What happened to my brother, Julian Assange, once felt extraordinary. Today it feels like the norm

The Age

2 days ago

The London rain was falling sideways as we walked from Plumstead Station to Belmarsh Prison. My father, John Shipton, had his collar turned up against the wind, but it was no use – we were soaked by the time we reached the gate. Beside us was journalist John Pilger, he moved a bit slower, his presence a quiet anchor in the storm. It was a pilgrimage we would make again and again over the next five years. But this was the first time.
We were going to see my brother, Julian Assange. Inside the walls of that maximum-security prison, he was being held in solitary confinement – not for violent crime, but for daring to publish the truth.
On the train ride back, still drenched, still angry, we knew we had to do more than visit. Pilger believed there was still a chance the British courts might block Julian's extradition. But we couldn't rely on legal processes alone. We needed a movement.
On that dark day, the plan began to take shape. Legal action, yes – but also a broad, public campaign. My dad and Stella Assange would take Julian's case to Europe's parliaments and streets. We would build a grassroots network, organise street protests, mobilise supporters, and begin a media offensive. We needed a film to counter the years of smears. Every step would need funding, persistence, and people.
That was the beginning. A small conversation on a wet train ride that became our mission. What we discovered along the way was this: when someone speaks truth to power, the infrastructure to protect them doesn't exist. Governments and institutions often fall silent. Legal defences are slow, expensive, and easily outmatched. Media outlets are inconsistent allies. And too often, the public is left watching from the sidelines, unsure how to help.
So we built the response ourselves. What began as a campaign for one man became something bigger – a movement shaped by experience, driven by necessity. We took the lessons, tools and networks we forged during Julian's fight and turned them into something lasting: an organisation dedicated to protecting those courageous enough to speak out. Because what happened to Julian wasn't just a tragedy. It was a template for those who wish to suppress dissent on a global scale.
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Now, that warning has become impossible to ignore. The silencing of those who seek to hold power to account has picked up a blistering pace. We've watched it unfold before our eyes with the deaths of more than 185 journalists in Gaza according to the Committee to Protect Journalists. In the United States, those voicing opposition are facing the threat of deportation to hellish prison conditions in El Salvador. Journalists are being stopped and questioned at the border and in some cases turned away. And in the past 24 hours, President Donald Trump's criticism of CNN and other outlets over reports on US strikes on Iran's nuclear program is creating a climate that discourages open dialogue and may limit the public's access to critical reporting.
The same forces that came after Julian are now moving in broad daylight. These are not isolated incidents. They are signals – warnings meant to suppress speech, punish resistance, and make people afraid to resist. If what happened to Julian once felt extraordinary, today it feels like the norm.