The Boat People

by Sharon Bala

  You must go, Chithra’s mother said.

  Take the children to safety, Chithra’s father agreed. We are old. You must leave us.

  They spoke quietly, all of them leaning into the circle, holding their hands to the fire as if to keep warm.

  They will shoot us if we try, Ruksala said.

  The Tigers had cadres stationed along the length of the lagoon. People said they were firing at defectors. But there were other rumours too. People spoke of a counter-strike, another Tiger victory to embarrass the government. The United Nations convoy had revived hope of international intervention. Standing in the food line, Mahindan had heard an old man weep: Will no one help us? But the convoy had left and Mahindan knew in his heart no one else was coming.

  Anyway, we will die, Chithra’s father said. Carry the children. Run fast. Go to the army.

  Do it first thing in the morning, his wife agreed.

  There were land mines in the jungle and there would be more shelling. And then, of course, even if they made it, there would be the Sinhalese.

  We do not know, Mahindan said, what it will be like over there.

  Might be safer on the government side, Ruksala said. Might be more dangerous.

  Mahindan watched his son, straddled on the wooden board, suspended in mid-air. He’d long ago lost track of the days but thought it might be May now, maybe even Sellian’s birthday. The see-saw was painted in camouflage with a tiger-stripe pattern. There was a wooden toy rifle affixed to each grip. The boys were playing their favourite game: Lions and Tigers.

  Tamil Eelam! Prem shouted. We will have freedom!

  Sellian imitated the juddering blasts of an AK-47. I will rape your mothers, he yelled to his cousin. I will eat your dirty Tamil babies.

  There is no reason to worry. The cadre’s voice came to them again, magnified over the cacophony. The Tigers will protect you. You are safe here.

  They watched her pick her way around playground equipment and cooking fires. Bits of bright silk and paisley fluttered in the breeze. Children had made kites out of palm fronds and sari scraps. One had got caught in a tree and a boy climbed up to retrieve it, feet spread apart, bare toes gripping bark. His mother stood below with her arms out. Come down, she called. Aiyo! This child! You will fall and break your neck and then you will die!

  Let us not speak of this now, Ruksala said. Tomorrow we will take a decision.

  Mahindan pitched his tent in the last of the evening light. A million stars shone in the sky. This was the tent he had inherited from his father. As a boy, he had strapped it to the back of his bicycle and gone to the ocean with his cousins. They had camped on the beach and woken up covered in bites, angry red bumps all over their arms and legs. At home, the mothers had yelled: Look what these foolish children have done now!

  Life was always high drama. The mothers were martyrs and their sons were visaran, tiny lunatics, fashioning trouble from mud and sticks and garden snakes. But in unexpected moments, the mothers would soften. Frying onions or pumping water, they would suddenly pull the boys against them and squeeze until they yelped. Amma! I can’t breathe!

  Sellian stumped over, his whole body sinking under the weight of exhaustion. The rush and excitement of a cooked meal and the see-saw had faded and he was ready for sleep. They called good night to the others in the tents beside them and Chithra’s mother blew a kiss. Ruksala’s eyes were red and raw. The gunfire had gone silent, but they could still hear the drone high in the sky. Mahindan lay with Sellian in his arms, wishing Chithra was with them and thankful she was not. He was asleep in moments.

  —

  A scream pierced his dreams. Mahindan clutched his son instinctively. Shells and rockets crashed all around, the ground under them quaking. Shouts of fear and anguish were drowned out by the whistle of incoming fire and the thud of falling debris. The tent shook. Mahindan was terrified it would come unmoored.

  Sellian whimpered. His eyes were wide open, blinking with panic. Mahindan kept his arms tight around his son. His son who was still whole and unharmed. Every second was another scrap of life. Every second, they were both one moment closer to death.

  The shelling went on for hours. Sellian would drop into sleep only to be jerked back awake by a crash. Mahindan rubbed circles on his back. He felt the wild thumping of his own heart, clamouring to be free of his body. He was desperate to know if the others were safe. People were dying all around them. Let it be fast, he prayed, holding his son. Let it be fast.

  All these months they had spent limping across the country. What had it been for when now, at the end, they were all consigned to share this ignominious death? Here, huddled like animals, in an open graveyard. Pawns for the Tigers. Spoils for the Lions.

  A shell exploded so close the whole tent shuddered. There was an almighty boom, then a bright orange flash, and for a split second everything was illuminated: the blue mat under them and the small brown suitcase. On the walls of the tent, the outside world was reflected in grotesque shadows. Shapes flung through the air. Then both sight and sound were extinguished.

  Mahindan felt the heavy thud of rocks raining to the ground. Something large landed on part of the tent, the fabric collapsing under its weight. He gathered his son closer, turned his head away. This was death, this was how it came, with a great noise and then abrupt, hollowing silence.

  He moved his jaw and heard nothing. The earth beneath them had stilled, as if it too had surrendered to death. Finally, finally, the shelling ceased.

  Sellian’s whole body was damp with sweat and tears. He had wet himself. The smell of urine was sharp. But he was alive. They were both alive. Outside the tent, all around them, was the agony of the dying, and Mahindan’s consolation was being deaf to their cries. Ruksala, Prem, Chithra’s parents – dead? alive? injured? He was paralyzed by fear and horror and the slow wash of relief settling over him. His vision closed in, his consciousness grew faint. A black hole yawned open, and he gave himself over to it with gratitude.

  —

  Sound was the first sensation to reach him – a rooster’s grating crow. The tent was riddled with tiny tears and holes, singed by flying shrapnel. Pinpricks of light dazzled in. Mahindan left Sellian sleeping and crawled out.

  The world, on fire all night long, now lay smouldering. Smoke made his eyes water. The stench filled his nose and mouth. Charred flesh, shit, and the metallic tang of blood. He choked, doubling over, and, opening his eyes, saw a finger on the ground, severed, a gold band still ringed around it.

  He stumbled away in horror and saw the wreckage through the haze, the earth gouged, tents ripped to shreds, sandbags blasted open. A man, his clothes in tatters, limped past in a daze.

  People were slumped in trenches, dead in the graves they had dug for themselves, their clothing blood-sodden. The swing set lay on its side, two people pinned underneath. The dead were dead now and the survivors wandered, aimless, crouching in front of bodies, turning over debris. No one called out to their loved ones.

  There was a crater in the ground where his family’s tents had been. Bits of steel, flesh, and clothing were sprinkled like confetti all around.

  His hearing was pitch perfect now. The slap of his sandals, the rusty gate of the playground squeaking back and forth, the tortured sounds of a crow dying in a bush, and the mournful caws of its compatriots perched on the infirmary’s roof. It was all very loud in the weak morning light.

  Trees were snapped in half. A mother sprawled dead on a mat, two babies at her bared breasts, one still mewling. Another child, naked, hung flayed on the chain-link fence.

  At the base of the slide, he found Ruksala’s torso, her hands cradling Prem’s head. Chithra’s mother had her arm slung over a tree branch, her husband’s upper body with it, sliced clean at the waist.

  Mahindan remembered the amputation, the grinding saw, the man bucking, his eyes rolling back. Ruksala’s terrified eyes were open. Mahindan turned away and dry-heaved.

  A voice came to him from the jungle, far away
but crystal clear. Amplified by a megaphone, it rang out in Sinhala. Mahindan heard the foreign words and understood their message. The war was over. The army had won.

  Free country

  How’s your mother? Fred asked. Did you get her in at Willow Lake?

  Grace unwrapped a wedge of Camembert and sniffed. It was a bleak Saturday afternoon and they stood in her kitchen, Grace arranging crackers and cheese on a cutting board.

  We moved her in last week, she said. Mom hates it.

  You can’t blame yourself, Fred said.

  She threw her drink at Steve, Grace said.

  Kumi had been arguing with Grace, demanding to go home, when Steve strolled in with a cheery good morning. Grace had seen her mother’s arm reel back. Duck! she’d yelled. DUCK!

  She couldn’t help laughing as she relayed the story. You should have seen it, she said, pulling back her hand to lob an invisible projectile. I swear it flew in slow motion, then splat! Strawberry meal replacement all over the wall. And poor Steve. I feel bad for laughing, but it was so absurd. Grace put her hands on her head to demonstrate how Steve had cowered on the floor.

  She’s a crackerjack, Fred said. I’ll have to visit.

  Oh, I wouldn’t, Grace said, taking two beers from the fridge. She’s pretty confused.

  She didn’t tell him how Kumi had pointed an accusing finger as Steve scuttled out. That’s the man! she’d yelled. He’s the one who took everything from us!

  Balancing her beer on the cutting board, Grace led the way to the conservatory. Built as an addition, it had floor-to-ceiling windows and a sloped glass ceiling. The room had inherited Kumi’s ferns and philodendrons, but without her tending they’d begun to brown. Steve had left the weekend papers out, scattered across the wicker three-seater.

  Sorry, Grace said, tidying them away.

  Fred scowled at the headlines. A terrorist decides to kill himself and now we’re being crucified for it.

  It had been two weeks since the suicide and the media were still having a field day. The Opposition were demanding an inquiry. Every evening, pundits weighed in at televised round tables. The ship was once again on the front page. There were more reporters at hearings now. Vultures, Mitchell Hurst called them. Circling around in hopes of a copycat. Grace felt the added pressure of their gaze as she struggled to deliberate cases.

  Fred filled her in on a bill he was drafting to crack down on human smuggling. The agents are the real villains here, he said. We have to encourage people to go through the proper channels and not just jump on the first boat that sails into the harbour.

  Grace rocked in her favourite chair and watched the sun burning white behind the clouds. The garden was soggy brown, strewn with twigs and dead leaves, blown-in candy wrappers and pop-can tabs.

  How? she asked. The claimants all say they were fenced in at a detention camp before they left. And travel was restricted during the war. It sounds a lot like East Germany, to be honest.

  We’re using Australia as a model, Fred said. Our generosity is being abused by phony refugees. We can’t continue like this.

  Grace remembered something one of the migrants had said, at a hearing months ago. To us, the smugglers were like Good Samaritans. At the time, the statement had incensed her, but now she thought she could understand.

  But if the High Commission is in the capital and people can’t physically get there, how do they apply? And then, of course, the situation is dire and people are desperate.

  Exactly! Fred said. That’s what the smugglers are counting on, desperation and a soft-touch country.

  The sun broke through, flooding the conservatory with an unexpected warmth.

  We should airlift people out, she said.

  Airlift? Fred choked on his beer and a gremlin inside Grace smirked.

  Hear me out, she said.

  We’re dealing with international criminal networks, Fred broke in. Drugs, prostitution, racketeering. Human smuggling is just one cog in the wheel. You should sit in on some of these briefings. Then you’d understand the magnitude of the –

  I agree with you, she said, holding up a hand. So let’s put the agents out of business. We’d still vet people, of course, but at least –

  The fact is, the system is broken, Fred said. Look how much time is tied up in monthly detention reviews.

  Well, that’s true, Grace conceded.

  After several months of contesting releases, Border Services had finally run out of steam – used up all their bogus arguments (that was Mitchell’s opinion) – and only the most questionable migrants were still behind bars.

  The detention reviews, just like the smugglers, were a distraction from the real issue, Grace felt. Were these people dangerous? That was the million-dollar question. After the suicide, Grace had gone back over her files and discovered she’d adjudicated two of the dead man’s detention reviews. Both times, she’d denied his request, but only out of caution, because no one else had yet been released. She could see in her notes that she’d thought him harmless, and that made her question her judgment, all the people she’d deemed admissible, all the potential terrorists who were now one step closer to citizenship. She didn’t dare confess her misgivings, but they haunted her as she lay awake every night, as she listened to the news in rush-hour traffic and wondered where the twins were. What if?

  The pouches under Fred’s eyes were more pronounced than usual. As they carried their empties to the kitchen, she noticed the sheen of sweat on his brow. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief. Grace could have offered ice water or turned on the fan, but she felt spiteful and didn’t.

  We need to renovate the system so bona fide refugees can be processed faster, Fred said. He brought the side of one hand down on the palm of the other. Mandatory detention for irregular arrivals with reviews twice a year instead of every month.

  Grace hooked her fingers around the necks of the empty bottles and opened the cupboard door under the sink. Who’s a bona fide refugee? she asked. What’s the definition? I’ve been at this nearly nine months, Fred. And I have to tell you, the evidence isn’t so neat and tidy.

  You don’t know everything, she thought. And the realization made her feel both superior and disappointed.

  What’s going on with you, Grace? Are they making you soft over there?

  Of course not, she said quickly, avoiding his eyes. But consider a hypothetical. A man admits to doing mechanical work on a car that’s later used in a suicide bombing. Maybe he had his hands on the bombs and maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was coerced to do the work or maybe he wasn’t. There’s no evidence either way.

  He aided and abetted a terrorist organization, Fred said. Deport him. End of story.

  What about a doctor who operates on a Tiger?

  Did he know who he was treating? Did the patient go on to fire a missile?

  You make it sound so simple.

  Who do you want in this country? People who share our values, or warmongers who bring their fights here?

  Meg wandered into the kitchen. She loitered in front of the open fridge, nibbling her thumbnail, the door resting against her hip, the light illuminating her face.

  How may I help you? Grace asked.

  I just want a drink, Meg whined. She took out the carton of apple juice and twisted off the cap.

  A glass, please, Grace said.

  Fred was on a roll, speechifying as if the cameras were on him. Five hundred illegals arrive en masse, having destroyed their documents, and it’s impossible to identify them or separate the legitimate from the criminals.

  Grace was aware of Meg, lolling with her back against the counter, watching Fred.

  Don’t you have homework? Grace asked.

  It’s a free country, Meg said. She raised her glass to her mouth, stared at Fred over the rim, and mumbled, Unless no one wants you.

  Megumi Jane Flynn!

  I should go, Fred said, dabbing at his forehead then pocketing his handkerchief.

  I’m so sorry about that, Grace sai
d at the front door. She’s going through a phase. Both of my children are going through a phase.

  You’re speaking to a veteran, Fred said.

  Back in the kitchen, she asked: Was that really necessary?

  Meg turned away to set her glass in the sink. Gran says he’s the kind of person history will judge.

  That’s an ugly thing to say! Minister Blair has been a friend to this family for years.

  He would have sent us to Slocan first chance he got, Meg said. He likes people best when they’re behind bars.

  Grace was infuriated to hear Kumi’s words, her irrational prejudice against the government, aped so unthinkingly by her fifteen-year-old daughter.

  Little girl, Grace said, turning to leave. Talk to me in twenty years, when you’ve learned something about the world.

  Still fighting

  They had taken Ranga away in a black body bag. Mahindan had watched, disbelieving, a crowd gathering around him, as the doctor shook his head and pulled up the zipper.

  When Priya came to visit, he’d nearly confessed.

  All my fault, he cried, his hands covering his face.

  You can’t blame yourself, Priya said. She must have thought he didn’t understand, because she said it again, enunciating slowly: It is not your fault.

  I did not keep an eye, he said, venturing a partial truth.

  Ranga wanted to end his life, Priya told him firmly. He would have found a way.

  There was so much compassion in her voice that a wicked part of him wondered if this tragedy could somehow work to his benefit, if it would sway the judges to also take pity. And after that, he lost his nerve and said nothing else.

  As Ranga’s roommate, Mahindan became his de facto next of kin, the undeserving recipient of the other men’s sympathy. They carried him off to the recreation room, where the chairs were pushed aside and an improvised funeral was held, everyone in a circle on the floor, singing hymns and chanting. Mahindan recognized this was for his benefit more than Ranga’s, everyone’s goodwill for the dead man now concentrated squarely on him. The shame of it made him wretched.