Standing Up for My Children Lands Me in Jail

It’s 6pm on February 12th, and I find myself in the back of a police van in Andong, South Korea. I am flanked by two hulking officers, who seem to think I might attempt to jump out of a moving vehicle. Seeing as this is my last taste of freedom for a while, I take the opportunity to message my good friend and colleague, Prof. Roger Watson, whom I was supposed to be meeting in Seoul later in the week. Oddly, my phone has not yet been confiscated – although I have no doubt that time is imminent.

Why am I here you ask? Not for anything glamorous I’m afraid. At 4pm this afternoon I was attending the second hearing of my divorce case; a particularly ugly affair, one that involves systematic child abuse on the part of my ex-wife - in short, parental alienation. Like you perhaps, I was blissfully unaware of this concept until recently. But it is a common divorce tactic (usually employed by, but not exclusive to mothers), who weaponise the children by attempting to make them hate the other parent. Naturally, the damage done to the children is seen as little more than collateral damage. Alongside alienation, the abuser often blocks access to the children to intensify the process. This is the case, sadly, for me. In 2025 I have seen my daughters for just 15 hours – that’s one percent of the time, a scandal aided and abetted by the authorities.

Today’s appearance in court was my last hope that the powers that be would intervene to protect my children, having already granted my ex-wife temporary custody without so much as a consultation. Up to this point, every government agency from the police, the social services and now the court, has been utterly negligent with regards to my children, despite the irrefutable evidence of abuse they have been provided with.

Going into court, I suspected it was a 50/50 that I would be arrested for contempt, as I was not prepared to accept inaction any longer. With the judge giving no punishment whatsoever for the obvious blocked access and alienation, I requested three minutes to read the speech I had prepared for such an eventuality; I was given one. Before finishing, I was ordered to be quiet. I refused. I was then threatened with jail if I did not shut up.

Suffice it to say, I declined the offer. My lawyer otherwise engaged with his head in his hands, I repeatedly demanded to know why the judge was not punishing my daughters’ mother for obvious violation of the custody rules she had imposed. The judge informed me that I would be sent to prison. I accused her of corruption, and politely suggested what she could go do with herself. You may well say, ‘Why swear? You’re making it worse.’ But I fear you are missing the point: A) the judge is already allowing the abuse regardless, so my choice is solely to acquiesce or to object; B) I’m already going to prison for daring to speak; C) if I won’t stand up for my children, when exactly will I make a stand? D) I’ve always felt, one ought to go all-in in such circumstances.

I was escorted out of the courtroom to an antechamber. There then followed two hours of dithering. The court had apparently never witnessed anything like this in its history, and clearly didn’t really know what to do with me. I caught flashes of the conversations: ‘What’s wrong with this guy?’, ‘Why’s he getting so upset?’ I know lads; it’s only child abuse, right? I was given several chances to repent my sins and ‘apologise’ (nothing more loathsome than a sham apology in my mind, particularly an obligatory one). I impolitely refused.

Summing up finally, the judge confirmed ‘for the crime of shouting, pointing your finger and swearing…’ – all of which she had done to me, albeit using more ‘acceptable’ language, ‘I sentence you to 15 days in jail.’ My lawyer was shocked that she had imposed the maximum possible sentence; he had expected three hours to three days. He was also surprised I was to serve my time in the full-on prison, rather than merely the local police station as is customary in cases of contempt.

Back to the police van, and we pull up outside the prison. In the gloom it starts to sink in – this is real! While I suspect TV depictions of prison life get a lot wrong, they get things right too. Prison architects clearly subscribe to a very narrow school of thought – think Porridge and you’re halfway there. In fact, if Mr Mackay had emerged to greet me with the cry of ‘Fletcher!’ I wouldn’t have been at all surprised.

The defrocking was suitably humiliating. Five guards standing in attendance, as I strip in a scene wonderfully reminiscent of Escape from Alcatraz; except that the doctor’s prying finger has been replaced with a ‘squat camera’. Small mercies. I am subjected to the usual round of inane questions, ‘What’s your name, address?’ I refuse to answer. Then it’s into the thermal underwear and the two-piece, army green apparel. I wonder how many others have graced these before me.

Next, we head to the control room, where it seems every officer has gathered to ‘welcome’ me. This is the first genuinely nasty experience; a ritual bullying, where the big lad shouts in your face to see how you wish to play your hand. ‘You must follow our rules!’ is repeated incessantly. What the screen depictions get right in particular is the evil smirk playing on the lips of the head guard. ‘What is your name?’ he inquires gleefully. When I ignore him, he tries ‘Why are you here?’

After a lengthy pause, I decide to answer: ‘You know why I’m here; my children have been taken. Do you have kids?’

‘Yes’, he says.

‘Then you know.’

‘Why are you telling me?’ he laughs.

Amidst the giggles, I confirm that there is CCTV in every room. I feel about as reassured as Jeffrey Epstein.

Escorted to my cell, I discover it’s nothing but a glorified dog kennel. Two square meters of floor with no furniture, two blankets, and a ‘pillow’ the size of a small book. A sliding window separates me from a toilet, a cold tap, and the grimiest sponge you can imagine. That’s the strength of it. I am also issued my prisoner number: 1518. Of course, this is just the latest integer in a numerical sequence of prisoners, but it amuses me to note that ’15’ days is my sentence while ‘18’ in Korean sounds exactly like the word for ‘f***’ – clearly, God doth have a sense of humour!

As the new ‘fish’ here, it’s remarkable how quickly one gets used to the routine: the day runs from 6:30am to 9:30pm, filled with counts, incessant barking to sit up straight, and half an hour’s exercise if you’re lucky. Most of the inmates are in solitary (which is incidentally what I would have chosen anyway), and at weekends that extends to 48 hours straight.

Apart from a blip on the second night when I was suddenly taken ill, my resolve has surprised me. I always suspected I wouldn’t last five minutes inside, but that turns out not to be true. I attribute this largely to my daughters needing me, my satisfaction that honour was served (albeit at a price), and the fact that I am only serving 15 days. Grim it certainly is, the Count of Monte Cristo it ain’t!

One of the odd aspects of prison life is that I have not felt the terror I anticipated. Or perhaps I have, but I’m just meeting the challenge better. Korean jails are undoubtedly more civilised than their western equivalents – I survived the shower and yard scenes with minimal fuss. However, they have their own unique tortures: the radio is pumped in three times a day, either insisting that you ‘have a good morning!’, or subjecting you to the latest ‘K-rap’ - which is pretty much what it sounds like. The noise and the lights are constant, day and night; you are not permitted to exercise or stand in your cell, which takes its tole on the body; the food is relentlessly monotonous, and the cold (-10 to -15 degrees here at night), just biting enough to never let you forget it. Who’d have thought prison was thin on laughs?!

The exchanges however, are gloriously dark:

Prison psychiatrist: ‘What’s the worst thing about being here?’

Me: ‘I’m in prison.’

Psychiatrist: ‘I see. But, apart from that?’

---

Prison doctor: ‘What’s the problem?’

Me: ‘My stomach’s bad.’

Doctor: ‘Is there a problem with the food?’

Me: ‘I think it’s more a case of where the food is.’

Doctor: ‘I don’t think you’re adjusting well to your life here; I think you should leave as soon as possible.’

Me: ‘Chuck us the key then!’

Being a westerner here adds another dimension. I suspect I am being treated fairly well, because a dead waygook (foreigner) would not work wonders for diplomatic relations. However, the ‘celebrity’ status (being gawped at through the bars like a circus animal) doesn’t sit well with me.

The other ‘lags’ (am I allowed to use that word?) have been great – not so much because I’m foreign, but because word has quickly spread that I told the judge to go f*** herself! I suppose most prisoners can relate to that. All of which is just as well, because the gang tattoos and the knife scars in the showers suggests that a few of these lads could turn rather nasty.

The really terrifying thing for me, was how quickly one gets used to prison life. A week in, and I already know the routine inside out; have developed an extraordinary variety in ways to pass the time, and can tell most of the guards by their footsteps alone. I am concerned that a lengthier stay might persuade one that such a life is tolerable.

Despite the eternity it has seemed to me, the sun finally rises on the 15th day; or rather it doesn’t, because kick out time is 4am. I shake hands genuinely with the Captain who has been particularly kind, and contemplate the changes the last fortnight has brought:

• 10lb down in weight (maybe there’s a book in it, The Prison Diet?)

• I have survived two weeks without booze, tea or proper food – which I never thought possible

• Perhaps, I have learned a little humility

What happens now is a good question. Obviously, I need to keep fighting for my daughters – although the courtroom may not be the optimal battlefield. More generally, the process has opened my eyes fully to the contempt the law has for loving fathers, and the divorce courts which seem to exist solely to punish us. This is not a knock on South Korea, as I imagine precisely this scenario plays out every day across the West. Why should men have to fight so hard to see their children? Why are we denied a voice? Why is our money so welcome, but our presence despised?

We’re almost half a century on from Kramer vs Kramer, but society appears to have learnt no lessons. It’s not the wives and girlfriends the men cry out for here at night, but their children. And it’s heart-breaking to hear.

Frank Haviland is the Editor of The New Conservative, and the author of Banalysis: The Lie Destroying the West.

If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee - it would really help to keep me going. Thank you!