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Kevin Moylan checks proofs ...

EXTRACT: Chapter 13 of Kevin Moylan’s book One Flew Over The Kookaburra’s Nest. Who let the Dogs out? Who? Who gave the orders? Who?

I visit the State Office building to hand deliver a letter to Health Minister, Judith Jackson, then our Minister can’t deny receiving it. Departing the building I’m halted and challenged by a security agent, “You have no right to be in the building!”

I say, “As a tax-paying constituent I have every right to inform my elected representatives what’s going on in the public interest in the State of Tasmania. If Minister Jackson would acknowledge my letters I wouldn’t have to hand deliver them.”

The security guard puffs out his hairy red chest and says, “Don’t get arrogant with me, mate!”

“What’s your name and position please, as I wish to lodge a complaint.” I ask again, but no reply.

Muscles tense, I grit my teeth when a squirt of noradrenaline arouses my hyper-vigilant state. Dormant PTSD triggers are on red alert, a confrontation looms. After five torrid years of frustrated systemic obstructionism, waiting in vain for ‘due process’ and natural justice; passive resistance and disciplined self-restraint has got me nowhere. My stress and duress thresholds are about to burst wide open.

“OK bigshot, what time do you finish work? I’ll meet you up at the Cenotaph at five o’ clock, just you and me. Let’s see how tough and cocky you are then!”

He never fronted, so I won that battle.

It seems I made a grave, life altering and game changing mistake in challenging a political minder. I’ve crossed the line, that point of no return, when the sick and injured healer becomes the hounded and the hunted. A delivery man who witnessed the confrontation said later, “Good-on-ya-mate, those pricks think they’re the gestapo.”

Four days later, cruising through Flowerdale Valley in my old 1978 Mercedes Benz heading to Boat Harbour beach, a bronze Falcon station-wagon is tailing me 100 metres astern. Shock and fear engulfs
my being; is it the cops? This is it, my time has come; self-inflicted some may say. On my rear window a sticker reads. ‘Whistle-blowers – Our Right To Know!’

I slow right down, it slows, I accelerate, so does it. For the next few minutes my heart pounds, I panic then finally snap! I am wild and angry.

I play a dangerous game of cat and mouse; ‘Let the spook bastard pass me’. Driving past Boat Harbour store I slowly ease up and pull over to let him pass, time enough to check out the driver and record his registration number. Spontaneously, with a reckless disregard and overloaded with fear and panic, I chase him in my 280SE Mercedes Benz. He speeds off like a madman at 150 kilometres an hour. We come to a 90-degree bend and I must back off before I crash and end up in Burnie Hospital.

I retreated to the safety and sanctuary of my farm; three hours later the cops turn up, looking for a stolen electric fence and checking that all was OK. This was something they had not bothered to do in the seven years I had been there. Too bad they refused to attend Spencer Clinic when we really needed them. Was there really a stolen electric fence, or was this just an excuse for harassing me?

Inglis River Hotel

I remembered two other weird things that had happened lately.

Some Tasmanian whistle-blowers had warned, “Your home phone will be tapped.” I asked my mate at Telecom to check the Wynyard exchange. “Hey Mince, guess what – you’re bugged, man!”

Also, somebody has been inside my unlocked cabin. Whenever absent; I would place a fresh gum leaf wedged in the door jamb – once the door opens the leaf drops to the ground. Nothing was stolen or any other signs of disturbance, but I’m perplexed and worried my cabin has been bugged or they planted contraband or poisoned Fred’s water.

But why would they want to bug me? I’m no criminal or physical threat to anyone.

Mates Rod and Geoff, sense my anxieties and know something is wrong. They decide to take me to Wynyard Town for a relaxing meal.

The police slowly and repeatedly drive past Geoff’s house with my Mercedes parked out front. I can’t tell them the cops are stalking me as they may not believe me; secondly, I don’t want to implicate them by getting involved in my dramas.

The Inglis River Hotel is surprisingly busy for a freezing Monday night. The lads are settling in nicely, playing pool and downing beers while I’m on red alert, scanning the bar and environs for suspicious characters or anything out of the ordinary. Peering along the smoke filled bar, three metres away, I sight the bloke I am sure is the one who was driving the bronze Falcon.

I approach him; he’s drinking lemonade so he must be on duty, but what duty? Around 40 years old, he’s fourteen-stone of dumpy lard.

I ask, “Why were you following me this morning and who’s put you up to this?”

He snarls, “Not me, mate.”

Glaring at him I reply, “Get one thing clear – whoever you are or work for – I am not your mate.”

I glance at his open wallet revealing his driver’s licence; this spooks an amateur, now he knows I know that he is Chris Firth. (Not his real name). Vigilantly peering across the bar I realise, Chris Firth is not alone. Two other suspect characters with sneaky mannerisms and copper moustaches arouse my suspicion as we stare and glare each other out; shock horror, this is freaking serious – I’m being stalked!

When under attack the best defence is to attack back. I’ll pressure him into blowing his own cover. I confront him, “Don’t play silly buggers with me, what’s your caper and who’s giving the orders?”

Firth glares at me and said in a creepy voice, “Back off or you’ll disappear.”

I ask him in a serious professional voice, “Ah excuse me, but can you please repeat that?”

My sanctioned assassin and political messenger of evil intent warns me again, “If you don’t back off now – you’ll finish six-foot under!”

It’s time to snap and defend myself; my threshold of self-restraint and human attrition has been broken wide open. While I am grappling and wrestling him to the bar room floor, Firth head-butts my forehead then knees me in the testes, seriously wrenching my knee. He lunges at my throat and tries to strangle me; I fight back with a volley of left hooks and straight rights, then a couple of uppercuts and try to smash his block-head into the bar. He seriously hurts me with an elbow to the jaw while I relentlessly punch him like a man possessed, needing to injure him badly.

But it’s probably time to back off or disappear.

A confidante taught me: “the best way to stay safe is – tell as many caring people as possible”. At the top of my voice I broadcast for all to hear. “Listen up everybody and please pay attention! You’re now all witnesses to this bloke here threatening to kill me!”

That rocked and shocked them back to reality in an instant. Patrons are stunned and gobsmacked; good, now I’ve got their undivided attention they will become future Supreme Court eye-witnesses.

Hobbling from the hotel with tears streaming down my face, I contemplate what’s likely to happen next? Fear and worry strangle my being. It seems like a wild-west gangster movie as I recall, frame by frame, the terror of July 5th 1999. After I fled the hotel, Rod and Geoff asked Firth, “What the hell was that all about?” Firth told them, “I used to be a patient of his.” For the record: I never nursed him.

A bitterly cold and foggy winter night, and there’s no-one about.

Confused and afraid I hide under a damp prickly shrub across Goldie Street, only twenty metres from the hotel and plan my next move whilst trying to make sense of the encounter.

My Mercedes Benz is 5k away. It’s deadly still and silent when the police slowly drive past, their spotlight streaming around the fog-filled neighbourhood. A rev-head with a V8 Commodore comes from nowhere, screeches his tyres then speeds off down the road, distracting the cops from locating me. My mates remain in the hotel, oblivious to my injuries, to where I am and to the peril I’m in.

A white car slowly approaches with its lights on full-beam, then veers left into Hogg Street and disappears into the black night. False alarm. Hobbling along Goldie Street crossing onto Jackson Street, nearing The Federal Hotel, I hear a vehicle revving its engine to the maximum. Looking right I sight a car emerging from the misty shadows thundering full speed, directly at me, straight through a STOP sign with the headlights turned OFF.

I instinctively jump backwards and feel a rush of icy wind upon my petrified face. ‘One more step’ onto Jackson Street and this sad and disobedient public-servant ends up in a wheelchair or worse.

The red car powers up Jackson Street, does a U-turn then screeches to a halt beside The Federal Hotel, only ten metres away. This thug’s car is a 1989 red Holden Apollo sedan, Tasmanian registration number CS-0034. (If only I had a video camera).

The Federal Hotel, Wynyard

On red alert, my heart palpitates, wild thoughts are racing, my left knee is throbbing and I’m all alone – it’s not looking good. The driver exits red Holden then opens the boot; I couldn’t see what he obtained, but now I’m thinking the worst. My would-be assassin then ambles towards me, almost in my face, he stares me down with spite in his eyes, tapped his coat pocket twice, but never uttered a single word.

I take a ‘mental picture’ of him for future identification, but my future is only a sociopathic heartbeat away. It’s hard to be calm and rational when this cold and mean ‘hired gun’ Pig Dog fucker has just tried to kill me! But IF I lose composure and Snap – it’s all over.

Praise the Lord; three teenage citizens emerge from nowhere. I plead to them, “Hey fellas, I really need your help as public witnesses, that fucker standing right there just tried to run me over, but be warned – he’s armed!”

I summon these fine civic lads and yell at my assassin, “These are my witnesses, you’re now identified as my attempted murderer and we’ve also got your registration number, so you’re nicked copper cunt!”

This gutless dumbo thug has been caught out at his own game. He glares down on me and continues to stay silent, then calmly retreats and enters The Federal Hotel. I tell myself, don’t even think about following or confronting him – it’s a contrived trap! I’ll be accosted then arrested and who knows what happens next to this serial pest?

With hindsight, I should have secured my evidence by deflating his tyres; better still, set red Holden ablaze and see if the cops charge me with arson or the media report it. What would I tell the judge? “Self defence your honour – and here’s your venomous red weapon”.

With a bung knee and swollen testicles I stagger to the only shop that’s open, where I met a community-minded man, Robert, who operates Wynyard Electronics. I plead of Robert, “Please escort me as a public witness to Wynyard police station. I must report an attempted murder using a motor vehicle.” God bless his civic soul, Robert agrees to bear witness to my statements. Reporting these crimes on the police record will force the authorities to investigate my witness and evidence. (Then we’ll find out who’s giving the orders).

7.30 p.m. Wynyard police station is closed for the night. Nine to five crimes only. Then a twist of luck when my mate, Kev Breakey, pulls up at the shop. Kev had seen me on television and in the press so he knew what I was up against; but had never seen me this wound up. Kev drives me to my neighbours’ farm, cow-cocky dairy farmers, Neville and Heather Aitkinson. A friend in need is a friend indeed. Real life practising Christians; kind and considerate they were pioneers who accepted this mainlander into their Flowerdale Valley of dreams and aspirations. Nev calmly said, “you’ll be safe here, no-one will bother you here mate.” If Neville ignored my plea for help and not get involved, something bad was bound to happen. My primal instinct to be safe and ‘out of danger,’ led me to their door of faith and goodwill.

What would your neighbour do? Who’s that special person you can trust and rely upon when all hell breaks loose? When your whole world is in turmoil, afraid and panic stricken with a pack of sanctioned assailants chasing your fearful scent. Who let the Dogs out? Who?

Neville reassures me again, “No-one will harm you here Kev.”

I feel so dependent, as if a little boy, Nev’s become my guardian and protector. Ashamed and shocked my life has come to this, I must stay proud and accept their help and refuge.

Neville asks, “Anything you need?”

I retort, “Yeah, a helicopter, to flee this wretched island!” I’m physically exhausted and emotionally racked, reflections from the antique frosted mirror project I’m a human wreck of my former self. I hate the way I look and what I’ve become, my knee is throbbing and my life spirit is broken.

My mood is severely depressed; PTSD has been reactivated in response to relentless fear and terror, not knowing if I have a future my priority is survival. Repetitive thoughts race out of control; replaying
‘shock’ events and visions of a red Holden gunning me down, threats and fights, fear and fright, my heart pounds and my ears are ringing.

“Back off or you’ll disappear – six foot under!” 

5 a.m. “Cow time!” yells Heather. The most horror filled night of my life comes to an abrupt end. Heather asks, “How did you sleep?” I groan, “With one-eye and one-ear wide open.” Recollections of red Holdens, fights and spooks, flood my brain and pound my faith.

“Goodbye Neville and Heather, thanks for your help and refuge, and be told! IF ‘anything’ happens to me it will not be an accident nor misadventure … and I am NOT suicidal.” (yet).

That morning I visit Sue Hyslop; my resilient psychologist and only Tasmanian professional consultant. Making my way to Sue’s practice I can’t help but notice I’m being followed. Limping down Cattley Street I prop and turn around. The person following me stops and puts coins into a parking meter, pretending he owns that car. I disappear around the corner temporarily out of sight then double back to catch him out again following me.

I approach him with caution and trepidation then ask, “Why are you sick pricks following me?” He replies in another flipping British accent, “No, I’m not.” I ask more aggressively, “Why are you feeding the meter of another person’s car then?” British agent claims, “That’s my car.”

Two uniformed cops are out front of Sue’s practice when I arrive there. Tradesmen are replacing the lock on the solid timber door. Sue explains, “Our practice was burgled last night.” Apparently nothing was stolen; the cops told Sue, “It was probably kids looking for drugs”.

Sue couldn’t guarantee my file had not been accessed or duplicated; an insightful and powerful dossier for my adversaries to have in their possession with a $20 million Dr Freak, class action pending.

I reported stalking, physical assault, threats to kill and attempted murder, initially to Senior Sergeant Pete Hammond (police prosecutor) on Tuesday July 6th 1999, at 11.45 a.m. Pete lived next door to my friend, renowned astrologer and Burnie socialite, Julie ‘Aries’ Orders.

Two new high performance motorcycles are in Wynyard Town, and up to no good. A red Ducati 1000 and red Kawasaki 1100 are stalking me. Wearing full-face helmets with black visors they would pull alongside, stare at me at length, then roar off at high speed into the unknown, only to reappear in my mirrors minutes later.

Time to be proactive as noisy Ducati approaches Goldie Street pedestrian crossing, only fifty metres from my ‘near death’ on Monday night. I deliberately make him stop, just for me, I stared him down and slowly ambled past, showing upon my exterior, I’m not afraid.

He revs his Duke then drops the clutch, his bike lurches forward in a mock simulation of running me over (again).

Like a gift from heaven, waiting in the wings at the end of the crossing is Doreen. Nurses aren’t supposed to have favourite (pet) patients, but I’m only human and she’s a dry wit classic. Doreen’s a 71-year-old widow who suffers from neurotic agitated depression. Many times have we dragged her from the brink of suicidal despair and geriatric loneliness.

Doreen’s infatuated with Fred, my bush Kelpie. She’d collect bones and food scraps from the hospital kitchen, take him on long walks and play ball until he collapsed, totally spent in salivating bliss.

Doreen bought Fred a bright red collar for his April 1st birthday out of her pension money. I urged her to get her own dog but her mean wealthy landlord said “NO.” No warmth and companionship, security or belonging allowed or you’ll be kicked out onto the cold and lonely streets you defiant old grey mutton.

This random spiritual encounter lifted my ailing weepy spirits, such a confronting head-on reminder and real life encounter of what and who it is, I am fighting for. Doreen tells me bluntly with a worried frown, “You look terrible Kevin.” I reply in cryptic. “Yeah, didn’t sleep well last night, don’t know any ethical doctors do you?” She asked, “What happened to your knee?” I stammer, “I tripped over some Pig’s Dogs.” Doreen commands, “You must be more careful.”

I cannot tell her of my new life and tribulations, she will needlessly fret and worry. Doreen confides in me all her aches and pains from lumbago to her prolapse thirty years back. I asked, “How is your mood?”

Like an excited scientist discovering some gift to humanity Doreen said, “You know what Kevin, gloom and depression go hand in glove from Tasmanian winters.” The last thing she said was, “Where’s Fred? How’s Fred? And say hello to Fred for me.” A beautiful encounter and some human faith is restored, by a little old lady.

Sadly, this lonely lady has nowhere else to project her affections, hospital is her lifeline in gratifying her basic human needs, to belong, be needed and accepted. Doreen has no idea that only seconds prior, that terrorising fucker on noisy red Ducati – is not one of us.

Thursday July 8 1999.

Shock horror and morbid dread, here we go again. Out front of Sue Hyslop’s practice, Chris Firth is lurking in the shadows only ten metres away. He pretends to tie a shoelace, feigning looking anonymous.

That’s five encounters with Chris Firth alone. (Not his real name, yet to be disclosed). My lawyer advised, “Not yet, keep your powder dry.”

A week after delivering my letter to Health Minister Jackson, and Peter Patmore, Attorney General – Minister for Justice – Police and Prisons, (who blew my whistle in parliament) after warning of a class action, the following crimes and reprisals were subjected upon me:

• Under surveillance and paid a ‘surprise’ home visit by police.

• Terrorised, physically bashed and threatened with murder by a hired-gun spook ‘messenger’ who claims he’s a psychiatric patient of mine. “Back off or you’ll disappear! Six-foot under!” My left knee is in surgical need of a public-funded operation.

• Attempted murder. Grievous bodily harm. Red Holden CS-0034. Resulting in acute relapse of Post Traumatic stress, panic attacks and reactive depression. hyper-suspicion, fear, anger, hurt, ‘victim of crime’ syndrome.

• Publicly challenged and exposed a British stalker, then discover my psychologist’s practice was burgled and ransacked the same black night I almost get killed. (Was my file-dossier accessed?)

• Stalked, physically intimidated and emotionally terrorised by two heavily clad, faceless, motorcyclists.

• Everywhere I turn, Chris (Spook) Firth, is in my face, under my skin and toying with my fragile psyche. A listening cum tracking device (pretend?) is strategically planted unto my possession.

Sue Hyslop, my only psychological advocate and support is undermined and withdrawn. “Kevin, go back to Victoria, now!”

Not one of my better weeks here on psycho-planet democratic Tasmania. What would my father, WW II, Sergeant Jack, make of this?

Worse still, questions abound. What have I stumbled upon? Who’s giving the orders and when will it stop? Who can and will help me?

Who can I really trust? What’s next? To fight, flight or do what’s right?

>b>December 9 1975

United Nations Declaration on the Protection of All Persons from Torture.

Article 1: The Commonwealth of Australia is a signatory.

TORTURE means any act by which severe pain or suffering, either physical or mental, is intentionally inflicted by or at the instigation of a public official on a person for such purposes as obtaining from him or a third person information or confession, punishing him for an act he has committed or is suspected of having committed or intimidating him or other persons.

Assault, stalking, threats to kill and attempted murder is real ‘intimidating punishment.’ Mental Torture. Psychological Warfare. Hyper-arousal, hyper-vigilance and hyper-suspicion is NOT paranoia; it is only clinical (definable) paranoia if it’s not really happening.

I call mother Shirley and tell her, “I must come back home.” I’ve got a bad dose of Van Diemen’s Syndrome, there is no help or cure, only a geographical one. Her fucked-up son needs a leucotomy to remove all Tasmanian memories, a nurturing hug and to find some new reasons for being and continuing on.

Boarding the plane to Melbourne, Australia. I’m shell-shocked and gutted to the core of my humanity. I suspect my enemies are watching me board or even on board. A mighty roar, the freedom wheels leave
the tarmac and I’ve nothing left. Please God – help me. I think I’ve finally broken down.

Wayne Crawford’s article in Mercury (Hobart, Australia) - April 23, 2005 ...

KEVIN Moylan freely admits he has become ``bitter and twisted’’ about Tasmania—more particularly, about its public mental health system, in which he worked until 10 years ago.

Since he did what he believed he was obliged to do, the ``whistleblower’’ has lost his job, his profession, his house and farm, his physical and mental health—all because he sought to expose poor work practices and the lack of support for those who were caring for some of the most vulnerable in society, the mentally ill.

Had Moylan’s concerns been taken seriously more than a decade ago—when he tried to bring the deficiencies to the attention of his superiors and the State Government—the present crisis of confidence over the sex abuse scandal in northern mental health services may have been averted.

Kevin Moylan, 46, is suffering from what has become widely known as ``whistleblower syndrome’‘.

He has been threatened, isolated, intimidated, stalked and abused; his actions and motives have been questioned; he has been the victim of assault and even attempted murder.

Now he has sought safety and a degree of comfort by getting as far as he can manage from the state and those who caused his ``journey into hell’‘, as he calls it.

Whereas he was once building his dream home on a 32-hectare rainforest block in the picturesque Flowerdale Valley near Wynyard, he now lives in a 30-year-old $7000 converted mini-bus he has christened ``No Fixed Address’‘. When I tracked him down, he was in southeast Queensland.

``It’s soul-destroying what happened to me in Tasmania and I’m very bitter and twisted about it,’’ he said by phone, ``and I intend to warn everyone.

``I’m going to warn nurses about going down there and I hope you end up with no nurses.’‘

Indeed, he has begun writing a book, telling his story from when, at 16, he left school to fulfil a childhood ambition to become a nurse; how at 31 he came to Tasmania from his home in Victoria on a holiday and stayed after he got a nursing job at the Spencer Psychiatric Clinic, then part of Wynyard Hospital; and how his life was destroyed when he did what he believed he was legally, ethically, professionally and morally obliged to do and exposed serious breaches and deficiencies in standards of safety and work practices for nurses, and standards of care for patients.

In Parliament last week, during debate on the cases of workers at Northern clinics having sex with former patients, Greens Leader Peg Putt paid tribute to whistleblowers who had revealed the scandal.

``They have had it pretty tough for a pretty long time,’’ Putt said. ``They inevitably face vilification and character assassination, fears for security of their jobs, their lifestyles, their families when they dare put their necks on the line and come forward. They are people of real courage.’‘

She paid particular tribute to Moylan who, she said, had his life shattered, lost his job and his house ``and everything he held dear in Tasmania’’ because he blew the whistle.

In an emotional speech, Liberal health spokeswoman Sue Napier—who copped criticism from Health Minister David Llewellyn when she publicly raised the issues—declared: ``We have to work harder to improve mental health services . . . because these are people who need us to stand up and be proud of fighting for their rights.’‘

Of the whistleblowers, Napier told me this week there had been cases of nurses suffering stress breakdown, compounded health issues and deterioration because of the pressures on them.

Ironically, whistleblowers who suffered stress-related disorders as a result of ``being given a hard time and encouraged to leave’’ had not even qualified for workers compensation, yet those whose misbehaviour they had reported had stayed on full pay pending the outcome of their cases before the medical tribunal.

In fact, the Public Interest Disclosures Act 2002—commonly known as ``the whistleblower legislation’’—has been of no help to the state’s most famous whistleblowers, including Moylan.

For nine years he had to fight through the legal system for compensation and, last year, was awarded $220,000 (less tens of thousands in lawyers’, doctors’ and psychiatrists’ bills), which did little to offset the $2.3 million it was independently estimated he’d lost as a result of the discrimination he suffered for exposing the issues at the Spencer Clinic.

Things went downhill for him after a patient at Spencer tried to kill him in 1994 by strangling and bashing him. Moylan was off work for seven weeks after the incident and says now the biggest mistake he ever made was returning to work.

It was the culmination of a breakdown in procedures at the clinic, with what Moylan exposed as serious deficiencies in administration, shortages of trained and qualified staff and the complete absence of security procedures, even though the clinic was dealing with what Moylan describes as ``the most dangerous, volatile, suicidal and homicidal people you can imagine’‘. Police were not even responding to calls to the clinic, he says. In one instance, the head cook was called to help restrain a patient ``because there was nobody else’‘.

``Nobody gave a damn about us and the more we complained, the more we were ostracised,’’ Moylan recalls.

NURSES went on strike ``because of health and safety issues’’ and Moylan—seen as de facto leader of the unit—was fingered as the troublemaker and ringleader. Things came to a head after the leaking to the then-Labor Opposition of a seven-page letter Moylan had written to then-health minister Roger Groom outlining the problems. Then shadow attorney-general Peter Patmore raised the matter in Parliament and ``at that moment I became a public whistleblower’‘.

On February 20, 1995 Moylan went on sick leave after a confrontation with the administrative head of the clinic; the same day the clinic—in a new, purpose-built unit which had been opened only a month earlier—was shut down for three months after patients trashed it. Ten of the remaining staff wrote to the Government pleading for a royal commission into mental health.

To this day, similar calls are made periodically as scandals come to light about operations.

Moylan has not worked since the day he left. Initially he was on workers compensation and then an invalid pension for post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, anxiety and panic attacks. However, the allowances (he’s now on $220 a week) were insufficient for him to keep up his mortgage payments on the house he was building at Flowerdale. He was evicted and the property sold from under him by the bank for $110,000, ``leaving me not one cent’’ towards more than $200,000 he had spent on the land and building.

He says he has since been bashed, threatened with murder and was ``systematically denied natural justice and refused my day in court’’ by being coerced into participating in a mediation process which resulted in last year’s inadequate settlement.

``I have been silently shafted,’’ he wrote in a letter last year to former premier (the late) Jim Bacon in a final desperate plea to the Government to give him either a home or a block of land where he could pitch a tent or park his van. His pleas have been ignored, passed off with curt dismissals that ``the State views your claim as being settled and concluded’‘.

Labor, which in Opposition publicly exposed Moylan’s whistleblowing, has turned its back on him in government. The Liberals, who were in government when he reached his professional crisis and lost his job after pleas fell on deaf ears, now support his cause.

Only the Greens have been consistent in their backing of his case, pressing for his sacrifice to be recognised.

Peg Putt declared in a victim impact statement last year: ``I have no doubt in my mind that the state of Tasmania, its legislators, its health system and the general public owe a great deal to Mr Moylan. Yet those actions he undertook in good faith have cost him personally, professionally and financially, and natural justice still has not been served.’

• Kevin Moylan in Comments: Defending Democracy Report: The Guardian - Tasmanian Times. June 8. President of Australian Human Rights Commission, Gillian Triggs, says. “An ideological assault on community advocacy is being waged by Australian governments and political leaders that threatens the fundamental ideals of democracy. The right to advocate and freedom of speech - some of the most basic ideas - underpinning a democratic society, were under threat from federal and state governments. And it’s all the more dangerous because those most likely to breach our human rights are the very governments that are elected to serve community interests”, she said …