Touch the Sun

by Emily Conolan

  When Majid finally appears, you gasp. He’s a walking skeleton – he looks even worse than Maryam. He moves gingerly, as though every movement hurts. But he manages to give you a gleaming smile.

  ‘I HAVE A present for you,’ you say to Maryam, standing in the doorway to her darkened room.

  When you step back to reveal Majid, she starts giving dry, shaking sobs of disbelief. Majid folds Maryam and Mahmoud into his arms, looking down at his son for the first time. With a lump in your throat, you slip away and leave them to it.

  That night, you call Aadan and there’s a fire in your belly. You still haven’t heard anything back from the UNHCR about your appointment, and it’s been six months since you arrived in Indonesia and registered your name with them.

  ‘If I won’t get on a boat, and I can’t get an appointment with the UNHCR, then I’m trapped in no-man’s-land,’ you tell him. ‘What happened to Majid could just as easily have happened to me, or even to Jamilah. Meanwhile, everything I found out about Bright Dream is gathering dust, while al-Shabaab continues their reign of terror. It’s driving me nuts!’

  You still carry the pen everywhere in your pocket, but the risks you took to keep it safe have amounted to nothing.

  ‘We talked about this,’ says Aadan. ‘It’s too risky to publish what you know until we can be sure that you, Jamilah and Rahama are in a safe country.’

  There’s still been no sign of Aunty Rahama. The first rush of hope faded long ago, and now you’re all trying to fight back the creeping, despairing fear that maybe she didn’t make it after all.

  You think about the fact that although you’ve been stuck here for months now, in some ways you’ve come further than you could have imagined. You saved baby Mahmoud’s life, after all, and you brought Majid back to his family.

  ‘I don’t care anymore,’ you tell Aadan. ‘I’m going to go ahead and put the story out there.’

  Despite his protests, you go down to the internet cafe the next day and spend hours writing your story. Then with Majid’s help, you attach all the files on the pen and email it to the major Kenyan, Somali and international news agencies.

  You know news of your location might filter back to al-Shabaab if the story’s published, and you know it’s possible they’ll have related terrorist gangs here in Indonesia they could use to target you. Nevertheless, you’re ready to strike your final blow to this monster that’s been shadowing you ever since the bomb blast at the broadcasting building in Mogadishu.

  You punch ‘send’ and close your eyes in triumph.

  A FEW DAYS tick by with no reply. Then, suddenly, your phone and email start running hot. One agency picked up the story, the others caught the scent, and it has now snowballed into a major news item.

  One call is different from the rest – it’s the UNHCR office in Jakarta, where your papers were registered all those months ago. They want you and Jamilah to come into the office as soon as possible.

  When the two of you get there, the waiting room is as crowded as before, but this time an Indonesian woman comes to fetch you. She has a long black ponytail and poppy-red lipstick, and the nametag on her crisp white shirt says ‘Rika’.

  In Rika’s air-conditioned office, a beefy man with a sunburnt nose is sitting in a chair that’s too small for him. He rises to greet you with a handshake.

  ‘Barry Mackenzie,’ he says in English. ‘From Interpol – the international police.’

  You’re not sure what to say.

  ‘So,’ he goes on, ‘you’re the young journo who’s been making these claims, eh? Orders from head office were to come and check it out.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong … have I?’ you ask.

  Are you in trouble? You glance at Jamilah. She shrugs, looking worried.

  ‘No, nothing like that, not at all. You’ve done a good thing, son. Could be the information we need to track down some of these bast— ahem, criminal suspects once and for all.’

  He asks to see the pen, which by now is famous from being described in all the news reports. He whistles, impressed, as you draw it from your pocket.

  You’re reluctant to hand it over. ‘I’ve been through so much for this pen,’ you murmur. ‘But we still haven’t got it to safety in Australia.’

  Barry nods slowly. ‘Indonesia’s not the safest place for a pair of kids, particularly ones with a bent for stirring up hornet’s nests,’ he agrees.

  He leans towards Rika and murmurs in her ear. She considers a moment, then begins tapping at her keyboard.

  ‘All we want is a visa so we can live with our Uncle Aadan in Australia,’ says Jamilah.

  You nod, then add boldly: ‘And we won’t leave this office until we’re sure we have your protection.’

  ‘Can you step out to the waiting room, please?’ asks Rika sharply, not looking up from her computer.

  You’re worried you’ve blown it, but Barry gives you a wink as you leave the room.

  After an hour of waiting, you and Jamilah are called back one at a time and asked to tell Barry and Rika your story in detail. Then you’re sent back to the waiting room, for a further six hours.

  The waiting room is empty and night has fallen when at last Rika and Barry emerge, looking browbeaten but satisfied.

  ‘We did it,’ says Barry. ‘Pulled every string I could for you kids.’

  ‘What did you do?’ you ask with bated breath. You don’t dare to hope they might have pulled off the impossible …

  ‘Two emergency rescue visas,’ says Rika proudly. ‘And a flight to Melbourne that leaves in the morning!’

  Jamilah drops to her knees. You start to sob.

  ‘Thank you,’ you manage to say, though these two words are not enough to cover your overwhelming gratitude.

  We’re saved! We can live with Aadan. We’re going to be okay.

  In the next moment, you realise you’ll be leaving Maryam, Majid and Mahmoud to their neverending hell, and your shoulders begin to shake as grief rises up to mingle with your joy.

  THE NEXT MORNING, you lean your face against the cold window inside the plane. Jamilah sits beside you, gazing into the distance with a dreamy, sad smile.

  Saying goodbye to your beloved friends and their baby was agony. As you watch the sun rise through the clouds, you think of the poem you wrote last night, and pressed into Majid’s hands first thing this morning as a parting gift.

  TO THE ONES I LEFT BEHIND

  The pain and suffering that you are all going through,

  I didn’t forget.

  The guerrilla war and the loss of your loved ones,

  I didn’t forget.

  The mothers who lost their sons and husbands,

  I didn’t forget.

  The boys and girls that were mistreated,

  I didn’t forget.

  The breaking up of families, unable to communicate,

  I didn’t forget.

  The enemies who killed all the important people,

  I didn’t forget.

  Our home that turned into fire,

  I didn’t forget.

  Our civilians who were forgotten in the refugee camps,

  I didn’t forget.

  The ones who are going by boats and risking their lives,

  I didn’t forget.

  The ones held in detention for uncountable months,

  I didn’t forget.

  The children with no one to care about their education or future,

  I didn’t forget.

  My dear mother and father, aunty and friends, I didn’t forget you either.

  One day I will come back and change our home with my knowledge.

  Thank you, New Country, for giving me a chance to live again.

  I’m a child of Africa, but I will be a man of Australia.

  To continue with the story, go to scene 40.

  The next time Budi visits the white house on the hill, you tell him you’re ready to leave, as soon as possible.

  When the evening of your departu
re comes, Maryam gives you bags laden with her favourite Iranian dishes.

  Majid grips your forearm in a brother’s handshake and pulls you into a hug. ‘You saved my sister’s life,’ you tell him.

  Jamilah embraces Maryam, then plants a little kiss on her round belly.

  Everyone is wiping away tears.

  At the coast, you smell the sea before you reach it, briny and crisp. Your stomach bubbles with anticipation. The smell takes you back to the shores of Lido Beach, home in Mogadishu.

  This ocean is no different, you tell yourself. Don’t be scared. Just one more trip, and we’ll be in Australia.

  IN BRIGHTLY LIT living rooms across Australia, headlines blare on the evening news.

  Flood of asylum seekers: number of boat arrivals reaches record high.

  One hundred and fifty-four boat people drowned at sea so far this year.

  Stop the boats.

  THE BOAT RIDE is a terrible nightmare.

  You’re on a fishing boat suited to twenty or so people, with nearly one hundred aboard. The waves bounce and heave. Children whimper, and the engine revs with its heavy load. Your face is crusted with salt spray; your stomach churns. Jamilah clings to you, crying. You vomit over the side, your clothes soaked with acidic yellow spew – again and again. You pray it will be over soon.

  THERE’S NO SHADE . Your head throbs. Your skin is tight. Your sleep is black, dreamless. Others on board are kind to you, and you are weak with gratitude. And still it is not over.

  THE SKY BURNS bright-blue. The air is oddly quiet. The waves slap the hull.

  There is no engine noise.

  The engine’s dead. You’re just drifting.

  IN AUSTRALIA, THE headlines blare on.

  Labor has lost control of Australia’s borders.

  More riots feared at Villawood Detention Centre.

  Stop the boats.

  THERE’S NO MEASURE of how far you’ve drifted, where in the ocean you are; blue sky and blue sea blur into a blinding, endless whole. There are no flares, no radio to signal for help. There is no food, and not enough water left.

  You’d sooner throw yourself overboard and drown than die agonisingly of thirst.

  The sun sizzles your skin. The salt makes you burn and itch madly. Jamilah is unconscious. If I jump overboard to escape this hell, will I take her with me?

  And still it goes on.

  YOU ARE RESCUED by the Australian navy. Through your weakness and your pain, you feel a huge bubble of triumph rise inside you. People all around you are sobbing with joy and giving prayers of thanks.

  When the navy ship is close enough, smaller dinghies launch from the big ship. A uniformed navy officer with a square chin and kind blue eyes helps you and Jamilah onto his smaller craft. You shake his hand and offer your thanks.

  You’ve truly been saved. Relief washes over you. All the risks we took, you think, and all the decisions we had to make were worth it. We survived.

  But you thought too soon. They aren’t planning to take you to safety at all.

  POLICE FOIL ANOTHER Islamic terrorist bomb threat, scream the headlines.

  Pacific Island detention centres to be reopened.

  ‘That’ll teach them,’ say the mums and the dads in Australia, satisfied. ‘Teach them that they can’t come here illegally.’

  Stop the boats.

  Stop the boats.

  Stop the boats.

  YOU ARE SEPARATED from Jamilah. She is taken to a detention centre on Christmas Island, which is part of Australia, but you are sent to Nauru. This one little island is its own country, not part of Australia. Nauru. You never even knew it existed. Maybe the rest of the world doesn’t know it exists either.

  In Nauru, there is nothing to sleep in but stifling hot army tents. There is white shale rock underfoot, and wire fences encircle the camp.

  You are frantic with worry. Why can’t I be with my sister? When can I go to Australia? All the other asylum seekers here seem to be adult men, although there are a couple who look young, like you.

  ‘I don’t think I’m meant to be here,’ you try explaining to the staff. ‘I’m not an adult. I’m only fourteen. I need to be with my sister!’

  The staff say they’ll look into it, but then they rush off to the next crisis, and you never hear back from them.You only hear rumours from the other men that the law has changed, Australia is trying to keep boat arrivals out, and you might be here forever.

  They can’t keep me here forever! you think. Australians are good people, and they have fair laws. They wouldn’t let this happen.

  Yet all around you come the sounds of hasty construction, as the contractors struggle to get the detention centre ready for hundreds more refugees yet to arrive.

  THERE IS ONE staff member here who seems to want to get to know you. His name is Mark, and he works for the Salvation Army. He says that the database here has you listed as eighteen years old. He’s frustrated because he can’t get any of his superiors to admit that there’s been a mistake.

  ‘I have to get out of here,’ you tell him. ‘I have to get my family back together. One day, I want to be a journalist. I want to bring down al-Shabaab!’

  I need freedom, you think, day and night. You thirst for it, as badly as you longed for water when you walked out of Dadaab. I can’t reach any of my dreams if I don’t have freedom.

  You write a poem and give it to Mark the next day.

  FREEDOM FOR EDUCATION

  Born in endless war

  Searching for food inside a gun

  Poor people die.

  What I have seen stays in my memories.

  Growing up in such hard life

  With no rights for young or old.

  Learning is filled with fears.

  Just knowing education is best.

  Day and night fight

  That is my home

  All I have known

  Where I got grown

  The world is full of lessons.

  Out of the darkness

  I have come the farthest.

  Among the hardest

  We survived

  Arrived

  In a peace-full world

  But I heard them say

  We send them to Nauru

  That is what they say.

  That was their answer.

  I need freedom to forget the past.

  We need freedom,

  A chance to learn,

  Not to be returned

  To face death.

  We patiently wait.

  When will we be free?

  Is the beautiful day far away?

  With pain-full words I say:

  Give us a visa.

  Look at our situations.

  Imagine our problems.

  Everyone needs freedom.

  Mark takes your poem and reads it thoughtfully. The next day, he reappears.

  ‘I put your poem up on my Facebook page,’ he says. ‘It’s going gangbusters. Seven hundred shares already!’

  Mark has to explain to you what ‘Facebook’, ‘gangbusters’ and ‘seven hundred shares’ mean before you understand that people are reading your poem. Hundreds of people, whom you’ve never met. People who vote. Australian people.

  If the government sent you to Nauru because the Australian people wanted it, couldn’t they bring you to Australia if the people change their minds? You ask Mark.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ he says.

  The very next day, Mark tells you that he was nearly sacked for posting your poem online, so he won’t be able to do it again.

  But he’s shown you that your words have power. You just have to keep getting them out there, somehow, any way you can, and maybe one day they’ll get you out of here, too.

  AS THE WEEKS drag by, Nauru begins to feel more and more like a pot with a heavy lid on it – nearly bursting with frustration and heat.

  Some of the men in the camp hold a protest, but you’re afraid to join in. You don’t know what they do to troubl
emakers here. Could it damage your chances for a visa? Do you even have a chance for a visa? Why won’t anyone tell you the truth?

  You are hiding in a tent nearby. You hear a man with a megaphone make an announcement to the protesters.

  ‘Nobody is forcing you to stay here. If you wish to return to your own country, the Australian government will pay for your flight home.’

  His words are met with howls of derision and anger. Slowly, they begin to sink into your mind.

  You imagine being flown back to Mogadishu, and beginning the cat-and-mouse game with al-Shabaab all over again.

  This man obviously has no idea what any of you are facing, should you return.

  And suddenly, you understand – really understand. You’re trapped.

  To return to your last decision and try again, go to scene 34.

  ‘It’s been a long path, from Mogadishu to Melbourne,’ you say. You look down at your hands resting on the speaker’s lectern. They are the hands of a young man.

  These hands hold steering wheels and microphones; they press buttons in lifts and type a hundred words per minute. But they are still the same hands that carried a gun across the desert; wiped the sweat from Jamilah’s brow; installed plastic-bottle lights in Dadaab; gripped the deck of a boat, and the sides of a truck, on your quest for freedom.

  The screen behind you on the stage shows the cover of your book, From Mogadishu to Melbourne, featuring the cover of those same hands again – yours – holding Aunty Rahama’s golden pen.

  ‘There were so many times that my life was in danger,’ you say. You are speaking to a packed high school assembly. Hundreds of faces watch you in amazement. Your story is unlike anything they’ve heard before.

  ‘Al-Shabaab – that’s the terrorist group that controlled much of Somalia and is still a terrible threat today – wanted me dead. But there were two things I had to live for: my sister, Jamilah, and this pen.’