*As told to police reporter Bageshri Savyasachi on the condition of anonymity.
I am a former drug syndicate enforcer, born and raised right here in the ACT.
Over the past 20 years, what I've seen of the nefarious goings-on in the underbelly of the capital would terrify the average Canberran.
We're home to a thriving illicit drug market and bikie hub, where narcotics flow so freely that there's a "Cocaine Lane" in the heart of our city.
Meanwhile, our jail is less of a correctional centre and more of a taxpayer-funded playground where inmates do nothing but get high and play video games all day.
Before I flipped the switch, I was like any other upstanding citizen with a family, a home, and a stable job.
I was raised by Christian parents, attended private schools, and grew up with genuinely good morals and a strong internal compass.
I worked hard to pay my mortgage and did everything society expected of me, but eventually, the daily grind wore me down, my family moved away, and I found myself deeply isolated.
I was working in the construction industry in the early 2000s, right as high-grade, pharmaceutical ice and international cocaine were rapidly emerging in the ACT, replacing the old scene of speed and marijuana.
In my 20s, I saw the massive amounts of money flowing into the drug market and watched people I knew benefit from this lucrative new economy.
I thought to myself: "Man, I could get ahead. Take my family on holidays, buy this and that."
The way I was recruited by a gang member, I feel it can happen to anyone if circumstances aligned.
Tempted by their wealth and driven by an immature ego, I took part in the emergence of cocaine into Canberra in the 90s, and made a choice that would violently alter my trajectory.
I spent the next two decades evolving into a regional manager for an international drug distribution network, a nameless syndicate operating under the radar, or so I thought.
I started as "the muscle", accompanying senior members to collect money from drug dealers. I found myself in multiple situations involving guns, knives, and physical violence.
I was on the giving and receiving end of violence that was traumatic, the closest equivalent I can think of is war, but there's no honour in it.
Once I got into trouble that first time, my descent into the underworld was an exponential trip, pulling me deeper and deeper into high-level organised crime.
Eventually, my role was to sit on massive, multimillion-dollar shipments, sometimes holding up to 100 kilograms of cocaine at a single time in secure storage locations around Canberra.
From there, I would approach local dealers and different outlaw motorcycle clubs to wholesale the product.
At the top, we supplied absolutely everything you could imagine to the local market - cocaine, ice, heroin, marijuana, ecstasy, steroids, pharmaceuticals, and even unregistered firearms.
Ever since the decriminalisation of small amounts of illicit drugs in the ACT, the black market has boomed and is known nationally and internationally for growing demand.
Speaking as a former drug dealer, it is a win to be able to put drugs in an end user's hand without the fear of them dobbing you in.
Before, when cops caught someone with a gram out in Civic, you could tell them where you got the drugs and they'd let you go. They can't do that ground-level policing anymore.
Because club owners didn't allow drug use inside users usually went to the bathroom for a hit, but now you can just go out the back, socialise, and use cocaine at "Cocaine Lane".
In Garema Place, I see people openly using ice on a park bench under a tree. Knowing I played a part in this reality is upsetting.
I remember being busted with a small amount of drugs when I was younger, I was sent to a diversion program at an office in the CBD.
They showed me a spreadsheet of different drugs, their effects on the body, and a counsellor spoke to me about harm minimisation. I could tell they were trying to reduce the stigma around drug use.
Unfortunately, Canberra has become like Hollywood for bikies because it's a consequence-free hub where gangs can ride their flashy bikes in club colours with no repercussions.
Unlike jurisdictions where it's illegal for them to meet openly, bikies treat the ACT as a glamorous backdrop to flex their strength and put on a show every time they visit.
This is why major clubs, such as the Comancheros and the Bandidos, have splurged on production budgets to shoot their propaganda videos here - to broadcast an untouchable image and recruit "cannon fodder".
Running in the shadows eventually catches up to you.
I never imagined I could be caught, the group I was part of was so established that I didn't think the police would even be aware of me.
Over the years, I racked up multiple serious convictions for drug and firearms offences, and spent years in and out of custody in Canberra's Alexander Maconochie Centre (AMC).
Once I was behind bars, the syndicate cut all contact.
It was an understanding that when you get busted, it's your responsibility, and you have to do the time. But, over time, when no one comes to visit you or takes care of your family on the outside, realisation and sadness creeps in.
I was expecting prison to be a serious and rigid environment full of grown men (like in the movies) but when I got there, it felt more like a naughty boys home.
There was a quiet understanding between prisoners and staff that drug supply and use was normal and nothing could stop it.
I find the AMC to be the most criminogenic place imaginable. The only time we were ever forced out of bed was for a brief two-minute head count at three in the afternoon.
Otherwise, inmates could sit in their cells all day with a TV, a PlayStation, food delivery, and an endless supply of contraband drugs.
For people off the streets, who took drugs everyday, this was tragically the best life they were ever going to live.
Zero structure and a complete lack of rehabilitation in prison created the perfect breeding ground for bikies and organised crime groups to build their power.
I watched them prey on vulnerable young men, struggling with drug addictions, who never had father figures or a proper education.
These kids are desperate for a sense of family, purpose, or protection, and gangs exploit this by using their addiction as currency to maintain control.
Isolated criminals are recruited straight out of prison to act as expendable foot soldiers, sent out to sell drugs, commit violent assaults, or act as the heavies.
The sickest part of this dynamic is these young men have to pay weekly dues, sometimes hundreds of dollars, just for the supposed "prestige" of hanging around the club.
But even the gangs wouldn't have that terrifying level of power inside without the drugs and mobile phones, and those came directly from corrupt staff.
In the later stages of my sentence, the primary source of bulk contraband wasn't visitors or drones - everyone knew it was certain prison guards, and new detainees bringing in ingested drugs.
I knew of specific guards who were paid in cash by dealers on the outside to walk in large shipments of drugs and mobile phones right through the jail's front doors.
Inside the AMC, having a smuggled phone makes you a king. You can call the shots, run your drug empire, and extort inmates' families for thousands of dollars to settle drug debts, all from inside a cell.
I saw the horrific human toll of this unchecked corruption firsthand. The custody environment was worsening, it was getting harder to access programs, and people started dying. I watched men overdose on opioids and suffer.
Filled with frustration and anger, I hit a wall. I have been released for more than a year now, and my perspective has shifted profoundly.
As someone who lost a significant period of my life to the justice system, I realised how valuable my time is. At best, I am a failed criminal, but I still think I am lucky.
Unlike the desperate young guys I left behind in those cells, I had a foundation to return to - a rare opportunity to do something different.
When I left the AMC for the last time, I reached out to my friends and family. I was embarrassed and I knew they were embarrassed of me. There was this wedge of criminality and stigma, but I just had to swallow my pride.
"I'm not in a good place, I don't want to do this anymore, it's too much for me," I remember telling them.
A friend took me in, offered me accommodation and support, while my partner helped hold on to my small possessions and rebuild my life.
Seeing the system fail people from beginning to end, I wanted to speak up about the grim reality of a criminal lifestyle and the environment that enables it.
I urge Canberrans to question what our justice system is achieving.
Safer communities require a balance of accountability, rehabilitation, and a commitment to helping people rebuild. We should not only be concerned with punishing wrongdoing, but also focus on what happens after the sentence is served.
