Niki placed her current sugar cube carefully on the table, then thoughtfully surveyed the invisible rugs Aida was gesturing to. Elham opened her mouth to laugh but then her voice caught and she shoved her fists into her eyes instead. She excused herself and darted out of the room. Aida thought to follow her, but her mobile rang. Niki, oblivious, continued scrutinising carpets, a third and fourth sugar cube pocketed in either cheek.
When Elham returned, red-eyed and quiet, Aida had cleared the table and was pulling on her coat.
‘Sarah rang,’ she explained. ‘One of the news stations has contacted them for a story. Something about our visas, I think. Very last-minute but they just need us for some background shots. Maybe a couple of quotes. Lots of Sarah’s clients are going. I didn’t know if you and Niki want to come?’
Elham hesitated.
‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But it could be our chance to be heard.’
Elham thought for a moment then gave a half-nod.
‘Aallee. Perfect,’ Aida said. ‘She’ll pick us up soon. The trains aren’t running because of this weather. Trees down on the line or something.’
Aida turned to Niki.
‘You ready for your close-up, Miss Niki?’
Niki disappeared for a moment, returning with a hot pink legionnaire’s cap and an extravagant pair of purple cat’s-eye shades.
‘Kheili khoobeh. Now you’re ready.’
*
In the car, Sarah prepped them for the shoot.
‘It’s a bit of a “mood of the times” piece. The Minister’s comments about refugees taking people’s jobs while simultaneously being illiterate and on welfare, international criticism of the detention centres, the anti-immigration rallies that have been happening. They want something positive, about the contributions refugees make. They might ask you some questions but mostly they want footage of everyone being harmless and non-threatening to play behind their audio.’
Aida smirked as she stared out the car window at the bucketing rain.
‘Harmless and non-threatening. Easy. I’ve been harmless and non-threatening my whole life.’
The crew had set up in the meeting room of Sarah’s work, already in the process of filming two young men pretending to fill out forms. The reporter was positioned in front of them, attempting a piece to camera that he kept fumbling, forcing him to repeat the whole thing from the top. He looked nervous and pale, his suit ill-fitting, as he massaged his temples between shots when he thought no one was watching. Aida didn’t recognise him from any of the stations. His features reminded her of the central Asian refugees she had seen in Jakarta, and she wondered if this was why he was doing the story. She looked about the equipment and was, momentarily, jealous. She spotted a few familiar faces from the many hours spent sitting in the waiting room and nodded in greeting. A tall woman in a deep blue abaya raised one eyebrow as the reporter stumbled his phrasing and laughed silently as he beat his fist against his thigh in frustration then started again. The young men sighed, preparing to retrace the markings on their forms once more.
They filmed Sarah’s clients engaged in various tasks: chatting to each other, deep in mock appointments with Sarah, the children playing with assorted toys until Niki seized a ball from another child, causing both to explode in angry maligned tears. The producer had failed to organise interpreters so the reporter struggled his way through a number of confused off-topic interviews. His nervousness spread and soon Elham became anxious, pulling away from Aida.
‘What if we get in trouble? What if the Minister sees it and decides not to give us a visa? What if we look ungrateful?’
The reporter watched them, sensing the apprehension in Elham’s body language.
‘Is she okay? Are you both okay?’
Aida shrugged. ‘She’s nervous.’
The reporter cleared his throat softly. ‘Tell her that human stories are the only thing people listen to. It’s the only way to remind people that you’re people too.’
Aida translated and Elham nodded wearily.
‘If you say so.’
The camera started filming and the reporter pushed his face into a sudden grave expression.
‘Illegal. Illiterate. Dole bludgers. Job stealers. How does it feel to hear the Minister saying these things about you?’
Aida clasped her hands on the table before her, face composed, all those years of training kicking in.
‘We understand the concern many in Australia feel. Jobs are hard to come by in Iran too. Your country has given us safety and we would like the opportunity to give back, to contribute to your economy, to work hard, pay tax and make a life.’
‘Does it anger you to hear the Minister say these things?’
‘As I said, all we want is the opportunity to contribute and work hard for this country.’
Aida’s chest fluttered. It felt good to be back in the journalist seat, careful and purposeful with her words. Keeping on message, not letting emotions distract from the main purpose, avoiding tricky questions or set-ups.
‘Can you tell me a bit about your journey here? What happened back home to make you leave?’
Aida froze, Elham waiting beside her for the translation.
‘I’d rather not right now if that’s okay with you.’
The reporter flinched.
‘Are you sure?’ he stuttered.
She nodded and he moved on, consulting the notepad in his laptop.
‘How does it feel to have spent so long, first in detention, and now waiting to hear about your application? Is it unfair, this . . . this purgatory the government has kept you in?’
Aida took a measured breath.
‘None of us has had an easy journey but our focus now is on how we can become part of this community. How we can contribute to this wonderful country and be part of the strong multiculturalism that has made Australia one of the best nations in the world.’
The reporter turned to Elham.
‘Do you feel that the government has made a political issue out of your lives?’
‘What do I know about politics? I just want a good life for my daughter. For her to be safe and free.’
Aida translated and the reporter paused, glancing at his notepad. As he did so, one of the young men who had earlier been filling in forms stepped in front of the camera.
‘The Minister can get fucked. Fucking with us all! You let me have one job and I do it. My visa and one job! Back home I sweep the fucking streets. You want me to I do that here too. Better than dying on this fucking bridging visa for the rest of my life. You taking my mind, Minister. And my brothers on Manus. And my sisters on Nauru. My mind, my heart, every day taking taking. Sons of whores! Haroom zadeh!’
‘Stop it!’ Aida hissed in Persian. ‘Shut your mouth. This is exactly what they want. You make us look like ungrateful animals.’
‘Fuck you too,’ the young man replied in Persian, gesturing rudely at her. ‘With your fucking Ingilisi. What struggle did you know back home?’
Aida turned back to the reporter.
‘Apologies for this man. You must stop the camera. He isn’t well. This is what it does to people. All this waiting and uncertainty. It is breaking people. We are broken people. Please, stop the camera.’
There was a clatter of plastic then the slap of flesh on flesh from the makeshift play area and Niki emerged, sunglasses askew, clutching her cheek and howling with indignation. The reporter looked about nervously, his hands pressed to his temples.
‘No more filming,’ Aida said firmly.
*
The trains were running again when they finished for the day. Sarah dropped them at the station, already late for her next appointment. They sat quietly on the train, Niki asleep in Elham’s arms, and watched the stations pass through the window. There was a burst of fresh air as the door
between the carriages flew open and a group of men filed in, whooping and laughing loudly. Australian flags hung from their shoulders, their faces covered by balaclavas and hoods. Aida held her breath, her fingers tightening protectively around Elham’s wrist. The men made their way deliberately through the carriage. At the end of the carriage sat a young woman in hijab. Slip it off, Aida heard herself silently willing the young woman. The men passed the woman slowly, one by one, disappearing into the next carriage. The last man, the bottom half of his face obscured by a flag-print bandana, paused before the young woman. He leant forward slowly until he was inches from her. Her face remained blank, her eyes staring straight ahead.
‘Go home,’ he said, slow and purposeful, then pulled back.
The young woman didn’t blink. She stayed like this, staring defiantly ahead, for the rest of the journey.
12
Patrick
MINISTER STANDS BY REMARKS
Reporter: Patrick Lee
18 May 2016
Transcript
(Footage of Melbourne pedestrians)
PATRICK LEE, REPORTER: Amid growing concerns over the conditions and wellbeing of asylum seekers both offshore and in Australia, the Immigration Minister has sparked criticism over his decision to label refugees innumerates and illiterates who would both take Australian jobs and languish on the dole. The comments have been met with outrage from both the Opposition and refugee advocates.
(Footage of woman sitting at a desk typing)
SARAH MONROE, SETTLEMENT CASEWORKER: What frustrates us about hearing these comments is firstly the fact they don’t even make sense, but also that they shift the focus from our humanitarian responsibility to provide asylum for those facing persecution, to this idea of people seeking asylum and refugees as a burden on the economy or a threat. History shows time and again that once they’ve had a chance to establish themselves in the community, refugees have gone on to contribute greatly to Australia socially, economically and civically.
PATRICK LEE, REPORTER: For caseworkers like Sarah Monroe, comments like these are divisive and troubling, coming at a time when services are overwhelmed supporting thousands of asylum seekers, some of whom have been waiting years for the opportunity to apply for protection visas after the government introduced a freeze on visa processing back in December 2013. Only now does this legacy caseload have the opportunity to apply for what will at best be three to five year temporary visas to stay in the country, with limited pathways to citizenship.
SARAH MONROE, SETTLEMENT CASEWORKER: What we’ve got is thousands of people who have been stuck in limbo for years, who have spent a great deal of their recent life either held in detention centres or on bridging visas unable to work or study, who have fled persecution and fear, and who want more than anything to start the next chapter of their lives. To then claim that they are dole bludgers or job stealers; it’s appalling to hear this coming from our elected representatives.
(Footage of two young men filling in forms)
PATRICK LEE, REPORTER: Ms Monroe works for one of the many organisations funded to provide casework support to asylum seekers and refugees. Here, in the outer suburbs of Melbourne, people are angry. Frustrated.
(Footage of man yelling)
‘ALI’, ASYLUM SEEKER: The Minister can get fucked. Fucking with us all! You let me have one job and I do it. My visa and one job! Back home I sweep the fucking streets. You want me to I do that here too. Better than dying on this fucking bridging visa for the rest of my life. You taking my mind, Minister. And my brothers on Manus. And my sisters on Nauru. My mind, my heart, every day taking taking.
(Footage of crowds protesting behind wire on Nauru, their faces blurred)
PATRICK LEE, REPORTER: For many asylum seekers, unable to return home yet not welcome in what can only currently be described as their temporary new country, life has become hopeless. The hopelessness is palpable, many driven to desperation and mental despair by their time in limbo. And with more protests under way from far-right groups claiming to be anti-immigration and anti-asylum seeker, many here are feeling increasing despair.
(Footage of two women seated beside a crying child. Close-up on child’s face.)
AIDA, ASYLUM SEEKER: We are broken people.
LESLEY CRABTREE, PRESENTER: That report from Patrick Lee. We’re joined now by the Minister for Immigration –
Part 3
13
Aida
When I was a child there were three things my father loved more than anything in the world. The first, though he never said the words, was my brothers and myself, his pride in us discernible from the smallest upward curve of the side of his mouth or the way he’d refer to us as ‘his’ children when we’d done something clever. Most of the time we were my mother’s children, something she accepted with stage-like theatricality for all those within earshot: Look at the state of these children of mine! You’d never know they were mine by the look of their shoes! My own flesh and blood, yet the manners on them! This, too, evaporated quickly when I’d come home bearing a new award or near-perfect test score and they’d debate each other playfully as to who was best placed to take credit for my achievements. Was it my mother’s nutritious cooking or the strong guiding hand of my father? They would celebrate, gloatingly, parading my accomplishments in the communal courtyard that joined our home to the neighbours’, and Uncle Asadollah’s first-floor apartment. It was an investment of my grandfather’s, this property, Uncle Asadollah upstairs, my father downstairs, and tenants across the courtyard. In this same courtyard my older brothers took refuge against the more noxious eruptions their own underwhelming marks triggered, and it was where Uncle Asadollah commiserated drunkenly to the stars after each failed marriage and business venture. It was the backdrop of our lives, that courtyard.
The second thing my father loved more than anything in the world was my mother’s tahdig, the layer of rice baked crisp at the bottom of the pot that we fought over each time we sat down to eat. Eschewing the practice of adding items like potato or turmeric or saffron, my mother’s tahdig was simple but delicious, and my father claimed it could never be matched. This belief he advertised in all arenas save for in the presence of my grandmother, whose anxiety over the appreciation others felt towards her cooking rivalled none. I remember the first visit of Sohila, Uncle Asadollah’s second wife, when she declared my grandmother’s ghormeh sabzi merely ‘very delicious’, and my grandmother took to her mattress in unbridled grief, the level of which she usually reserved for the mourning of Imam Hussain every Muharram. Perhaps she, Sohila, would willingly replace her as chief cook of the family, my grandmother keened, prematurely bequeathing her treasured collection of heavy pots and pans. The rest of us, a practised audience in the stage show of my grandmother, watched with amusement, more certain that Sohila would be next for replacement if Uncle Asadollah’s history was anything to go by. This was not Uncle Asadollah’s fault, my father often reminded us, but a result of the over-mothering my grandmother had bestowed upon her final, long-prayed-for child, and it was a miracle Asadollah remembered even to feed himself given the circumstances. My grandparents, longing for a second child to complete their home, had travelled all the way to the shrine of Imam Reza in Mashhad so my grandmother could press her face to the zarih grill where fertility was supposedly granted, her elbows meanwhile fending off the throng of other desperate women clambering around her. His birth was a miracle, my grandmother was sure, and she raised him with the doting possessiveness of a queen regent. It was a miracle, my father would remind us again, that Asadollah had ever managed to leave the house.
The final thing my father loved most was the third shelf of his oldest bookcase. Here, separated from the tomes of his idols – Hafez, Molavi, Sa’adi, Ferdowsi, Khayyam – were the handful of first editions of his own publications. My father’s interests spread far and wide: Persian literature, Persian history, and the intersection
of Persian literature with Persian history. He watched with contemptuous disdain when we brought home newly discovered translations of modern foreign literature, his nose wrinkling at Austen or the Brontës as if they were flea-ridden, rheumy strays we had adopted off the street and dragged into his home. My mother, who finished her schooling at fifteen, was content for us to read anything so long as it kept us from the television which she insisted contained nothing but rot and nonsense. This was during a period when the satellite dish had been confiscated from our rooftop and we were yet to purchase another off the black market, so we were only able to access state-sanctioned channels. To my mother, most television produced within Iran was garbage. She would watch us disparagingly, one eyebrow raised, and mourn a childhood in which she’d spent her days roaming the streets and climbing trees with her friends. Our ears would prick up at these moments, springing on the sentiments like lions mid-hunt, and ask if this meant we were finally free to take to the streets with our friends.
‘Of course not!’ my mother would scold us. ‘Who knows what kind of perverts are out there!?’
For my mother, the past was a time before strangers or danger or trouble.
I remember one Friday – it must have been a Friday because we were all at home – when my brothers and I lay watching cartoons, ignoring my mother’s orders from the kitchen to help her with the chores. My brothers were grizzling – Alireza had probably tried to use Amin as a footrest or something similar – and I was telling them to keep quiet. My father, normally hidden away in his study while we were home, appeared from his refuge shaken and irate. He strode towards the kitchen, changed his mind, retraced his steps before changing his mind a final time. He stood frozen, halfway between my mother and his study, mute and quivering. My brothers and I, at the cusp of double digits, noted him with vague interest before turning back to the images flashing before us. Eventually, unable to contain his unnoticed emotions, my father let out a loud cry, throwing his arms out like an exasperated prophet.
The Book of Ordinary People Page 14