Why Being a Mongol Biker Is Worth All the Arrests and Nanny State Bullshit

Yesterday, my close friend Andy was taken into police custody without a word of warning. He has lived in Australia for 40 years as a dual UK citizen, has no criminal record, but is now being deported back to Britain—a country he no longer considers his home. His wife and children were raised in Australia, and they have been given no explanation about what's happening to Andy.

The idea of prison never really worried me, there's a sadistic part of me that thought I'd enjoy it. But after visiting incarcerated friends over the years, I can assure you it sucks. Especially if the only "crime" you've ever committed is being a member of a motorcycle club.

In primary school, whenever kids wanted to get away with doing the wrong thing, they'd claim "it's a free country." But as I grew older my definition of "free" became more and more obscure. In migrant communities after 9/11, a lot of the kids my age fell victim to an inferiority complex that forced them into lives of crime, drug addiction, or extremism. Very few became real estate agents or accountants.

The first time I saw a group of bikers was in Richmond. My dad took me to the MCG to watch the cricket, and a group of bikers rode past in uniform—loud and fast. They zig-zagged through traffic and ran red lights. They didn't care about anything or anyone. One of them pulled into the service station on Punt Road, sparked a cigarette and let a kid sit on his bike. They looked like hyenas from the Lion King, but in black bandanas, Doc Martens with white laces, and Versace sunglasses. The rush of adrenaline I felt in that brief encounter was enough for me to want to set fire to my cricket whites and pursue full-time debauchery.

I grew up and joined the Mongols Motorcycle Club. I have travelled and seen more of this country with them than I thought I would in my whole life. I think it was something about that quiet suburban upbringing that encouraged me to feel like I needed to belong to something. Maybe it was the insecurity of youth that drove me to join, or missing that sense of community that thrives in developing countries but seems so lost in Australia.

The club has in many ways shown me Australia's potential as an open and inviting country—a place where no one cares where you came from, what god you pray to, or where you work. The only thing that matters is that you're there for your brothers, who reward you with the knowledge they'll always be there for you.

Within biker clubs it's the sense of unity that's so meaningful. Outside, it's unity that makes us such an easy target.

There's that line in Scarface, when Tony Montana declares to the patrons of the fancy restaurant, "You need people like me, so you can point your finger and say that's the bad guy." It rings true for me, especially in terms of the media coverage around bikers in Queensland and South Australia.

The outlaw biker culture seemed like an easy boogie monster for the media and politicians to point their finger because of the entrenched rebellious nature, the counter-culture image, and refusal to adhere to the rules and laws of nine-to-five society. I'll tell you, being an Afghan in a Western country sometimes brings about a sense of blame whenever an attack happens overseas. But joining an outlaw club is kind of like saying, "It's ok, you can point fingers now without feeling ashamed or racist."

As a reaction to the threats of terrorism and alleged increase in crime by outlaw motorcycle clubs, several states are rapidly passing legislation giving police more power and less scrutiny to, honestly, paint people in minorities and subcultures as bad guys. Sometimes I feel like the outcasts are still trying to work out what's so free about this country.

In an interview with The Age former leader of the Victoria Police Special Operations Group John Noonan discussed the unity of the police force and openly stated, "There is this view that the Brotherhood is something sinister. It is not, it is about looking after each other. I believe the Brotherhood is something positive, but that is not a view shared by senior management."

This too is how I'd describe commitment to my club. The brotherhood, camaraderie, or togetherness fills a void, but there are sacrifices involved, and a cost that "senior management"—i.e. the police—think outweigh the good. The sacrifices you make for a brother might be contrary to the expectations people might have of each other in normal society, but that's the commitment required. The conflicting ideals might be a result of the paradox in our society, of the law and the values around Australian mateship, and not taking ourselves too seriously.

I have always felt a strange connection to the pictures I collect of people in prison—photographs of Abigael Guzmán, Charles Bronson, Mohamed Morsi, and so on. Identifying with the convicts in the pictures, I feel like there's an allure to the idea of incarceration and the way in which we all feel incarcerated sometimes. As I observe from the outside in, I find myself focusing on the rights we don't have, feeling sorry for ourselves as though we are shackled to a chain and ball of rules that are beginning to feel heavier.

The inmates; however, looking inside out are the opposite. They appreciate the freedoms we often neglect: a phone call, buying groceries, smoking a cigarette, or riding a motorcycle.

I'm going to miss you Andy.

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