they rehabilitate what they cannot see and fear to be to be true.
More dreams die, till soon the child fears to dream and is lost,
As those who have the power wonder why.

The child grows and wonders what could have been.
Now an adult their dreams are new but tainted by the child within.
They dream of simple things now, like getting through one more day.

Nothing soothes there soul as they prey for death their only friend.
Some did not give in, they still struggle to dream, only now there dreams are of a better life, a life of peace and fullness they have never known,
They refuse to give in fighting for their lives they believe they can.
To their graves they take there dreams some never knowing how close they came.

 Forgotten by those who stole their dreams, passed of as a mistake made so many years before by those told to care
No remorse for the devastation caused.


Care for those unfortunate kids, sent to you with no place to call home
Treat them well for judgment day will come for you all
The lord watches on as you do your best to uphold his word
Remember well he sees it all

 As he watches the evil take hold of his people as they hide behind his name, they turn away from him and act out their evil on those defenseless souls,
Not a thought for judgment day.

 The children sent to his house, betrayed and abused they stand in line,
Jesus came he loves them all his sacrifice was for them,

 The lord his son by his side, watches as more souls are damaged by his people.
They are turned by evil yet preach his name
They use his name to justify their evil, first to the children then their peers,
All listen to them powerful are they.

The lord is saddened by the pain of his children, he watches and remembers them.
Those who came to him for sanctuary, now turn away thinking he has forgotten them
They can not see the sadness in his soul.

 He sends a message only headed by some, those of the cloth fear me now for your judgment day will come, no mercy will I have, on those who abused my children from
behind the cloth.

 People of the cloth chosen by him, to care for the children, our future cloth,
Those, whose faith is strong, separate the lord from the evil ones,
They stand by their faith to the end and the lord welcomes them
His arms open, they are home.

One by one the evil ones draw close to their end.
The lord waits with his son by his side, to pass judgment on them

 As the day draws closer panic sets in, no more can they hide behind the cloth
The time has come for those of the cloth, to answer for their sins.

 Brutal is the lord on those of the cloth, they betrayed him from within.


Unite as one within his sight.

Send a message to all who have faith to join as one, unite your souls to right the wrongs and embrace a future free of shattered children.

Welcome home his lost souls those who suffered a childhood shattered by those of twisted faith.
Only then can future generations of our faith be freed from those who betrayed the lord from within, cleanse his house renew the faith and trust lost by so many.

Heal the wounds of past injustices embrace the children past present and future, make a difference their will be no more evil within his house , gather strength from those who suffered in his house for only they hold the key and know the way, it is within they must see.

Remain united till the end the lord will see and join the fight together we will rejoice cleansing the cancer which threatens our faith.
The sky will open the earth renewed from his tears of joy
Remember well the lord sees it all.

articles/lectures, film, Forgotten Australians, memories, Stolen Generations

Video: Wake-up call from the stolen and forgotten

by Rhonda Trivett (guest author) on 28 May, 2010

Rhonda Trivett, at the age of 13, from 1974 – 1981, was locked in the maximum security adult ward (Osler House), in Wolston Park Hospital, Brisbane. In her video, Rhonda talks about her experiences and the need for redress.

Wakeup call from the stolen and forgotten
articles/lectures, Forgotten Australians, Stolen Generations

It’s about time we make things right

by Rhonda Trivett (guest author) on 26 May, 2010

It’s about time we make things right

I believe it’s time to be responsible and say, “OK what has happened in the past was wrong. It should never have happened and it’s time to make it as right as we possibly can”.
Until now the government always has turned a blind eye to the real bad inhumane things that have happened.
We all live in this world and to make it a better kinder and peaceful place is what I hear people keep saying but really not all that much gets done.
If one person helps another or even has the guts to stand up for trying to make a good right caring change and really believe in what they are doing in a nice decent way, well that’s how good things happen.
I believe one person can make a difference as long as they don’t give up. Everybody’s got feeling and good in them sometimes you just need to look deep down into the real person.
There’s too much giving up, fighting, hate and war when there shouldn’t be. In the 1970s children were apart of an Australian inhumane war in a hospital Wolston Park. They were killed, bashed and raped, stripped of everything by the so called nurses that were supposed to be looking after us. It went on. My god, how did this happen? We need to try to help the ones that survived. There’s not many left. Please help me do this. Some of us still have shell shock and some just trying to get it all right. We are all wrongly labelled because of the past. It must stop, OK? How can we even try to make a life for ourselves? Let our suffering stop. Think. That could have been your child.
Help me and others make things right. We can’t wait for another 3 to 30 years. Some of us could be dead.
I need to do this now because people are starting to listen at last. We can learn from each other. Let’s clean up our Australian health and government acts.

art, Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry, Stolen Generations

Then came my son

by Rhonda Trivett (guest author) on 26 May, 2010

Rhonda Trivett’s poem describes the importance of her son in her life.


So God in six days did set the world in place
when He made the stars, land, ocean and the seas
the plan was, that He saw things to be as they should
He created me and I really used to wonder and don’t know why
to be hurt, sad and raped see my friends killed as a child
to lose it all was that his love for me
why couldn’t I just smile and have fun as a child
to make a jail as a home is a bad sick joke
to teach and guide me with cons and lies
with no-one on my side to understand
through all my pain, strife, my life no helping hand
I had to be the strength to stand
No-one listening no-one cared
no encouragement just told I wont succeed
lean on what, with no boundaries
I had no love no life no beginning and it looks like no end.

But then came my son who I’m proud of A part of him I’ll always see and be
I learnt to understand his tears,
And also calm all of his fears.
I see my sons laugh, his smile, his touch
He always brightened up my days
for each truth his has helped me see
the heartaches and the joys that we shared
And when I go Please do not forget me son,
for you are always in my heart, thoughts and my mind
The values you’ve taught me you made me a mum
and the wonderful love that you made me see in me
will always be there no matter what
the sparkling joy in your baby happy loving eyes
We never needed or wanted just gave and had we all ways had enough
our Special Love we shared
we share the joy our dreams were real
our confidence from day to day so easy
You set me free from all my fears
And when you were at school In spirit I was never alone
you were the best challenge of life 24 hours a day
It’s great and fun loving my son. Lets keep it up
I have a life, a beginning and a great loving end
I’m proud to be a mother and I’m proud to be able to love.

13 August 2003

art, Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry, Stolen Generations

Raped and bashed

by Rhonda Trivett (guest author) on 25 May, 2010

Rhonda shares one of poems about life as a teenager, in the adult maximum security ward (Osler House) in Wolston Park Hospital, Queensland.

Raped and Bashed, Now D Day, It’s Time to Fight Back, you Hurt Me and Made Me this Way

I live in fear of what you did to me
You made me cry you hurt and bashed me
I thought I was going to die many times
In the dark I’m scarred for life
And I kicked and I stirred
But no-one heard me and no-one cared
And it’s hard but I tried to be strong
you done this deed why me I was just a child
I did nothing for this hell treatment
I was a lost child wanting her mother
and I stole a push bike and That was my only crime
what a price I paid what really did I do
I don’t understand and I never will
With a label I try to survive, which I can’t
stop the label then I will be able, OK

I’ve been silent too long, no more playing the nice life games
You hurt me too many times, made me like a wounded animal
Just waiting for my next feed to come along
Stripped of everything and without a choice
I used to be clean now just dirty and unclean
bad and just a piece of rubbish
the guilt is just killing me in so many ways
no-one ever listened it was very wrong
Just looked me up with a needle, stripped me of my clothes
I’m still to this day confused getting silly as ever
With a hurtful rage of hate just waiting to explode
Wanting to hurt back with all I’ve got waiting for the kill
I didn’t start this, but I can assure you all that I will finish it
I’ve, now, got nothing to lose so it’s time to gain
I’ve been waiting for this moment every day of my life
I’m on my own, it’s time to pay,
it’s time for sorry Rhonda all the way.

Blood on the bathroom wall at Osler House

The next stanza in Rhonda’s poem explicitly describes an act of serious assault.

Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

When a child’s home is an asylum

by Rhonda Trivett (guest author) on 10 May, 2010

In 1967, at the age of eight, Rhonda was placed in Sandgate Home, Brisbane, while her mother tried to cope with the death of Rhonda’s father. Because Rhonda was dyslexic and became frustrated with her inability to read, she ran away from school. As a result, she was admitted to a locked ward in the Winston Noble Unit, a mental health facility attached to the Prince Charles Hospital at Chermside, Brisbane. She was later admitted to Lowson House, a mental health ward at the Royal Brisbane Hospital and then transferred to Wilston Youth Hostel. At the age of 13 she was admitted to a maximum security ward for adult female psychiatric patients (Osler House) at Wolston Park Hospital where she remained until she was 21 years of age.

Here is her poem, describing how her mother’s love helped her.

Rhonda’s bed in Wolston Park