I was at the hairdresser’s earlier today. My appointment was at 4:30pm, and Mario — my usual hairdresser — had already left, so Angela, my cool young former hairdresser, did my hair instead. She talked a lot about how she used to do my hair and the laughs we’d had. It almost felt like she was trying to make me feel bad for switching to Mario.
It’s not that I don’t love her — I do. I also love talking to young people because I learn so much about life as a young person these days. Angela’s taught me all kinds of things, like new terminology and even about Labubu dolls. I bought one once but quickly realised it was a fake.
But I like Mario. He’s sixty and closer to my age, and to be honest, I prefer his company. I spend a lot of time at the hairdresser, and I feel more at ease with him. When I say it felt like Angela was trying to make me feel bad, I don’t mean in a malicious or bitter way. She probably just wondered why I up and changed one day. There are no hard feelings at all.
Angela and I were talking about politicians and voting, and she told me this story about the last election when she went to the polling booth. She said she went up to one of the electoral commission staff to have her name ticked off.
First, she was asked for her surname, which she gave. Then she was asked for her Christian name — and she didn’t know what that meant.
Being Catholic, she assumed it was the name of the saint she’d been assigned somewhere along her spiritual journey. Some people nearby overheard and laughed, as did the staff member, who eventually explained that a Christian name is just your first name.
I actually think her response was fair enough. Calling our first name our “Christian name” is confusing and, in many ways, misleading. Angela said she felt stupid for not knowing, but I don’t think it’s stupid at all. It made me realise that I didn’t know why we called it that either — so I went online and did some research.
I discovered that our first name is called a Christian name because, once upon a time, names were given at baptism — the moment you were officially welcomed into the Christian faith. It was the name the priest spoke aloud as water was poured over your head, a kind of blessing that made you both visible and claimed.
But these days, most of us use the term without thinking about where it came from. It’s funny, really — something so personal, so central to who we are, is rooted in an old religious ceremony that now has nothing to do with many of us.
So no, Angela isn’t stupid for not knowing what a Christian name was. In many ways, she was on the right track.
It’s interesting — the other day I was talking about sentencing and the criminal justice system, and just today there was an article in The Advertiser by Andrew Hough and Emily Olle titled “Prisoners released into home detention before non-parole served, sparking calls for reform.” It told the story of a criminal who almost killed a young father in a car crash, and who is now set to be quietly released from prison more than six months before his non-parole period expires.
The paper reported that Luigi Gligora, 51, was drugged and travelling at 170 km/h along West Terrace when he ploughed into the car of The Advertiser’s then deputy editor, Ben Hyde, on October 4, 2021 — leaving him fighting for life and with a lifelong brain injury.
In April 2024, Gligora was sentenced to four years in jail with a two year non-parole period after pleading guilty to aggravated causing serious harm by dangerous driving.
By April this year, he had already been moved to the Adelaide Pre-Release Centre — a transition that allowed him to spend time in the community after serving only about a quarter of his head sentence.
Just 17 months into his jail term, the victim of this horrific crash, Ben Hyde, received a letter informing him that Gligora had been granted approval for home-detention release.
Apparently, under the Correctional Services Act, home detention can be granted after a prisoner has served just half of their non-parole period. I honestly cannot believe that. What a slap in the face to any victim. But this article did shed some light on a few of the questions I’ve had about imprisonment and custodial sentences.
On home detention, offenders are subject to electronic monitoring, but they can actually be released from their home to participate in society — for things like employment, education, urgent medical treatment, or “any other purpose” approved by their supervisor.
Various criteria are taken into account when assessing a prisoner’s suitability for home detention — things like their proposed accommodation, drug and alcohol use, and general compliance. But the victim’s views or the judge’s sentencing remarks are not considered. That is absolutely infuriating.
The article then said this:
Under current South Australian law, victims of crime are effectively gagged from going public with their concerns about a prisoner’s home-detention bid. Victims are notified by email of the decision — sometimes within days of the prisoner’s release — with little recourse except to “submit their comments” to the department.
How is that fair? The victim is made a victim all over again — this time by a justice system that seems more concerned with managing offenders than protecting or respecting the people they’ve harmed.
The article then went on to provide some numbers.
In 2023–24, there were 7,097 South Australian offenders living in the community under corrections orders — an increase of 619 on the previous year, and the highest percentage rise in the country.
At the same time, the state’s prison population peaked on March 18 at 3,464 — just 113 short of the approved capacity of 3,577. By 2030–31, the department is projecting that number to climb to a peak of 4,384 prisoners.
The numbers offer some context for why certain offenders dodge custodial sentences—there simply isn’t enough room. But that’s no excuse for the selective, and often disproportionate, jailing of others.
Who decides who goes to jail and who doesn’t? How can we accept a system, in a country like Australia, that allows perpetrators of serious crimes to receive minimal sentences—if any at all—and then, as their time ends, to return home? To go back to work, to study, to reintegrate into society. To be given a second chance—a chance many of their victims will never have.
In some ways, I surprise myself. On paper, as an offender myself, these people are my peers. But I haven’t committed a violent, fraudulent, or deceptive crime. Still, I experience the world much like many of them would — living with a conviction recorded against my name. I think mine is just tolerable enough for employers and volunteer organisations. Any more — maybe shoplifting or graffiti — would probably be too much.
But for a man like Luigi Gligora, I don’t know where he could ever find work. Most places require a police check these days, and you would hope his would make clear the inexcusable offences he’s committed. Yet on the other hand, if he’s not working, he’s likely on Centrelink, which isn’t enough to live on unless you’re on disability, a carer’s payment, or the aged pension. So if he’s on Newstart, maybe he would resort back to crime — and the cycle begins again.
I don’t know. I feel passionately about poverty, housing, and social justice. But in my heart, I feel tough on crime. I do. It makes my blood boil when perpetrators of serious offences are let off lightly — when their upbringing, trauma, or some tragic life event becomes the reason they’re spared. As I said the other day, we’ve all been through the wringer, but not all of us go out and commit serious offences — especially against another person.
You’d think most judges must be reasonable people — intelligent, fair, and guided by principle. So why aren’t they tougher on violent crime? Are their hands tied? Or is it that instinctive pull toward leniency — that human impulse to give someone a second chance, to root for the underdog?
I don’t understand it. I’m not calling for the return of the death penalty. I’m simply saying: please. Protect us. Hold people accountable. Restore balance to the scales of justice so they do not make a mockery of the harm done — to both people and places — by those who seek to destroy the peace, love, and happiness we all deserve. They must not be given the chance to do so again.
I read another article on The Advertiser’s website titled Former Israeli military director claims released Palestinian prisoners are millionaires. It was written by Zoe Smith, a senior producer who I’m guessing serves as some sort of Middle East correspondent.
Lieutenant Colonel Maurice Hirsch, a former Israeli military prosecutor and adviser to Israel’s Ministry of Defence, claimed that more than half of the 250 Palestinian prisoners recently freed in the Israel–Hamas ceasefire deal have become millionaires due to long-term stipends from the Palestinian Authority. He said that around 160 of them received monthly payments of about 8,000 shekels, or roughly 3,450 Australian dollars, over many years, allowing them to accumulate large sums of money.
Hirsch also argued that Israel indirectly funds these payments because, under the Oslo Accords, a portion of tax revenues collected by Israel are transferred to the Palestinian Authority. He claimed this money is then used to pay terrorists and called for an end to what he described as a “money pipeline” that rewards violence.
The Palestinian Authority has previously said it replaced its “pay for slay” system with a broader welfare program for prisoners’ families, but Israeli officials, including Foreign Minister Gideon Sa’ar, dispute this, saying the payments continue under a different structure that still benefits those convicted of terrorism. Hirsch said that many released prisoners now live in prosperity rather than showing remorse.
I don’t know a lot about the “pay for slay” system, but I’ve heard of it and wanted to understand what it is — or was — as I believe it’s now been phased out. From what I’ve learned, “pay for slay” is a nickname people use for a program once run by the Palestinian Authority. Under that system, when a Palestinian was imprisoned by Israeli authorities, either in Israel or in the occupied territories — whether for political reasons or for committing a criminal offence — their family received monthly payments.
The idea began long ago, when Palestinian leaders wanted to support the families of those in prison, since many had lost their main source of income.
Over time, though, Israel and other countries criticised the system, arguing that it effectively rewarded people for violence. That’s how it came to be known as “pay for slay.” The Palestinian Authority has since said it replaced the program with a broader welfare system that supports families based on need — not on what the imprisoned person did, but on poverty or the loss of a family member.
Like I said, I’m no expert on what this system was, but so many Palestinian people are locked up in Israeli prisons without charge. A welfare program like that seems reasonable — a way to support the families left behind who have lost their main source of income.
One argument against it was that if someone was arrested for something minor, their family might receive a small payment, but if someone was jailed for a more serious offence — particularly for terrorism or security related crimes — their family would receive more. To critics, that made it look as though more serious crimes were being rewarded financially. But to me, it makes logical sense — the longer someone is in jail, the more help their family needs.
I want to learn more about this and what the system has shifted to now. I understand there’s a fine line between compassion and incentive, but honestly, I think any opportunity Israel and like-minded countries have to demonise Palestine and the Palestinian Authority, they will take.
There’s a real contrast between the way our judges lock up offenders and the way Israel and the occupied territories lock up offenders. You have to have done something really bad to end up behind bars here in Australia, but in Israel and the occupied territories, if you’re Palestinian, you don’t have to have done anything at all.
And then, if your family is compensated in your absence, it’s suddenly seen as part of some complex system incentivising terrorism. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying all Palestinians are innocent or don’t deserve jail time. I’m just saying the two justice systems are very different, and yet when I draw a comparison between them, I can safely say that neither one truly delivers anything that remotely resembles justice.
