ADAIR DONALDSON: Systemic failure, not rogue soldiers, at heart of ADF’s torture training

While Australia spent millions investigating alleged battlefield misconduct, far less attention was paid to what was happening in training.

For years, senior leaders responding to allegations of misconduct have offered the same explanation: rogue actors, warrior culture, alcohol, ego and a small group of individuals. It is a reassuring narrative, promoted by command and politicians alike, that deflects systemic issues onto individuals.

But it avoids the real question. How is it that men who underwent rigorous psychological screening, passed one of the most demanding and acclaimed selection processes in the world, and were deemed to possess the attributes required for elite service could become implicated in allegations of misconduct?

A genuinely curious leader would ask whether there was something in their shared institutional experience that may have contributed to those allegations.

What we as a nation must confront — uncomfortable though it is — is that for decades we exposed our own Defence members to conduct that international standards would likely recognise as torture.

I am referring to Resistance to Interrogation, or Conduct After Capture training, dating back to at least the late 1980s. This was not run by the SAS. It was created, authorised and executed under the authority of the Intelligence Corps. The practice operated with effective impunity for decades, carrying official sanction. It was not an aberration. It was institutional.

I act for more than 213 former and current serving members. They include elite operators, some highly decorated and senior. They are individuals who do not complain lightly, but after years of being ignored, they have been left with no option but to speak.

Participants describe conduct including realistic mock executions, sexual humiliation, sexual abuse, religious manipulation, psychological disorientation, forced nudity, water torture and sensory techniques designed to destabilise identity. All of this was done by members of the ADF.

These were not rogue improvisations by a handful of instructors. They were embedded elements of a formal training program where success was measured not by learning a skill, but by enduring between 72 and 96 hours of treatment designed to break a participant psychologically.

Failure meant the end of a career path. To be very clear, there was no assessment and there was no benefit to this training. It did not build resilience or capability. It simply caused harm.

For years, the ADF shielded the Intelligence Corps’ conduct behind secrecy. Alarm bells should have rung when participants were required to sign non-disclosure obligations and warned that speaking about the training, even to their partners, could result in charges.

Consider what that meant in practice. A soldier leaves home for training and returns changed after enduring extreme psychological, physical and sexual trauma. Waking in distress. Reacting sharply to triggers such as a child crying. Emotionally withdrawn or volatile. Resistant to touch. When asked what is wrong, the answer must be “nothing”.

This government has rightly criticised institutions that hide abuse behind hierarchy and secrecy. Yet here we have tolerated a system in which members of the ADF were subjected to some of the most serious forms of abuse for no identifiable operational benefit.

Hundreds of millions of dollars have been spent examining operational culture and alleged misconduct overseas. Yet the systemic question remains largely unexplored: why were we subjecting our own soldiers to methods recognised internationally as torture?

When such techniques are normalised in training over decades, commanders and politicians cannot reasonably express shock when allegations arise that moral boundaries were crossed in combat. Training exists to shape behaviour under pressure.

We often refer to our elite soldiers as the “dogs of war”. It is meant as praise. Loyal. Relentless. Courageous. Yet anyone with even a passing understanding of dog training knows that brutality produces instability. Abuse a guard dog in training and you increase the likelihood of unpredictable aggression. Skilled handlers build discipline through control and trust. When a dog bites, we examine the training, not the animal.

This is not an argument against rigorous preparation. War demands resilience. These men had already demonstrated extraordinary capability through selection. The purpose of training should be to build skill and judgment, not replicate abuse.

If aspects of our historical training framework crossed legal boundaries and caused harm, leadership must own it. A mature government, particularly one bound by model litigant principles, does not hide behind limitation periods and technicalities to avoid accountability. It acknowledges error, reforms transparently and compensates responsibly.

This week, under increasing public scrutiny, Defence issued a written statement acknowledging “the experiences of those affected by earlier versions of Conduct After Capture training”. That acknowledgement, while welcome, raises an obvious question. If those experiences are now accepted, why were they denied for so long?

The real failure was not in training. It was in leadership that never stopped to ask whether what was being done was right.

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