: J S Ayliffe
: Betrayal A Personal Story
: Pepper Press
: 9781923236431
: 1
: CHF 7.90
:
: Biographien, Autobiographien
: English
: 208
: DRM
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB

In 1989, a senior Catholic Church figure approached high-profile advertising executive J.S. Ayliffe with an extraordinary request: help manage and contain allegations of clerical child sexual abuse.


Ayliffe did not agree to participate. But confronted with what he describes as a 'he said, he said' situation-and unsure how to act-he kept the approach confidential. The secret remained buried for 25 years, until the 2014 Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse exposed the scale and systemic nature of abuse within Australian institutions.


Betrayal is Ayliffe's deeply personal account of conscience, complicity and silence. It examines the culture of denial, the failures of leadership and the devastating human cost borne by survivors and their families. Voices such as Chrissie Foster and Ian Lawther bring the lived reality of that cost into sharp focus.


This is not only a story about the Church. It is a story about power, reputation, moral hesitation and the consequences of looking away.

1990


Two Voices, Betrayal


This morning, I had a phone call from a friend: he leads a teaching Brotherhood in the Catholic Church. He needs my help, urgently. Surprised by the suddenness of his request, I accepted nonetheless, and we settled on today, 2 o’clock. I cancelled my usual Friday lunchtime run with business friends and have headed out west to his current home on the outer reaches of Sydney Harbour. It is late winter; spring has come early; the plovers are sitting on their eggs in the wide-open spaces of grassy parks and golf courses; were it not for the poison barbs on the wings of the males, they would be stupid birds. Every living thing needs protection.

The Marist leader oversees a vast community of celibate men. The Marist Order insists on a vow of poverty, the Provincial House in Sydney is like many Catholic presbyteries I have come to know. For one thing it is solid, but it is also sombre – they always are – made of dark brick and stone with deep sash windows, some that work, others that probably haven’t in years. Imposing on a large block of land right beside the Parramatta River, a lay person with the necessaries would have soon brought such a cold and unprepossessing home into the modern world, and with all its pre-requisite comforts. But the building and land were probably a gift from a wealthy Catholic, unrenovated; spend money wisely, use it for the less fortunate.

I am just 14 years a Catholic and confess to still being starry-eyed by the original Christian faith. It had been sensibly humanised by the great and saintly Pope John XXIII after he brought all the “red hats” together in his hastily convened Second Vatican Council: his mission was to save the Church from its tired self. My belief is grounded in Jesuit rationality and in Christ’s singular commandment to “love one another”. Always wanting to help, I have had no hesitation in responding to my friend’s call.

The man I know is serious-minded, some would say humourless; a scientist by training, he has been a headmaster and rugby coach in his time. A straightforward man, I know he is not one to argue with. But he is well-read in Church doctrine and spirituality and has been bringing his reading of it to the discussion group my wife and I began some time ago. We have come to know him as a friend.

He is usually calm and always appears to be on top of his game, hence I was surprised by the tenor of his phone call. Along with the sense of urgency conveyed, he had said he was ‘hoping you could make it this afternoon’. Something was up.

I undo the latch on the wrought-iron gate. The heavy metal is cold to my touch, and I blow on my hands before rubbing them together to warm them. My breath mists visibly in the July weather, and I head along the concrete path that separates lawns cut low. A short post with a telltale net mechanism is the only surviving remnant of the tennis court that once stood there. Rose bushes, recently pruned, cling to the perimeter; they aren’t out now, but must be quite a spectacle when they are. This is where he lives, lucky him; although the lonely l