by Sharon Bala
In her notebook, Grace scrawled out the letters IDP followed by a question mark.
No, the woman said. We would have died. There was not enough food or water. Every day people going missing.
I thought you said there was a fence, Grace said.
The army men. They took people. The woman dropped her head as she said this. Grace knew there was something she wasn’t saying.
Where were these people taken? Grace asked. Her shirt was soaked through now. She did up the buttons on her suit jacket, hoping no one would notice.
I don’t know. Men and boys were being disappeared.
Singh started to say something, but Grace cut her off. Let’s go back, Grace said. You crossed the lagoon and were met by the Sri Lankan Army. In your interview with Immigration, you said they gave you tea and medicine. Is this true?
Yes, the woman said. That is true.
And this was the Sinhalese. The people you called monsters.
They were kind to us then, yes. Those people were good.
Singh said: Naturally, in the midst of a war, the state’s efforts to safeguard its citizens are hamstrung. But the war has ended and the reasons for which the migrant sought protection have ceased to exist.
Gigovaz spoke up: People were going missing from a government-run refugee camp. Not only did the state fail to perform its duty, it in fact participated in the persecution of its own nationals.
The lawyers liked to hear themselves speak. They had been sidelined for the past two hours, and now, seeing their opportunity, they jumped on the chance to hold forth with their legalese.
Singh said: Sri Lanka is a democratic country with a rule of law. We’re not talking about a totalitarian state here.
A democratic country with a long history of human rights violations against its Tamil minority, Gigovaz said. In Mrs. Sokolingham’s case, there is a risk of persecution. Gigovaz was emphatic, punctuating his arguments with jabs of his pen.
Singh sat with her hands folded calmly in front of her, offering rebuttals with the blandness of a person stating the obvious. The risk of persecution must be real, not speculative, she said.
Enough, Grace said. She was weary of these two as well. She turned to the interpreter. Ask how much she paid the agent.
Fifty thousand rupees, the woman said.
We have intelligence that people paid as much as fifty thousand dollars, Singh said.
I only had fifty thousand, and that is what the agent took.
And when you say the agent, you mean the smuggler, Grace said.
Fred had told her about the smugglers. International criminal rings that got rich off duping humanitarian countries. Shady and large, they had tentacles all over the world. Difficult to find and impossible to bring to justice.
The woman said, To us, the smugglers were like Good Samaritans.
Grace wanted to slap her.
Singh said: It is the Minister’s opinion that the migrant is inadmissible on the grounds that she has aided and abetted a smuggling operation.
Grace said: I would tend to agree with you, Ms. Singh.
The woman’s eyes widened. She swivelled in her seat, frantic, and shouted something in her language.
The interpreter said: There was no choice! Those men, those army dogs!
The woman’s lawyers looked afraid. Their client had gone off the script and they had no control over what she said next. The reporters perked up.
The woman stifled a cry. Then she turned and faced Grace straight-on and yelled a string of invective, her rage breaking through the language barrier and slamming Grace hard in the chest. The woman’s hands, balled into fists, were pressed to either side of her head. Her expression was wild.
Grace was momentarily stunned by the vitriol spewed in her direction. She closed her eyes, humiliated, then told herself to stop being unprofessional. It was her job to adjudicate the truth, not be a grief counsellor. Abruptly, the woman stopped shouting and slapped a hand to her mouth.
We had to leave, the interpreter said in a quick, high voice.
The woman waved her arms to silence him.
Those dogs, the interpreter said. They hate us so much.
She vaulted across the table, her hands flailing at his mouth. The interpreter pushed back his chair.
Mr. Gigovaz! Grace yelled. Please restrain your client!
A dog. Grace had been called worse things in her life. She would not be intimidated by this woman’s tantrum.
The young lawyer pulled the woman away from the interpreter. She said something, but her microphone was off and Grace couldn’t tell for sure if she was even speaking in English. Now the three of them appeared to be having a side conversation in Tamil.
Grace slammed her hands on the desk and yelled, STOP!
There was an abrupt, contrite silence.
Mr. Blacker, Grace said. You are under oath to interpret faithfully. Please finish.
A dog. The insolence and disrespect. Grace would have it all repeated, in English, for the record.
The woman put her hands over her face and Blacker said: They raped my daughter.
The woman cried openly. Loud, gasping sobs projected in stereo. Gigovaz reached over and turned off her microphone. The rest of the room was still, everyone staring determinedly away from each other. Grace was confused. She tried to retrace the woman’s words. The dogs. Not a dog.
Finally, Singh spoke up. This testimony deviates from what was told to Immigration at the port of entry.
Grace spoke to the woman directly: Is this true? Was your daughter assaulted? She could not bring herself to say the word rape.
The woman shook her head no.
Mrs. Sokolingham, Gigovaz said. Just tell the truth. Don’t be afraid.
I do not know what happened, the woman said. She had turtled back into her sweater and was sniffling, swiping at her nose with her sleeve.
I know this is very difficult, Gigovaz said. Please, just tell us what you know.
The woman did not turn on her microphone when she spoke and Grace did not admonish her.
The interpreter cleared his throat. He said: Many of the army men were young. They must have been away from home, from their wives, for a long time. They liked to look at the girls in the camp. I saw things…girls standing at the fence and letting the guards do dirty things to them for presents.
Grace’s pulse raced. Meg’s scream came back to her.
They hated us, the woman said. But they were also men.
Grace wanted to put her fingers in her ears, order the woman to stop talking. She had asked the question, but now she didn’t want to hear any more.
They were always prowling around with their guns, the woman said. My daughters are fourteen and sixteen. I kept them inside the tent, but one night two men came. I tried to stop them. I tried to stop them, but they took my elder daughter…they took…Tara.
Meg screamed and the room tilted, blurring out of focus. Grace tensed and gripped the table, trying to master herself. There was no proof, none at all, that any of this was true. Her head cleared. The floor beneath her feet was concrete again.
When she looked back up, she saw the reporters. They were loving every minute of this. Grace could feel their excitement, the frenzied shorthand. They would print it up word for word. They took my daughter, the woman said, her voice flat, matter-of-fact. She came back in the morning. Her dress was torn. And those dogs, they had cut her hair.
All day the reporters had waited, patient through the bureaucratic monotony of detention reviews. And here, finally, was their reward: a perfect, sensational sound bite. Those dogs, they had cut her hair.
The woman spoke to the interpreter. Her voice was defiant. She didn’t need the microphone to be heard. The interpreter turned to Grace and said: Tell them, if they try to send us back, I will kill myself and my daughters. Better to die here in heaven than go back to hell.
Don’t you trust us?
The twins spent the whole ride trying to negotiate.
Ten thirty, Grace said, checking left then right before rolling past a stop sign. I’m not changing my mind.
Brianne leaned forward from the back seat. All the other kids are staying until the end.
None of your friends have curfews? Grace drove slowly, squinting at the street names.
It’s a grade eleven party, Meg said. She was seated next to Grace with her nose pressed to the window. Over there, Mom. On the right.
And you girls are in grade nine. In two years, we can extend your curfew a little longer.
The house was a modest two-storey on a tree-lined street that had traffic-calming circles in the middle of the road. Grace pulled up to the curb and put the car into park. The driveway was empty. Where are this boy’s parents?
Taylor’s a girl, Meg said. Her parents are at a concert or something. They’ll be back later.
The house was dark and quiet, betraying no hint of a bacchanalia. Are you sure it’s tonight? Grace asked.
Brianne’s seat belt shot up. Meg reached for the door handle. Yep. It’s tonight.
A light in an upstairs room – a bedroom – turned on. Grace clicked on the child safety locks. Wait, she said. How do you know this sixteen-year-old?
From band, Brianne said.
She’s second flute, Meg added.
Grace could feel their impatience, hovering just below the veneer of careful deference. Mom could change her mind at any moment, do a three-point turn and take them all home. Mom had been erratic lately; anything might set her off.
Grace weighed the odds. The benign blandness of the flute against the curtained glow in an upstairs bedroom.
A Mazda pulled into the driveway. Two boys emerged and Meg became very interested in something in her shoulder bag, letting her hair fall like a curtain around her face. The boys glanced at Grace’s car before loping up the walkway. She scrutinized the taller one. Hair flopped flat across his eyes and a pair of twiggy legs. Skinny jeans and red high-tops. He was young and vaguely effeminate, which Steve had told her was the trend.
Emo is safe, Steve had said. No daughter of mine is going out with a hockey player.
But these were still boys with boy parts and boy strength. She thought of the woman at the hearing saying, They hated us, but they were also men.
Don’t you trust us? Brianne said from the back.
It’s not you I’m worried about.
Mom, Brianne said. Nothing’s going to happen.
It’s just a house party, Meg added.
She heard the undertone of exasperation. Crazy Mom and her paranoia self-destroy-ya.
I don’t want you girls to feel like you have to hide anything from us, Grace said. If something happens tonight, for example. You can tell us. We’ll understand.
Like what? Meg asked, flicking her eyes to the dashboard clock.
Just…anything. Heat rose up Grace’s neck as she said this. She had not had the sex talk with the girls. She knew this was bad parenting – abdicating responsibility to the school system, to teachers and the locker room. The Internet. She tried again: If something happens that is confusing or maybe scary. You can come to us.
If there’s any trouble with the Doritos, we’ll let you know, Brianne said.
If we see something, we’ll say something. Meg smirked then seemed to remember the child safety locks. Sorry, Mom. Just…like, there’s nothing to, like, worry about. For reals.
It’s Taylor Barry’s basement, Brianne said. It’ll probably be totally lame anyway.
The front door of the house opened and a girl stepped out. Meg rolled down the window and called: On our way!
Mom, come on, Brianne said. This is embarrassing.
Yeah, we’re probably creeping everyone out just sitting here like weirdos.
Grace depressed the parking brake and clicked the button to release the locks. Okay, go. Have fun.
Thanks for the ride.
Ten thirty, Grace called as the doors slammed in unison.
She waited before pulling away from the curb, watching the girls run up the walk as if fleeing her. They stepped into the lit entryway, then the door closed behind them and Grace did not know what was happening inside.
—
Grace leaned against the bathroom doorway and watched Steve pack deodorant and toothpaste into a shaving bag. The window and mirror were steamed up, Steve’s wet hair plastered to his head. He wore plaid flannels and a Vancouver Canucks T-shirt.
He held out his shaving bag and made a face that was meant to be comical but came out as a grimace. Did I miss anything?
Grace crossed her arms and turned away. Surely you’re a pro by now.
Come on, he said, following her into the bedroom. Don’t be like that.
We had a deal, Steve.
This just came up. It’s work. They need me.
The truth was, Steve liked being away with the team, sticking her with the weekend shift. While he slept in and ordered room service, she’d be chauffeuring the girls all over God’s green earth, from violin lessons to swim practice to the grocery store for sleepover supplies.
On the bed, Steve’s clothes were laid out in neat stacks. He unzipped his duffle bag and began loading things in. A three-day junket in California. Knocking back a pint and cheering from the press box. Tough life.
And by the way, thanks for backing me up on this “family history” thing, she said, emphasizing the air quotes. It’s really great we can present a united front to the kids.
You’re the one who’s always saying they get too much screen time.
It’s not right, she said. Obaachan would have hated it. And my mother knows that.
Kumi won’t be with us forever, Steve said. That trip they made to Slocan back in August? That’s something the girls will remember for the rest of their lives. Haven’t you noticed how bonded they’ve become?
Grace had noticed all right. The three musketeers. They even sounded like Kumi, parroting everything she said. The government keeps minorities down. Remember how they treated us. This was exactly what Grace had feared would happen when they went prancing off to Slocan for the weekend. And now here they were donning the mantle of victimhood.
These are complex issues, she told Steve. They’re too young to understand.
Well, I for one am glad they’re spending time with their grandmother, he said. Instead of aimlessly wandering the mall. Anyway, questioning authority is part of growing up.
How convenient you’re never around to be questioned.
Grace had an adjoining room off the master bedroom that she used as her study. When it became clear Steve had nothing more to say, that he didn’t feel the need to defend himself, she returned to her work.
Before taking the girls to their party, she’d been reviewing the case she’d adjudicated that afternoon. Photos of the woman’s daughters lay on the desk. The younger one wore her hair in Anne Shirley braids. She was fourteen but looked eleven. There was something juvenile about her expression, as if she might still play with dolls. Every migrant had a photo like this, taken shortly after arriving at Esquimalt. Most had smiled for the camera in a perfunctory way, an upturn in the corners of the mouth that didn’t quite reach the eyes. But this girl’s grin was open and unguarded, displaying an unselfconscious delight the twins had lost after puberty.
The older girl was sixteen and had very dark skin, a deep notch clefting her chin. Tara. Grace pushed the name aside and focused on the photo. The girl faced the camera head-on, eyes narrowed in a glower of reproach. Or was it weariness? Grace scrutinized the girl’s expression, hoping to find some proof, of innocence or guilt, but all she saw was survival.
Grace knew she could call the girl in to give her testimony. She could order a psych evaluation. There were things Grace could do. What she wanted to do was forget about the case, about the whole boat and all these people.
Sisters gang-raped in front of brothers. Men brutalized until they became like animals. Colour photographs of battlefields, naked bodies contorted in pi
les, all limbs and breasts and wide-open eyes. Their personal horrors, true or false, had latched themselves on to her and she could not shake free. She missed her old job. Ferries and highways, dispassionate assessments.
Grace knew this was not the right way to make the decision. Mitchell Hurst, with his Kenyan wells and his cyclones in wherever, would not let personal feelings colour his judgment. Mitchell Hurst would compartmentalize. He would know that IDP stood for international displaced people, that IDP camps were refugee camps. He would not have had to consult the Internet. And if he wasn’t such a smug arse, she would solicit his counsel.
Mitchell had conducted the woman’s detention review that morning and caught up with Grace as she was finally leaving for the day. I’m ordering Mrs. Sokolingham’s release, he’d announced. We have to start letting these people go.
The galling thing about Mitchell was how well he could pronounce all these foreign, impossible names. Was he trying to sway her? Grace wasn’t going to be influenced by other adjudicators’ judgments.
The Tigers had pioneered suicide vests. Their IEDS were so impressive al Qaeda tried to buy the technology. One woman, pretending her bomb belt was a pregnancy, had conned her way into prenatal classes at a military hospital to get close to a high-ranking target. Grace could not be too careful.
She held the photos side by side. Though their features were different, the girls shared that intangible quality that marked them as sisters. Or this was all nonsense that Grace had been primed to believe. Who was to say they were even related?
The whole family had arrived without a scrap of identification. Had they destroyed their papers, if not on the boat, then before they left Sri Lanka? The cadre who had thrown her gun into the lagoon and run with them, maybe she was the “daughter” with the short hair.
These girls had been born into a country at war, in a place where children were given guns and taught to fight, where girls strapped on explosives and turned their bodies into weapons. A place where suicide bomber was the highest possible calling. They had lived unimaginable lives. While all the violence Meg and Brianne had ever known was confined to a video game.