When the two of you get there, the waiting room is as crowded as before, but this time an Indonesian woman comes to fetch you. She has a long black ponytail and poppy-red lipstick, and the nametag on her crisp white shirt says ‘Rika’.
In Rika’s air-conditioned office, a beefy man with a sunburnt nose is sitting in a chair that’s too small for him. He rises to greet you with a handshake.
‘Barry Mackenzie,’ he says in English. ‘From Interpol – the international police.’
You’re not sure what to say.
‘So,’ he goes on, ‘you’re the young journo who’s been making these claims, eh? Orders from head office were to come and check it out.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong … have I?’ you ask.
Are you in trouble? You glance at Jamilah. She shrugs, looking worried.
‘No, nothing like that, not at all. You’ve done a good thing, son. Could be the information we need to track down some of these bast— ahem, criminal suspects once and for all.’
He asks to see the pen, which by now is famous from being described in all the news reports. He whistles, impressed, as you draw it from your pocket.
You’re reluctant to hand it over. ‘I’ve been through so much for this pen,’ you murmur. ‘But we still haven’t got it to safety in Australia.’
Barry nods slowly. ‘Indonesia’s not the safest place for a pair of kids, particularly ones with a bent for stirring up hornet’s nests,’ he agrees.
He leans towards Rika and murmurs in her ear. She considers a moment, then begins tapping at her keyboard.
‘All we want is a visa so we can live with our Uncle Aadan in Australia,’ says Jamilah.
You nod, then add boldly: ‘And we won’t leave this office until we’re sure we have your protection.’
‘Can you step out to the waiting room, please?’ asks Rika sharply, not looking up from her computer.
You’re worried you’ve blown it, but Barry gives you a wink as you leave the room.
After an hour of waiting, you and Jamilah are called back one at a time and asked to tell Barry and Rika your story in detail. Then you’re sent back to the waiting room, for a further six hours.
The waiting room is empty and night has fallen when at last Rika and Barry emerge, looking browbeaten but satisfied.
‘We did it,’ says Barry. ‘Pulled every string I could for you kids.’
‘What did you do?’ you ask with bated breath. You don’t dare to hope they might have pulled off the impossible …
‘Two emergency rescue visas,’ says Rika proudly. ‘And a flight to Melbourne that leaves in the morning!’
Jamilah drops to her knees. You start to sob.
‘Thank you,’ you manage to say, though these two words are not enough to cover your overwhelming gratitude.
We’re saved! We can live with Aadan. We’re going to be okay.
In the next moment, you realise you’ll be leaving Maryam, Majid and Mahmoud to their neverending hell, and your shoulders begin to shake as grief rises up to mingle with your joy.
THE NEXT MORNING, you lean your face against the cold window inside the plane. Jamilah sits beside you, gazing into the distance with a dreamy, sad smile.
Saying goodbye to your beloved friends and their baby was agony. As you watch the sun rise through the clouds, you think of the poem you wrote last night, and pressed into Majid’s hands first thing this morning as a parting gift.
T
O THE
O
NES
I L
EFT
B
EHIND
The pain and suffering that you are all going through,
I didn’t forget.
The guerrilla war and the loss of your loved ones,
I didn’t forget.
The mothers who lost their sons and husbands,
I didn’t forget.
The boys and girls that were mistreated,
I didn’t forget.
The breaking up of families, unable to communicate,
I didn’t forget.
The enemies who killed all the important people,
I didn’t forget.
Our home that turned into fire,
I didn’t forget.
Our civilians who were forgotten in the refugee camps,
I didn’t forget.
The ones who are going by boats and risking their lives,
I didn’t forget.
The ones held in detention for uncountable months,
I didn’t forget.
The children with no one to care about their education or future,
I didn’t forget.
My dear mother and father, aunty and friends, I didn’t forget you either.
One day I will come back and change our home with my knowledge.
Thank you, New Country, for giving me a chance to live again.
I’m a child of Africa, but I will be a man of Australia.
To continue with the story, go to scene 40.
The next time Budi visits the white house on the hill, you tell him you’re ready to leave, as soon as possible.
When the evening of your departure comes, Maryam gives you bags laden with her favourite Iranian dishes.
Majid grips your forearm in a brother’s handshake and pulls you into a hug. ‘You saved my sister’s life,’ you tell him.
Jamilah embraces Maryam, then plants a little kiss on her round belly.
Everyone is wiping away tears.
At the coast, you smell the sea before you reach it, briny and crisp. Your stomach bubbles with anticipation. The smell takes you back to the shores of Lido Beach, home in Mogadishu.
This ocean is no different, you tell yourself. Don’t be scared. Just one more trip, and we’ll be in Australia.
IN BRIGHTLY LIT living rooms across Australia, headlines blare on the evening news.
Flood of asylum seekers: number of boat arrivals reaches record high.
One hundred and fifty-four boat people drowned at sea so far this year.
Stop the boats.
THE BOAT RIDE is a terrible nightmare.
You’re on a fishing boat suited to twenty or so people, with nearly one hundred aboard. The waves bounce and heave. Children whimper, and the engine revs with its heavy load. Your face is crusted with salt spray; your stomach churns. Jamilah clings to you, crying. You vomit over the side, your clothes soaked with acidic yellow spew – again and again. You
