When I first decided to spend a year as a student in Australia I thought about all the cultural experiences I wanted to have. I looked forward to snorkelling the reef. I wanted to bushwalk in the Outback. I thought it might be fun to pet a kangaroo. Spending several months involved with the juvenile justice system wasn't on my list.

Youth crime wasn't pictured in my brochures or written up in Lonely Planet. But then I should have known that becoming fully immersed in another culture wouldn't be as simple as opening an account at ANZ and getting a pre-paid mobile. So instead of spending the day sunning at Bondi or touring the Hunter Valley, I'm going to court.

I always expected courthouses to be forbidding, imposing. But the Bindura Children's Court in Glebe, where I have been subpoenaed, could be mistaken for a bed and breakfast.

The main administration building is a two-storey house with yellow and green awnings, set back from the street. The colourful flowerbeds and orderly front lawn remind me more of a trip to grandma's house than the big house. Once I pass through the metal detector a security guard smiles and shows me to the witness room. This is my first time inside a courthouse for anything other than jury duty.

The guardian of the room, a hunched and wobbly older woman with a cane, asks if she can get me 'a lovely cuppa'. I decline, and she treats me to a story about the new carpet instead. She calls me 'dear' and asks if I wouldn't at least like a nice biscuit.

An hour goes by and there's some confusion as to whether the defendant is coming or if he had to go to school. The constable in charge of my case checks in with me every few minutes until I'm finally called into the courtroom. The female judge waits until I'm seated behind the prosecuting attorney, who I just met this morning. He's representing my case on behalf of the state. I wouldn't have pressed charges on my own.

A 14-year-old boy is slouched in a chair on the other side of the small room. He's in jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and worn sneakers. I never would have recognised him. There's no reason that I should. The last time I saw him it was from the back of a police car, where I ID'd him as the boy who mugged me just an hour earlier. It was a Friday night and I was headed out to meet a friend around 7:00, in a well-lit, populated area. I saw two boys riding their bicycles directly toward me, but thought they planned to swerve at the last minute, just to give me a scare. Instead, the one in front grabbed my purse as he swooped by. My right hand sustained a few small cuts and my ring finger had to be snapped back straight. It all happened so quickly that I hardly saw his face, but I ran after him and took note of his large size, bright blue baseball cap and black jacket.

In 2003-2004, for every 1000 people aged 10-17 residing in NSW: 9.3 had a criminal matter finalized in the Children's Court 5.6 were convicted and/or sentenced in these finalized matters 2.86 were given sentences requiring the department to supervise them in their community 0.6 were sentenced to detention Source: Department of Juvenile CCIS Ad-hoc Report and 2001 Census Data from the Australian Bureau of Statistics.

That was almost nine months ago. Looking at him now, he seems smaller. His baseball cap is gone, tied up in an orange plastic bag along with his jacket as evidence - the clothes I identified in my statement, the ones that made me sure it was him. Now I wondered if that jacket in the orange bag was the only one he had.

The night before, as I set out my good suit jacket and slacks and got my statement and other papers together to re-read, I thought about what my mugger might be doing to prepare for court.

Was he scared? Would he wear a tie? Was his mother ironing a good shirt for him? Was it new? Did he only have hand-me-downs? Would someone wake him up in the morning and help him to get ready? Did his family even know he had a court date? I couldn't begin to imagine what his home might be like.

For weeks after the mugging I had to keep retelling the story to everyone I knew, plus credit card companies, bank managers, mobile phone customer service people and anyone else I had to deal with to put my life back in order. The part I hated describing most was how we found the kid.

I tried to leave it out but people would always ask, "How did they catch him? Where was he?" When I replied, "Redfern", the next question was inevitably, "Is he Aboriginal?" I cringed every time I had to say he was. After that some people would grin as if to say, "Well that explains it", while others shook their heads, disappointed that their stereotype was confirmed.

It made me sad either way. His background shouldn't have mattered, but it did. It made my simple mugging into some kind of political statement. But maybe it was just my liberal views making him the victim. Maybe he really was just a punk.

In the courtroom, his lawyer, a pony-tailed man from legal aid, reads out a brief bio. My mugger is the oldest of five children. He lives with his mother. He attends a special school in Redfern just three days a week, and hasn't had any other offences since the night of the mugging. There is no father in the picture.

As the lawyer talked I watched the boy's mother, sitting in the row behind her son. She was very small, bony even. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun. She wore blue sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt. She looked hunched and tired, worn out, like someone always struggling to stay afloat. But she was here, and she looked concerned, and that had to mean something.

Earlier, in the hallway, my lawyer asked if I wanted to be part of the sentencing process by taking part in a youth justice conference. If I agreed to participate, the case would be sent to a mediation centre where the young man and I would sit down together with a counsellor. I would tell him how his actions affected me. He would have to admit to the crime and apologise to me. It's a touchy-feely sort of justice, pioneered in New Zealand as a result of Maori concerns about the traditional court process.

New South Wales first began holding the conferences in 1997 after passing the Young Offenders Act and now holds up to 1600 a year. About 65% of victims agree to take part in the conferences and the others are held without them. It's an option for crimes that are too severe for a caution or warning, like vandalism and theft, but not serious enough for detention, like sexual assault or drug offences.

My lawyer says that young offenders who are forced to identify with their victims are less likely to re-enter the criminal system. I say I'll do it. Now that our paths have crossed and he's forced his life into mine, I feel like I have a responsibility to do what's best for this kid.

After court is adjourned my lawyer thanks me for agreeing to the mediation and says it was a good option in this case.

"The kid's a little shit, but you never know. They usually wind up crying at the end of these things."

I am a victim. I know I am because people keep telling me so. The police called me 'the victim'. The judge called me 'the victim'. The counsellor who rings to schedule the youth justice conference asks if she is speaking with 'the victim'.

It jars me every time I hear it because I have trouble seeing myself this way.

Immediately after the mugging, I was 'the shocked'. That night, missing out on dinner plans and a party I was supposed to attend, I was 'the annoyed'. Over the weekend, with all of my credit cards, mobile and house keys gone, I was 'the inconvenienced'. But I never saw myself as a victim. Yet that's what they all insist on calling me, and eventually, through the language of bureaucracy and forms, I do begin to feel victimised.

The boy, on the other hand, is not labelled 'the mugger' or 'the deviant' or 'the criminal'. No. He is 'the young offender' as if his crime was incessant swearing or wearing an inappropriate t-shirt. The stigma has been taken away from him, so I wonder, if he's an offender, can't I simply be 'the offended'?

The most recent reminder I've had of my victim status is the Youth Justice Conference notification that was mailed to me. The cover letter signed by Conference Administrator/Manager Michael Dyer states, "I have been informed that you are the victim of this offence. As the victim, you are entitled to meet the young offender and to seek resolution for the harms you have suffered because of the offence."

I hadn't realised that I was suffering, so this is new information for me. Maybe I've somehow blocked out my pain and need to reconnect with it.

The "Information for Victims" handout is more warm and fuzzy. It explains that during a youth justice conference, "the emphasis is on healing the hurt and overcoming offending behaviour rather than handing out punishment."

Now that I know I've suffered, "healing the hurt" sounds like a great idea.

The handout says I'm supposed to ask myself, "What action by the young person would heal the hurt she or he has caused to me, and the community." Well, gosh. Yard work probably isn't what they had in mind. Maybe having him earn the money to pay me back the whopping $15 that was in my wallet, but no, I don't want that either.

The thing is, I know that he hasn't caused me as much hurt as he's caused himself. He's gotten himself a juvenile record. He has spent months dealing with police officers and lawyers and court dates. And while 28% of offenders who take part in one of these conferences never re-enter the justice system, 72% do, so maybe this was just his gateway crime.

I've never studied child psychology or juvenile crime. I don't know what he needs. If I had to guess, I would say what he needs is a plan, somewhere to go, something to do with himself. He needs someone to check up on him. Not a parole officer, but a mentor, someone to help him make the right choices, someone who can give him hope.

The court doesn't hand out guardian angels though, so I try to think of the next best thing. Nothing comes to mind. I've never been a teenage boy, or a young offender, and I have no idea what to do with either. I'm hoping somebody more qualified will.

I meet with Liz Brown, my appointed conference convenor, at a coffee shop which, coincidentally, is just across the street from the scene of the crime. It is required that the convenor meet with the victim in a neutral place to give them more information about the conference and prepare them for the encounter.

Liz began her career working in juvenile detention centres in the early 90s and has just recently completed the training required to mediate the conferences between victims and young offenders. In fact, this is her first. She's excited about this opportunity to keep more kids out of the detention centres, allowing them to remain with their families, and seems very concerned with the "healing" part of the process.

"Really, we want you to feel like you have closure with this," she tells me.

"It was nine months ago, I feel pretty closed," I say.

"Yes, you seem pretty together," she laughs, then shrugs her shoulders apologetically. "I can still offer you this pamphlet." She hands me an olive green paper that lists phone numbers for counselling hotlines and information about how I should be feeling.

I ask Liz if she has met the boy yet, or if she knows much about him. She hasn't met him, and hasn't actually had time to read the whole case file either, other than to get the basics down. There are more than 30 caseworkers handling youth conferences just in the Sydney area, around 400 in New South Wales altogether, and they all stay busy.

"Is there that much youth crime?" I ask her.

"Unfortunately, yes," she says. She looks a little defeated for a moment, shaking her head at the thought of it, but then smiles again and asks me to give her the dates when I will be available for the conference. I am amazed by this resilience, the fact that she has worked in juvenile crime for years but can continue to be cheery and optimistic about the process.

Before rushing to her next appointment Liz asks me to think about what punishment, or "outcomes" I would like to discuss at the conference. I ask her about counselling or mentoring. I feel petty demanding that he do community service because I spent a weekend without a credit card, when the bigger issue could be that his home life is dysfunctional.

"Well, that could be something that comes out during the discussion, and we'll take it all into consideration," she says.

It all sounds happy and nice, and I do believe Liz is doing her best to help, but I start to think that even after all this time and effort, this kid could still fall through the cracks, and never have anybody really hear him. I'll have to wait until our meeting to find out.

The afternoon of our conference I walk from Central Station down Elizabeth Street, crossing to the other side of Cleveland Street into Redfern. The PCYC building is just a few blocks in. I find Liz in a bright blue and yellow classroom she's setting up for us. Six chairs are arranged in a circle. Biscuits and tea bags are on a table behind us.

The boy arrives next, just walks into the room. After weeks of waiting it's all very anti-climactic. I thought maybe they would keep us separate rooms until the meeting started, but really there's no point. He's not dangerous and I'm not threatened. Liz introduces us and he says hello. I smile and he sits down at a computer and fiddles around with it while we wait.

His mother comes in. When we are introduced she shakes my hand and hers feels cold and weak. I notice a large bruise under her right eye and my stomach turns. I don't know anything about this family. I feel out of place, far from the middle-class California suburbs I grew up in where the most controversial social issue was how to separate your recycling.

The boy's teacher and a large, muscular constable join us. We all take our seats and Liz gets started. She is careful to make sure that we each have our say while the others listen quietly, but the rules and etiquette of it all make the setting too formal and get in the way of any real communication.

The boy says little, not out of pride or arrogance, but because he's 14 and has a room full of authority figures staring at him. Every now and then he looks at me, briefly. He's not angry. He seems more curious. His eyes look me over like maybe he's never seen an American up close before.

I tell him about that night, what I did, how I felt. I don't know if it makes a difference. Maybe yelling and getting angry would have more of an effect, but my voice shakes a little from emotion and I don't talk for long.

His mother apologises to me. I didn't want her to. She wants him to learn from this, to do better. The constable says he's known the young man for more than a year and was shocked to learn he'd done this. He tells him to stay on track and accept help and guidance from the people who are here looking out for him. His teacher says he's a good kid with almost perfect attendance. He's just completed a five-week chef course and did well in it. She helps him write an apology and reads it to me.

I thank him and wish him luck with his school program. We sign a few documents indicating that the conference took place without incident and the boy has to sign a contract agreeing to stay in school and out of trouble. We leave the biscuits uneaten, and put the tables and chairs back in place, turning the space into a classroom again.

Liz offers me a ride back into the city and I'm relieved not to have to walk back as it's beginning to get dark. "Will it work?" I ask. "Do you think he'll do ok?" She doesn't know. Some do, some don't. She says it doesn't help that a lot of teenagers know people in jail, so that it doesn't seem like a scary place to them.

The Department of Juvenile Justice Annual Report states that Aboriginal people are over-represented in the NSW juvenile justice system, making up around 40% of the detention centre population. She says he might have a friend or family member there already.

I try to picture him in jail, but he seems too young to go someplace so hard, someplace where the walls aren't painted in rainbow colours. I see him in a chef's hat instead, working in a kitchen, making friends, having some money to bring home to his family. I wonder which picture of himself he has.

"Well, enjoy the rest of your time in Australia!" Liz says. I thank her and she drives off, leaving me in the middle of the city. Darling Harbour is to the west, the Opera House straight ahead, my place near the beach to the east. I think about all of the sights on my list of things to see in Australia, the people I wanted to meet: Surfers and bushmen and backpackers. But not this kid. It doesn't matter what I planned though. He may not have a page in my photo album, but he's the one who will stay with me the longest.