I rang the Legal Services Commission yesterday to get a list of all the lawyers I’ve spoken with since arriving back in Adelaide in 2017. As with the State Ombudsman’s office, the administrative staff—mostly women—spend so much time passing you around that, in the end, you finish up not knowing who you’ve spoken to.
In each case, someone they speak with on your behalf is always supposed to call you back. And as usual, they want to know the number of the phone you're using to call them, even if they've just half rattled it back to you. Clearly, they're restricted from completing it due to privacy laws, yet they have no problem expecting you to update it verbally over the phone. A simple yes, that is correct, will not do.
Another strange administrative practice is the unsolicited reading of your details back to you during the call. You haven't asked for them, and they've already put you through the security verification process, so why are they rattling off summaries of your personal information over the phone?
The fact that you’re then not contacted by the person who’s supposed to call you back only makes Australian governments and our health systems feel more and more like they're controlled at this bureaucratic level by the secretaries themselves. Frankly, it feels like obfuscation for unexplained reasons, and wonder sometimes if they do it as a way of getting a pay rise. Inserting themselves so deeply into the system they are not only invaluable but unshakable in their ability to control the digital realm that threatens to replace them.
During COVID, it was quite interesting to hear one government department openly express concerns about the personnel from other departments who were being co-opted into the COVID administrative program. In South Australia, it seemed to be a secretive operation where the administrative staff who had the power of life and death over vulnerable people, had no transparency no clear understanding of the criteria for their inclusion in these teams.
Caught homeless at the time, as many of us were, and having nowhere to turn to for a place to isolate in, I contacted other government departments, who were just as confused by what the government was up to as everyone else. The police, angry and ruthless, gave me the impression that they expected everyone to have had somewhere to go, and then threatened to lock me up if I couldn’t provide them with an address, more or less on the spot. This really drove it home just how panicked the government was.
Feeling that the police solution of pressuring the homeless was neither practical nor ethical—potentially clustering possibly infected people together in extremely spartan circumstances, and then potentially very illegal if all people were doing was trying to find somewhere in a hurry to isolate themselves to—I stated making inquiries for other solution very quickly.
I called the ABC news desk to ask about the government’s actions and the police’s quarantine solutions. I told them about my circumstances and asked if they knew anything about possible emergency accommodation. They hadn’t heard about the police but suggested that it matched a broader sense of panic they were hearing about. We agreed—the cops were having us all on to a large degree but they couldn't just start lock people away for trying to comply but were they right to do so?
The COVID information line would only confirm that a curfew had been put in place, and was now effective after the state borders were closed. People were now expected to isolate themselves at their place of residence, and they couldn’t provide any assistance to those, like myself, who found ourselves homeless and unable to arrange accommodation after the curfew began.
When I contacted the Premier’s Department, they officially denied that homelessness was an issue under the circumstances but then, unofficially, agreed that it could be. I was then put through to a senior public servant from the COVID management team. I had spoken with him earlier on the highway.
Understanding my predicament, along with the other travellers and free campers who had been out of touch in the days leading up to the border closures and nationwide curfew and who suddenly found themselves unable to return home or go anywhere else as the campgrounds they had been staying at began closing under the curfew he asked me about m y movements, and who I had been in contact with in the weeks prior.
With the police threatening to lock everyone away, I was instead told to either go and find a suburban beach car park to stay at, or to continue to go free camping for the next two weeks. When I checked the beach car parks, I found most were full, and the cars were parked so close together that it was impossible to observe any distancing. There were no showers, and the toilets were so overused that I concluded if anyone was going to catch COVID from being in a public space, it was. going to be there.
Initially, I thought about heading to the Flinders Ranges, expecting to find open camping facilities. But as I traveled, I heard from other campers heading back to Adelaide that the national parks had been closed as well. This was confirmed by the police, who were pulling us over to check where we were headed. Instead, and to their frustration, we were now allowed to free camp along the highways.
The police would pull me over, conduct a road check, and ask if I was aware of the curfew. After explaining my situation and providing the details of whom I had spoken with in government, I could hear them arguing with their command centre’s over the radio, who seemed to be aware of my circumstances and instructed them to leave us alone to isolate by free camping.
One country cop didn’t want me in his area and told me I had to move on.
I free camped for about a week until a doctor on Kangaroo Island, whom I heard on the radio, started insisting that all free campers should be gathered into a designated camping area and isolated from the communities we would be near.
His proposal sounded too much like a gulag setup, and I had visions of the police then rounding us all up and transporting us up to the old barbwire detention compounds at Woomera, so over the next few days, I drove from near Ceduna straight back to Adelaide to request emergency accommodation I had since heard about.
Within a week, I was given access to medical and shower facilities at one of the homeless shelters, and not long after, I was placed in a city hotel to wait for more permanent emergency accommodation. If the cops were bad at times while I was free camping, the administration of the emergency shelters was far worse. Homeless people, including a few like myself, had been gathered up and placed in hotels. These were generally people who, for various personal reasons, had lived long-term on the streets.
We had access to a medical clinic at the shelter, with a nurse or doctor available at any time. Initially, we also had access to psychologists as part of the transition from the streets into hotels. During the extreme times of the curfew, some of the homeless who couldn’t cope with living indoors had ongoing access to medical help in their rooms, with staff often coming in to assist.
From inside our rooms, we heard stories that started spreading about extreme behavior from other hotels about people who were locked in their rooms for extended periods. Our phones also began regularly overheating, and at times, third parties could be heard on calls. It was agreed by many of us that our phones were being hacked—either by journalists or others, likely to gather details for online sharing.
As a condition of entering emergency accommodation, we were told to expect to be moved to other types of housing, some of which might be government housing. When I was officially given confirmation of available government housing, I began preparing the necessary paperwork to make it happen as quickly as possible. It wasn’t just a matter of waiting, because as the government began to unwind the curfew, a small window opened for government housing as they started to end the emergency hotel arrangements, and especially after other hotels reported extended antisocial behavior and requested their guests be moved elsewhere.
While this was happening, my application for accommodation was stalled. It seemed there was an effort to separate the long-term homeless and to force me back onto the streets to wait for the curfew to end before finding new accommodation. This wasn’t due to any bad behavior on my part but rather a struggle to protect the privacy of my medical records, which the homeless shelter expected to have full access to and that I was able to quickly put together letters to support my case.
Along with this, I lost access to the psychologists after asking for support with my accommodation applications. Instead, I was given access to LifeLine counsellors from a church charity, which had contracted to run the emergency accommodation program for the state government. This arrangement seemed designed to limit the government’s liability within a very strict framework, relying on organisation’s to ensure the arrangements met humanitarian standards.
However, there was one bonus to this arrangement that I would later discover. When we were all issued multiple parking fines during the curfew by the Adelaide City Council, a lawyer was provided to begin the process of appealing the fines. But even he was then removed, and we no longer had support for our appeal to cancel the fines on humanitarian grounds, which were systematically rejected.
Eventually, the fines reached a point where I was prepared to take them to court and have a magistrate decide whether it was fair to issue parking fines during a global health crisis curfew. They remain with the police prosecution, presumably ready to be taken to court whenever they choose.
After a lengthy struggle to finalize my new government accommodation, I was subjected to an extraordinarily long probationary period of three years, during which I was unable to arrange the house as I wanted. I have continued to face various forms of harassment from different government departments, and clearly, whether from the COVID experience or the fallout from reporting a child at risk, the ongoing and unwarranted attention from these parties online has marked me as a person of some infamy.mIts Its no wonder the media came after me as well and then rejected my online presence.



