by Judy Nunn
‘The Australian government has strict rules about people smugglers and refugees who arrive by boat,’ Lou warned. ‘It’s amazing you lot got this far. They even have a policy called “turn back the boats”, so very few make it to the coastline, let alone this far south. Although I do remember some years back, 2013 it was, a boatload of Sri Lankan refugees actually came ashore at Geraldton. It was unheard of, made headline news at the time. Put Gero on the map, even over in the East, and this part of the world doesn’t usually get much of a look – in there …’
By now Rassen had all but stopped listening. From the outset, everything Lou had said echoed an all-too-frightening familiarity. People smugglers … Turn back the boats … He recalled the questions he’d asked of the young man at the agency in Beirut and the easy assurance he’d been offered in return … ‘Propaganda, no more, merely put out as a deterrent,’ the young man had said. ‘Mr Hitono assures us of this.’
‘And what is the outcome for those who do manage to arrive by boat,’ he asked, ‘those like us?’ There was resignation in his voice, already certain of the answer and anticipating the worst.
‘I’m not really sure,’ Lou said, ‘I mean, I can’t be certain.’ He could see the defeat in the doctor’s eyes, and he loathed being the bearer of bad tidings. ‘But I don’t reckon it’s too good,’ he admitted in all honesty. ‘The boat people get sent to camps for processing, I know that much,’ he said, ‘but what happens from there on …’ He gave a shrug that spoke multitudes, at least it did to Rassen. Massoud, for some reason, was remaining oddly silent.
Rassen didn’t push the Australian any further on the issue, there seemed little point; besides which it would be demeaning to do so. He could still hear the young man’s sales pitch. ‘The local authorities take in the refugees, who are then processed and permitted to stay.’ He recalled now that the young man’s name had been Isaac. ‘Particularly those such as your good self, Dr Khurdaji. Given your excellent qualifications, you would be welcomed into Australia …’
How could we have believed such lies? Rassen wondered. Because we wanted to, that’s why, Hala and I, we both wanted so much to believe. At least I did. Hala is the more sensible of us; perhaps in humouring me she was deliberately blinding herself to my stupidity.
He chastised himself for being indulgent and snapped his mind back to the present and the problems at hand. He must look after the others.
‘There are those among us not yet strong enough to survive the rigours of a refugee camp,’ he said briskly, ‘some who need further time to heal.’ As he said it, Rassen was thinking more of Sanaa’s emotional vulnerability than of Azra’s broken ribs. ‘How long do you think it will be before we are discovered?’
‘By the lobster fishers themselves, several months, possibly more,’ Lou said. ‘The fishers here on Gevaar don’t tend to return to their huts during the off-season the way they do at the Abrolhos. As far as the Coastwatch and the Fisheries go, that’s a different matter altogether: you’d have to stay in hiding to avoid detection by them.’
Rassen looked to Massoud for a response, surprised that throughout the exchange he had asked no questions and offered no input. It was unlike him.
‘I’m willing to help you if you wish to remain in hiding,’ Lou said during the brief pause that followed.
‘Massoud?’ Rassen prompted the young Iranian, who now proffered a typically nonchalant shrug.
‘Whatever you think, Rassen. You always have our best interests at heart.’
Again Rassen was surprised. The nonchalance may have been typical, but given Massoud’s intellect and enquiring nature he would have expected more discussion or at least an opinion of some sort.
‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘We will accept your offer with thanks, Lou. What is it we must do to remain hidden?’
‘Well for starters we’ll have to get rid of that dinghy of yours. It’s a dead giveaway sitting there in the shallows. No one from around these parts would own a boat like that.’
‘But we use it for catching fish,’ Rassen said. ‘Our daily catch is our main source of protein.’
‘You’ll catch plenty of fish from the end of the jetties,’ Lou assured him, ‘and I’ll deliver you fresh supplies anyway. Besides which,’ he warned, ‘when the authorities do eventually find out you’re here, that boat of yours will make for a whole heap of complications. They won’t like it one bit.’
‘Complications? In what way?’
‘Big quarantine concerns. They worry about the introduction of diseases, you see. It’d have to be inspected, fumigated, then it’d probably be towed back to town for storage over a quarantine period. They did all that to the vessel that landed at Gero, or so I heard. Best bet is we take the thing a little way off-shore and sink it.’ Lou grinned in an attempt to lighten the mood. ‘There’s a graveyard of wrecks out there, trust me. You can tell them you hit a reef and swam ashore; nobody’s going to disbelieve you.’
‘Very well,’ Rassen agreed, albeit reluctantly. He did not relish the prospect of lying, but everything the Australian was saying appeared to make sense.
‘As for the rest,’ Lou continued, ‘just keep your eyes open and make yourselves scarce when a boat or a plane comes anywhere near. You’re lucky you landed here where it’s pretty remote and not further south – there’s a lot more activity around the Abrolhos.’
There certainly is, Lou thought, and not only the lobster fishers. With the aquaculture industry there’re operators coming and going all the time to the pearl farms and coral farms. This mob’d most likely have been discovered already if they’d been down there.
‘That’s about it, I reckon,’ he concluded, grabbing a pencil and getting down to business. ‘Now let’s start drawing up a list of the supplies you need.’ He remained, pencil poised over a sheet of paper in readiness.
‘Very well, but first we must come to an arrangement regarding payment,’ Rassen said. ‘I have cash and can reimburse you in full. Massoud, you have cash also?’ The two had discussed the fact that their wallets had survived the storm, tucked securely in the inner pockets of their coats.
Massoud nodded. ‘American dollars,’ he said. It was just the second time he’d spoken during the entire meeting.
‘We were advised to bring American money,’ Rassen explained. ‘Every country takes US dollars, that’s what they told us. I doubt whether the others in our group will have much cash between them, but I’m quite willing to pay their share. And I’m sure Massoud is willing also to contribute.’
Again Massoud nodded, though he still appeared distracted.
‘No, no.’ Lou shook his head. ‘I can’t take your money.’
‘But I insist. It is imperative you accept, I will have it no other way –’
The Australian held up a hand. ‘No, doctor,’ he said firmly, ‘you don’t understand. Things are not quite that simple. It’s not that I can’t accept payment, I can’t accept your money.’
Rassen stared blankly back, confused.
‘Shoalhaven is a tiny place where everyone knows everyone,’ Lou explained patiently. ‘They’d all start talking if I went around flashing American dollars, and we can’t afford to arouse suspicion.’
‘But you could change the notes at the bank, surely, or at a currency exchange.’
Lou laughed outright. ‘You obviously don’t know small towns, mate. We don’t have a bank, we don’t have a currency exchange either, and even if we did they’d be the first to spread the news. We have to keep this strictly secret, just between us.’
Lou’s argument was valid and offered in absolute earnest, but he would not have accepted payment anyway. The idea of taking money from people in such dire straits was, to Luigi Panuzza, utterly unconscionable. He did, however, recognise the doctor’s dilemma. Rassen Khurdaji was a man not accustomed to being indebted to others. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said reassuringly, ‘we’ll figure out something further down the track,’ then he waved the pencil aloft, ‘now let’s get
on with things, shall we.’
Rassen was left with no option but to obey, and they embarked upon their list, starting with the staples of rice and tinned beans and biscuits and other items that would keep without the need of refrigeration. He’d buy the bulk of the supplies in Geraldton, Lou decided, in order to avoid unnecessary suspicion.
Then, quite unexpectedly, Massoud spoke. ‘After the refugees have been processed at the camp, wherever that might be, what happens to them?’
The other two looked up, momentarily taken aback; they’d all but forgotten he was there.
‘As I said earlier, I don’t really know for sure,’ Lou replied apologetically, hedging a little, loath to be the harbinger of doom. ‘But I believe if genuine refugee status can’t be proved they’re returned to their country of origin. Or at least that’s what I’ve read in the papers.’
Rassen was not at all surprised by the answer. He acknowledged Lou’s response with a polite nod, but made no reply. We’ll face that hurdle when we come to it, he thought.
Massoud, too, made no reply, lapsing once again into silence, and the other two returned to their list-making.
After covering tea and coffee and powdered milk, together with fresh milk for the child, Rassen asked whether they might include some basic hygiene materials for medical purposes.
‘Nothing that would require a prescription, naturally,’ he said, ‘just items like antiseptics, disinfectants, soap?’
‘Of course,’ Lou replied, scribbling away.
‘And I don’t suppose,’ he added hopefully, ‘there would be any chance of shaving foam and a razor?’
Lou didn’t even answer, just smiled and added the items to the list.
Massoud watched them, but he wasn’t listening. His mind elsewhere, he wasn’t even seeing them really. He was thinking what a fool he’d been for not doing his homework and following a whim as he had. Just idle chat in a bar had led him to this. He should have stayed safely in Bangkok.
How do I prove my refugee status? he asked himself. It would be impossible. But I can’t go back to Iran. If I do, they will kill me.
Those had been his mother’s very words, he recalled.
‘You must leave Tehran, Massoud,’ his mother had said. ‘If you do not, they will kill you.’
He’d thought at the time she was referring to his ongoing activism, which did indeed place him in grave danger. He’d been a pro-democracy activist from way back in his early student days, when he’d devoted himself to the Iranian Green Movement.
His mother had always voiced her concern about his activism, but this time she was referring to something of even greater concern, something she had sensed for a number of years.
‘If they do not kill you for the stand you take, my son,’ she had said, ‘they will kill you for who you are.’
He’d been dumbstruck in his amazement. He’d had no idea she knew.
‘You must leave Iran, Massoud, and you must not come back.’ She’d wept as she’d embraced him, holding him close. ‘I would rather never see you again and know you are alive, my son, than never see you again and know you are dead.’
The moment had moved Massoud himself to tears. It even threatened to do so now in the recalling of it. He had been so sure that, if his mother ever found out, she would disown him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Massoud Ahmadi had become aware of his homosexuality at the onset of puberty. Around the age of thirteen, when other boys’ eyes were turning towards girls, and young male teenage minds were fantasising about the bodies that lay hidden beneath the modest garments of the opposite sex, his thoughts had not strayed along similar paths. Even the covert passing around of illicit Western magazines depicting scantily clad women had failed to interest Massoud. The fact hadn’t worried him at the time – he’d simply presumed he was a late developer – until he found himself attracted to a boy. Deeply attracted. A boy newly arrived at his school. He wanted to kiss Rashid. He wanted to run his hands over Rashid’s skin and touch Rashid in the area where he wasn’t even supposed to touch himself, although he did. He’d like to arouse Rashid, the way he aroused himself, to share the thrilling discovery of their sexuality.
Massoud kept his shameful lust to himself, even avoiding Rashid for fear his feelings might in some way be readable. But it was Rashid he thought about when he masturbated.
Rashid was not the only boyhood crush Massoud would experience. As time passed there were others who aroused such feelings in him. He made no advances, he did not dare, but he refused to be ridden with guilt, accepting rather that this was not some sexual aberration: this was who he was. He was homosexual.
Self-recognition did not stop him from closely guarding his secret, however. To admit to his sexuality would be to court danger on all sides, both from the government and from society in general. Homosexuality was illegal under the religious dictatorship of Iran, those found guilty risking torture and death at the hands of the regime’s secret police. The citizens, too, were not tolerant of homosexuals. Young men suspected of ‘sexual deviancy’ were persecuted, publicly humiliated, and even cast aside by the families to whom they were told they brought shame. Young Massoud kept his secret not only through fear, but also through love. He had no wish to hurt his family.
Massoud Ahmadi grew up in the city of Qom, roughly one hundred and twenty-five kilometres south of Tehran, where his father was a senior shipping clerk at the state-owned Islamic Republic of Iran Railways. Hassan Ahmadi’s work involved cargo handling and transition to other destinations, and he, his wife, son and daughter, lived in a modest house in one of the old districts near the old city centre.
Massoud’s childhood was a happy one. Qom was a peaceful city, for the most part devoted to religious studies, its seminaries and institutes making it the largest centre for Shia scholarship in the world. As a boy, Massoud never questioned his devout Shia Muslim upbringing, and upon accepting the fact he was homosexual, he still followed the dictates of his faith, convinced that so long as he kept his secret to himself God would understand. As a form of distraction, he eschewed a social life, focusing his full concentration upon his schoolwork instead, which was not a difficult exercise for an intelligent youth with a hunger to learn.
Consumed as he was by his studies, it was no surprise at all to his teachers when he gained a scholarship to the University of Tehran.
‘I never doubted for one minute you would succeed, Massoud,’ his form master said boastfully. The man was as proud of himself as he was of the boy, for it was he who had insisted Massoud sit for the scholarship. ‘You’re a fine student and you will go far.’
Hassan Ahmadi was overcome with amazement.
‘Just think, Maryam,’ he said to his wife, ‘our shy little boy is to become a scholar. Who would ever have thought it possible?’
Maryam had simply smiled. She would have thought it quite possible herself. Hadn’t Hassad noticed the boy’s devotion to his studies? Wasn’t he aware of his son’s intelligence? She blessed the teacher who had insisted Massoud sit for the test.
‘We are so proud of you, my son,’ she said. ‘But we will miss you. You must promise to come home every single holiday.’
He promised, and in the years that followed he fulfilled his promise, returning faithfully at the end of each term.
It had not been very long before Maryam had started to notice a change in her son.
From the outset, eighteen-year-old Massoud embraced his new life with fervour. He settled into a student boarding house some distance from the university and thoroughly enjoyed the brisk half-hour walk to and from his studies. He loved the anonymity afforded him in the huge, bustling city of Tehran, the feeling that here among the hordes he was unknown, invisible. Despite the fear of the times, and they were most certainly fearful times, he was imbued with a sense of freedom. That he could now raise questions, seek answers, disagree with convention if he wished, dangerous though disagreement might at times be. Massoud’s beliefs were becoming decide
dly secular, like those of his rebellious fellow students.
The year of his arrival in the capital, 2009, saw the Iranian presidential election, which was held on 12 June, and the furore that followed was of unbelievable proportion. Official election results declared the dictator, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, had won by a landslide, but followers of Mir Hossein Mousavi, the reformist, pro-democratic leader, claimed otherwise. The results were rigged by the Mullahs, they maintained, the whole election was a sham in order to keep Ahmadinejad in power. Massive crowds of demonstrators gathered in Tehran, supporting Mousavi, rejecting religious dictatorship and calling for freedom. Mass uprisings erupted across the whole of Iran, growing larger and more heated by the day, ‘the biggest unrest since the 1979 revolution,’ the global television network Al Jazeera English claimed.
‘Death to the dictator!’
‘Give us our votes back!’
‘We will not surrender to humiliation!’
‘Death to this deceitful government!’
In Tehran City’s Azadi Square, the hundreds of thousands of protestors continued to chant their rebellious slogans, on and on, defiant, insistent. And among them was Massoud Ahmadi.
Students were among the loudest and strongest of the regime’s dissidents. Young people with strong democratic beliefs, eager to embrace a new secular society, free of the dictates of radical Islam.
Massoud joined the Iranian Green Movement, the legion of Mousavi supporters who, at the behest of their leader, staged non-violent rallies in public places, sit-ins and demonstrations outside government buildings, all in the hope that change might be brought about peacefully by the power of the people. But over time, the ‘green revolution’ became far from peaceful as angry throngs of Ahmadinejad supporters attacked the opposition, breaking into the shops of sympathisers, tearing down signs, starting fires. Civil unrest grew rife.