Profits of Doom

How vulture capitalism is swallowing the world

Antony Loewenstein

• Publisher: Melbourne University Press Digital
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN: 9780522866827
• eBook ISBN: 9780522867237
• Topic: Economics
• Subtopic: Political Economy
• Index: Economics

Vulture capitalism has seen the corporation become more powerful than the state, and yet its work is often done by stealth, supported by political and media elites. The result is privatised wars and outsourced detention centres. Mining companies pillaging precious land in developing countries and struggling nations are invaded by NGOs and the corporate dollar.
Best-selling journalist Antony Loewenstein travels to Afghanistan, Pakistan, Haiti, Papua New Guinea and across Australia to witness the reality of this largely hidden world of privatised detention centres, the cost of cheap clothing manufacturing and militarised private security. Who is involved and why? Can it be stopped? What are the alternatives in a globalised world? Profits of Doom challenges the fundamentals of our unsustainable way of life and the money-making imperatives driving it.Endorsements for Profits of Doom:

'In Australia, so often bereft of voices of dissent and courage, Antony Loewenstein's tenacious work stands out. Profits of Doom is a journey into a world of mutated economics and corrupt politics that we ignore at our peril.' - John Pilger, independent investigative journalist, author and documentary film-maker

'A great exercise in joining the dots, on essential terrain that too often is ignored. At a time when rapacious private interests campaign to destroy government - so they can cash in on its absence - Loewenstein reports from the frontline in an insidious war.' - Paul McGeough, author of Kill Khalid and chief foreign correspondent for The Sydney Morning Herald

'The competition for the most depraved example of the predatory state capitalism of the Reagan-Thatcher neoliberal era is fierce. In this chilling study, based on careful and courageous reporting, and illuminated with perceptive analysis, Antony Loewenstein presents many competitors for the prize, while also helping us understand all too well the saying that man is a wolf to man.' - Noam Chomsky, Institute Professor at MIT and Professor of Linguistics and Philosophy, political activist and author

' Profits of Doom nails the mad idea that the drive for profits will create global wellbeing. Antony Loewenstein delivers a spine-chilling account of the post 9/11 world taken over by vulture capitalism and its political cronies. And this is what we are voting for.' - Bob Brown, former leader of the Australian Greens and director of Sea Shepherd

'Antony Loewenstein's Profits of Doom is a powerful indictment of the corporations and governments across the globe whose unquenchable thirst for resources and power threaten the stability - perhaps even the very existence - of the planet. Loewenstein is no armchair academic or cubicle journalist. The stories in the book are the product of years embedded, in military and economic warzones, with the disempowered of the world, the people from Pakistan to Papua New Guinea and beyond who have the audacity and bravery to fight back against all odds. Loewenstein's keen sense of justice is evident on every page of this book as he gives voice to the voiceless and confronts the powerful. Profits of Doom is a devastating, incisive follow-up to Naomi Klein's The Shock Doctrine.' - Jeremy Scahill, international best-selling author of Dirty Wars and Blackwater

1

CURTIN IMMIGRATION DETENTION
CENTRE—CASH FOR CARE

Let me make it very clear. There are people out there who are intent on demonising the [immigration] system itself and seek to portray it as inhumane, as if we’re involved in breaching people’s fundamental human rights.

Australian immigration minister Philip Ruddock, 2003¹

Our drive begins at Cable Beach, alongside a deep blue sea. Heading inland, the road is mostly straight, with sinewy trees on either side of the smooth asphalt. Cows wander the parched landscape and a searing sun beats down on our car in the hypnotic desert setting. Low clouds sit perfectly formed in the sky.

I’m travelling with Caroline Fleay, a lecturer at Curtin University’s Centre for Human Rights Education and a tireless advocate for asylum seekers. We’re on the long road that leads east from Broome across Western Australia’s Kimberley region to the small town of Derby. To the south of Derby lies our ultimate destination—the Curtin Immigration Detention Centre, which sits on a remote Royal Australian Air Force base.

Eventually we arrive at the Willare Bridge Roadhouse, a service centre on the Great Northern Highway. It feels as if it is in the middle of nowhere. Two wooden signs hang out front, telling visitors how far it is to somewhere better: 2240 kilometres to Perth and two hours by car back to Broome. There is no mobile phone reception at the café. We can only get bad instant coffee and food that looks like it’s been sitting in a bain-marie for years. There’s a rough motel with few facilities apart from a BBQ and a pool. Flies swarm around exhausted humans and animals. The dusty air is occasionally broken by the whoosh of a giant truck speeding past.

This is where the Australian Government and the British multi national Serco, which has run all of Australia’s detention centres since 2009, house up to 100 migration agents, translators and security guards. They claim they can’t find appropriate accommodation in Derby, 45 kilometres to the north. But the truth is that this isolated place is a cheap and easy alternative. Neither Serco nor the federal government has invested in lasting infrastructure for their employees or the locals. It isn’t in their interests to construct anything permanent because policy set in Canberra rarely lasts for more than a few years.

The hotels and bars in Derby, which has a population of just over 3000 permanent residents, are regularly filled with Serco and Department of Immigration and Citizenship (DIAC) staff. Some locals tell me that they welcome the business the detention centre brings to the town. But the presence of Curtin also breeds strong resentment because it makes local prices artificially high, especially for housing and food. A spin-off sentiment is that the refugees in Curtin are seen as well fed and living in air-conditioned comfort while some locals can’t even find a decent room.

There’s an expression that’s used across Australia in relation to temporary workers: ‘Fly In, Fly Out’ (FIFO). But in Derby, an alternative has been adopted: ‘Fit In or Fuck Off’. This refers to the Serco staff who only live here temporarily, making good money before going home to Perth or further afield. They usually work on relatively short contracts, around six weeks on and three weeks off.

The bitterness is not confined to Derby. Steve Austin, chief executive of the tiny Aboriginal settlement of Mowanjum, 10 kilometres from town, told The Age in April 2012 that his community resented the state government ignoring his people’s plight while Canberra invested huge amounts in maintaining the detention centre.² Of the twenty-five Indigenous suicides recorded in the Kimberley in the twelve months from April 2011 to April 2012, twenty-one occurred in Derby and Mowanjum.³

As storm clouds gather, Caroline and I drive around Derby to get a sense of the place. It’s quiet and beautiful in parts. The sun sets over the town’s long wharf on King Sound, its red entrails hovering in the distance. Fishermen sit and stand around while crazed mosquitoes use kamikaze tactics to attack ferociously. Despite this, the moment is peaceful.

‹ ›

It’s a 30-minute drive through the desert from Derby to the Curtin Air Base. A number of signs warn us to turn back because it is ‘Private Property’. We approach the first checkpoint, where a logo on a fence with a forward arrow reads ‘Serco’. Even here in the Kimberley, Serco branding is slapped on infrastructure.

A dark-skinned man asks us for ID and the Serco entry forms that we faxed to Curtin a few days earlier—we were asked to list our professions and the names of the detainees we want to visit. I open my window and feel a rush of hot air. It is close to 40 degrees Celsius. We are allowed to proceed.

Curtin is surrounded by scrubby desert as far as the eye can see. I can’t imagine a more isolated place to be detained. Demountables are scattered beside the road near the car park and high barbed-wire fences surround the detention compound. We can see new houses being constructed nearby, and a freshly laid concrete pathway leads to the main entrance. The last years have seen the construction at the centre of gymnasiums, religious rooms and classrooms.

The Serco sign hanging over the reception area reads, ‘Wel come to Curtin IDC’. Staff, including a subcontractor from MSS Security, smile as we enter the heavily air-conditioned room. They ask to see our faxed Serco forms so they can confirm they received the documents at least 24 hours before the visit. Caroline says that, uncharacteristically, a Serco manager from Curtin rang her a few days ago and said they were looking forward to welcoming us. It was an unprecedented move, without any discernible reason behind it. ‘It’s impossible to understand how this system truly works’, Caroline routinely tells me during our time together.

Serco posters and signs advertising the company are ubiquitous in the reception area. They display the smiling faces of happy staff and multicultural imagery that includes a Muslim imam. A colour brochure emblazoned with four grinning faces from various racial backgrounds sits on a small table near some lockers. ‘Bringing service to life’ is the company’s motto. The pamphlet says that Serco ‘promotes the inherent dignity of people in detention in line with the Australian government’s new immigration detention values’.

A number of other pieces of Serco literature are scattered around reception. ‘Visitor Conditions of Entry’ states that there are three visiting periods every day, including between 6 p.m. and 8 p.m., but also says that arrival after 5 p.m. will not be permitted. There are dozens of rules and regulations on the sheet, including: ‘Respect the privacy and dignity of all people in the centre’. It’s a noble goal, but one that staff routinely breach, detainees later tell me.

We are given keys for a locker in which to store our personal items. I am not allowed to carry a camera or a mobile phone, but I can bring a pen and notepad. I am surprised. I have been told it’s common for journalists to be denied even these basics here. Usually a cap and bottled water suffice.

The site’s operation manager, who is decked out in the Serco uniform of shirt, shorts and black shoes, says he’ll take us to a holding area to wait for the refugees we’ve asked to see. Normally, Caroline, who has been to Curtin many times before, meets detainees under a large tree inside the compound, but we’re informed that this isn’t possible today. No reason is given.

We enter the centre and walk near the perimeter fence. We come to a large metal gate, 4 metres high, and stand there silently in the soaring heat. The gate slowly opens to reveal a narrow noman’s-land—150 metres of earth bookended by fences. There’s an eerie silence in the compound. It’s mid-afternoon and it’s simply too hot for anyone to be outside at this time of the day.

We walk along dusty paths for five minutes, moving through locked gates that require authorisation via walkie-talkie to open. There are a few male asylum seekers behind a nearby fence, defying the heat, but we aren’t allowed to go near them. They wave and we reciprocate.

The banality of the process is dehumanising. This is no different to a high-security prison in a remote area where escape is close to impossible. The aim is clearly to make detainees feel isolated, cut off from the millions of Australians who have no idea, or who don’t care, about what is being done in their name.

We finally enter the holding area. The Serco guard accom panying us points out the TV and DVD player in the room and says to ‘use it if you like’. A DVD case for the Jackie Chan movie Rush Hour 3 sits on a low cabinet. Tea, coffee and hot water are available, and there are fridges with ‘Staff Only’ signs. The air-conditioning is so effective I start to feel a chill. The room is anodyne, resembling a claustrophobic airport holding cell.

While a few male Serco staff sit nearby, looking bored, a number of refugees from Sri Lanka and Afghanistan warmly welcome us. They are all men in their twenties and they include a few Hazara from Afghanistan who have recently achieved refugee status and shortly will be released into the Australian community. As Caroline and I start talking to them, I see a young Serco guard washing his hands with disinfectant—he had just shaken the hands of the detainees.

Two Tamil men, Agilan and Ajinth, both of whom speak good English, have been in detention for 19 months and 22 months, respectively. They both wear silver studs in their ears and one has a trendy haircut, with a partly shaved head. Agilan has some family in Germany, where his father lives, but a sister and his daughter remain in Colombo. Detention centre food soon comes up as an issue. Both men find the food very bland and they desperately want to be able to cook their own ingredients with spices, but it’s something they can only do covertly.

I ask Agilan and Ajinth about their treatment by Serco staff. Some are very kind, they say, while others tell them to go back to their home countries. They tell me that Serco has organised a cricket series with the Derby cricket team. Their outings include the old Derby jail, which we all think is strange because the men are already in detention. They also tell us that Serco staff learn swear words from refugees and curse each other in various languages.

We talk about the reasons they left Sri Lanka, mainly because Tamils still face widespread discrimination there, and why they can’t go back—they would face imprisonment, interrogation and possibly torture if they did. We also discuss the stultifying boredom of doing nothing day after day.

Caroline and I chat to the refugees for two hours, with Serco staff constantly looking at us. The detainees seemed to like the distraction of different company, and there was some flirty playfulness with Caroline. There are 1000 men in detention here and only a few female guards. In 2013, the federal government brought refugee children and families to Curtin into a section called ‘Alternative Place of Detention’. In a further Orwellian move in May 2013, the Federal Parliament legislated to remove the Australian mainland from its migration zone, meaning that any asylum seekers arriving on the mainland could be sent to offshore facilities in Nauru or Papua New Guinea.

When we leave the compound, the refugees come as far as they can with us, down to the locked gate, before taking a dusty road to their cabins while we backtrack to the detention centre entrance. As we walk slowly with our Serco guard, who looks about thirty, I ask about his life. He says he has a child in Perth and misses home. He’s on the six-weeks-on, three-weeks-off shift, living in Derby. ‘It’s good money’, he says, and admits that ‘this job is alright’, but he avoids sharing his views about the refugees.

We pass a small oval around which a few bearded men in tracksuit tops and shorts are running. The weather is cooler than when we arrived, but it’s still humid. On another small field alongside our path, twenty or so men play soccer. Without the high fences, guards and the desert, the scene could be taking place anywhere in suburban Australia.

As we prepare to leave, the magic sunset hour arrives and the sun drapes its last blistering light over the detention centre.

The next day we return and go through the same ritual to enter the centre. A Serco staff member, Brian, will guide Caroline and me to where we’ll meet the detainees. Brian looks to be in his fifties and carries a pot belly. He lives in Perth and has been working in immigration detention for a decade. Serco staff are moved around the country to different facilities, and Brian says he’s arrived in Curtin for a six-week stint. ‘It’s good money to support my family’, he says. Many Serco staff earn more than $100,000 annually.

Brian tells us of the severity of the conditions at Curtin during the years of Prime Minister John Howard, especially just before its closure in 2002 (the centre would remain closed for eight years). He says he has no sympathy for refugees who ‘go around burning down buildings and rioting. We treat them better than many people on the outside. We feed them and give them lawyers. It’s us, the staff, who have it tough, having to sometimes be abused and assaulted’. He’s clearly keen to talk.

Brian says that during the riots at the Christmas Island detention centre in March 2011, when hundreds of detainees protested against their living conditions and length of incarceration, ‘we had nowhere to go, as the refugees burnt down our compound. It was scary. I am a good judge of character and would allow some people into the country, but many others I would not. I can’t understand how people who burn down places can still become refugees’. As we walk in the heat, Brian refers to a particular Tamil man, saying he is ‘lovely and he speaks English fairly fluently’, and that he’d give him refugee status immediately.

Despite being told when we arrived that Caroline and I would be placed in the same visiting area as yesterday, Brian directs us to a different area. It’s a large Serco mess hall with plain surroundings. There are some tables, a hot water system that doesn’t work, plastic chairs and an effective air-conditioning unit. A faulty smoke detector continually beeps because it needs a new battery.

Detainees can request visitors by name, and during our various visits, different asylum seekers wander in of their own volition for a chat. We are told these men want the chance to tell us their stories in the hope we’ll be able to give them advice on how to expedite their refugee claims. Every day we come to the centre, our aim is to see as many refugees as possible. This time, four Hazara Afghans and one Iranian man meet us, as well as the two Tamil men, Agilan and Ajinth, whom we met yesterday. As requested during yesterday’s meeting, we bring lamingtons, fruit and chocolate cakes. An Afghan man offers us apple juice and Coke.

Ajinth says he loves the Australian film about Arnhem Land 10 Canoes, and Jared Diamond’s book Guns, Germs and Steel. When he first arrived at Christmas Island on a boat, volunteers organised by Serco taught him about modern Aboriginal history, including the Stolen Generations, the White Australia policy, Prime Minister Kevin Rudd’s 2008 apology, and the fact that Australia Day was considered Invasion Day by many Indigenous groups. ‘I felt the Tamil … and your Indigenous peoples had a similar struggle, treated equally badly by majority populations’, he tells me. When he was transferred to a detention centre in Perth several months later, he worried about whether Aboriginal people wanted refugees on ‘their land’.

The other Tamil detainee, Agilan, says that most refugees come to Australia to escape war and find a better life, but that the extensive time spent in detention sucks away their hope. He tells me that many people in Curtin self-harm and cry each day because they’re frustrated with the lack of progress on their claims, left in limbo seemingly indefinitely. Immigration minister Brendan O’Connor stated in 2013 that standards at the facility were ‘as good as anywhere in the world’.

We emerge from the mess hall two and a half hours later under a menacing sky. Lightning can be seen in the distance, and clouds bunch into amorphous patterns. Rain starts to fall and a cool breeze blows across the dusty ground. The ten-minute walk back to reception allows us to see more of the detention centre amid a strange silence. The compounds where the refugees live sit perched atop the red dirt. Everywhere there are men sitting behind fences, looking forlorn. We wave and they return the gesture. The same men we saw running around an oval the day before are running again.

Serco and MSS staff are stationed all over and often use walkietalkies to ask their superiors for permission to open a gate or door: ‘Bravo 643, please advise’. It is militarised language.

Having conferred with the detainees, we give Serco a list of around seventy asylum seekers we want to meet the next day. It takes a while to gather their names and security numbers. A Serco official tells us we need to give more warning if we want to see seventy ‘clients’. ‘Security just can’t approve that many people overnight’, he says, then shrugs and walks away.

The next morning we are back inside Curtin. A visit to the well-maintained toilets makes me reflect on the nature of the place. Serco maintains a basic standard of institutional care....

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Author’s Note, 2014
• Introduction
• 1 Curtin Immigration Detention Centre—Cash for Care
• 2 Christmas Island—Incarceration in the Indian Ocean
• 3 James Price Point—Boom or Bust?
• 4 Papua New Guinea—The Resource Curse
• 5 Afghanistan and Pakistan—The War Economy
• 6 Haiti—Open for Business
• Postscript
• Acknowledgements
• Bibliography
• Notes
• Index