Cover Image: Book cover (detail) for Kathleen O’Reilly Johnston’s novel, Johno. Image Supplied

Q: Johno is rooted in the history of the British Child Migrant program, but it also reads as an intimate story of one boy’s lost childhood. How did you balance historical truth with the emotional and narrative demands of fiction?

A: From the moment I heard Johno’s, Norman Johnston’s story, it grabbed me, heart and soul. I understand that his is just one story out of thousands, but I believe the more we share stories like Johno’s, the greater our chance to connect to history and understand the human experience at a deeper level.

During conversations for the book, Johno, spoke of incidents that were so shocking that they were hard for me to comprehend. As he spoke, I realised how important it was for him that his recounting of events be believed. This spurred me to my own research. He also provided me a copy of his testimony to the Scottish Child Abuse Inquiry. His testimony was eighty pages of reading. It described events, but seemed devoid of much, if any, accompanying feeling. Through our conversation and through his body language, I felt the boy and felt the man. Norman opening up to the level he did has allowed me to convey both historical truth alongside its emotional legacy in Johno.

Q: Your professional life has included decades of work with at-risk young people, survivors of domestic violence, and older people. How did that experience shape your understanding of Johno’s trauma, resilience and later reckoning?

A: As part of my work, I’d write people’s stories, most often in the form of case notes… Saying case notes sounds really clinical, but years of listening to people share traumatic experience has definitely given me a deeper insight and, I’d like to believe, empathy, but also awe and respect for whatever it is inside that allows some individuals to navigate and cope with traumatic events more successfully.

Q: One of the most devastating ideas in the book is the lie told to children that their parents were dead. What drew you to this particular form of betrayal as a central emotional and moral wound?

A: That’s an interesting question because my initial intention in writing Johno was to write his story in the simplest way I knew. There were so many betrayals at so many levels. I had no agenda to emphasise a specific emotional or moral wound, but now you’re asking, I realise there is emphasis on certain aspects and this occurred organically in the telling.

There is a kind of primal curiosity within us to know our story, who we are, where we came from. In Johno’s case, the curiosity was shut down. He’d entered a system designed not just to erase him spiritually, but to eliminate any means of connecting with his roots.

It was impressed on him on arrival in Australia that he had no family, and that even his own country did not want him. Not only was the vital information that his parents lived withheld, even his date of birth and the spelling of his name were altered. He was stripped of everything right down to his underpants, resulting in what I can only think of as deliberate erasure of his identity. Sadly, this was only the start of a dehumanisation process that resulted in psychological, spiritual and measurable developmental harm. But yes, the betrayal that his parents were dead remained a lie that Johno believed for decades – and why wouldn’t he believe it? For the people of the lie were men of the cloth.

Q: The novel explores institutions such as Castledare, Bindoon, Clontarf and Tardun not simply as settings, but as systems of power. What did you want readers to understand about how ordinary people become complicit in institutional harm?

A: I don’t think I can give a quick answer. There are so many contributing factors. Firstly, it’s worth remembering that the children in these Christian Brothers institutions were dehumanised. The moment we dehumanise someone, it becomes easier to perpetrate harm on that person. Secondly, there is silence – what is known as the bystander effect. Seeing others remaining silent sends out signals that the behaviour is okay and that it’s okay if we don’t take any action. Thirdly, I think it’s important to mention that any organisation that lacks external oversight, particularly those tasked to care for children, becomes dangerous. Over a long period, the ethics of these institutions become distorted to the point they become standard practice. I’ve tried to show how power corrupts. The Christian Brothers were basically given carte blanche, resulting in institutional betrayal on a massive scale.

Over my conversations with Norman Johnston, a pattern of collusion amongst the perpetrators became apparent. For example, on page 69, paragraph 2:

“As far as I know though, Muckabout is the only one of us boys brave enough to speak to Killer Doyle.”

“What did you say to him?” I’d asked Muckabout, impressed by his daring.

“Just asked Doyle if he knew that Brother Murphy was still interfering with the younger boys.”

“What did Doyle say?”

“He didn’t say anything, Johno. He whacked me across the ear.”

Protecting the Christian Brothers institution – saving the church at all cost – became more important than protecting the child. The abusers were protected by the institution and the victims were betrayed. The children in these institutions weren’t believed; they had no voice and, without any external oversight, ordinary people become complicit.

Q: Despite its painful subject matter, Johno contains vivid settings, realistic dialogue and moments of humour or humanity. How important was it to show the full human texture of survival, rather than only suffering?

A: Johno isn’t simply a tale of evil. It’s a true story. Yes, there are parts in Johno that are devastating, but this is a story of good and evil. It’s the humanity that provides me as the writer and you as the reader hope for humankind. Kindness is a huge part of the story; it lifted me in a way I can’t describe. I hope it lifts the reader too.

The contrasting good and evil in Johno’s life gives meaning to the story, and Johno’s sense of humour made it easier to talk about hard things. I suspect that for many who have been through the Christian Brothers experience, humour is a vital tool in coping – a survival mechanism, a medicine.

Q: The book arrives at a time when governments and institutions have formally apologised for past harms, yet many survivors continue to live with the consequences. What role do you think literature can play in keeping those histories alive and meaningful for contemporary readers?

A: I’d like to say that literacy and literature go hand in hand. One of the most powerful ways we have of understanding history is through story. Words are a tool for getting to the crux of our feelings, and feelings are the ingredient that makes a story meaningful for readers now and in the future. There is something in us that responds to story, something in our brain that’s wired for it. Literacy gives us a voice to tell a story, and literature plays a vital role in enabling us to feel the other and develop empathy. The ability to empathise makes these histories meaningful for readers today. For us to survive as a species, we need to be able to feel the other. Studies show that reading literature allows us to develop empathy. My hope is that reading Johno will enlarge a lot of hearts out there.

Johno is published by Hawkeye Publishing.