For decades, the harsh realities of women’s prisons—both in Australia and England—have remained largely hidden from public view. But recent revelations are forcing a reckoning with the systems that not only incarcerate women but often fail to protect, rehabilitate, or even acknowledge their most basic rights. From the scandal of systemic sexual violence in New South Wales to the quiet struggles of women at HMP Send in Surrey, the stories emerging from behind prison walls are challenging long-held assumptions about justice, safety, and the very purpose of incarceration.
In Australia, the case of former New South Wales prison officer Wayne Astill has become a lightning rod for outrage and reform. As reported by The Guardian, Astill was convicted of 35 offences—including five counts of aggravated sexual assault without consent and fourteen counts of aggravated indecent assault—against 14 women at Dillwynia Correctional Centre. Judge O’Rourke SC, in sentencing Astill to 23 years in prison, called his actions a “gross breach of trust,” emphasizing that women in custody are entitled to be “appropriately and lawfully looked after.”
Yet, as the Special Commission of Inquiry later uncovered, many women tried to report Astill’s abuse. Their voices were dismissed, their credibility undermined simply because they were prisoners. Officers who raised concerns were ignored, and management, instead of investigating, chose to suppress rumors. The Commission made clear what should have been obvious: “In prison, there is no such thing as consensual sex with a staff member.” The power imbalance is so absolute that true consent is impossible—an officer controls not just privileges and punishments, but the very conditions of a woman’s daily existence.
The fallout from the Astill case is still unfolding. Three separate Strike Force investigations are now underway, not only into Astill’s crimes but also into alleged attempts by other officers to intimidate victims and conceal evidence. Just this week, former senior officer Leanne Cameron was due in court on charges of stalking and intimidating female prisoners preparing to testify. She is the third woman charged in connection with alleged cover-ups, though the director of public prosecution dropped all charges against her the day before her scheduled court appearance. Cameron, like many others accused of misconduct, was suspended on full pay during the investigation—a stark contrast, as The Guardian points out, to the punitive measures often taken against people with far less institutional power.
What’s perhaps most damning is the institutional culture that enabled Astill’s rise. He should never have been hired in 1999, given allegations raised three years earlier. Instead, he advanced within Corrective Services, protected by a system that prioritized its own reputation over the safety of women in its care. As Debbie Kilroy, CEO of Sisters Inside, has long warned: “If the community understood and knew what was occurring inside our prisons, they would be absolutely outraged.” That outrage, when it finally came, was only after the abuse became too egregious to ignore.
In response to the Inquiry’s findings, New South Wales established an anonymous phone line for prisoners to report sexual misconduct. The line has been inundated with hundreds of calls—a testament not to growing confidence in the system, but to the staggering scale of the problem. Still, despite numerous recommendations, meaningful change remains elusive. The system, critics argue, continues to “investigate itself,” leaving women to hope for justice from the very institutions that failed them.
Across the globe in England, the challenges facing women in prison are different but no less urgent. At HMP Send, a women’s prison nestled in rural Surrey, the stories are often quieter but equally harrowing. Tina, a woman in her 40s serving a six-year sentence for importing class A drugs, describes a lifetime of abuse—forced marriage at 16, decades of violence, and estrangement from her family. “I did make bad choices and I regret the choices I made,” she told the BBC. “But in all honesty I feel like I’m grateful that I got arrested when I did.”
HMP Send houses 243 women, most of whom are serving time for non-violent offences. Staff say it’s likely the majority have experienced domestic abuse. The prison itself is markedly different from the men’s facilities: smaller, quieter, and with an atmosphere described as “more like a college campus.” But the trauma many women carry is profound. According to the Ministry of Justice, more than half of women in prison report being victims of domestic abuse.
Some inmates, like Behnaz, serving a five-year sentence for possession of a firearm, are skeptical that prison can ever truly rehabilitate. “You leave prison with more issues than you had coming in, the trauma of actually being in this environment and the things that you see and the things that you hear,” she told the BBC. Still, she accepts responsibility for her actions, saying, “There are parts of my crime that I 100% took accountability for, so being in prison is something that I’ve made peace with and I’m OK with.”
HMP Send is one of the few prisons in England offering specialized programs for women with brain injuries caused by domestic abuse, thanks to the charity Brainkind. Research suggests that acquired brain injuries—often the result of non-fatal strangulation or other violence—can impair judgment and decision-making, sometimes playing a role in the offences for which women are incarcerated.
Recognizing the complex needs of female offenders, the UK government plans to reduce the use of short custodial sentences for non-violent women and increase community-based punishments. As Prisons Minister Lord Timpson told the BBC, “I don’t believe prison is the right place for them. They need to be in a safe place, preferably with their kids and away from violence.” With new laws expected to come into force next year, the proportion of women serving sentences of 12 months or less—currently 16%—is likely to fall.
There are practical reasons for this shift, too: it costs over £52,000 per year to incarcerate each prisoner. Supporters argue that reducing the female prison population is not only humane but also fiscally responsible. However, critics warn that simply releasing women into the community without adequate support services risks perpetuating a cycle of reoffending. The charity Women in Prison notes that 56% of women serving custodial sentences reoffend within a year. Probation officers, already stretched to their limits, worry about their ability to provide the intensive support many women will need on the outside.
The debate is far from settled. Some, like shadow justice secretary Robert Jenrick, argue that “hyper-prolific offenders” must remain behind bars, regardless of sex. “However, there are occasions where public protection should be balanced,” he said, suggesting that alternatives to custody are often more appropriate for pregnant women, mothers of young children, or those who are themselves victims of abuse.
What’s clear is that the old approaches are failing too many women—whether through institutional neglect, as in Australia, or through inadequate support and rehabilitation, as in England. Both systems face a reckoning: will they continue to perpetuate cycles of harm, or will they finally listen to the voices of women who have been silenced for too long?
The stories emerging from behind prison walls are not just about crime and punishment—they are about power, vulnerability, and the urgent need for justice that is truly just.
