Desert Storm - actors for refugees:readings

Actors for Refugees Readings

Diana Greentree

In the next tent, two young men from Afghanistan, the same age as my son, sit huddled and afraid.

"How can we help them?" A young friend tearfully whispers. "Can we give them our map? Some water?"

I look out at the treeless desert that is Woomera. At the police who've surrounded our protest camp and who've turned night into day by setting up huge lights. The campsite is ablaze.

"They'd die out there", we tell our friend. She says they'd rather die than be returned to the Detention Centre. She sneaks out again.

We can't look at the tent where the two boys wait, hardly daring to breathe. We know we're being watched.

A hush has fallen over the camp, dark figures scurry from tent to tent. Are they escapees? Police? Who is a friend?

Two young men approach us in the dark.

"Have you heard of a woman, hiding? Her name is Suriah. We have her two little kids and they're crying for their mother."

I gulp and reply nervously.

"Suriah? Um....no. No. Haven't heard anything."

We eye them, suspiciously as they go from tent to tent.

We begin to wonder if all this is such a good idea. We know the refugees will be found and returned to detention. Will they be punished? Is it worth it?

We look at the heavy police presence. We, too are imprisoned. It's getting cold and we hear there'll be a police raid on our tents. Not much chance of sleep. The wind is strong and whips red dust into our noses, our eyes, our food. The moon cruelly shines over the desert, and we wonder if people are out there, crawling on their bellies from shrub to shrub.

The early morning is very quiet and I peer fearfully from the tent. To my surprise, the police have gone. Someone has a radio and we hear on the news that the South Australian police have now refused to do the Federal Government's dirty work.

A cheer goes up.

Our young friend tells us the Afghani boys have gone. She is without her walking boots.

The Legal team informs the camp that most of the escapees have been caught. Tears roll down our faces as we learn that the young mother and her two little children have been returned to the Detention Centre. "What is the price of a moment's freedom?" we wonder.

So now it's Easter Sunday, and a thousand protesters are chanting and banging saucepans as we head towards the forbidding walls of the detention centre. The police in full riot gear await us, looking somewhat overdressed in leather chaps, chest guards, gloves and helmets as they face the singletted crowd.

We see the refugees now, standing on roofs, waving and shouting to us, reaching for our hands through the razor wire.

"Thank you, thank you, Australian people," the detainees call.

Some have tiny children perched on their shoulders and they, too, wave and call to us. A policeman wipes away a tear.

The refugees now hold high into the air a huge cross made from grasses in a touching acknowledgement of our Easter Sunday.

I am filled anew with anger and shame. They throw us a huge bunch of flowers, scavenged from who knows where in this barren desert.
We stay a long, long time, calling, crying, trying to give support. And again, they call, "thank you, thank you".

It IS worthwhile. I'm glad I came.

It's early Monday morning and we've been told to expect a final raid. Somehow the police seem less frightening, and we peer out of our tents as we watch them quietly walking in packs of 5 or 6, waving torches round the outsides of our tents.

"Delta Echo Xray, Alpha Victor Delta," one of the cops says, with an air of importance.

They record our car regos, but strangely, don't look into the tents.

"Good morning fellas," I say.

"Morning," they reply.

"Lovely day."

Covered in a layer of red dust, we pack up. Where hundreds of tents crouched yesterday like multi-coloured beetles nestling into the sand, only a patch of soft, red dust remains. A willy-willy whirls across the barren stretch that separates us from the Detention Centre.

It picks up some leaves, some shreds of paper and carries its gift through the stark steel walls of the prison.