You don’t know what to think. Aadan has warned you that the situation in Australia is getting more hostile – but Majid seems to think there’s not much hope here, either. Once again, you face a choice between bad and worse – but which option is worse?
To wait for the UNHCR and hope for a visa, go to scene 38.
To go by boat to Australia as soon as possible, go to scene 39.
To read a fact file on life in limbo click here, then return to this page to make your choice.
You look into Jamilah’s eyes. ‘Are you sure you want to go tonight? This boat trip will be even rougher and longer than the last one.’
She nods resolutely.
‘Okay then, let’s do it,’ you say, although fear grips your stomach.
As darkness falls over the white house on the hill that night, two mini-vans pull up outside, mosquitoes swarming to their headlights.
You and Jamilah crowd into one of the vans along with about fifteen other people from the house. The only things you have on you are a bottle of water, which Majid and Maryam pushed into your hands as you left, the pen, the money inside your shoe, and your phone. Budi instructed you all not to bring anything more.
The road to the coast is littered with potholes, and the driver looks grim as he swerves to avoid them. You think that his ears, like yours, must be pricked for the sound of sirens coming to bust you.
You arrive at the coast and the van parks. You can hear the sound of waves crashing. The dread in your stomach rises, until it seems to be sloshing back and forth like the waves. This is it. Your only chance.
The mini-van doors roar as the driver drags them open. You climb out in the company of the crowd. Four other mini-vans are already parked in the moonlight, each disgorging a crowd of about twenty stooped passengers, who clutch each other and look about like rabbits.
You hear the scrunching of footsteps on sand and the thump and hiss of waves. The drivers of the vans, and a few more Indonesian men who were waiting here for you, mutter orders as they herd you down to the beach. You squeeze Jamilah’s hand. It is slick with sweat.
People crane their necks, trying to see over each other’s heads to get a look at the boat. You and Jamilah wriggle through to the front.
There is a small boat flailing in the shallows – like the ones that used to go out at Lido Beach, with a crew of around twelve fishermen. In silhouette, you see a long, narrow deck, and a boxy wheelhouse where the driver stands. That must be the boat they’ll use to take us out, a dozen at a time, to a larger one, you think. We’ll have to wade out to this one first: I hope it’s not too deep.
It won’t be your first time in the ocean, but because the fighting in Mogadishu has been so bad in recent years, it hasn’t been safe enough to spend a lot of time at the beach. Neither you or Jamilah are confident swimmers.
The people smugglers don’t give you time to ask questions or react – they just begin herding people into the water, roughly, barking: ‘Go! Go!’
Two wiry Indonesian fishermen on the boat start reaching overboard and hauling people up onto the deck – their new heavy, sodden catch.
As people around you stagger in, children are crying and parents are hoisting them up higher to keep them dry. You can see the question in their eyes: Are you sure we can do this? and the reply: We are doing this. Come.
You’re standing at the edge of the water, feeling it splash over your feet, when one of the drivers pushes you in the back, and you stumble forward, into water up to your knees, Jamilah’s arm wrapped tightly around your waist. A wave reaches up and slaps you in the stomach, and she squeals because she’s only short and it’s closer to her face.
You reach the splintery side of the boat and a pair of strong brown hands lift Jamilah, then you, out of the water. You see a trapdoor in the deck leading to storage space below, but you don’t want to climb in there, so you shuffle to the edge of the deck on the other side of the boat, where at least you can hold on to a rail.
The crowd shifts and tightens as more and more people are crammed on board. No one is shoving, though, because everyone is thinking: We only have to stay on this boat for a little while, until we get to the larger one.
THERE IS NO larger boat. You only realise this once the journey is so far underway that there’s no way you can rebel – when the black waves are heaving under the thin hull, the distant lights of the shore have faded, and the sound of seasick passengers retching and children sobbing fill the night air.
You are going to Australia on this: the boat of two impoverished fishermen who have been talked into a lucrative and dangerous job; a boat that looks as if it’s never left Indonesian waters; a boat made to hold a dozen fishermen and their nets.
Some people are crammed into the hull, a space below deck that’s at least free from the saltwater spray. When you and Jamilah peek inside, you see that the parents have taken their young children down here, seeking shelter.
‘When will we be in Australia?’ ask the children in their languages. You don’t speak Farsi, Tamil or Hazaragi, but you know what they’re asking.
Their parents stroke their brows and reply, ‘Soon, my darling, soon.’
You don’t try to squeeze
