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One of the most frustrating parts of my time in prison was the lack of access to computers and the internet.
While government-run prisons in some states, including New South Wales and Victoria, are now rolling out in-cell computers, the ACT has been ahead of the curve for some time.
Specifically, the Alexander Maconochie Centre (AMC) provides in-cell computers (as do Kareenga and Hopkins in Victoria). AMC and Karreenga also offer restricted internet access.
These systems are tightly controlled and are designed for education, communication and rehabilitation rather than open browsing. Access is strictly filtered and monitored.
Prisoners cannot freely surf the web, but are limited to whitelisted sites and applications relevant to study, counselling or legal matters. In most states, prisoners are allowed monitored internet access alongside a staff member to facilitate university courses offered by distance education.
One of the great benefits of this initiative is the opportunity for prisoners to have approved people added to their email list, enabling them to send and receive direct messages.
I’m not saying inmates should be granted unfettered access to computers and the internet. But it’s the lack of online and computer opportunities that turns prisoners who were once tech-savvy into technological castaways marooned on Groundhog Day Island – rebooting the same day over and over while society downloads tomorrow at lightning speed.
For me, I went from a computer-savvy, internet-knowledgeable Generation Jones cohort to someone who, after almost eight years, could barely set up a new iPad. Without my wife’s digital obsessions, I’d still be staring blankly at my iPad, pushing buttons that don’t exist instead of trying to coax a smirk out of Siri – who, let’s be honest, is about as witty as a toaster.
Walking out of prison without keeping up with digital advancements is like emerging from a cave clutching a Nintendo 64 while everyone else is coding in quantum and you’re still trying to pay with Monopoly money in a now cashless society.
Even more serious than that, however, is the danger of addiction. Not vices – devices. I’m talking about digital addictions: endless swipes on dating apps, doom-scrolling through disasters you can’t fix, stalking old friends on Facebook and Instagram who’ve moved on from you but you haven’t from them, and of course Netflix, YouTube, TikTok, Snapchat, Twitter.
One of the most frustrating parts of my time in prison was the lack of access to computers and the internet.
While government-run prisons in some states, including New South Wales and Victoria, are now rolling out in-cell computers, the ACT has been ahead of the curve for some time.
Specifically, the Alexander Maconochie Centre (AMC) provides in-cell computers (as do Kareenga and Hopkins in Victoria). AMC and Karreenga also offer restricted internet access.
These systems are tightly controlled and are designed for education, communication and rehabilitation rather than open browsing. Access is strictly filtered and monitored.
Prisoners cannot freely surf the web, but are limited to whitelisted sites and applications relevant to study, counselling or legal matters. In most states, prisoners are allowed monitored internet access alongside a staff member to facilitate university courses offered by distance education.
One of the great benefits of this initiative is the opportunity for prisoners to have approved people added to their email list, enabling them to send and receive direct messages.
I’m not saying inmates should be granted unfettered access to computers and the internet. But it’s the lack of online and computer opportunities that turns prisoners who were once tech-savvy into technological castaways marooned on Groundhog Day Island – rebooting the same day over and over while society downloads tomorrow at lightning speed.
For me, I went from a computer-savvy, internet-knowledgeable Generation Jones cohort to someone who, after almost eight years, could barely set up a new iPad. Without my wife’s digital obsessions, I’d still be staring blankly at my iPad, pushing buttons that don’t exist instead of trying to coax a smirk out of Siri – who, let’s be honest, is about as witty as a toaster.
Walking out of prison without keeping up with digital advancements is like emerging from a cave clutching a Nintendo 64 while everyone else is coding in quantum and you’re still trying to pay with Monopoly money in a now cashless society.
Even more serious than that, however, is the danger of addiction. Not vices – devices. I’m talking about digital addictions: endless swipes on dating apps, doom-scrolling through disasters you can’t fix, stalking old friends on Facebook and Instagram who’ve moved on from you but you haven’t from them, and of course Netflix, YouTube, TikTok, Snapchat, Twitter.
Inside it’s digital starvation; outside it’s digital overload. And the algorithmic hooks of these platforms are designed to trap you, which can be overwhelming for someone trying to reintegrate after years in the social and digital wilderness.
Social apps can be both a lifeline and a trap. In my case, they kept me close to family overseas. To see their faces, albeit on a screen, was balm for my aching soul.
I swore I wouldn’t return to social media. Yet after coming home, I was struck by how much time my wife spent online — scrolling Insta feeds, shopping on Amazon, playing online games. I could hardly blame her. She was isolated almost as much as I was, collateral damage from my offending. Her devices became her connection to family back home and friends across the world. And yet, here I am months later, checking YouTube daily, playing games, and considering Instagram to reconnect with old friends who haven’t deserted me.
The social and digital isolation finally wore away at me, making me once again like a kid introduced to a strange new world – chasing dopamine hits while remaining anonymous, watching funny dogs and heart-warming videos of people doing good.
I’d forgotten what a time-killer the internet and social apps are. Working from home, with much to do around our property, I’ve disciplined myself to a strict morning time limit online.
The digital age is moving faster than we can keep up. Coming out of prison after years is like being a caveman dropped into Silicon Valley, handed a microchip and given a Centrelink appointment. ‘Ugh… fire,’ while surrounded by blinking LEDs and login screens demanding passwords longer than his entire vocabulary.
And the best advice I can offer from my experience is this: go gently. Ease into it. Don’t let it overcome or overwhelm you. And be kind to yourself.
Inside it’s digital starvation; outside it’s digital overload. And the algorithmic hooks of these platforms are designed to trap you, which can be overwhelming for someone trying to reintegrate after years in the social and digital wilderness.
Social apps can be both a lifeline and a trap. In my case, they kept me close to family overseas. To see their faces, albeit on a screen, was balm for my aching soul.
I swore I wouldn’t return to social media. Yet after coming home, I was struck by how much time my wife spent online — scrolling Insta feeds, shopping on Amazon, playing online games. I could hardly blame her. She was isolated almost as much as I was, collateral damage from my offending. Her devices became her connection to family back home and friends across the world. And yet, here I am months later, checking YouTube daily, playing games, and considering Instagram to reconnect with old friends who haven’t deserted me.
The social and digital isolation finally wore away at me, making me once again like a kid introduced to a strange new world – chasing dopamine hits while remaining anonymous, watching funny dogs and heart-warming videos of people doing good.
I’d forgotten what a time-killer the internet and social apps are. Working from home, with much to do around our property, I’ve disciplined myself to a strict morning time limit online.
The digital age is moving faster than we can keep up. Coming out of prison after years is like being a caveman dropped into Silicon Valley, handed a microchip and given a Centrelink appointment. ‘Ugh… fire,’ while surrounded by blinking LEDs and login screens demanding passwords longer than his entire vocabulary.
And the best advice I can offer from my experience is this: go gently. Ease into it. Don’t let it overcome or overwhelm you. And be kind to yourself.
The handling of Aboriginal art and the ignorance around cultural significance by prisons in Victoria is appalling. This was my experience. It happened to me more than once, and no one was ever held accountable.
I don’t want to be on Centrelink – I want to work. I will cook, clean, waitress, pick up rubbish – anything. But I cannot because of a Police Check and Working with Children’s Check.
My loved ones go about their lives, their stories unfolding; while mine is caught in an endless, irrelevant loop. I’m a ghost, haunting their lives as they deal with issues and overcome hardships, with no ability to help them.
Save the dramas, forget the muster, and if one or two people are missing, they’ll be out, charged, denied bail, and back in before the next count anyway.
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