by Judy Nunn
The journalist had all too quickly realised the wisdom of this argument. His cameraman was the one who usually ran the show anyway.
The citizens of Shoalhaven were deeply relieved to have their town back. And they most certainly did have it back – not a vestige remained of the past several weeks’ media frenzy. The madness might all have been a dream. Shoalhaven was once again the sleepy enclave of old where everybody minded their own business and knew their own place.
So who could it possibly have been who leaked the news barely two hours later? Certainly no member of the press, otherwise they’d all have been swarming back into town. Inspector Terence Henley? But if so, why? The leak had obviously come from someone in the know. Perhaps some official on the island. But again, why?
No one knew who rang Gordon Shadforth. No caller ID appeared on his phone and he didn’t recognise the voice. But then there was a lot of static, so much so that he could only just hear what the caller said. Did the background static perhaps mean it had been made from the island where mobile-phone reception was notoriously poor?
‘The refugees will be coming ashore at Shoalhaven mid-afternoon today. They’ll be taken by coach directly to Geraldton airport in order to avoid the media.’
That was all the caller said.
It was around lunchtime and Gordon immediately contacted David Miller, following which the Shoalhaven Residents’ Group’s grapevine sprang into action, Sandy Shadforth emailing and texting and phoning, the locals spreading the news like wildfire.
‘So the whole thing was a ruse,’ Lou said. ‘The media pisses off to Gero and they bring the refugees ashore here a day earlier: pretty smart.’
‘Yes,’ David agreed, ‘the press will be all lined up at the Geraldton foreshore tomorrow and the refugees will already be in Darwin.’
The two men were having a quiet chat in the back room of the post office, David having rung Lou and asked him to call in.
‘But who on earth do you think leaked the news?’ David went on, ‘And if it was an official from the island, as Gordon seems to think it was, why would they risk word getting out to the media?’
‘I’d say it’s someone who knows the people of Shoalhaven,’ Lou said, ‘someone who knows we can be trusted.’
David nodded. ‘And someone who wants the word spread around town.’
‘Exactly.
‘Well it’s spread all right – I can assure you of that. I think half the town will turn up when they’re brought ashore.’ David voiced his principal worry, which was why he’d asked his father-in-law to call in. ‘You and Paul mustn’t be there, Lou,’ he urged, ‘promise me you won’t.’
But Lou was very laid-back about the whole situation, alarmingly so from David’s perspective.
‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any cause for worry,’ he said. ‘No one in the group will point the finger at us. If they were going to give us away they’d have done so already.’
David found the old man’s cavalier attitude extremely annoying, particularly under the circumstances.
‘If you don’t care about yourself,’ he replied, ‘you might at least care about Paul. When I phoned him he said he was going to be there, and what’s more he said Jalila was insisting upon going with him.’
‘Oh.’ Lou was jolted from his complacency. ‘Oh hell, that’s a different matter altogether.’
‘Yes, it most certainly is,’ David agreed stiffly. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d have a word with him. Your advice always carries more sway than mine.’
‘Of course I will, mate.’ He’d have a word with Paolo all right, Lou thought. And with Jalila too. Her presence might well court disaster if any of the locals were to make the connection. ‘Of course I will – don’t you worry about that.’
‘Good. Thank you.’
David regretted having been so snappy with the old man; he’d allowed his nerves to get the better of him. But for all the calm displayed by both his son and his father-in-law, the normally unruffled David Miller was having trouble disguising his deep concern. Was his entire family about to be exposed as frauds? Was the girl he’d come to love as a daughter-in-law about to be discovered and the lie they’d all been living made public? His whole world felt on the verge of collapse.
‘So who on earth do you think made that call to Gordon?’ he asked, feigning normality, trying to sound casual.
‘No idea,’ Lou said, although he did have an inkling. Could the caller possibly have been Gary Walton? And could the purpose of the call have been a warning to him? Was Gary telling him to stay away from the refugees when they came ashore for fear of exposure?
Lou’s reasoning was correct for the most part. It had been Gary Walton who had made the call, from a mobile phone belonging to one of the medical staff on the island, a very pleasant and capable middle-aged nurse called Brenda.
‘Mind if I borrow your phone?’ he’d asked. ‘Just a quick local call.’
‘Sure, be my guest,’ Brenda had said cheerfully, handing it over, ‘but good luck, I doubt you’ll get through.’
He’d taken the phone up to the benches not far from the huts, the one area where he knew reception was possible.
Gary’s purpose in making the call had been twofold, however. A warning to Lou Panuzza to steer clear when the refugees were brought ashore, yes, perhaps, but something else, something that he considered of far greater importance. Gary knew that Rassen Khurdaji wished to deliver a message to the local people on behalf of the group, whether it be simply to one person or to several, whoever might happen to be present when they came ashore. Gary intended there should be a good crowd there to hear the doctor’s message.
A compassionate man at the best of times, Gary Walton considered this a fine opportunity for the citizens of Shoalhaven to see these refugees for who they really were, just as he’d described them in his brief answer at the church hall meeting.
‘They’re people,’ he’d said upon being asked what they were like, ‘they’re people just like you and me.’
Time to redress the demonising of genuine refugees such as these, Gary thought. His one regret? He only wished the media could be there to capture the moment for the rest of the country to see. A true Catch-22 situation if there ever was one, he told himself with a sense of irony. The banishing of the media had been the only way this could happen.
The whole of the town was abuzz with expectation. After all the hype of the past several weeks they were finally going to see these people in the flesh. Despite the endless talk and even the occasional hostility that had accompanied it, the general feeling now was one of interest. There was no animosity. There’d been no reports of damage to property on the island and, although some remained critical of the boat-people, there were others who felt a strong degree of sympathy. Not only for what these people had been through in order to reach these shores, but also for what was about to happen to them.
Once again, the townsfolk arranged for their shops and businesses to be run by skeleton staff, and as early as two in the afternoon on this baking-hot, breathlessly still, mid-January day people were gathering at the marina’s foreshore, well before any approaching vessel was in sight.
Then Archie Lang, from his mechanics workshop up near the car park, rang around with the news. Four words only.
‘The coach is here,’ he said.
And fifteen minutes later, the crowd had doubled.
By the time the Fisheries vessel appeared, a distant speck on the still waters of the horizon where sky and sea blended, close to two hundred people were gathered on the parkland slopes of the marina’s foreshore. Everyone was facing the jetty, waiting for the show to commence, chattering and watching expectantly as the distant speck drew ever nearer.
Forty metres away, standing at the end of the jetty, also watching, were two local state police officers, there specifically in order to oversee the arrival of the refugees. Inspector Terence Henley was not in attendance, having departed for Geraldton, his presence there necessary
as part of the media evasion tactic.
The senior officer awaiting the vessel’s arrival was Geraldton Inspector Leslie Brock who, like his junior partner, was wondering how come so many people had turned up.
Someone must have tipped them off, Les thought. I wonder who. Not that it makes any difference, he told himself, they’re not here to cause trouble, and we’ve successfully pissed off the media. That’s all that matters.
As the MV Endurance entered the marina, the chattering slowly died away. And by the time the vessel, with Gary Walton at the helm, his crew and eleven passengers on board, had drawn alongside the jetty the crowd of two hundred had lapsed into virtual silence.
The crew secured the vessel and Gary stepped ashore along with the party of three who were to accompany the refugees to Darwin: a state police officer, an immigration officer and a nurse from the official medical team.
Like Inspector Les Brock, the party of three was surprised by the crowd that was awaiting their arrival. Someone must have leaked the news to the locals.
I wonder if that’s why Gary Walton borrowed my phone, Brenda was thinking.
Then finally, with the police standing by, the refugees alighted onto the jetty one by one, assisted where necessary by Gary and his crew.
To the onlookers gathered forty metres away, the spectacle unfolded like a pageant, the jetty a stage, the gentle slopes of the marina’s foreshore an amphitheatre, their view perfect.
First was a dignified-looking man in his sixties. He was followed by a woman who seemed to the onlookers extraordinarily English in appearance. The two were obviously a couple, joining each other to stand side by side and watch as the others alighted.
A middle-aged couple followed, handsome the pair of them, the man refusing assistance and offering his hand to his wife, who stepped very tentatively from the boat. He shepherded her to one side with infinite care, an arm about her, whispering words of comfort no doubt, for she was obviously frightened.
Then a young couple with a child. The father came first, the little boy in his arms, and the wife followed. Once safely on the jetty, the father put the boy down and the mother took his small hand in hers. A bold little boy, he did not hide behind her skirts, but stood looking out at the crowd with great interest. The young father was bearded and the young mother, petite and pretty, wore a hijab. It was more or less the appearance those watching had expected.
The last to alight was a young man who literally leapt ashore, ignoring any offer of assistance. Like the little boy, he too looked fearlessly out at the crowd, but with something akin to defiance.
The group joined ranks, clearly supportive of each other, and stood awaiting orders.
Gary Walton said something to the local police inspector, whom all those watching knew to be Les Brock. Les, like Gary, was well thought of by the townspeople and fishers of Shoalhaven. Les nodded in obvious agreement, and Gary gave a signal to the older man, who appeared to be the leader of the group.
Then the refugees, accompanied by Gary, began to walk slowly down the jetty towards the crowd, the several police and officials following behind, the crew staying with the vessel.
From the crowd, Lou watched the procession. Beside him was Paul. And beside Paul was Jalila. They’d been unable to prevent her from joining them.
‘If you not let me go with you, I go alone,’ she’d said. ‘You cannot lock me up, Paul. I do nothing, I say nothing, I promise,’ she’d implored. ‘I just look. Just look, no more, I promise. I see my friends one last time. Please, Paul, this I beg you. It mean so much to me. Please.’
Paul had finally agreed with one proviso. She must remain out of sight in the crowd, tucked close in beside him. There would be glimpses only of her friends, he warned. Under no circumstances must she be seen. If attention was drawn to her in any way people might make the connection. And what if little Hamid were to catch sight of her and cry out? So many things could happen.
To Lou now watching, the procession on the jetty appeared to be taking place in slow motion as memories tumbled through his mind.
The day he’d discovered the group on the island … how they’d adopted the homes as their own … the warmth of their welcome … the tadig they’d shared.
His gaze came to rest upon Rassen. The conversations they’d had … the hours spent together … the things that he’d learnt … how much he admired the man …
I’ll miss you, mate, he thought with regret. I’ll miss every single one of you, he thought as before his eyes the image of the approaching group seemed to hover haze-like in the mid-afternoon sun.
The procession halted barely ten metres from the crowd, and Gary Walton stepped forwards.
‘This is Dr Rassen Khurdaji,’ he announced, gesturing for Rassen to step forwards also, which he did. ‘Dr Khurdaji has something he would like to say to the people of Shoalhaven, and most particularly to the fishers of Gevaar Island.’
So I was right, Brenda thought, that’s why Gary Walton borrowed my phone.
Well we sure as hell know who leaked the news, don’t we? Les thought. He’d realised the moment Gary had told him out there on the jetty that the doctor wanted to address the locals.
‘I’d like to let him go ahead, if that’s OK,’ Gary had said.
‘Sure,’ he’d agreed, ‘I don’t see why not.’ He’d realised then that Gary was the culprit. Strangely enough, knowing Gary as he did, the discovery hadn’t surprised Les all that much. And no harm done. No need to make a fuss about it.
Rassen stood for a moment, surveying the crowd. He hadn’t expected for one minute there would be so many. He’d hoped perhaps for a few who might carry his message to the others.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said.
As his voice sounded out strongly, there were surprised murmurs – his English was virtually accent-less.
‘First of all I would like to introduce you to everyone,’ Rassen went on. ‘This is my wife, Hala.’
Hala stepped forwards. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said pleasantly, her voice also strong.
Further murmurs of surprise – she had to be English, they all thought.
Rassen then went on to introduce the group in pairs, each couple stepping forwards as their names were announced.
‘This is Hany and Sanaa Awad.’
‘Good afternoon,’ Hany and Sanaa said one after the other, enunciating very carefully as Rassen had instructed they should.
‘This is Karim and Azra Samar, and their little boy, Hamid.’
‘Good afternoon,’ Karim and Azra said, followed by Hamid, whose voice was the loudest of all three.
‘Hello,’ he called boldly to the crowd.
Hamid had been thoroughly schooled in preparation for some time now, well before the arrival of the authorities on the island. He was to say only the English that Rassen and Massoud had taught him. Under no circumstances was he to use any word or phrase he’d picked up from Paul and Lou. ‘G’day, mate’ and ‘beaut’ were strictly forbidden. Hamid had obeyed the letter of the law set down for him to perfection. Having grown up fast, he was a very adult little boy. He’d had to be. The group was his entire world. He was a part of them and they were a part of him. He would not let them down.
‘And this is Massoud Ahmadi,’ Rassen concluded.
‘Hello.’ Massoud’s greeting to the crowd was curt. He could have sounded more pleasant if he’d wished, but he couldn’t be bothered. He wanted this farce to be over with.
Hala glanced at him, concerned.
Throughout the physical examinations and the interviews conducted on the island during their quarantine period, the others had behaved impeccably. They’d been polite to the authorities, practising their limited English whenever possible and with care. Rassen had insisted these factors would make a favourable impression upon the immigration authorities when they were taken to the place where their refugee status would be processed.
Massoud’s behaviour had been altogether different. He, who could have made the most fav
ourable impression of all, had been indifferent, sullen, and at times even bordering on rude. Hala had tried to reason with him.
‘Please, Massoud, make some sort of effort, don’t alienate them, it won’t do you any good.’
‘Why?’ he’d demanded. ‘What difference will it make to the eventual outcome? We’ll still be sent to rot in some prison of a place.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Oh yes I do, Hala. This country will not accept us.’
Hala had found his manner most disheartening. What had happened to the vibrant young man who had lightened the load for them all, whose ready wit had made her laugh? Their sojourn on the island had strengthened the others, but not Massoud. How sad, she thought.
‘Wherever we are sent, Massoud,’ she’d urged, ‘we can serve a purpose. Rassen and I intend to offer our services. We believe our medical qualifications and experience can be put to good use, if not in general society then in aiding our fellow refugees.’
She and Rassen had discussed the matter in some depth. Aware that it was highly unlikely they would be granted asylum in Australia and that by now it may well be safe to return to England, they had nonetheless decided to remain with their friends.
‘They have become our family,’ Rassen had said. ‘We must see them through their ordeal.’
‘And others like them,’ Hala had fervently agreed. ‘We are needed, Rassen. Perhaps this was meant to be, my darling. We must stay where we are most needed, you and I.’
Massoud had continued to appear thoroughly disinterested as she’d told him of their plans, but Hala did not give up easily. Throughout the whole of her life, Hala had never been one to give up easily.
‘Don’t forget you’re a linguist, my dear,’ she’d said with the maternal tone she so often adopted when trying to reach out to the younger members of the group. ‘And what’s more you specialise in Middle Eastern languages. Just imagine how invaluable your skills would be to all those who need a voice.’ She’d sensed a glimmer of interest, or rather she’d sensed he was no longer closed off to reason. ‘You were an activist, Massoud,’ she’d said, now with some urgency, ‘an activist for human rights. That is why you were forced to flee your country. Never forget, my dear, young friend, that whatever happens your life serves a purpose!’