DELIVERED IN DETENTION
Wickham Point doesn’t look intimidating at first. Not if you ignore the guards, the razor wire, the warning signs and the fact that it’s surrounded by croc-infested mangrove swamps on the outskirts of Darwin.
The buildings aren’t all built out of concrete; there aren’t towers, or bricks, or stones. You notice the outer fence is more gaps than steel.
The guards are matey, cheerful even.
The website lists the amenities on offer; recreation courts, classrooms, gymnasiums, basketball hoops, computer rooms and purpose built garden beds. It describes Wickham Point as an “Alternative Place of Detention,” it sounds more like a Steiner school prospectus, than a prison website.
Reception is a demountable style shed. A cheap plastic sign on the wall reads “Our Governing Principles”. The first dot point curiously states “we foster an entrepreneurial culture”. Another one states “we build trust and respect”.
Every object brought by visitors is x-rayed. “Other kids aren’t getting Barbie dolls,” says a guard, “it’ll cause a disruption”. The Barbie doll is itemised and binned.
I fill out one of the forms. Name, boat number and signature. The boat number is all they really want.
SIEV 529.
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In 1975, the Vietnam war ended with the fall of Saigon. Millions fled the violence that followed. The term ‘boat people’ was adopted to describe the refugees that fled. An ignominious name for the nameless. The term fell out of popular usage in the decades that followed.
In March 1996, John Howard was elected with the second largest majority in Australian History. After surviving a tumultuous first term, in August 2001, the Prime Minister's popularity was plummeting and his leadership looked terminal.
Into these troubled waters, on 24 August 2001, sailed Captain Arne Rinnan of the MV Tampa. He was responding to a request by Australia to rescue 433 Hazara asylum-seekers adrift at sea.
One week later the notorious Pacific Solution was drafted, then ratified with bi-partisan support. A fortnight later, the catastrophic September 11 terrorist attacks blurred the lines between asylum seeker and national security. The term ‘boat people’ re-emerged, but this time loaded with negativity. An ignominous name for the nameless
In 2013, SIEV 529 entered Australian waters.
_ _ _
I pass through a metal detector and find myself standing in a cage. I’m trapped between two metal doors. A human airlock separating two worlds. So I wait.
When the second door unlocks, I enter a long hall with flickering white fluorescent lights. A guard stares at me from the far end. I wait again. Families are waiting. Lovers are waiting. Friends. Perhaps there are even some, like me, visiting a family in detention because they want to meet these ‘boat people’ for themselves.
Eventually Alborz, his wife Tazim, Jasmine (13) and Ra (8) are led in from their compound. They’re all holding hands, pulled apart like paper people, and just as fragile. They’re not like I had expected. They seem familiar. Like family.
Al looks like a high school history teacher. Bearded, bespectacled, with a slightly dishevelled and crumply demeanour that seems unrelated to his incarceration. He casually drapes his left arm over his son’s shoulder. “I feel,” says Al, “I not leave Iran…,” he finishes the sentence in Persian. “He feels that Iran left him,” smiles Jasmine.
A warm smile reveals his new Darwin teeth. His original teeth were knocked out by a guard on Nauru: the story makes him uncomfortable. He’s not looking for sympathy or seeking justice, he just wants to talk about Jasmine and Ra.
He passes me some photos of the children taken by Joel van Houdt.
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When SIEV 529 sailed into Australian waters, the main difference between this vessel and others was that two undercover journalists working for the New York Times were also aboard; Luke Mogelson and photo journalist, Joel van Houdt.
Luke and Joel’s story starts in Kabul, Afghanistan. Disguised as Georgian refugees, they approach a people smuggling network to secure passage from Indonesia to Australia. They construct an elaborate back-story. They say their cameras and recording devices contain sensitive information from the 2008 Georgian / Russian war. It works.
In Indonesia they meet with Al, Taz, Jas and Ra. After weeks of waiting in squalor, they board a crowded, rickety fishing boat and set sail for Christmas Island. Mogelson states that those on board refuse to even consider the possibility that they will not be settled in Australia:
“That people are willing to hazard death at sea despite Australia’s vow to send them to places like Papua New Guinea and the Republic of Nauru would seem illogical — or just plain crazy.
The Australian government ascribes their persistence partly to misinformation propagated by the smugglers. But every asylum seeker who believes those lies believes them because he chooses to. Their doing so, and continuing to brave the Indian Ocean, and continuing to die, only illustrates their desperation in a new, disturbing kind of light.
This is the subtext to the plight of every refugee: Whatever hardship he endures, he endures because it beats the hardship he escaped. Every story of exile implies the sadder story of a homeland.”
If they don’t sink they will collide with Australia, one day after the 2013 election where hardline border protection policies to ‘stop the boats’ is the number one issue.
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“Do you like backgammon?” Al asks as I pass back the photos. He has crafted a beautiful set from recycled wood on Nauru, using coffee to stain the pieces black. “I love backgammon”, I lied — I’d never played before. After one game, I never see that board again. Indefinite detention is one thing, but my
backgammon is apparently another.
Every Thursday people are taken. No one ever knows who will be next. They just disappear. Presumably sent to Nauru, it’s not always clear.
It always happens at night. Sometimes silently. They just aren’t there the next day. Sometimes there is sobbing, weeping, screaming.
Ra is trying to put on a good show this week. It’s like he is trying to act how a happy 8-year- old should act. His big brown eyes betray him: he looks like the saddest boy I’ve ever seen.
The visits blur together. One week, leftovers from the food I bring is confiscated by one of
the guards. The next visit, Taz asks me for the leftover grapes: not for herself, but for another pregnant woman who hasn’t had any visitors. “Of course,” I say, not knowing how she’ll manage to
get them past the guards. A hand appears from beneath her chador and three polystyrene cups filled with grapes disappear inside. We share a grin.
_ _ _
The world’s population is predicted to increase to 11 billion by end of the century. That’s around 4 billion more than there are today.
Between 2001 and 2010, the average number of migrants that arrived in Australia by boat per year was 1500.
In the same period, the average number of migrants arriving by plane was 134,459 per year. This equates to around 1% of all migrants arriving by boat. In the past 5 years, under Rudd, Abbott, and so on, the number arriving by plane has climbed to over 200,000 per year.
In 2013-14, net overseas migration was 212,700. So while we’ve been busy worrying about the now less than 1% of migrants currently arriving by boat, immigration by plane has increased by 58%.
At this rate, when also accounting for births, Australia is on track to reach a population of around 39 million by 2050. That’s almost double our current population. The 15 years of national debate surrounding ‘boat people’ is dwarfed in comparison.
The debate needs to be reframed. We can only move beyond the cycle of vitriol and shallow slogans such as “stop the boats” and “let them stay” if we talk honestly about immigration. There needs to be a clearer strategy to create an Australia where twice the population can live in a sustainable way.
So if Australia’s target is 37 - 40 million (or more) in 34 years’ time, the conversation we should be having isn’t about how people get to Australia, but rather how Australia is going manage this growth and build the communities of the future.
The number arriving by boat is just a drop in the ocean. The billions of dollars spent on detaining the tiny percent arriving by boat would be far better spent on building the infrastructure and resilience our towns and cities will need to support and manage this population challenge.
_ _ _
For my last visit, I see Taz in Darwin Hospital. Jasmine had sent me a message on Facebook. “Mum’s just given birth,” she said. “Can you take some photos of my new brother?”
I haven’t filled out any forms or asked permission to visit, I just have a map of the ward, and I’m hoping to slip through the general bustle of hospital visitors. When I step out of the lift, I find four uniformed guards waiting in front of the Maternity Unit door. I push the biggest, reddest button I can find on the intercom.
Nothing happens. Was it this humid before? I push the button harder. I’m trying to hide behind the flowers in my hand. Baseball cap pulled down. I’m a parody of stealth.
“Hey mate,” says one of the guards. I press the button even harder. “Hey mate,” he says again. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck as I imagine being tackled, tasered. or worse. “You have to press the other one.”
A lone guard patrols the corridors inside. The nurse at reception can’t find Taz. She isn’t listed. When they work out I’m visiting a detainee, they wait for the guard to pass before taking me to her room.
I take some photos of Taz and baby Xavier before sitting down in the chair next to her bed. “Sweet baby Xavier,” she says. “No number, just Xavier.”
I wish that were true.
All names and identifying details have been changed.
Angus Smith is an Editor at Flycatcher.
