Julian Assange

I don't need to explain to Gabriel and Max the reality of Belmarsh prison where we go to visit their father. They live it, writes Stella Moris.

But Julian is not Prisoner X. He is my husband and the father of our young children. The children walk under razor wire and past layers and layers of security to reach their daddy. Our nest in the razor wire. But Julian and I know these may be the only memories that our children will have of their father. Julian teaches them nifty tricks: the best way to peel an orange, how to open chips without losing any of the contents. I don’t need to explain to Gabriel and Max the reality of this place where we go to visit their father. Julian and I are not allowed to kiss. The prison dogs sniff them head to toe, front and back. After he passed through the metal detector his daisies were confiscated during the pat-down search by one of the guards, albeit reluctantly. Our children — Gabriel, who is five, and Max, three — only have memories of their father within the brutal surroundings of Belmarsh prison. I fear in the end we will count the minutes and the seconds. If he narrows his eyes, the double razor wire above becomes a blur.