by Rohan Wilson
‘He’s arguing with Dr Nazeem.’
I look at Hassan and Hassan looks at me. We stand at the same time.
‘You better show us,’ I say.
In the recreation yard the air is cool and thin and yet the sun bites like a fly at the back of the neck. Summer here in Tasmania has not the power of the equatorial heat back home. There’s no humidity to it. The sun, in such thin air, just stings and bites. We walk in that vicious sun, following Rasheed, and stop in the cold shade of the blue gum in the middle of the field of gravel. We’re wary of going any further. Any further, and we’ll be among the prayer mats.
The men praying pay us no mind. They lift their palms. They kneel into sujood. Of course, no one in this Eaglehawk has a prayer mat. If you want to pray, you need to scavenge a piece of cardboard from the manufactory. A couple of hundred men are bowing and kneeling in unison and prostrating themselves on pieces of cardboard, and standing at the head of the group is Dr Nazeem, a great scholar of the Hadith, a man known for his faith.
‘The doctor doesn’t look at all pleased,’ Hassan says with a smile.
It’s easy to see why. The white man. He’s standing beside Dr Nazeem, casting a long black shadow across that holy space.
‘I think he’s offering his local knowledge to the learned doctor,’ I say.
The white man must have provoked Dr Nazeem, for the doctor is animated, shaking his finger in that familiar manner he uses to correct the wrongheaded. Nazeem reaches to about the man’s armpits. The man smiles down at him. He has changed into a pair of commissary-issue trackpants and he carries a can of soft drink. His face is creased and oddly handsome. Dr Nazeem is waving his artful finger to the white man as he makes his point.
‘We face the Kaaba. We face north.’
‘Look at a map,’ the white man says. ‘You’re in Tasmania. You’re on the peninsula. That’s not north, that’s east.’
The other devotees end their prayers and fold away their flat squares of cardboard. Few speak English, being fishermen, farmers and boat builders. They’re the luckiest of all. Adduans from Gan. Gaafuans from Thinadhoo. Simple people from smaller islands. The worst hit of places. They’d pulled survivors from the floodwater in the hundreds, where once had lived tens of thousands. Some of them come now and ask me what the white man is saying. There is some concern he has insulted Dr Nazeem.
‘He’s correcting our qiblah,’ I say.
‘Looking for the qiblah is like looking for the new moon ahead of Eid,’ Dr Nazeem calls to everyone. ‘The moon may be sighted on Washafaru, but not on Kelaa. That doesn’t mean the moon doesn’t exist.’
The white man has more on his mind than our qiblah.
‘Hey,’ he calls. ‘Listen now.’
They fall silent, such is his presence.
‘Some of you blokes know me already but for the rest of youse, my name’s Danny Howland. You ought to listen to me cause I’m the only one who’s going to tell the truth.’ He points out the DEOs standing in the oblique shade of the pods. ‘You see them blokes? We’re in a war with them. They’re the face of power. Do you understand?’
More silence, which he must take as a sign of our ignorance.
‘Do you follow? They’ve locked us away because they’re scared of the poor and the coloured. They’re scared we might figure out that poverty and racism are engines driving wealth to the top. If we figure that out, we might stop the engine. Do you understand?’
He might as well ask us if we know the sea is blue.
‘Take the coloured man, they say, take the poor man and make a workforce. Don’t let them organise and don’t let them protest and don’t let them into power. This is the world you live in. The corporation and the government are a single monster that can’t be separated. Do you see that? Government policy is corporate policy. This is the world today. The policy is to keep us in debt and keep us working. Do you see, brothers? Do you hear me?’
He speaks with clarity. He’s given remarks like this before, you can tell. Perhaps these kinds of remark are why he’s in here.
‘They’re afraid of us, these oligarchs and these billionaires and these political dogs on leashes. They want a return to feudalism and serfdom. They want to be god-kings. But they know we’ll fight it with every fist we can muster. They know we’ll fight and it scares the shit out of them.’
A murmur goes around the crowd and someone shouts in agreement but most of the men find this a dangerous thought. After all, the present arrangement is so elegantly simple. Work off the debt, claim the visa.
‘I won’t talk about God,’ Howland says. ‘What could I tell you devout men about Him? I will say this. You need to lower your eyes from the heavens and look at the man beside you.’
More hum of agreement.
Dr Nazeem shakes his finger. ‘This is not strictly true.’
‘Lower your eyes and help lift your brothers,’ Howland says.
He has their attention. They’re listening.
‘They’ll never stop us. There isn’t enough blood and there isn’t enough money to stop us. We’re coming for justice.’
Fury of this type—the fury of the rank and file—is familiar to me. While in his articles my father fought calmly for his democratic principles, in private he spoke like a prophet hot with holy fire. Often, over dinner, my mother threw roshi at him when he grew loud enough for the neighbours to hear. She feared he’d be locked away. He’d take a handful of rice, then turn to lecture me. He believed that institutions ought to set a moral example to people. He thought populations grew corrupt when living under corrupt systems. Moral degeneration, he often told me, backsliding, cowardice—these traits emerged in the Maldives slowly over decades as we traded away our freedom and dignity to anyone who promised a tax cut, or anyone who swore to protect us from gays and terrorists. We should teach people to share and cooperate, he would say. That’s our way out of this mess.
Except, we never did find a way out of the mess.
‘You’ve really pissed off your cousin,’ Hassan says.
‘Sorry?’
He gives an upwards nod, which I follow with my gaze. Standing off to one side of the congregation is Shadi Thoriq. He’s staring at me. Shadi has the bulging offset eyes of a goat. A beard of burnt twigs. He does not blink in that hard sunlight, he simply holds my gaze.
‘He’s telling everyone you deserve to die,’ Hassan says.
‘He doesn’t mean it.’
‘Madness takes many shapes and forms,’ Hassan says. ‘I don’t know if he’s mad but that’s the point—how would you know?’
I think about this a while.
‘Why not take the easy solution?’ Hassan says. ‘Pray with Nazeem and his little mosque.’
‘Stubbornness is the only thing I have left,’ I say. ‘I’d like to keep that at least.’
That night in the dormitory pod, Hassan and I watch Fifth Tuesday of June one more time. No matter how many times we see Fifth Tuesday, the songs and the humour stand apart. Not that we laugh—we’re too far from home and too defeated to laugh. Still, being in the presence of others with a fuller emotional range brings comfort, even if they are fictional. We sit on our bunks wearing the headsets we’ve borrowed from Abdullah and Ibrahim, which we do once each week while they’re on night shift. The headsets are ancient, ugly, heavy, and made to be vandal-proof. They’re a long way from the slim, sophisticated glasses that we owned on the outside—honestly, these look more like scuba masks. Each one contains Department of National Integrity approved movies and games and music. They’re the only source of entertainment available. It should go without saying that Hassan and I love this time of the week.
So, we watch Kanu, the daughter of rich aristocrats, in her swirling saree and jewels and gold, and for a while we forget the manufactory, we forget the white sand of our islands, and we exist in the glittering present. Well, for Hassan, I think this is about forgetting. For me, it’s about wishing the universe ran differently. When Kanu runs her han
d down the cheek of Anand, the heroic doctor, who refuses to treat imaginary ailments of the wealthy and instead chooses to treat the poor and homeless, I feel Rin Braden running her hand down my cheek in those hot afternoons at the beach house. When Kanu buys an expensive shirt for Anand that he refuses to wear, I remember how Rin once sent me a t-shirt that, to my horror, cost two thousand dollars. But when Kanu disobeys her parents, storms out, and decides to marry Anand, I remember how the bogus tropes of romance share no affinity with our here-and-now world. Here and now, the walls of class are topped with barbed wire.
About midway through the movie, Hassan whispers in my ear that he’s learned why Howland was sent to this Eaglehawk. We learn a good deal about the outside world from Rasheed, who is friendly with the DEOs. It turns out the Tasmanian—quite incredibly—is locked in here with us for using encryption. I take off the headset to face Hassan. Encryption? It seems so minor. Until I remember how years ago my father was arrested for using encryption to speak with his source in a government office. Those in power hate secrets. And yet this is a migrant training centre. Why here? Why not a prison? This question bothers us for the rest of the film.
‘He might not be a Tasmanian,’ Hassan says.
‘Or, in fact, this might be a prison,’ I say.
In the late dark, we walk the slope of the hill by the dormitory pods that are haphazardly stacked like boxes, making for the toilet block where we shower and where we piss. What a morbid sight. From here, the extent of the facility is visible, lit by floodlights: the four compounds bisected by the wide central sallyport, the manufactory down by the harbour, the cargo dock, the anchored shipping, and beyond, and all around, the Tasmanian bush of pale gum trees. In seven hours, we’ll start another day on the assembly line. There’s nothing to say about this and we walk in silence. What would we say? No, we walk in silence with private thoughts of one day being able to leave. Hassan wants to be a builder again, he wants to build big Australian houses in the dry Australian heat. For my part, I’m hoping simply to live happily. I’ll study, I’ll write, and I’ll work—maybe as a cook for someone. What more could I want?
The lights come on as we enter the toilet block. It smells of wet concrete and bleach from where the wash crew has lately hosed it out. We’re the only ones here. I’ve started brushing my teeth at the steel sinks when Hassan says, ‘Shit. I left my toothbrush on the bunk.’
‘Use mine.’
‘Rasheed’s up there. He’ll steal it. I’ve got to go back.’
He jogs out, swearing.
I brush top and bottom. I wash my face and towel it dry. Before long, there’s a babbling in the lower part of my belly and I start to wonder if I’ve enough money to buy toilet paper. The cubicles are all open, all empty. No one’s here. Moths bat against the light fittings and as I head to the last stall, it’s relieving, to tell you the truth, this lovely quiet seeded only with the batting of blind moths. It’s not often you’re alone in this Eaglehawk and any kind of silence is welcome. I’m inside the stall, pushing the door shut, and savouring the peace when I hear plastic sandals scuffing against wet concrete.
‘Hey, Hassan,’ I call. ‘Did you find it?’
There’s no reply.
‘Hassan?’
‘Cousin.’
A familiar voice. I lock the door.
‘You came in here, cousin. I saw you.’
He used to call me Sobe—little brother. I liked it when he called me Sobe. That seems a long time ago. Now, I’m just cousin. He stops. It’s quiet for a second and then he knocks.
‘Yes,’ I call.
‘Here you are,’ he says.
‘Here I am.’
‘Hiding.’
‘No.’
‘Hiding from me?’
‘No. Taking a shit. Now please—’
‘You didn’t pray with us today.’
His shadow moves under the stall door. ‘Shadi, please. Let me shit in peace.’
‘You didn’t pray with us yesterday. Or the day before. You haven’t prayed with us for months.’
‘I pray.’
‘Not with us. Not with your community.’
He’s doing his best to sound reasonable. I don’t find it convincing.
‘When your salat starts falling apart,’ Shadi says, ‘you become weak. You open the castle gate to Shaytan.’
‘Shaytan is not in my castle.’
‘He’s in your castle, cousin. He leaves muddy footprints in your castle, cousin.’
‘I’m a good man. You know that.’
‘No,’ he says. He is close to the door. His voice reverberates around the stall. ‘A good man prays. A good man serves God.’
Here, we arrive at the point of our feud. Where once I felt loved, where once I heard a holy inner voice, these days what I feel is a terrible lightness, cut loose from anything that ever mattered and left alone in this Eaglehawk. There’s no love in my soul. There’s no voice in my soul. The only stuff in my soul is the hiss of pneumatic drills. Shadi knows because I confessed my doubts to him many times. Who would better understand than my last blood relative, right? A man who watched the sea swallow our country like I did? A man who lived with the mud and flies at Menik Farm like I did? My mistake lay in thinking that Shadi might share a capacity for doubt.
‘Be honest,’ I say. ‘Our country drowned and God did nothing. Don’t you want to ask why?’
A provocation, of course. I wonder if he means to kick down the stall. Nothing happens. When next he speaks, his voice has a rumble to it.
‘Come out of there,’ he says.
‘No.’
‘I want to help you. You don’t need to be scared.’
‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’
He sighs through his nose. ‘What are you?’ he says in a rumble. ‘Are you a believer?’
‘I’m a Muslim.’
‘Then act like one. Pray with us. Sit with us. Submit yourself to the law.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
His shadow shifts on the concrete. ‘It is that simple.’
‘Only for the simplistic.’
‘Come out of there. Face up to me.’
‘No.’
His breathing is made loud by the close concrete walls. ‘This is typical of you. Selfish as a boy, selfish as a man. You don’t care that your actions degrade me in front of my friends.’
Ah yes, he’s worried about his reputation. As my only relative, it falls to him to control me. The law? The law he follows is the law of male pride.
‘Calm down,’ I say. ‘You’re shouting.’
‘Nazeem asked me what I’m going to do about you. The whole congregation sees how your talk poisons people. Look at Rasheed. Look at Hassan. You’ve poisoned them against us. I won’t stand around while you sicken more hearts with your questions.’
‘Forget the questions,’ I say. ‘We have answers. For the first time, we have answers.’
‘Oh, answers. What nonsense.’
For weeks, I’ve held back my fullest opinion in fear that Shadi would think me a traitor. But here I am, in this place, and there’s nothing left to lose. Fear ends when life ends. It’s time to speak up.
‘We’re alone in the universe,’ I say. ‘No one’s listening. That’s the only answer that fits. Can’t you see it?’
‘I might as well be writing on water,’ Shadi says. ‘Nothing gets through to you.’
‘I’m sorry, cousin,’ I say, ‘but it’s true.’
‘Then if you won’t think of me, think of your father,’ he says. ‘You and I, we’re the last of our name. We’re carrying the name and the honour of our parents.’
‘Shadi, our parents are dead.’
‘You’re an ape,’ he says. ‘My shoe and my urine are more dignified than you.’ He bangs his fist on the door. ‘If you won’t honour your father, then something is wrong in your head.’
‘My head is healthy. I have full control of my head.’
‘If you had control, you’d be
praying with us.’
‘I can’t do that. Not anymore. I can’t do it. I won’t do it.’
The lock in the door begins to turn. It’s an anti-suicide mechanism, a safety feature. Anyone can open the door if they have a flat-headed tool. When I see the lock turning, a spark of fire runs outward from my belly and I brace my shoulder against the panel. We struggle, we push. Then my foot slides on the wet concrete and I slip and the door swings inward. There is Shadi Thoriq. He stares down at me, head tilted to one side, and I see how his cheeks have hollowed from fasting. He has the depthless stare of the dead. Before I can move he latches hold of my arm and bundles me from the stall. He’s tall, he’s thin, but he knows how to use his body.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ he says.
I don’t struggle.
‘You’re an ape,’ he says. ‘You must truly hate your family.’
‘I don’t hate anyone.’
He slaps me on the cheek. ‘Liar.’
‘It’s true.’
‘Liar.’ He slaps me on the ear.
I face up to him. My ear is ringing. I try to appear strong.
‘Kiss my hand,’ Shadi says. He holds out his knuckles.
‘No.’
‘Kiss it, you animal.’
‘No.’
He shoves my head against the stall. He catches me by the throat.
‘You want to humiliate me. You want to disgrace me in front of Nazeem. I know that’s what you want to do.’
We stare at each other. My eyes water.
‘What’s your name?’ Shadi says.
‘Yamaan Ali Umair.’
He spits in my face. It runs down my cheek. ‘Yamaan the animal. Yamaan the ape.’
‘No.’
‘Do you think God’s an ape?’
‘No.’
With one fierce heave I shove him away. I wipe the spit from my cheek and stand, breathing hard. Shadi’s mouth firms into a line. He brings up his left hand and I see now that he’s holding a piece of green polycarbonate from a TabaPet shell. It’s a strange thing for him to be holding and the dissonance of seeing it outside the manufactory confuses me. For a second, I can’t quite follow what’s happening. Shadi squares up and pushes me in the chest. We stand nose to nose, struggling.
