A former intelligence officer alleges preventable failures linked to the Bondi attack. His treatment highlights how weak protections silence whistleblowers in national security institutions.

It was early morning in Melbourne. I had just come back from walking the dog and had not yet made coffee when a message arrived on Signal. It was from a human rights lawyer I knew. They asked if I had time to discuss a highly sensitive matter that would soon become public.

Six months earlier I had founded The Information Rights Project, a charity established to support and protect whistleblowers. Calls like this were precisely what we had prepared for.

I was not prepared for the substance.

Marcus*, a former ASIO officer, had spent six years undercover inside an ISIS-linked network in Sydney. His intelligence contributed to arrests, disrupted planned attacks and informed international partners. It was dangerous, high-stakes work conducted in the shadows.

He has now come forward alleging serious intelligence failures that, in his view, could have prevented the Bondi terrorist attack. By speaking publicly, he placed himself in direct conflict with the institution he once served.

The personal consequences have been immediate.

Marcus is in hiding. He is separated from his family. He has no income. There are credible threats to his life from the extremist network he once infiltrated. His legal team is working pro bono. His remaining funds are almost exhausted.

The lawyer asked whether we could help.

This is not a story about personality. It is about systems.

Imagine you work inside a national security agency tasked with keeping Australians safe. You discover evidence that a preventable failure has occurred. People have died. You were close enough to see the warning signs. You have documents, recollections, operational knowledge.

You have two options.

Remain silent, preserve your career and allow the system to proceed unchanged.

Or disclose what you know, accept the professional and personal consequences, and hope the truth prevents further harm.

Marcus chose disclosure.

That decision highlights a structural tension in liberal democracies. Security institutions require secrecy to function. Yet secrecy, without effective internal accountability, permits error to compound. When internal reporting mechanisms fail or are perceived to fail, external disclosure becomes the final safeguard.

Australia has formal whistleblower protections. In practice, national security disclosures occupy a legal grey zone. Public interest defences are limited. Intelligence officers operate under strict secrecy obligations. When they speak out, even about alleged wrongdoing, they risk prosecution, professional ruin and reputational attack.

The pattern is familiar.

The public debate quickly shifts from the substance of the allegation to the character of the whistleblower. Motives are questioned. Mental stability is speculated upon. Loyalty is invoked. The institutional response prioritises containment.

The underlying issue, whether intelligence failures occurred and how they might be remedied, recedes from view.

This dynamic is not unique to one agency or one country. It reflects a broader institutional reflex. Organisations, particularly those with coercive powers, tend to equate criticism with threat. Self-preservation can eclipse mission.

Whistleblowers are often described as dissidents or renegades. That framing is inaccurate. They are internal actors who have already demonstrated commitment to the institution’s stated purpose. In Marcus’ case, that purpose was the prevention of violent extremism on Australian soil.

From a governance perspective, whistleblowers function as corrective mechanisms. They surface information that standard hierarchies suppress or overlook. In complex systems, especially those operating under secrecy, such corrective signals are essential.

The alternative is informational decay.

When errors cannot be acknowledged, they cannot be corrected. When accountability mechanisms are weak, risk accumulates. In national security contexts, accumulated risk translates into real-world harm.

There is also a human dimension.

Marcus is not a theoretical case study. He has a family. He worked for years in environments where discovery could have meant death. He now faces threats from those he infiltrated, compounded by professional ostracism and financial precarity.

Supporting him is not about endorsing every claim he makes. It is about recognising a civic principle: individuals who raise serious allegations in the public interest should not be left destitute or physically endangered as a result.

If Australia expects integrity from those inside its security institutions, it must provide credible assurance that integrity will not be punished.

At present, that assurance is fragile.

We are seeking to raise $200,000 to secure safe accommodation and protective measures for Marcus and to stabilise his family’s circumstances while legal and public processes unfold. This is an immediate, practical requirement. Security risks do not pause while debates proceed.

There is a tendency to treat cases like this as isolated controversies. They are not. Each one sets a precedent.

When potential whistleblowers observe what happens to those who speak, they update their expectations. If the cost appears total and the support negligible, rational actors will remain silent. That silence benefits no one except those insulated from scrutiny.

Democratic accountability relies on information. Information, in certain sectors, relies on personal courage.

Courage, however, should not require martyrdom.

The question is not only what Marcus did, but what we will do in response. Will we allow institutional reflex to define the outcome, or will we insist that public interest disclosures be met with proportionality and protection?

If we want safer institutions, we must create conditions in which truth can be spoken without annihilating the speaker.

*Name changed for security reasons.