Touch the Sun

by Emily Conolan

  Then a voice inside you says: The pen is mightier than the sword. You reach down to your pocket. Rahama’s pen is there. You whip it out and point it at Qasim, and his face drops in horror. He stumbles backwards, cowering. Then you shout the one word that you know will overthrow him forever.

  Freedom! you yell, and a blue forcefield blasts out of the tip of the pen. It hurls Qasim into the air with the force of a hurricane. The forcefield clears an open space in front of you, filled with shining blue light.

  After you wake up, you feel certain you’ll never have that nightmare again.

  ‘QUICK, QUICK!’ CRIES Jamilah’s voice.

  She’s running across the grassy oval near the dormitories towards you. It’s fantastic how strong and well she seems now.

  ‘Appointment! Immigration! Now!’ she shouts, and you jump up and run together to the same beige, boxy room where you first talked to Hilary six months ago.

  This time, Hilary’s face is glowing with good news. ‘Go and pack your things,’ she tells you both. ‘You have your visas, and we’re putting you on the next plane to Melbourne to live with your Uncle Aadan!’

  You and Jamilah throw your arms around each other. You whirl her around, nearly knocking over Hilary. You’re both cheering and sobbing with delight. Finally, it’s over.

  When you call Aadan, he’s overjoyed. ‘I have some more good news,’ he tells you.

  As soon as he reads the Somali news headline, you know what it means.

  ‘Bright Dream Orphanage Exposed: al-Shabaab’s Evil Scheme Busted.’

  You whoop and punch the air.

  ‘Now’s the time to start writing articles about it for the Australian media,’ Aadan tells you. ‘We can work on that when you get here.’

  That night, you are looking out the window of a plane bound for Melbourne. Jamilah’s sleepy head rests on your arm. The stars wink from the deep black sky.

  I wonder where Aunty Rahama is right now, you think. She’d be so proud of us. If she’s still alive, I hope the stars that shine on her are lucky ones.

  Your mind goes back to the poem you wrote and left on Christine’s desk as a parting gift.

  I WILL RISE

  A TRIBUTE TO MAYA ANGELOU

  You now lock me in detention

  And damage my hopes

  But that is like dust

  And one day I will rise.

  You may send me to other countries

  And shoot me with your words

  But one day I will rise.

  You may kill me

  With your hateful actions

  But that is like air

  And one day I will rise.

  I may have left a fear-filled life

  Full of horror

  But one day I will rise.

  Does my mind upset you

  So full of thoughts?

  I am an asylum seeker

  who seeks freedom.

  I don’t have anywhere else to go.

  Does it come as a surprise to you

  That no matter what

  You have done to me

  I will forgive you?

  Wherever you send me

  As long as I see the sun rise

  And the moon comes up

  I will rise.

  I will rise.

  To continue with the story, go to scene 40.

  To read a fact file on Australia’s immigration policy click here, then return to this page to continue with the story.

  You decide to try to swim for the rocks, and you point towards them in an attempt to instruct the woman with the baby to help you kick as hard as she can to help you along. Jamilah is struggling to breathe and can’t do any more than cling to the plastic drum.

  The woman, though, is scanning the water desperately. ‘Husband!’ she sobs to you in English. You feel horrified. The water is a churning soup of broken wood and splashing people.

  You know, though, that the woman’s husband would wish for his wife and baby to survive, so you take her chin, look into her panicked eyes, and say: ‘Swim.’

  She nods, and you start kicking in the direction of the rocks, somehow all managing to maintain a grip on the slippery plastic drum, the woman also grasping her baby and you grasping Jamilah to ensure neither slips off into the water. Your legs pump as if you’re running down the roads of Mogadishu.

  The waves try to toss you backwards, but you plough forward. Every so often you glimpse the rocks, but you don’t seem to be getting any closer. You turn back towards the wreck and realise you are now a long way from either. You fight down panic.

  Your muscles begin to cramp and burn, but you force them to fight on. Jamilah is breathing heavily, and her face is screwed up against the waves. You realise that she is kicking now too – never giving up.

  The woman with the baby is having a hard time holding up her child and fighting the weight of her heavy clothes. With a small cry, she loses her grip and slips from the drum.

  Instantly, you and Jamilah both let go of the drum and plunge towards her. You manage to get a handful of the woman’s clothes and lift her face and her baby’s up out of the water. The baby is spluttering and wailing, and you are relieved that he’s still alive and strong enough to cry.

  ‘The drum!’ shouts Jamilah. The sea has sucked it away from you – you see the moon-white blob of plastic disappear behind a black wave.

  ‘You keep holding her up!’ gasps Jamilah. ‘I’ll get it!’ She strikes out for the drum, her arms windmilling, her body rising and falling with the waves.

  You kick for all you’re worth to keep the woman afloat. She passes you the baby for a moment so that she can rip away her clothes and kick more freely. You pass back the baby, and look out into the water. There’s the plastic drum, even further away now – but where is Jamilah?

  You wait for only a split second, but it feels like an eternity, waiting for her head to reappear. When it doesn’t, you launch away from the woman and her baby, into the waves after your sister.

  It’s so hard to swim without anything to grab onto. Your limbs are churning through the water, grasping helplessly. You begin to sink.

  Jamilah. With an almighty kick, you manage to break the surface, grab some air, and then flail onwards. The waves push you up, then crush you down. You’ve lost all sense of direction. Is that white shape the moon, or the drum?

  You think you see a pair of shadowy legs kick past you – Jamilah’s? – and you make a grasp for them, but they’re gone.

  You fight, fight, fight. Your chances to snatch a breath get rarer; your limbs seize up in spasms. Water forces its way into your nose, making you choke, and when you gasp involuntarily, a cold flood of water comes rushing in. Your fingers grasp desperately. You look up to see that the waves have closed over your head, and that the star-speckled, choppy surface is drifting further away. Your lungs are burning.

  A dream you used to have as a small child flashes in your mind: You dive deep into the ocean at Lido Beach, away from the shore, and sink to the sandy bottom. You think you won’t be able to breathe, but you grow gills like a fish and liquid oxygen pours through you. It’s as if you’ve always had the ability to breathe underwater – a dormant connection to a fish-ancestor, which your body has only just remembered. You hear your mum’s voice, singing a watery lullaby. The white orb of the moon hangs overhead, with your sister clinging to it.

  The ocean pours into your lungs, and your eyes no longer see the moon. As your body drowns, in your mind you simply turn into a fish and swim away. The golden pen in your pocket is now just another shipwreck’s treasure.

  To return to your last choice and try again, go to scene 35.

  You can’t go against Aadan’s wishes. The boat journey is just too risky – and what might the Australian government do in their attempt to appear tougher?

  Imagine if you made it to Australia only to be sent back to Indonesia – or Somalia. Imagine if the Australians just decided to send the navy out to torpedo your boats and drown you
all.

  Aadan says that will never happen, but you grew up in a war zone, so you know it can and it might. You accepted long ago that your life is worthless to anyone who has any power.

  You decide to wait, and have faith that you will get a visa this way eventually.

  A FEW WEEKS later, you and Jamilah are sitting in the kitchen playing cards. A boat left last night, no new people have arrived yet, and Maryam and Majid have gone out shopping, so the only sounds are the slap, slap of cards and the whine of mosquitoes.

  Suddenly the door bangs open and Maryam staggers into the room. She’s clutching her chest, and her face is streaked with tears. You leap to your feet. Jamilah runs to her and holds her hand.

  ‘What is it?’ you exclaim. ‘Where’s Majid?’

  At first, Maryam can’t even get her words out between shuddering gasps. ‘Gone!’ she cries eventually. ‘Jail!’

  You feel a wave of cold horror drench you. The Indonesian police must have arrested Majid for being here without a visa. Maryam is lucky not to have been caught too. Jamilah looks at you in despair.

  ‘Majid,’ Maryam wails, and her voice swells like a song. ‘Majid, Majid, Majid…’

  ‘He’ll be okay, won’t he?’ Jamilah asks you quietly in Somali.

  ‘I don’t know,’ you reply.

  You’ve heard stories of the Indonesian jails – they’re crowded, violent and filthy. If Majid can’t bribe his way out – and you already know that he and Maryam are nearly broke – then he could be trapped for months.

  Another sound from Maryam pulls your attention back. It’s not just a sob: it’s a deep, earthy moan, coming from deep inside. Panting, she holds her belly.

  ‘No,’ she whispers. ‘No!’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ you ask. You look into her eyes. They are wet and bloodshot from tears, and right now they are also wide with fright.

  ‘The baby—’ she begins, and then another moan sweeps through her. She staggers backwards against the kitchen wall. Her knees crumple under her.

  ‘Help me catch her!’ you shout to Jamilah, and with one of you under each arm, you manage to ease Maryam down the hallway to her and Majid’s bedroom.

  Maryam drops to her hands and knees on the mattress on the floor, panting loudly. She starts rocking back and forth, keening again: ‘Majid…Majid…’

  ‘I think the baby’s coming,’ you say to Jamilah in horror. ‘What are we going to do? There’s no one here to help!’

  You’re turning back and forth on the spot, panic-stricken. Of all the impossible things you’ve had to do on this trip, this is the one you feel least prepared for.

  ‘I’m calling Budi,’ says Jamilah. ‘You…um, I don’t know… get some towels or something! And some water.’

  Your heart hammers as you run to the kitchen sink and fill a bowl with water. One of your earliest memories is of your hooyo giving birth to Jamilah. You weren’t there, of course – but the labour lasted two days and you believed she’d died. In the end, Hooyo lost so much blood that she very nearly did.

  Maryam is still on her hands and knees in the bedroom. Her eyes are clenched and her teeth are gritted. You steel yourself and go in. You kneel and dip a towel into the bowl of water, then gently press it to her red face.

  The pain seems to subside for a moment, and she looks into your eyes. ‘Please,’ she whispers, ‘help me!’

  ‘Of course I will,’ you promise. ‘I’m staying right here with you, and it’s going to be fine.’

  You can only pray that you’re right.

  Jamilah shouts from the next room: ‘Budi says he can find a midwife but we’ll have to pay her!’

  ‘Fine!’ you shout back. ‘But tell him to hurry!’

  Maryam is swept away by another wave of pain, and your stomach feels like it’s full of jumping frogs. How do women bear this? you think. Mothers must be the strongest people Allah ever created.

  The minutes tick into one hour, then two, and still the midwife doesn’t arrive. Maryam’s moans get deeper, like she’s pushing a wheelbarrow of rocks up a mountain.

  You go out into the hallway for a quick break, as Jamilah helps Maryam to remove some of her clothes. Blood is pounding in your ears. What if Maryam dies? What if the baby dies?

  Then a screech comes from the bedroom, like tyres on a wet road. You are at Maryam’s side in a flash.

  Jamilah shouts, ‘You’ll have to catch it, quick!’

  You can see a little bit of the baby’s head, with slick black hair, coming out. Maryam gives a roar that sounds like the earth itself tearing in two, and the baby’s whole head appears, facing downwards. Maryam gives a final, heaving yell, you cup your trembling hands, and the baby slips into your arms.

  You carefully flip it over. ‘You did it!’ you shout. ‘He’s just perfect.’ Maryam gives a happy sob.

  But something’s wrong. The baby is floppy. His skin is purple as a bruise. His little eyes are closed, and he makes no sound.

  In that moment, time stands still. There is too much silence. You will him to move, breathe, make a cry. But he just lies still in your arms.

  I have to tell Maryam that her baby’s dead, you think in horror.

  You glance at Jamilah. She is looking at the baby too, stricken. Maryam, still on her hands and knees, can’t see her child.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she cries. You can’t bear to tell her.

  Then your mother’s voice sounds from somewhere deep inside you. Get a towel, the voice says, and rub him, gently but vigorously. You wrap a towel around the gooey, limp body. Rub, rub, rub.

  Come on, you think, come on…Allah, please have mercy on Maryam and her baby.

  With a splutter, the baby squeaks and coughs. Instinctively, you roll him over so he’s facing the floor again, and you see fluid draining from his little mouth. He chokes, coughs again, then starts to cry in earnest. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

  You let out a sigh of relief bigger than a tidal wave. Warm tears run down your cheeks. You pass the baby boy to Maryam. There is still a cord running from the child’s belly to somewhere inside her body, and you hope that’s normal, at least for now.

  Maryam sits back against the wall, cradling her child, a love-drunk look of triumph and tenderness on her face. Jamilah scoots over to your side and gives you a huge hug.

  ‘We did it!’ you cheer. ‘I can’t believe it!’

  ‘Wow!’ is all Jamilah can say. There are tears on her face too.

  A few minutes later, Budi finally arrives with the midwife – a wrinkled woman with quick movements and a wispy white bun. She checks over the baby and Maryam, and you go out to the kitchen to have something to eat. When you come back, the midwife shakes your hand firmly in both of hers. She says something in Indonesian.

  ‘Fantastic,’ Budi translates into English. ‘She says you and Jamilah did a wonderful job.’

  You know that the real hero here is Maryam, but, nevertheless, you feel a rush of pride. Maryam passes the baby to Jamilah and wraps you in a strong, warm hug.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispers.

  OVER THE NEXT few weeks, then months, the elation fades as Majid fails to come home.

  You and Jamilah help as much as you can with baby Mahmoud’s baths and nappy changes, but it soon becomes clear that if Majid can’t get home soon, Maryam is going to fall apart from worry.

  ‘She barely sleeps,’ whispers Jamilah worriedly. ‘She barely eats. Mahmoud’s nearly two months old now, and she’s skin and bones.’

  Maryam mostly sits in her darkened room, staring at the wall, holding Mahmoud listlessly. She barely manages to smile or reply when you go in to talk to her.

  All the while, travellers come and go from the white house on the hill – although fewer people are arriving, and more are permanently stuck here, since the Australian government started sending asylum seekers to detention centres on remote islands.

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ you tell Jamilah. ‘I’m going to get Majid back.’
/>   You’ve talked about this before, but Maryam and Jamilah have always talked you out of it, because you might never come back.

  ‘You can’t!’ she cries. ‘Please don’t. You’ll be arrested too!’

  ‘Who cares!’ you cry back. ‘Jamilah, this whole system is just sick. Don’t you know that Majid and Maryam ran away from violence just like we did? They didn’t have anywhere else to go! They’ve been here for two-and-a-half years, and just over that ocean out there is Australia, a place we’ve all nearly died trying to get to, and the best they can do is leave us to rot in Indonesia or send us to some jail on a tiny island. To hell with that! I’m not going to sit here in fear anymore. Get me all the cash we have. Hopefully these jailers will take a bribe.’

  Armed with a hefty wad of Indonesian notes, you catch the bus into Jakarta. There, you find a tuktuk driver who speaks good English. He agrees to take you to the jail and, for an extra cost, translate for you.

  The jail is a grey, concrete box near the outskirts of town. At the front desk sits a bored-looking man in a green uniform.

  ‘Tell him I’m here to pay bail for the release of Majid Ahmadi,’ you say, trying to quell the trembling in your voice.

  ‘He wants to see your papers,’ says the tuktuk driver after a brief exchange in Indonesian.

  Your heart starts to hammer, but you will yourself to not back down now.

  ‘Tell him I have plenty of paper,’ you say, drawing some banknotes from your pocket. Then you put on an even more forceful voice, despite your nerves: ‘Now get me Majid Ahmadi. Or I’ll find someone else who will.’

  The green-uniformed guard regards you for a long while through narrowed brown eyes. At last he replies. ‘Bail is fifteen million rupiah,’ translates your driver.

  That’s an astronomical sum – more than this guard would earn in a year. You have two million rupiah in your pocket now, sent by Aadan last week; it’s meant to cover rent, food and phone calls for the next few months.

  Luckily, the guard is prepared to haggle, and eventually he gives a curt nod and disappears. You wait for ages, as guards walk by carrying handcuffs and batons, eyeing you suspiciously. Your heart is still racing.