CHAIR OF RUDH BOARD!?!
🟥 ALERT: As of 17 June 2025, a state-wide red flag has been issued across mental health services regarding Ruah Community Services. Ruah is not to be contacted, consulted, or involved in any matter relating to the author or their case. This red flag is not just personal — Ruah is now formally flagged as a systemic risk within the mental health sector.
📛 Access Revoked – Red Flags Issued: as of 20th June 2025 Red flags have now been placed at Housing Choices and Medical Centres. All third-party access to records, referrals, or updates has been terminated. Freedom of Information requests have been submitted and are now active across these entities. A full record of all backchannel contact will be retrieved and logged. This revocation comes 3 days after Alma Street state wide red flag was issued. It applies to all domains and contexts in which Ruah previously operated.
Clearly not trying to hide themselves.
Blocked at Cloudflare level.
Patterns are my happy place.
One profile linked. Two removed photos. Three locked. One blocked. Visibility doesn’t shift. Silence holds.
You're Welcome Debra. I'm not heartless.
Ambassador for Ruah. Chose to block and hide.
'sharingsilence.carrd.co'
The month of my Mum's death. (her name was also June)
Late Saturday Night 21st June 🤦♂️.
Downloads?
Only Ruah know my full name. This is to protect my children, not me..
Access Denied!
Repeatedly. Silently. Awkwardly. ✨Digital creepers peeking through the blinds✨
They talk about home care like it's some kind of accommodation. A solution. A support. It’s not. It’s containment.
I didn’t choose home-based psychiatric care because I prefer it.
I was forced into it — not by a doctor, but by a world that made
My door doesn’t feel like a boundary — it feels like a target.
Emails from housing workers come with threats disguised as protocol.
The fear doesn’t come from being evicted. It comes from knowing they could enter, inspect, accuse — and nobody would stop them.
Because they hold the rules.
Because they know
Even when I try to protect myself — even when I write, explain, beg — I get silence. Or warnings.
I don’t trust the police. Not after last time. They came for a welfare check, but I was the one who paid for it. The knock on the door didn’t come with safety — it came with escalation. Now every unexpected noise sends a signal through my spine: they’re here again.
I didn’t end up on home care because it works. I ended up here because the systems designed to care for people like me broke me.
And they’re still breaking me. Quietly. Systematically. Paper by paper. Silence by silence.
And I’m still here. But barely.
The CEO and CFO followed, now GM and Board. Some still watch and do nothing — hiding, shielding, avoiding public connection to the truth.
But here’s what they forgot:
Their own website displays every name and face.
Even if they delete or edit now — it’s too late.
All pages have been archived:
Their silence is documented. Their faces are preserved. The truth cannot be erased.
I was fair. I was reasonable.
I offered them the chance to control the public narrative.
I asked for a private resolution — on one symbolic date:
The anniversary of my mum’s death. Her name was June. The date was June 6.
That wasn’t just a number on a calendar. That was a chance to heal — to close a wound she left me, through action instead of legacy.
But here’s what they forgot:
– I still have the original offer.
– So do some of their frontline staff.
– And Debra replied on the exact anniversary — with a cold, evasive delay.
Their silence was not just inaction. It was timed. The one date that mattered to me — they chose to ignore it. And now, the offer they buried… will speak louder than they ever did.
Legal notices sent via legal advocate Shannon Mony, CC'd known Ruah addresses.
"over 15 years experience in the health and community sector." "committed to making sure systems work around the most vulnerable and disadvantaged people in our community."
– Elsie Blay
Alleged mother. Registered nurse. Public health expert.
Champion of homelessness services. Disability sector leader.
Executive Manager of Services, Ruah Community Services — since circa 2017.
Responsible for overseeing day-to-day operations across all Ruah programs: mental health, family and domestic violence, homelessness, disability.
In her own public words, a voice for women, children, the homeless, and the disabled.
A defender of those left behind.
A builder of safe spaces — where no one would be isolated, starving, or left in fear.
That is the role she claimed. The mission she led. The system she managed.
And why her silence — and her organisation’s failure — erased an autistic father from his children’s lives, left a man starving alone for years, and directly violated every value she publicly espoused.
This is not an opinion.
It is documented fact.
It is a matter of public record.
"I am a strong advocate for the most vulnerable and disadvantaged people in our community"
– Debra Zanella
Chief Executive Officer of Ruah Community Services.
Chair of the Australian Alliance to End Homelessness.
Co-Chair of Reconciliation WA.
Former President of the Western Australian Council of Social Services.
Advisor to the Ministerial Housing First Homelessness Advisory Group.
Board member of the State Training Board.
Leader of the 50 Lives 50 Homes campaign.
Voice for women, children, and survivors of violence.
Builder of trauma-informed spaces.
Strategist of systemic change.
Her public statements are clear: violence must be addressed at its roots. Homelessness must be ended, not managed. Systems must be accountable.
She has spoken of the need for long-term healing, early intervention, and culturally safe care. She has called for urgent action to protect women and children.
She has built a reputation on these principles.
The silence.
The neglect.
The erasure.
This is not conjecture.
It is evidence.
It is testimony.
It is the truth behind the image.
“I volunteer because I am a firm believer in the importance of giving back. I am also motivated by being a good role model for my two daughters.”
– Shannon Mony, Project Didi
Shannon Mony is listed as a Communications & Engagement Officer for a humanitarian NGO, speaking publicly about her belief in justice, consent, and trauma-informed care. Yet in her professional capacity as a lawyer for Meridian — LinkedIn, she has failed to respond to urgent, documented pleas for negotiation from an autistic man abandoned by Ruah.
Shannon is also a registered speaker for upcoming CPD events including LawSense 2025, where she will present on:
This contradiction between public image and legal silence matters. The Meridian Lawyers team — LinkedIn is actively defending an organisation accused of letting a disabled client starve and go unsupported for 8 years — yet has refused to negotiate.
Mark Birbeck — LinkedIn also works for Meridian Lawyers — LinkedIn and connected with me on LinkedIn, read my profile and received screenshots, along with many Meridian partners.
📄 Related readings:
When Mental Health Services Are Broken (HBA Legal)
HBA Legal Health Law Newsletter – May 2016
🧠 Transparency is not an attack. It is a mirror. If you're uncomfortable seeing this, ask why it reflects poorly — and who chose silence.
Silence at this point is not strategy — it is complicity. This legal firm is no longer a bystander.
“Silence isn’t neutrality. It’s alignment with power.”
– Systemic Reflection
Chief Financial Officer of Ruah Community Services since 2016.
Former finance manager at Glasnevin Trust.
Former senior accountant at Activ Foundation.
Member of Chartered Accountants Australia and New Zealand.
Fellow of the Association of Chartered Certified Accountants.
Holder of a BA in Accounting and Finance from Liverpool John Moores University.
He oversees the financial integrity of an organization dedicated to supporting the most vulnerable. He ensures compliance, allocates resources, and upholds the fiscal responsibility that underpins every service Ruah provides.
His role is not merely numbers on a ledger. It is the backbone of programs that claim to offer safety, dignity, and hope.
The funding choices.
The resource allocations.
The priorities set.
This is not an abstract analysis.
It is a direct look at the consequences of financial governance.
I politely reached out to their legal representative — along with Debra, Elsie, and Graham — earlier in the week. I offered a zero-pressure, no-expectation opportunity to open a quiet handshake negotiation, to be held before close of business Friday, 20 June 2025.
As of 22nd June 2025 — no reply has been received.
Ruah does not want a quiet, easy settlement.
“We will be unable to meet your timeline of today. We will endeavour to provide a response by the end of next week.”
— Debra Zanella, CEO, Ruah Community Services
Received: 6 June 2025
Context: This message was received 7 days after formal notification was sent (29 May 2025). No immediate response, no resolution — only a postponed deadline.
“Please note that this process may take up to 15 working days.”
— Elsie Blay, Executive Manager, Services
Received: 30 May 2025 (now 22nd June 2025, timeframe is now elapsed)
Context: Ruah initiated a slow internal review process while risks remained unaddressed. They allocated themselves three full weeks to respond — despite the urgency already outlined.
“We will not be engaging any further with you in respect of these issues.”
— Shannon Mony, Meridian Lawyers (acting for Ruah)
Received: 13 June 2025
Context: This was issued just 7 days after the CEO promised a response — abruptly ending communication without follow-up.
Author of a legal review into suicide-related duty-of-care failures at Alma Street (2016).
Now representing Ruah — during a parallel period of unaddressed suicide risk.
Chair of the Board
BA; Grad Dip Bus, GAICD
Ex-CEO with expertise in telecoms, banking, and insurance.
Leads strategy, governance, and customer transformation.
Board Director
BBus, MBA
Consultant and strategy advisor across public and higher education sectors.
Specialist in change management and care-sector transformation.
Board Director
EdD; MEd; BEd
Former principal and educator.
Now Director of Leadership at Catholic Education WA — bringing 40 years of public schooling experience.
Board Director
B App Sc (Psych), GradDip OrgPsych, MBA, GAICD
35+ years in mental health, disability, and population health.
Currently Director of Population Health at WA Country Health Service and UWA lecturer.
Board Director
BArch (Hons), BEnvDes
CEO of Kingston Development.
20+ years in property and urban development.
Holds multiple advisory and governance roles across WA.
Board Director
B.Ed, BA (Indigenous Studies), M.Res (Indigenous Education)
Wardandi Noongar man.
Equity and inclusion leader at Edith Cowan University.
Expert in Indigenous education and queer identity.
Board Director – Ruah Community Services
Partner at McGrathNicol. Leads forensic services in Perth.
Former ASIC investigator. Specialist in governance, fraud, and financial risk.
His expertise is in exposing misconduct — yet he sits on the board of an organisation under investigation for 8 years of systemic neglect.
Executive Manager, Strategy and Development
30+ years in health and not-for-profit sectors across Australia and the UK. Former interim CEO at 360 Health. Board Director at ShelterWA, focused on client-centred outcomes and quality improvement.
Executive Manager, Cultural Integration
Bibbulmun (Nyoongar) woman and Indigenous leader. Founder of several WA Indigenous initiatives. OAM (2012), Amnesty Award (2005), Rotary Award (2004).
[📂Digital footprint investigating🔐]
Executive Manager, Legal Services
35+ years across disabilities, homelessness, mental health, domestic violence, and legal systems. Chair of AODCCC. Legal strategist and advocate for systemic response improvement.
Ruah Ambassador
Former war crimes and human rights lawyer. Advocate for justice, equity, and trauma healing. Vocal face of systemic change and accountability.
Ruah Ambassador
Entrepreneur and founder of Premier Business Network. Leads corporate fundraising and awareness campaigns around homelessness and DV through RCWC.
Ruah Ambassador
Global gender equity advocate. UN SDG promoter. Active in youth advancement, domestic violence advocacy, and education reform.
This system failure is actively harming me.
I am now trapped in an autistic hyperfixation loop that I cannot break until a resolution is reached.
I cannot eat properly.
I cannot sleep properly.
Basic hygiene is failing.
I have run out of essential medication and do not feel safe enough to leave my house to get more.
No support services are available — they are all implicated in the systemic failure.
I am being left to collapse mentally and physically while this corporate system stalls and watches.
This is no longer about the past.
This is about what is being done to me right now — today.
The archive remains live. The system is not still.
#SharingSilence
"Scheduling will be in touch to schedule a time for a home visit. Two staff will be in attendance. I will bring the relevant documents for your signature."
This was the initial Ruah contact, after several meltdowns had already occurred. The message led to a strong sense of intimidation — as if my home was about to be invaded and I would be forced to sign legal documents under duress.
"Meet at the café for this appointment. We can then discuss the location of any potential future appointments after the initial assessment."
— Rachael (Ruah Scheduling)
This follow-up, after Sheila’s handover, indicates that first appointments are typically conducted in neutral public settings — not unrequested home visits. The contrast made it clear that Sheila’s insistence on a home visit was abnormal and, in this context, deeply threatening.
For weeks now, I have been left feeling unsafe in my own home.
Since that point, the following has occurred:
No one has permission to contact these places on my behalf.
I no longer feel safe to leave my home — or even to answer my door.
I do not know who is contacting these parties — but it is not me.
My home is my only safe space — and I am now being left to feel that it is under threat of invasion and coercion.
“Good Morning Kevin, I am in receipt of your emails below. I apologise for the delay in my reply, I do not work each day.”
“I hope you are feeling better.”
– Sgt. P.F.
000 calls, welfare checks, coercion and official complaints raised.
The first documented recontact with Ruah occurred on 7 May 2025 at 12:23 PM, via a formal referral to the Stronger Ground program. An auto-response was received confirming receipt and promising follow-up within 24 hours.
What followed was a series of delays and unprofessional behaviour from Sheila Jay. I attempted to escalate concerns, but she refused.
Eventually, I was handed over to Nina Anderson and Jodie Harding. We had an in-person meeting. During that meeting, I was coerced into agreeing with things that weren’t true — not maliciously, but due to Jodie’s lack of trauma-informed training. I do not believe it was her fault.
Afterwards, I was drawn into a disorganised email chain that triggered a meltdown. I asked repeatedly for clarity — just basic updates — and was instead told by Nina to “stop.” What I needed, and clearly stated, was regular communication to avoid being retraumatised after years of abandonment. I did not receive it.
I expressed — in writing — that the treatment I was receiving was pushing me into suicidal ideation. I was left in that state for over 12 hours. Eventually, the next day, a welfare check was called. By then, I was completely shut down, isolated, and too afraid to leave my home.
That is when I realised: they had been given ample opportunity to do the right thing — and didn’t. That’s when I chose legal action. Not out of anger, but to force accountability. To secure restitution.
Before the silence came the search for a voice — a way to be heard, even for a moment, by the people who said they existed to help. Emails were sent. Messages left. Profiles viewed in silence. The same people who ignored direct contact still opened my digital presence, quietly observing — but never responding.
Shannon Mony viewed the Sharing Silence page. No reply followed. No comment. No action.
What you are reading now began in that quiet. It was built from what they would not say — from what they refused to acknowledge.
I don’t know who’s reading this. Maybe we’ve never met. Maybe you’re staff. Maybe you’re admin, management — or just someone who got CC’d.
You didn’t ask for this. But now you have it. And I need you to hear me.
I’m autistic. My mind is sharp — until I’m overwhelmed. Then everything collapses. I go non-verbal. My speech shuts down. My body freezes. People think I don’t understand. But I do. I just can’t get the words out when I need them most. And I remember everything.
Ten years ago, Ruah assigned me a support worker. Her name was Mary.
She stabilised my life. I started therapy. I got my children back. Supervised visits became overnights. My world was coming back together.
Then — Mary left. No warning. No transition. No handover. Just gone.
And everything fell apart.
The NDIS changed. My funding stayed — but my supports vanished. A provider entered my home. They touched my things. They left. The money disappeared.
I reported it. Nothing happened. Another provider came. They never returned. I still don’t know why. Calls followed. Cold. Pressuring. Overwhelming. There was no continuity. No care. I didn’t know who these people were. I still don’t.
My GP left. I relapsed. First on opioids. Then on alcohol. My mother became terminal. I became her carer. Then she died.
If anyone from Ruah reached out — I don’t remember. If they did, it didn’t hold.
Because what I needed was someone who wouldn’t vanish when I couldn’t speak. Someone who understood what real crisis looks like. And in that darkness — I lost my children again.
Not by court. Not by choice. But by silence.
Ten years ago, we had a court-ordered agreement. I followed it. Every step. Every condition. My children were back in my life.
Then I lost my support. Then my ex moved. Cut contact. And I didn’t have the strength, the knowledge, or the backing to fight it.
I didn’t disappear. I was erased.
Now they grow up believing I walked away. That I gave up. That I didn’t care.
But I didn’t. I was alone. And no system — not one — stepped in to pull me back.
I missed birthdays. I missed years. And I will never get that time back. And neither will they.
You say you protect the vulnerable. But when I became one again — you weren’t there.
You had the records. The notes. The risk flags. You saw it. You knew.
And you did nothing.
I’m not writing this to shame you. I’m writing this because you need to understand what silence costs.
And now, if you’ve read this far — you’re holding it too.
Because this letter didn’t land in one inbox. It’s being read. Right now. In offices. In meetings. Between emails. Between shifts. Quietly. Carefully.
Someone is already rereading it. Someone is already wondering what this means. Maybe even asking questions.
I don’t know what this letter will do. Maybe nothing. Maybe something.
But whatever happens next — even if it’s silence again — it will say something.
About you. About this system. About all of us.
I’m Kev. I’ve carried this alone for too long. And I don’t know what’s left of me.
Please.
I was born in the ’80s.
It was a different world back then. No internet. No awareness. People didn’t speak of things they didn’t understand — they hid them. Buried them. Erased them with shame.
I must’ve been around three. I don’t have clear memories from then — which tells me I was still very young. But I remember fear. That part never left. Not fear of anything in particular — just an ambient, silent dread.
There are photos of me smiling. So I know, logically, that I must’ve laughed. Played. Been held.
Preschool: Echoes of a Beginning
I have faint memories of preschool. Fragments, like old film reels burned at the edges.
There was a girl. Sarah? Sara? Something like that. Smaller than me. Long, straight light-brown hair. I don’t remember her face — just a blur framed by hair and movement.
What I do remember is the feeling. Uncomfortable, unfamiliar — but not bad. Something like belonging, though I didn’t understand it then.
Every time we walked through the preschool gates, she’d appear. Run up, jump, stretch, kiss me on the cheek, and vanish again. Routine. Predictable. Like clockwork.
It wasn’t a one-off. Mum mentioned it once, offhand, like it amused her. So it must’ve happened often enough to etch itself into her memory too.
To me, she’s not a person — she’s a pattern. And like most things from back then, she fades before I can ask her name.
Autism flattens some things like that.
Shutdown Memory
One sticks hard. Recess, maybe. The others would run out to sandpits and swings. I stood still. Not from confusion — my body wouldn’t move.
My mind screamed: Move.
My body replied: Nope.
Mind: MOVE!
Body: hehehe… watch this.And I pissed myself. Not because I wasn’t toilet trained. I was. But because the shutdown was total.
It happened more than once. Until someone realised: if a shadow walked with me, I could move. I just needed to feel safe.
“Do you know how to use the toilet, Kevin?”
Nod.
“Are you sure?”
Nod.
“Kevin?”
Face screws up. Meltdown begins.Because repeating myself isn’t easy.
Because being asked the same question over and over triggers panic — not understanding.
Because autism doesn’t always mean “different.”
Sometimes it means done explaining.Asperger’s, and Erasure
The word came back: Asperger’s.
But instead of answers, it brought denial.“No. Our child is not retarded.”
That was the end of it. The diagnosis vanished. No support. No accommodation. No acknowledgement. It would not be spoken of again — not until decades later, when a dying woman muttered truths between her regrets.
The Father
“My son will not be a retard.”
“Don’t be a pussy boy.”
“Men don’t cry.”
“I’ll beat the man into you.”That was my father. A man who clung to the memory of a short stint in the army reserves like it made him something. Our house was a training ground. Discipline. Routine. Domination. I was a child. He treated me like a soldier.
I wasn’t broken.
The world was.
And I was being punished for not conforming to a world that refused to make space for difference."I’ve never asked to be treated differently.
– Me
I’ve only ever asked for the world to change — because we are different."
The memories are scattered — some vague, others sharp in feeling but blurred in detail.
They were likely buried, either by trauma or by survival instinct. I don’t know.But I know the pain. And I know the confusion.
My sister was three years older than me.
She was also harmed — I believe by our father. Whether she was told to act the way she did, or whether it was trauma acting through her, I can’t know.
She cut contact with the family years ago, blamed me, and vanished. I never understood why. Still don’t.One of my earliest memories is of an armchair in her bedroom.
I was hiding behind it — not from danger exactly, just… hiding.
She was there too. And she told me to do things.
I didn’t understand them. I was three. She was six.
I didn’t know what “right” or “wrong” was. Just that something felt off.I remember another setting — under the blankets.
Things happened there too. Things that happened more than once.
She gave me instructions I didn’t understand — not then, not fully even now.
She used words I didn’t know, told me to act out things I didn’t yet have a body for.I don’t know how long it went on.
I don’t know how often.
But I remember the pattern.
That’s how my brain holds things — not in sequence, but in repetition.This is what my earliest years looked like.
Not joy. Not laughter. Just confusion, pressure, obedience, and a sense of something being deeply wrong.I don’t have good memories until maybe age 10 or 11 — and even those are tangled in later pain.
But they exist, small as they are.
And I hold onto those few flecks of light — because on the dark days, they’re all I’ve got.
Each person below either viewed or connected during the live exposure of this site. These are not accusations — these are digital footprints.
Even after public links were severed, access from sharingsilence.carrd.co persisted. The Carrd link was saved — bookmarked or cached. Referrals to the .xyz domain came from inside Ruah systems. The link circulated after its removal — quietly, deliberately.
The path was erased. They walked it anyway.
Connection wasn’t an accident. It was a choice. Silence wasn’t ignorance — it was consent. They saw. And they stayed.
The network expands. Some watch. Some wait. But no one can say they weren’t warned.
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