The visit to MITA has become a permanent part of my week. Although difficult and sometimes unbearable – mostly because I feel helpless – I can’t stop going to see my friends. And even that is getting harder.
I’m in the middle of the visiting room in Broadmeadows Detention Centre. It’s loud, children running around. Families talking. There is music. But in a corner I see Frank. He is sitting alone, wearing a long, ripped, black robe. He is very sad. Hopeless. He looks at me, doesn’t say anything. And looks down.