My Australian husband Julian Assange is fighting for his life from the edge of a three by two meter cell in Britain’s harshest prison, Belmarsh.
The United States has accused him of espionage as a result of his work with WikiLeaks in 2010-2011 and wants to extradite him to court.
If his extradition continues, Julian faces up to 175 years in prison. As a woman, I fear she will be buried in the deepest and darkest corner of the American prison system until she dies.
During another extradition hearing last year, a UK magistrate blocked Julian’s transfer to the United States for fear of “oppressive” conditions that could lead to his life.
On July 3, Julian turns 51 years old. It will be the fourth year he has spent his birthday alone in a cell, without a sentence.
Stella Moris talks on the phone with her husband Julian Assange, but he has spent four birthdays alone in prison. (Provided by: Gabriel Shipton)
Is our time together running out?
When Julian is taken from his cell to the prison yard, he tilts his head up so that his eyes can focus on the distance. If you squint your eyes, the double top razor cord becomes blurry. Beyond is the open sky.
Julian recently discovered a family of nesting herons. He saw his house subversively nailed to the wire. I think our family is like these herons.
When we are together, we are always a few meters from their nest. Our children — five-year-old Gabriel and three-year-old Max — have only memories of their father in the brutal environment of Belmarsh Prison.
We don’t know how long our children have been with their father. We don’t know if we can visit him or even talk to him on the phone. If the extradition goes ahead, the US authorities retain the right to put Julian in such cruel condition that no one in his charge is likely to survive.
It’s impossible for Julian and I to escape the feeling of being on death row. Our weekly visits may be the only time we stay together. But for how long? A few more months, a few weeks, a few days and then just a few hours? I’m afraid we’ll count the minutes and seconds in the end.
Stella, with her children, her mother Teresa Devant and Julian’s father, John Shipton, says that the feeling of fear that hangs over her and her husband feels as if she is on the death row.
The guards look inside my children’s mouths
Julian Assange’s children visit him in prison, but they must be searched at the entrance. (Provided by: Gabriel Shipton)
Were it not for our children, this impending catastrophe would consume everything. But Julian and I know that these may be the only memories our children will have of their father. We make our visits as joyful as possible.
He doesn’t need to tell Gabriel and Max about the reality of this place where we’re going to visit his father. They live it. Children walk under wire and pass layers and layers of safety to reach their father.
The guards look inside the mouth, behind the ears, and under the feet. Prison dogs sniff them from head to toe, front and back.
Last week, Gabriel put some daisies in his pocket that he had chosen for the prison walls to give to his father. After going through the metal detector, their daisies were confiscated during the search by one of the guards, albeit reluctantly.
During the visits, our family can embrace each other at the beginning and end. We can hold hands on the table. Julian and I can’t kiss. But Julian would rather kiss his wife and be penalized than take her away. So, let’s kiss.
Julian Assange’s wife, Stella Moris, says she challenges the guards to give her a kiss when they are in jail. (Provided by: Gabriel Shipton)
Precious moments for life lessons
Children love to visit their father. Julian reads them stories. Gabriel shares his father’s fascination with numbers. Julian teaches them ingenious tricks: the best way to peel an orange, how to open chips without losing the contents.
These things may seem small to most people, but they are our precious moments together. A dining room with chips and oranges and the prison children’s book collection are all that is offered in the visiting room that we share once or twice a week with about thirty inmates and their families.
On March 23 we were married in Belmarsh. The prison – usually full of tragedy and isolation – turned its head for a few hours to celebrate our love and commitment. Our nest in the wire.
The last time the media photographed Julian was in 2019, through the cracked windows of a prison van. UK authorities insist that our wedding photos should not be made public “for security reasons”. In court, Julian was not allowed to sit with his lawyers. And despite numerous requests since January 21, he has not been allowed to attend his own court hearings in person.
WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange was arrested in London in 2019 after being removed from the Ecuadorian embassy. (Reuters: Hannah McKay)
It seems like a deliberate effort to get Julian out of his sight and turn him into prisoner X: no face, no voice, and no one to witness his treatment. But Julian is not prisoner X. He is my husband and the father of our young children. We testify.
Last week, Spanish media reported that Mike Pompeo, the CIA director under Donald Trump, had been summoned by a Spanish High Court judge to testify in connection with the intelligence agency’s alleged plans. of the US for kidnapping and murdering Julian.
Stella Moris, in April outside the Westminster Magistrates’ Court in London, continues to push for the release of Julian Assange. (Reuters: Tom Nicholson)
I’m sure the story will vindicate Julian, but time is running out.
In October, he suffered a mini stroke. There’s so much more that your body can grab.
We would like the Australian government to do more to help Julian in this fight for his life.
Because their treatment is contrary to democratic values. Because our children need it. But mostly because he deserves to go home.
Stella Moris is Julian Assange’s lawyer and wife. Ithaka: A Fight To Free Julian Assange is a two-part documentary on ABC TV and ABC iView. Filmed for two years in the United Kingdom, Europe and the United States, it follows the tireless campaign of retired builder John Shipton, 76, to save his son.