I find myself in no-man’s-land—a large and largely empty space between freedom and detention. It has taken months of patient planning to get this far. Copies of passport, driver’s licence, working with children check, Federal Police check and proof of professional status, together with detailed ‘Visitor’ forms and my car’s registration number, were long ago completed, signed, carefully scanned and sent as requested. Apparently the copies were not clear enough for the detention centre administration so I sent them again. When new information was requested I sent the forms again. When colour copies were requested I sent them again. When the office could not locate my completed, signed, scanned, clear, detailed colour copies I sent them again. No reason was given the next time; they knew there was no need. I sent the copies again. I learned to wait, to ask for nothing and to expect nothing—familiar working territory for a psychotherapist, but for an infant it is a sign of despair.

In the spring of 2014 I was taken to visit a place in Melbourne where families were imprisoned, guards accompanied children to school, and babies were born and raised in detention. I met people of all ages but, as a perinatal psychotherapist, I was particularly interested in the babies and their parents. Many of the parents were depressed. This was not surprising. They had believed that they were coming to Australia for a better life for themselves and for their children; instead they were isolated, interned and identified by number.