When I planned a tour of the Manila City Jail in the Philippines, I had no idea I would end up meeting one of Australia’s most wanted fugitives.
I had spent months lining up this tour to write a story for my prison arts magazine about the programs in Filipino jails promoting and selling art and crafts made in custody.
The Bureau of Jail Management and Penology were supportive of my request to visit and their officers greeted me enthusiastically at the gates.
“You’re the second Australian journalist we’ve had here this month”, they told me. “Channel Seven’s Spotlight was just here to interview Markis Turner”.
I’d been so focused on prison art I hadn’t even considered that there might be an Australian person incarcerated here.
Markis is the alleged ‘mastermind’ behind a scheme to import more than 71 kilos of cocaine to Australia. He fled the country while on bail, and was caught after two years on the run in the Philippines. That was 2017. He’s been detained here ever since.
I casually asked the prison officer if there’s any chance I can speak to Markis while I’m here. I’m surprised when he doesn’t appear to have a problem with that, and even more so when Markis turns up to the prison art area. I’ve been in the Philippines for about a week at this stage, and the first time I hear another Australian accent is when Markis says hello. He has a huge, warm smile and is decked out in the standard yellow prison uniform. He explains that he fled to this country as he was facing a life-sentence in Australia.
When I planned a tour of the Manila City Jail in the Philippines, I had no idea I would end up meeting one of Australia’s most wanted fugitives.
I had spent months lining up this tour to write a story for my prison arts magazine about the programs in Filipino jails promoting and selling art and crafts made in custody.
The Bureau of Jail Management and Penology were supportive of my request to visit and their officers greeted me enthusiastically at the gates.
“You’re the second Australian journalist we’ve had here this month”, they told me. “Channel Seven’s Spotlight was just here to interview Markis Turner”.
I’d been so focused on prison art I hadn’t even considered that there might be an Australian person incarcerated here.
Markis is the alleged ‘mastermind’ behind a scheme to import more than 71 kilos of cocaine to Australia. He fled the country while on bail, and was caught after two years on the run in the Philippines. That was 2017. He’s been detained here ever since.
I casually asked the prison officer if there’s any chance I can speak to Markis while I’m here. I’m surprised when he doesn’t appear to have a problem with that, and even more so when Markis turns up to the prison art area. I’ve been in the Philippines for about a week at this stage, and the first time I hear another Australian accent is when Markis says hello. He has a huge, warm smile and is decked out in the standard yellow prison uniform. He explains that he fled to this country as he was facing a life-sentence in Australia.
I expect Markis to tell me the conditions in prison in the Philippines are terrible and he wished he had just stayed in Australia, but I’m surprised at his comparisons.
“Some things are better and some are worse; overall I’d say the prisons are roughly equal in terms of conditions. One thing I like is that there’s no violence here. Violence in Queensland prisons was far worse. I feel safer here”.
The relationship between those incarcerated and the officers is also a major difference. “The prison provides us with tap water and electricity, and a food ration called ‘Rancho’, usually rice and a vegetable stew, for people who have no money. But we don’t interact with officers much as we have to self-manage everything else.” Cell blocks in the Philippines are largely run by ‘dorm bosses’, incarcerated people who are given considerably more freedom, but are expected to keep things in order
in return.
Typically, people in prison have their family send them money to buy food, or bring food to the jail for them, but the culture is also different. “People share everything here”, says Markis, “if someone doesn’t have something, people will give them what they need, without expecting anything in return.” But it’s not all positive. “Everyone in here also snitches on everyone else”, he tells me. “If someone finds out you have something you shouldn’t have, they’ll go tell the officers straight away, and there will be no consequences to that person from anyone.”
Another difference I noticed is rather than ‘prisoners’, people in jails in the Philippines are called ‘Persons Deprived of Liberty’ or PDL for short. I mention to the prison warden that people in Australian prisons, including ones on remand who have not been convicted of any crime, are often referred to as ‘offenders’. He frowns. “That sounds very judgemental”, he says, “we call them PDLs because they are only deprived of liberty for the meantime.”
I ask Markis how he lives and passes the time. Conditions in the prison are drastically overcrowded, but Markis obtained his own private cell after making a once-off ‘donation’ to his dorm and dorm boss of 30,000 pesos (about AUD 840). It’s a space of about two-by-two meters, and he tells me it was well worth it. “We do a head-count at 5am, and then we get locked down at 9pm,” he says. “We have an activities hour on weekdays from 8am. Three days a week this group gathers called ‘Therapeutic community’. The other two days we have Zumba, I have white-man-stiff-body-disease, so my dancing is very rudimentary and funny. I spend a lot of time hanging out with the other foreigners, and watching TV. I also take care of three cats. I choose not to work as people who work normally do so for ten hours a day, seven days a week, and just like in Australia, the pay is minimal.”
Markis is in a position of limbo. He hasn’t actually committed any crime in the Philippines, and was arrested at the request of an Australian Federal Police (AFP) provisional arrest warrant. The AFP want him extradited to Australia for trial. Foreign extradition is always a time-consuming, complicated and legally grey area. Markis is fighting the extradition charge. He isn’t overly confident, but he believes there is a chance he will beat it and be released in the Philippines. In any case, based on how long these things take, he estimates he will be here for another three years.
Not surprisingly, Markis says the hardest part of his imprisonment is the impact on his family and the regret he has for missing his children’s lives. His wife, 11-year-old daughter Lili and 10-year-old son Hunter all live in Poland. The AFP have issued a warrant for her arrest over his wife’s alleged involvement in his movements from Australia. Poland will not arrest and extradite a Polish citizen to Australia, but if she travels to the Philippines to visit Markis, the Philippines could honour the AFP arrest warrant, and she will then face the same fate as him. Markis speaks fondly of his wife. “My wife struggles being a single parent. She’s a beautiful and strong woman. My kids have learning disabilities so my wife juggles work and their needs every day.” Markis also talks of the particular loneliness of being in prison overseas. He seldom gets visits and the language barrier affects his ability to interact with many of the other PDLs. Many Filipinos in the general community speak English, but Markis says it’s rare to find someone in prison who does.
Before I know it, my surreal conversation with the only other Australian I end up speaking to in the Philippines ends. Before I say goodbye, I offer Markis a free subscription to Paper Chained, hoping it can at least make him feel more connected to the outside world, but he tells me they’re not allowed to receive mail.
You can read Damien’s story on art programs in Filipino prisons in Issue 19 of Paper Chained.
I expect Markis to tell me the conditions in prison in the Philippines are terrible and he wished he had just stayed in Australia, but I’m surprised at his comparisons.
“Some things are better and some are worse; overall I’d say the prisons are roughly equal in terms of conditions. One thing I like is that there’s no violence here. Violence in Queensland prisons was far worse. I feel safer here”.
The relationship between those incarcerated and the officers is also a major difference. “The prison provides us with tap water and electricity, and a food ration called ‘Rancho’, usually rice and a vegetable stew, for people who have no money. But we don’t interact with officers much as we have to self-manage everything else.” Cell blocks in the Philippines are largely run by ‘dorm bosses’, incarcerated people who are given considerably more freedom, but are expected to keep things in order
in return.
Typically, people in prison have their family send them money to buy food, or bring food to the jail for them, but the culture is also different. “People share everything here”, says Markis, “if someone doesn’t have something, people will give them what they need, without expecting anything in return.” But it’s not all positive. “Everyone in here also snitches on everyone else”, he tells me. “If someone finds out you have something you shouldn’t have, they’ll go tell the officers straight away, and there will be no consequences to that person from anyone.”
Another difference I noticed is rather than ‘prisoners’, people in jails in the Philippines are called ‘Persons Deprived of Liberty’ or PDL for short. I mention to the prison warden that people in Australian prisons, including ones on remand who have not been convicted of any crime, are often referred to as ‘offenders’. He frowns. “That sounds very judgemental”, he says, “we call them PDLs because they are only deprived of liberty for the meantime.”
I ask Markis how he lives and passes the time. Conditions in the prison are drastically overcrowded, but Markis obtained his own private cell after making a once-off ‘donation’ to his dorm and dorm boss of 30,000 pesos (about AUD 840). It’s a space of about two-by-two meters, and he tells me it was well worth it. “We do a head-count at 5am, and then we get locked down at 9pm,” he says. “We have an activities hour on weekdays from 8am. Three days a week this group gathers called ‘Therapeutic community’. The other two days we have Zumba, I have white-man-stiff-body-disease, so my dancing is very rudimentary and funny. I spend a lot of time hanging out with the other foreigners, and watching TV. I also take care of three cats. I choose not to work as people who work normally do so for ten hours a day, seven days a week, and just like in Australia, the pay is minimal.”
Markis is in a position of limbo. He hasn’t actually committed any crime in the Philippines, and was arrested at the request of an Australian Federal Police (AFP) provisional arrest warrant. The AFP want him extradited to Australia for trial. Foreign extradition is always a time-consuming, complicated and legally grey area. Markis is fighting the extradition charge. He isn’t overly confident, but he believes there is a chance he will beat it and be released in the Philippines. In any case, based on how long these things take, he estimates he will be here for another three years.
Not surprisingly, Markis says the hardest part of his imprisonment is the impact on his family and the regret he has for missing his children’s lives. His wife, 11-year-old daughter Lili and 10-year-old son Hunter all live in Poland. The AFP have issued a warrant for her arrest over his wife’s alleged involvement in his movements from Australia. Poland will not arrest and extradite a Polish citizen to Australia, but if she travels to the Philippines to visit Markis, the Philippines could honour the AFP arrest warrant, and she will then face the same fate as him. Markis speaks fondly of his wife. “My wife struggles being a single parent. She’s a beautiful and strong woman. My kids have learning disabilities so my wife juggles work and their needs every day.” Markis also talks of the particular loneliness of being in prison overseas. He seldom gets visits and the language barrier affects his ability to interact with many of the other PDLs. Many Filipinos in the general community speak English, but Markis says it’s rare to find someone in prison who does.
Before I know it, my surreal conversation with the only other Australian I end up speaking to in the Philippines ends. Before I say goodbye, I offer Markis a free subscription to Paper Chained, hoping it can at least make him feel more connected to the outside world, but he tells me they’re not allowed to receive mail.
You can read Damien’s story on art programs in Filipino prisons in Issue 19 of Paper Chained.
