by Robert Manne
The tarp was unfurled. There was not enough of it to cover everyone. If you found yourself on an edge or corner, someone from the opposite side would invariably pull it away the moment you relaxed your grip. In any case, it was too worn and porous to do much. The water ran down its folds and creases, streaming through the many tears along the way.
*
In the morning, everyone looked different. Sallow. Haggard. Reduced. Amir and Sami slouched limply against each other, passing between them a bulging plastic bag. The man with the faux-hawk was curled up in a foetal ball: he stayed that way the rest of the trip. His pregnant wife sat cross-legged near the bow, pale and wet and trembling. Rima was clutching Siya’s arm, as if it were a lifeline. Their eyes were squeezed tightly shut, but they were too ill to sleep.
Another problem arose. There was no toilet, and absent any railing to hold on to, going over the side was too risky. The men urinated on the hull, the women in their pants.
The Indonesians had brought a box of sealed plastic cups of water, but hardly anyone could hold them down. Siya continued to sing and puke. Although a couple of the children had begun to cry, none complained. In the afternoon, two dolphins appeared and spent the better part of an hour playfully showing off. As they darted under the boat, and launched into the air, the spectacle cheered up everyone, adults and kids alike. Even Amir and Sami rallied from their stupor to watch. A few grown men became positively gleeful, vying to be the first to spot the grey shadows flitting from the deep.
That night, several of us tried to sleep atop the engine room, trading the shelter of the hull for a little extra space. It was a poor call. Every ten minutes or so, a bucket’s worth of cold water took your breath away or you were pitched against a hot pair of vertical pipes spewing noxious smoke and sparks. There was nothing to do but lie there, bracing for one or the other, admiring the magnificent array of stars and the phosphorescence glowing in the wake.
*
With first light, despite the sleep deprivation, dehydration, seasickness and filth, the asylum seekers were energised by the fact that, according to the Indonesians, we would likely reach Australian territory before nightfall. Although there was still no land in sight, the arrival of birds circling overhead was unanimously interpreted as a sign that we were getting close. The sea had also calmed: no more waves crashed upon the deck. Initially, this was an enormous relief. For the first time, the sun dried us out. As it crept higher, however, it proved to be far more powerful than during the past two days, and soon, without a single cloud in the sky to blunt the blistering rays, everyone was longing for the same frigid breakers we previously cursed.
The tarp was brought back out. While blocking the sun’s glare, it also trapped its heat. A couple of people, desperate for fresh air, cut up the box of water cups, which was almost empty, and made visors from the cardboard. One of the fathers in the stern, wearing a Qatar Airways sleeping mask to protect his face, found a length of string and rigged up some sheets and scarves for shade. The bow – the only covered part of the boat – reeked dizzyingly of vomit and urine. None of the dozen Iranians who rushed to fill the space when we embarked had since dared to leave it. Now they were suffering. An argument arose between them and their comrades on the open deck. The tarp was obstructing the entrance to the bow, it seemed, and smothering its already rank and humid air.
‘Please,’ one woman begged. ‘We can’t breathe in here.’
There was little desire among the deck dwellers, however, to endure direct exposure to the sun for the comfort of those who had thus far enjoyed comparatively plush accommodations.
Presently, the heat finished off anyone who might have been bearing up. The pregnant woman’s condition bordered on critical. She was flushed and drenched in sweat and heaved dryly, with nothing left to give. Sami was weeping. Amir lay supine. His eyes drooped catatonically, and when I tried to make him drink some water, he weakly gripped my ankle.
‘I need help,’ he said. ‘Call for help.’
That decision seemed to be up to Siya. There was a satellite phone on board: Siya said the plan was to contact the Australian authorities once we were well within their waters. The navy would then bring us ashore. In the past, asylum boats often made it all the way – but the landing can be treacherous (when one boat smashed on the cliffs in 2010, fifty people drowned), and now it’s standard practice to request a ‘rescue’ before reaching Christmas Island. Although Australian rescuers, when responding to distress calls, venture much farther north than where we currently were, Siya wanted to be sure. I think it was Amir’s pitiful entreaties that finally persuaded him to make the call.
An Iranian man who knew some English – the one who in Jakarta told me he was an engineer – spoke to the dispatch. The Indonesians had brought a hand-held GPS device; neither they nor the asylum seekers, however, knew how to work it. Eventually, someone offered his iPhone, and the engineer read out our coordinates.
While we waited to be rescued, the Iranians set about destroying their passports. ‘So they can’t deport you,’ Farah told me. Clearly, though, the task also carried some symbolic weight. Rather than simply jettisoning them, the asylum seekers painstakingly ripped out each individual page, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it to the wind. A pair of scissors was passed around. The burgundy covers, emblazoned with the Iranian coat of arms, were cut into tiny pieces. The work was accomplished with flair and relish. Only one man seemed hesitant. Moving closer, I saw that the passport he was disposing of was his son’s. When the scissors came his way, he carefully cut out the photo on the first page and slipped it in his wallet.
Soon, on the horizon, a ship appeared. A government airplane buzzed above us, swooped low and made a second pass. The asylum seekers waved shirts in the air, crying out in jubilation. The younger Indonesian performed a dance atop the engine room; he seemed amazed we had made it. Some of the men emptied their pockets, thrusting on him all the cash they had. The Indonesian beamed. ‘Thank you, brothers!’
Two skiffs broke off from the battleship and motored our way. Each carried six Australians in grey fatigues, riot helmets and sidearms holstered on their thighs. The Indonesians cut the engine (and after three days of its unrelenting clamour, the silence that replaced it was startling). The skiffs manoeuvred abreast of us, one on each side.
The Australian sailors all looked like fresh recruits. One of them held a manual of some kind. He read from it in a loud voice. ‘Are there any English speakers?’
The engineer stepped forward.
‘Does anyone on board require medical assistance?’
When the engineer translated this, nearly everyone raised his hand. The pregnant woman was helped to her feet and presented. Her head hung heavily. She was almost too weak to stand.
While the Australian with the manual recited more questions – including some in Indonesian addressed to the crew, who shook their heads dumbly, refusing to answer – his fellow sailors passed to the asylum seekers new life vests, a couple jerrycans of fresh water, some bags of frozen tortillas, bottles of honey and a tub of strawberry jam. ‘We’re going back to the ship now,’ one of them told the engineer. ‘You have to turn the engine back on and keep going. We’ll be behind you.’
This information was met with disbelief. Once again the pregnant woman was raised up and displayed. ‘Can you take her with you at least?’ asked the engineer. The sailors exchanged embarrassed looks. Plainly, they wished they could.
We still couldn’t see land – and not long after the skiffs left us for the battleship, it, too, was lost from view. The return of the empty and limitless ocean, not to mention the incessantly pounding sun, was incredibly demoralising. To make matters worse, we no longer had any means of communication. When they first glimpsed the plane and ship, all the asylum seekers, following Siya’s example, threw their cellphones overboard. For some reason, amid the exultation, the satellite phone and GPS system had also gone into the water.
There was nothing to do but heed t
he Australian’s command and ‘keep going’. It was four or five hours after we made contact with the first ship when a second, smaller patrol boat materialised. Two more skiffs of sailors came out to meet us. This time they immediately boarded the boat, moving people aside, herding everyone forward. The officer in charge announced that he was taking control of the vessel.
After the officer spotted Joel’s camera, we were both summoned to the stern, at which point we identified ourselves as journalists. While a big Australian with a bushy beard worked the tiller, the officer went through a list of prewritten questions with the crew, each of whom either couldn’t read or declined to. (Unless it’s their second offence, or someone dies, the Indonesian fishermen who bring asylum boats across are often not prosecuted.) The officer was polite to Joel and me. He said we had been lucky with the weather. If we had left a few days earlier, the boat would have capsized.
*
It inspires a unique kind of joy, that first glimpse of land. The sun was low, and you could almost mistake it for some play of light and shadow. As rousing as it was to see, the presence of a fixed object against which to mark our progress also made you realise just how slowly we had been going. It was late at night by the time we reached Christmas Island. The Australians guided our boat into the shelter of a shallow cove, beneath sheer cliffs draped in vegetation. After tying up on a mooring, the officer revealed that we would stay the night here and disembark tomorrow. When the engineer relayed the complaints of the asylum seekers – who, consolidated in the bow, had even less space now than before – the officer responded: ‘Are you safe? Are your lives in danger anymore?’ He seemed to be losing patience, and, noticing a wrapper floating by the stern, angrily reproached the Iranians: ‘You’re in a nice country now.’
It rained fitfully throughout the night. The next day, we were all ferried by a push-barge from the mooring to a jetty around the point. The jetty was swarmed with customs and immigration officials, federal police and employees of a private company that runs the island’s detention centres. Joel and I were welcomed to Australia, given water, coffee and a ride to a surprisingly luxurious hotel. Everyone else was interned. Later that afternoon, while walking into town, I saw our little boat being towed out to sea. There, the officer had told me, it would be lit on fire.
The families and minors were taken to a relatively comfortable facility, with access to an outdoor soccer field and recreational area. The single men went to a place resembling a maximum-security prison. None of the asylum seekers would stay at either location for long. While I was on the island, flights full of detainees were leaving almost every night for Papua New Guinea and the Republic of Nauru. By now, most if not all of the people from our boat have been transferred to one of the two island nations. If they were sent to the detention centre on Papua New Guinea, they are probably living in the tent city that was erected there as part of its expansion. If they were sent to the detention centre on Nauru, they are probably living in the tent city that was erected there after rioting asylum seekers in July burned the buildings down.
Because the governments of Nauru and Papua New Guinea lack the capability to process refugee claims – Australian officials are still training them to do so – the asylum seekers have a long wait ahead of them. Some might not be able to hold out: already, dozens of Iranians, after seeing the conditions at the Papua New Guinea facility, have asked to be sent back to their country. Among those who decide to tough it out, it’s most likely that few will be found to have valid cases. Moreover, unlike with Afghanistan and Sri Lanka, no agreement exists between Iran and Australia allowing for the forcible repatriation of asylum seekers whose applications are unsuccessful. This means that the Iranians who are denied asylum by Nauru or Papua New Guinea, and who decline to voluntarily return to Iran, will enter a kind of limbo, in which they can neither be resettled on those islands nor sent to the Australian mainland nor sent home. Absent another solution, these people could be flown back to Christmas Island and detained indefinitely.
*
We reached Australia one day after Tony Abbott was elected prime minister. In keeping with his Operation Sovereign Borders policy, Abbott has since directed the navy to send back to Indonesia, whenever possible, asylum boats intercepted at sea. So far this has happened twice, in late September, when two boatloads of asylum seekers were turned over, offshore, to Indonesian authorities. The second transfer took place the same day that a boat full of Lebanese asylum seekers broke apart less than a hundred yards off the Java coast near Sukabumi, the Indonesian city whose police station Joel and I briefly visited. More than twenty bodies, many of them children, washed ashore, and more remained missing.
According to a Lebanese community leader interviewed by the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, most of the dead came from a small village near the border with Syria. One asylum seeker, who managed to swim to safety, lost his sister-in-law, his brother-in-law, three of their children, his wife and all eight of his children. The community leader said there were many more Lebanese fleeing the Syrian border who had already paid smugglers and were on their way to Indonesia.
When I got back to Afghanistan, I met with several men preparing to go to Australia. One of them, Qais Khan, opened a small auto-parts shop in Kabul in 2005. Qais told me that for years, while Afghans from the provinces came regularly into the city, he did very well. Since 2010, however, the deteriorating security situation in the rural areas adjacent to the capital had stultified commerce and ruined many retailers. Last year, Qais’s shop went out of business; now he was struggling to feed his wife and two children.
A couple of months ago, fifteen of Qais’s friends paid a smuggler at Sarai Shahzada and left for Indonesia. Among them was Qais’s next door neighbor, a driver for a member of parliament, who decided to flee after receiving three letters from the Taliban threatening to kill him. Qais told me he was waiting to hear whether his friends were successful – in which case, he would go as well.
‘And if they’re not?’ I asked. ‘If they’re sent to Papua New Guinea or the Republic of Nauru?’
Qais thought for a moment and then admitted he would probably go anyway. In fact, he had already taken out the necessary loans to pay the smuggler. ‘At least there you have a chance,’ he said. ‘At least there is a possibility.’
I felt obligated to tell him he was wrong. ‘You won’t get to Australia,’ I said.
Qais didn’t seem to hear. The words simply didn’t register. ‘Australia, Europe, America,’ he said. ‘They’re not like here. You have a chance.’
The New York Times Magazine
A Natural Wonder in Peril
Tim Flannery
Australia’s Great Barrier Reef stretches for around 1430 miles along the continent’s north-east coast, encompassing an area roughly half the size of Texas. Those who have dived into its pristine reaches know firsthand that it is one of Earth’s natural wonders – a coral world of exceptional beauty and diversity. Yet as Iain McCalman’s ‘passionate history’ of the reef makes clear, it is also a stage on which dreams, ambitions, and great human tragedies have been played out. He tells his story by chronicling lives that, either inadvertently or intentionally, have shaped our perception of the coralline labyrinth.
Just who discovered the reef is a matter of conjecture. Certainly Captain James Cook encountered it in 1770 as he charted Australia’s east coast in His Majesty’s bark Endeavour. But did he recognise the formation as a whole? The reef forms a kind of funnel that narrows northward. In its southern reaches it is so wide-mouthed that Cook failed to notice it. Only as he approached the latitude of present-day Cooktown did he realise that he had become ensnared in a coral maze.
Close to midnight on the night of 10 June, Endeavour struck bottom, then stuck fast. In the darkness Cook and his crew were about as far from home and help as anyone could be. The great navigator understood that even if the vessel could be hauled free, it would likely sink. He foresaw that sailors would scrabble for seats in the long
boat, but believed that those who succeeded could expect a far grislier death at the hands of ‘the most rude and uncivilized’ people on earth than those who surrendered to the sea.
Still, there was no choice but to risk all. Waiting for a high tide, Cook had the vessel hauled free – and later found that a piece of coral the size of a fist had stuck in the hull, partially stopping the flow of water and allowing the ship to reach the Endeavour River, where it was careened and repaired.
Around six weeks later, after several anxious days threading the labyrinth, the repaired Endeavour finally reached the open sea. Then Cook did an astonishing thing – he ordered the vessel turned around, so he could find a way back in and continue his coastal survey. At four a.m. on 16 August, the reef was again making itself known. The sound of a great surf ‘foaming to a vast height’ filled every ear.
Waves that had gained strength by traveling the breadth of the Pacific were rearing up, then dashing themselves before the serrated coral ramparts. With no ground for an anchor and not a puff of wind, the ship lay helpless as the incoming tide carried it ever closer to what Cook knew was ‘the very jaws of distruction’. Amid waves ‘mountains high’, Joseph Banks, the expedition’s gentleman naturalist, later recalled, ‘a speedy death was all we had to hope for’.
For two hours in the predawn gloom the desperate crew rowed for their lives as they attempted to tow Endeavour clear, but the tide was unrelenting. Then, at first light, a few slight puffs of wind were felt. Cook would live to find his passage and complete his chart. But at what cost in mortal peril?
At the beginning of the nineteenth century Captain Matthew Flinders continued charting where Cook had left off. Remembered as the man who gave both Australia and the Great Barrier Reef their names, he was also the first European to show an appreciation of the reef’s beauty. Peering through clear water near the Northumberland Islands, he recorded seeing