Yesterday, the world of a close friend, Andy, turned upside down. After four decades in Australia, a country he considers home and where he raised his family, he was abruptly taken into police custody. A dual UK citizen with no criminal record, Andy faces deportation to Britain, a land he no longer recognizes. His family is left reeling, with no explanation for this sudden upheaval.
The abstract idea of imprisonment once held a morbid fascination for me. Perhaps a dark curiosity led me to imagine some perverse enjoyment within those walls. However, years of visiting friends behind bars have painted a starkly different picture: prison is bleak. This is especially true when the only “crime” is belonging to a motorcycle club.
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Growing up, the naive cry of “it’s a free country” was a common refrain amongst children attempting to justify minor transgressions. But as I matured, the true meaning of “freedom” became increasingly complex and shadowed. In post-9/11 migrant communities, a sense of inferiority took root, tragically pushing many young people towards paths of crime, addiction, or extremism, rather than conventional success.
My first vivid encounter with bikers occurred in Richmond. My father took me to a cricket match at the MCG, and a thunderous group of bikers roared past in formation. Loud and fast, they navigated traffic with an air of defiance, ignoring red lights. They seemed utterly unbound by societal norms. One stopped at a service station on Punt Road, casually lit a cigarette, and allowed a young boy to sit on his imposing machine. They resembled hyenas from The Lion King, but adorned in black bandanas, Doc Martens with defiant white laces, and Versace sunglasses. The adrenaline surge from that fleeting moment ignited a desire to shed my conventional life and embrace a world of unrestrained freedom.
This yearning led me to the Mongols Motorcycle Club. Through the club, I’ve explored corners of Australia I never dreamed of seeing. Perhaps it was the quiet suburban upbringing that fostered a deep-seated need for belonging. Maybe youthful insecurity or a longing for the strong community bonds prevalent in developing countries, yet seemingly absent in Australia, drew me in.
The club, in many ways, revealed Australia’s potential as an inclusive nation – a place where origins, faith, or profession are secondary. Loyalty to your brothers is paramount, and in return, you gain the unwavering assurance of their support.
Within biker clubs, this profound unity is the core attraction. Yet, paradoxically, this very unity makes us an easy target for external scrutiny and judgment.
The iconic line from Scarface, where Tony Montana declares, “You need people like me, so you can point your finger and say that’s the bad guy,” resonates deeply. This sentiment mirrors the media portrayal of bikers, particularly in Queensland and South Australia.
Outlaw biker culture became a convenient bogeyman for media outlets and politicians. Our rebellious spirit, counter-culture image, and rejection of conventional nine-to-five society made us an easy target. As an Afghan in a Western country, I’ve experienced the sting of collective blame after overseas attacks. Joining an outlaw club felt like a defiant act, almost saying, “It’s okay to point fingers now, without hesitation or guilt.”
Fueled by fears of terrorism and a perceived surge in outlaw motorcycle club crime, various states are rapidly enacting legislation. These laws grant police expanded powers with reduced oversight, effectively painting minorities and subcultures as inherently criminal. At times, it feels as though those on the fringes are still searching for the true meaning of “free” in this country.
In an interview with The Age, former Victoria Police Special Operations Group leader John Noonan offered a contrasting perspective on brotherhood, even within law enforcement. He stated, “There is this view that the Brotherhood is something sinister. It is not, it is about looking after each other. I believe the Brotherhood is something positive, but that is not a view shared by senior management.” His words, though about police brotherhood, echo the sentiment within the Mongols Biker community.
This sense of brotherhood, camaraderie, and unity fulfills a deep human need. However, this commitment comes with sacrifices, costs that “senior management”—the police—deem to outweigh any perceived good. The sacrifices made for a brother might clash with societal expectations of normalcy. This conflict highlights a paradox within our society, a tension between the law and the cherished Australian values of mateship and lightheartedness.
I have always been strangely drawn to images of incarcerated individuals – figures like Abimael Guzmán, Charles Bronson, Mohamed Morsi. Identifying with these convicts, I sense an allure to the idea of incarceration, a reflection of the feeling that we are all, in some ways, imprisoned. Observing from the outside, I find myself dwelling on the freedoms we lack, feeling burdened by rules that seem increasingly oppressive.
In contrast, inmates, looking outwards, appreciate the very freedoms we often take for granted: a simple phone call, grocery shopping, a cigarette, or the exhilarating ride of a motorcycle.
I’m going to miss you, Andy.
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