The Boat People

by Sharon Bala

  Gigovaz checked his watch. They’re probably being interviewed by Immigration right now.

  Wait. They’re being interviewed without us? Priya asked. What about their right to counsel?

  They’re not being charged with anything, Gigovaz said. Technically, they have no rights.

  A heating vent rattled overhead. The ferry was cutting through the water, forging straight ahead into flat, grey, foggy nothing. Tourists in raincoats shivered on the deck, snapping useless photos.

  Ten years ago, five hundred refugees came from China, Gigovaz continued. Four boats in two months. My clients on the first ship were processed quickly and sent on their way with health care, housing supports, job applications, all those practical things. And then the Refugee Board hearings happened a couple of months later. Business as usual.

  Priya wondered how quickly this case could be dispatched with. A month, tops. Surely he didn’t expect her to see the whole thing through.

  Gigovaz was still lecturing: But as boat after boat showed up, what do you think happened? Suddenly the asylum seekers were branded criminals. And a prison in Prince George was reopened just to hold them. Now there were detention reviews, admissibility hearings. For months and months, the cases dragged on. We had to fight for every single thing. And that, by the way, was the same year we airlifted five thousand people out of Kosovo.

  So refugee law is capricious, Priya thought. All the more reason to bring in an expert. Of course, then he’d have no one to lecture.

  Here is what you have to understand, Gigovaz said, indicating the space between two hands. In immigration law, there can be a gap between policy and practice. And when it comes to refugees, this country has a split personality.

  Three hundred people on board a ship rocking its way around the world on a collision course with Canada. They were tracked, Gigovaz said. Intelligence and satellite and reports of sightings from international ports. For weeks everyone waited. Now they were here.

  What’s going to happen to them? Priya asked. I mean, will they get to stay?

  An overhead announcement reminded people to keep their pets in their cars. Gigovaz watched the speaker on the ceiling until the disembodied voice stopped.

  My very first client was Rohingya. You know who they are?

  When Priya shook her head, Gigovaz’s index fingers rose, the steeple of a church, and he tapped them together.

  They’re a minority in Myanmar – Muslims in a country of Buddhists. Stateless and oppressed. Ibrahim Mosar. He was missing his right hand. Cigarette burns all over his chest.

  Priya winced and Gigovaz said: I was like every other young refugee lawyer, full of piss and vinegar, and here was my client, calm as you like. Inshallah, Mr. Gigovaz, he used to say. Whatever God wills.

  Que sera sera, she said. That’s one way of accepting fate, I guess.

  We do our level best, Gigovaz said. Our clients do their best. The rest is up to…

  He lifted his palms as if balancing a platter.

  Allah? she asked.

  The adjudicator, Gigovaz said. He rooted blindly under the seat with one hand. They were approaching the harbour.

  So what happened to Ibrahim? Priya asked.

  Gigovaz stood, briefcase in hand. The claim was rejected, he said. They sent him back.

  Happy to be here

  The authorities were giving out bananas and water in exchange for documents. Mahindan had everything in his suitcase, inside a sealed plastic bag – birth certificates, national identity cards, Sellian’s vaccination record. He was waiting in the tangle of people for his turn, holding Sellian’s hand, when a frenzied movement caught his eye, Ranga hobbling over at top speed, waving as if they were old friends. When the guard gestured for his paperwork, Ranga glanced at Mahindan for assurance before producing a battered identity card from his pocket. Mahindan turned away, irritated.

  When it was his turn, Mahindan handed over his papers with pride, knowing how carefully he had prepared for this eventuality. This one thing was properly done. They took his suitcase too, but when Sellian began crying, the guard with the blue eyes allowed him to liberate the little statue of Ganesha and then patted Sellian’s shoulder with a purple-gloved hand. Mahindan gazed at the battered old suitcase with regret. Hard-shelled and sturdy with brass locks and snaps, it and the meagre trinkets inside – a wedding album, Chithra’s death certificate, the keys to his house and garage – were all that remained of his worldly possessions. But he reminded himself he had something more precious. Safety. Here, it was possible to breathe.

  The men and women were separated and forced into orderly queues. The adults had their wrists and ankles shackled. Mahindan understood by the way the guard fitted the two ends of the cuffs together, careful not to pinch skin, that the task was performed with regret.

  Only for a little while, Mahindan assured Sellian. It is for our own safety.

  There weren’t enough Tamil translators and the masks the Canadians wore made it difficult to decipher expressions. Mahindan focused on eyes and was amazed by all the colours, the shades of blue, flecks of green, the different saturation points of brown. The only white people he’d seen before were United Nations workers, though he did not like to think of them now.

  Mahindan had always thought of Canada as a country of whites, but now he saw dark eyes too, Chinese and Japanese and Blacks and others who might have come from India or Bangladesh. Here was a place for all people.

  Ranga sidled up. At last we are safe, he said, absently scratching at a long scar that ran down the length of one cheek.

  Mahindan frowned and edged away. Every time he and Sellian turned around on the ship, there was Ranga and his gimpy leg. Behind them in the food ration line; unrolling his mat next to theirs at night.

  A police officer barked into a radio. A Red Cross volunteer made emphatic gestures as he spoke. Mahindan heard the unfamiliar sounds, the harsh, guttural consonants falling flat, one after the other. In time this would be his language too. English. A new language for a new home.

  His grandfather had spoken English. He had gone to London for his studies and worked as a civil servant in Colombo until the Sinhala Only Act ended his career. It was his grandfather’s old suitcase that was now with the guards.

  Officials and volunteers in scrubs and uniforms called to each other, their voices overwhelmed, their gestures and movements harried. Seagulls circled, screeching overhead. The disorder reminded Mahindan of being processed for detention in Sri Lanka, at the end of the war, when the Sri Lankan Army rounded up the Tamil prisoners. Except here there was nothing to be scared of, and even Sellian surveyed the unfamiliar landscape and the line of buses with more curiosity than fear.

  Mahindan understood they would be boarding soon. He waited with the other men, trying and failing to inch away from Ranga. The queues lengthened as more people joined. Mahindan nodded to a family he knew from the detention camp, but they either did not notice him or purposely avoided his eyes. It had surprised him, when they boarded in Sri Lanka, how few of his customers were on the ship. All those days at sea and not once had they seen another boat. Maybe it was for the best they weren’t here; it was good to make a clean break. Still, he wondered: had they been left behind? Had their ship capsized? Were they drowned in the ocean? He felt his teeth rattle and focused his attention on Sellian for assurance. We are safe.

  It had been hours since they’d disembarked, but he could still feel the sea in the sway of his legs. When he remembered the first rough days on board, the storm-churned waves, the low-grade nausea that dogged every day, he vowed to himself: never again.

  He would have liked to squat, to take the pressure off his aching soles, but the shackles made it awkward. Everyone was quiet and even the children, pacified by food and drink, managed to behave. The mood was hopeful.

  Sellian held up a juice box. Do you want some, Appa?

  No, Baba, Mahindan said. You finish it.

  Purple liquid shot through the straw. Sellian sucked in
short, urgent bursts, his eyes flicking left and right. Mahindan watched him, overwhelmed with love and relief. He shuffled to the right, put his bound hands on his son’s shoulder, and bent to kiss the top of his head. Sellian snuggled against him, and Mahindan felt emotion well up, joyous tears threaten. They had lost everyone and everything, but Sellian was alive and unharmed and now they were here. Sellian was here.

  The bus at the front of the line opened its doors. A guard waved his arm and the women shambled forward, hands and feet fettered. Children held on to their mothers’ shirts and trousers. The men looked sharp, straightening out their line in readiness, everyone restless to move on to the next stage of freedom.

  The guard turned to scan the crowd and when he spotted Sellian, he beckoned.

  Appa, what is he saying?

  I don’t know, Baba.

  The guard held up a hand for each of them: stop for Mahindan and come for Sellian. Mahindan could not read his expression. The guard repeated the same short word over and over then strode toward them, impatient, and grasped the top of Sellian’s arm.

  Appa!

  No! He’s my son! The metal between his feet rattled and Mahindan felt his weight tip forward. The men on either side of him yelled as Ranga reached bound hands out to catch him. By the time Mahindan was upright, the guard had Sellian draped over his shoulder and was carrying him away. Some of the women in line had turned to watch. They shouted at the guard in Tamil to stop. Sellian was mutinous, kicking and beating his fists on the man’s back. The juice box fell; purple liquid pooled in a puddle on the asphalt.

  A loud voice cut through the racket. Mahindan saw the nurse who had taken his blood pressure hurrying to the guard. She spoke English with the voice of a Tamil mother, full of reprimand and authority. Her chin jutted forward. Her index finger jabbed. The guard rubbed his palm along the back of his head, finally setting Sellian down.

  Mahindan struggled to crouch in his shackles as his son ran over. Sellian grabbed his arm with both hands and held tight, panting hard, his eyes large and teary. He pressed his face into his father’s side. Mahindan felt the tightness of Sellian’s grip, how easily it could be wrenched away.

  Where are we being sent? he asked the nurse in Tamil.

  He knew there was a very big country stretching out before him, but when he tried to imagine what it might be like, he had only a vague recollection of his grandfather’s stories of England. Sheep and tall buildings, policemen who carried batons instead of guns.

  The nurse did not wear a mask. At Mahindan’s question, her eyes slid sideways and the corners of her mouth turned down. But when she spoke, she raised her voice so all the men in line could hear: Normally, there are some rooms close by where you would stay. But when this many come all at once…there is only one place with enough beds.

  Mahindan felt foolish. Free men did not wear handcuffs.

  The nurse turned back to Mahindan and softened her voice. Where the women are going, there are facilities for children.

  Chithra had died in childbirth. For Sellian’s whole life, Mahindan had been both his father and his mother. Not a day had passed when he hadn’t seen his son, and the thought of letting him walk away, board a bus to an unknown place without him, made his insides twist.

  Sellian began to cry. Appa! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!

  Mahindan’s throat constricted. What choice did he have? He must be brave for his son.

  Baba, it is all right, he said. You want to play with other children, no? And see, all these Aunties will take care of you. It is only for a short time.

  The nurse took Sellian’s hand. See that small boy? Do you know him?

  Sellian gulped and nodded. He wiped the back of his hand across his snotty nose. Mahindan’s mettle faltered when he saw who it was – Kumuran’s son. He said to Sellian, You know that child. Remember?

  I will ask his mother to take care of you, the nurse said. I’m sorry, she said to Mahindan as his son’s arms wrapped around his neck again. This is very rare. A ship and so many people…everyone is doing their best.

  We’re just happy to be here, Mahindan said, holding his son tighter. Ganesha’s elephant trunk dug into the back of his head.

  The guard called something out.

  Come now, darling, the nurse said to Sellian.

  Be a good boy, Mahindan said. Show Appa how you can be brave.

  Sellian hiccupped, holding in his sobs, twisting his head to look over his shoulder as he was led away. Mahindan’s chest closed up. Most of the women were in the bus now, staring out the windows. The men focused on their feet. Mahindan could feel Kumuran’s wife studying him, her hard, unforgiving stare. He struggled to keep his face calm and encouraging. When he looked at Sellian, he saw Chithra’s eyes, her front teeth jutting out.

  Sellian disappeared into the bus and the doors wheezed to a close. Mahindan felt anguish like a tsunami surging to the shore. The wave crested up. He squinted at the back window as the bus pulled away, but all he saw was darkness.

  Go home terorists!

  Priya had been to the Canadian Forces Base at Esquimalt once before to visit the naval museum. She remembered her brother tugging her braids to annoy her but had no recollection of their parents being there with them. The memory was quite possibly a complete fabrication.

  Gigovaz’s car was waved through the security checkpoint and they headed for the processing facility, a grey slab set on a finger of land, hemmed in by forest and ocean. The sun had risen fully and here the sky was completely cloudless, the ground dry.

  There were news vans in the parking lot. Cameramen shouldered equipment while reporters flipped through their notes. A podium was set up across from the building and a young man fussed with a sign that hung in front of the lectern.

  Who’s giving the news conference? Gigovaz asked.

  Minister Blair, the man replied.

  Public Safety, Gigovaz told Priya. Not Immigration. Interesting, don’t you think?

  Tarps lined the walkway to the entrance. A half-dozen people stood in a row holding homemade signs that they lifted up and down while chanting in unison. A man in a CTV news jacket panned his camera from right to left. Gigovaz walked past, oblivious. Priya read the signs. Send the illegals back! Go home terorists! She wanted to point out the misspelling.

  Inside, the processing facility was deserted. At the front desk, Gigovaz spoke to a woman in a bowler hat, her hair in a bun. She gave them lanyards and Priya put hers around her neck. It had a blue V on one side and when she flipped it over, she saw her name and face on the other. It was her office ID photo, the one that had been taken a month earlier as she sat on a stool in the mailroom while a guy with a mullet instructed her not to blink. She looked startled and prim in the picture.

  Where is everyone? Priya asked.

  After you, Gigovaz said, making an exaggerated motion with his left hand and pulling open a heavy door with his right.

  Outside was a commotion of voices and movement as helicopters droned overhead and ambulances idled. They were behind the facility now, facing another large parking lot, this one covered in white tents. Beyond was the ocean and the harbour, yellow cranes and wooden docks. Priya scanned the vessels until she spotted the cargo ship. It was huge – two hundred feet maybe – with a long white hull and a blue cabin toward the stern. Streaks of bubbling rust cut vertical lines down its side.

  The sheer number of refugees was overwhelming, the queues that stretched out from every tent and table, winding and intertwining so that it was impossible to discern where one line ended and another began. Men, women, children, people of all ages, bedraggled and malnourished, shivering under blankets even though it was summer. Priya spotted a woman with an eye patch, a child hobbling along with the help of a stick, but for the most part there seemed to be little injury, which surprised her until she realized that of course these were the survivors. Arrival of the fittest.

  People brushed by in all directions. A uniformed officer motioned for Gigovaz and Pr
iya to step aside as two women in hospital scrubs hurried past. Volunteers in red shirts carried boxes labelled H2O. Almost everyone wore masks over their mouths and noses. The bustle had an aura of chaos and bureaucracy. Priya deciphered the acronyms: Canadian Border Services Agency, Canadian Forces, Victoria General Hospital, Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

  Gigovaz attacked his BlackBerry with both thumbs as he walked. Keep an eye out for Sam, he said.

  Person, place, or thing? she wanted to ask.

  They passed a tent with a red cross printed on its side. A handmade sign read Mask Required. The door flap was pinned back and Priya caught sight of brown limbs, blood pressure cuffs, and running shoes. A nurse ran out and bent over, her head down as if searching for a lost earring. She was covered from neck to shoes in translucent yellow plastic. A man in short-sleeved scrubs followed. He wore a surgical cap, latex gloves, and goggles. A stethoscope was draped over his shoulders. Deep breaths, he said, putting a hand on the nurse’s back.

  In the cacophony of voices, Priya listened for the Tamil, trying to gather up a word here and there. But the accents were long steeped and she was used to her parents’ diluted version of the language.

  A man in a wheelchair clutched a plastic bag in his lap. One of his legs ended in a stump. Behind him, a woman clasped hands with a pair of girls. One had two long braids. The other had a short, straggly cut, uneven, as if she had taken a knife to it. The pungent combination of chili powder, body odour, and urine that wafted ahead of them made Priya hold her breath. The shorn girl gazed over her shoulder unblinking as they passed by, and her stare was so accusatory it sent Priya stumbling back. Remembering Gigovaz and fearing she would reel into him, she spun around, but he was gone. Spotting him at the entrance to one of the larger tents, she hurried through the crowd, relieved for an excuse to move.

  We can take five adults and linked minors, Gigovaz was saying to a dark-skinned man with a caterpillar moustache.