I have covered sad and difficult stories around the world. From the Rohingya refugee crisis in Bangladesh to the South Sudan civil war and humanitarian fallout, where I visited a camp with 45,000 people living in knee-deep mud mixed with human waste. But my work last year at the Australian-run detention centre on Manus Island profoundly affected me: although I’ve seen terrible things in the past, there always seemed to be some kind of hope or will to fight. But on Manus, all that is left is a sense of despair. The common feeling among the men I met is a desire to die.
To add to this, it’s my own country and my own people who are directly responsible. Australia has detained – and psychologically tortured – men on Manus island for four years. They are being crushed by bureaucracy and politics. This is being seen and tolerated. The way Australia treats those men will be remembered as a stain on our young nation.
When I returned home from my first trip to Manus, I would ask myself: if people knew the full extent of what is happening on Manus, would they support this? The answer is no. I don’t believe anybody, including the politicians responsible, realises the depth of damage that is being inflicted on these men.
Last week, Australia shut down the refugee centre, after a court in Papua New Guinea declared it illegal. But 600 men are refusing to leave the camp – despite not having any water, food or electricity anymore. They are fearful for their lives. I was determined to return to Manus to document the situation and show the Australian people what is happening under our government’s order. They didn’t let me.
On Friday, I travelled to PNG. Catching the early morning flight from Sydney to Port Moresby via Brisbane, I landed in Port Moresby just before midday. Waiting in line for a visa on arrival, I handed over my passport to the immigration officer. I wanted to apply for a tourist visa, the only available option for me to gain access. This is a common technique for journalists reaching sensitive places.
The officer looked at her screen and asked if I was the same Matthew Abbott who had been involved in publishing disruptive material from Manus. Upon hearing the name of the island, I knew the probability of entering PNG was now going to be next to nil.
During my trip to Manus in 2016, I witnessed the aftermath of two refugees being beaten up with metal pipes by a mob of locals, one of the reasons the men were – and still are – too afraid to leave the camp. I got detained for photographing the violent attack. Police told me not to publish the photos and the manager of the detention centre warned me: “What you do now will determine whether you are ever allowed to visit PNG again.” I published the photos.
“Just grab your bags and stand over there please while we wait for my superior,” the immigration officer told me. I tried to stay positive.
Her superior looked over my travel credentials and then asked me to follow a man into an interview room. I was asked a series of questions, my address in Australia, my level of education, the details of my profession, how I knew the refugees personally – by a serious but kind PNG immigration official named Donald, who was wearing thongs. I asked him if he thought I was a troublemaker who needed to be stopped from entering PNG. He said no, and that he was just following orders. I then asked why PNG was following orders and a blacklist from the Australian government, to which he responded: “This is what we must do, things are very explosive right now.” He gave me the details of who I could write to, but politely told me I had to catch the next flight home.
I then had my bags searched and was photographed holding my camera. I was back in Sydney less than 24 hours after leaving.
• Matthew Abbott is a documentary photographer based in Sydney
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