by Arnold Zable
‘Zainab stayed with me in the same room. She had an uncle in Sydney. I told her, “You must go to Australia. You must join your uncle. You must study English. You must become something. Your family was fighting for your future. They escaped from Iraq to save you. Don’t lose your future.”
‘When she received a visa for Australia, she said, “Mother, I want to give you a present,” and she gave me her watch. The watch had not moved from ten past three. It had not moved since the boat went down in the water, and Zainab said, “Mother, when you look at this watch you will remember me.”
‘The United Nations said the Australian government was going to give me a visa because my husband was in Melbourne. We waited for seven months, and we became very frightened. We thought they would not take us. In June they told us we can go and we were very happy.
‘I cut some flowers and I took them with me. I wanted to bring flowers to my new country. When I arrived with Amjed in Melbourne airport, I saw a man waiting for us. He worked for immigration, and he told me the Australian government had given me a five-year temporary visa. He told me that with this visa I could not leave the country. He told me that maybe after five years I would be sent back to Iraq.
‘I could not move. I could not visit my daughter. I could not see my father. I could not bring my older son Ahmed. It was like they put me in jail for five years. I could not believe it.
‘The man from immigration told me, “There are some people waiting for you from television and the newspapers. Don’t open your mouth. Don’t say anything. Don’t make any problems.” He said, “Come with me and I will take you to your husband. He is waiting.”
‘When I saw my husband I felt very strange. I had not seen him for a long time. When I saw him I thought he had changed. He looked like a stranger. Maybe something was changed in me. Maybe something changed in the ocean. I told him, “Maybe I am not your wife. Maybe your wife is still in the water. Maybe your wife did not arrive in Australia. Maybe I am a ghost.”
‘He could not understand what had happened to me. Only the people who were in the water could understand me. I tried to be busy. I started learning English. I started to know the city. I used the train. I used the tram. I used the bus. I started to learn the computer. But when the day was finished I missed my family. I could not see my daughter because if I left Australia I would lose my visa. I could not go back, and I could not go to the future, and at night I could not forget the people in the water.
‘Sometimes I think the people who drowned were lucky. Maybe the victims are the ones who are still alive, because they cannot forget what happened. We escaped from Saddam’s regime, but sometimes I think his hand is still following us, still touching us.
‘After one year in Australia I started to feel sick, and the doctors told me I had breast cancer. I thought I was going to lose my life but they told me they are going to save me. Everything changed in my life. I had chemotherapy. I was losing my hair. I was losing myself.
‘There was a big room in the hospital for chemotherapy, where they gave the people drugs. The chemotherapy made my body dry. On the day I had my operation I was very scared. On the ocean I lost my soul, and in Melbourne I was losing my body.’
Umm Khultum is singing, building to a crescendo, and the inner city lights can be seen in the distance. I drive towards them and think of Amal riding the train to the city in the evening, in the company of strangers, staving off sleep and the return of her dreaded dreaming, and the fear she would never again see her absent children.
Amal was one of forty-five survivors of the sinking and, in the months after their rescue, thirty-eight were granted visas: to Norway, Sweden, Finland and Denmark, Canada and New Zealand. Seven survivors were allocated to Australia, allowing them to reunite with relatives who had preceded them.
Those who were assigned elsewhere received permanent visas immediately, in recognition of their trauma and the horror that had afflicted them. The seven survivors assigned to Australia received temporary visas, a predicament that compounded their trauma and cast them back into limbo. Then—three years later—a simple act of acceptance.
Amal was in hospital when she was notified. A nurse handed her the phone. At first she could not understand what the caller was saying. She was disoriented from the illness and its treatment. ‘Immigration told me they changed my visa, and I asked them, “What do you mean?” They told me, “We have given you a permanent visa!” I shouted, “A permanent visa, I can’t believe it.” I cried. I shouted. “Oh God, I am going to see my son, I am going to see my father. I am going to see my daughter. I am going to see my grandchildren. God bless you.”
‘I was shouting and the nurses were running. They thought something was wrong. I told them what had happened, and they were happy. It was like a miracle. I told them I have my permanent visa and I can see my family. I have my permanent visa and I can fight to bring my son here, I can fight to bring my daughter and her children. My God, I have my visa. I am a free woman in a free country.’
Within months Amal was on a flight to the Middle East. She returned to Melbourne three months later in a wheelchair. The following day she was back in hospital. Days later, as I walked from the car I felt that air of unreality, of time winding down, that I often feel when approaching an ill friend in hospital. I was entering a zone in which time seems suspended, a variant of limbo.
Amal was seated on her bed when I entered. I was surprised by a change in her appearance. She was wearing brightly coloured robes embroidered with images of flowers. Her headscarf was removed and her hair was flowing.
It was the first time I had seen her face uncovered. Her tresses of black hair had strength and lustre despite the ravages of her illness. She seemed unburdened, careless almost. She had something of the youthful spirit and playfulness of the seven-year-old who walked with her father on the banks of the Tigris.
Fearing I had transgressed by seeing her with her hair uncovered, I turned to leave. ‘My brother, it doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘It is not important. People are more important than this. I like the people here. I am sure many people will be at my funeral. I am not afraid. After I die, the birds will keep singing.’
Amal reached for her handbag and took out some photos taken on her recent journey. ‘My brother, you can’t imagine,’ she said, holding the photos, ‘when I was coming back to Australia, I read a sign at the airport, “Dubai to Melbourne”, and I was very happy. I felt like I was coming home. In the jet I heard a woman talking with an Australian accent. I wanted to hug this woman. I told her I also have a home in your country. I also have a country. I have a family waiting for me.
‘When I arrived in Melbourne I was very sick. I went to hospital and the doctor told me that the cancer had spread to my bones and my liver. I told him, “Please, I don’t want chemotherapy. What are you going to save? The cancer is all through my body. I don’t think you can help me. I don’t feel hopeless or sad, but this is the truth. I am going to die and I must be ready.”’
She hands me the photos of her daughter Manal, taken at the airport on the day of her arrival in Oman, and photos of her grandchildren. Manal is married to a Palestinian. They first met in Jordan and in recent months had moved to Oman where he had been offered a job as a sports journalist. They have four children.
‘I want to tell you a story about my grandson Yanal. He is eight. When I saw him, he looked exactly like my son, Amjed. He hugged me and he ran away. I did not see him for a long time. The next day a journalist came and I told her the story of the boat. I told her everything and they put the story in an Arabic magazine, El Magili.’
Amal rummages through the drawer next to the bed, and takes out a printed page and unfolds it. The article is dated November 15 2005. The script is in Arabic, and there is a photo of Amal. ‘My daughter’s neighbours, six women, came to see me, and they brought me food and clothing, they brought me presents, and they said, “When we read your story we wanted to give you something. We wanted to cry with you.
You are a brave woman.”
‘When we were talking, Yanal came to me. He was very upset, and he was angry. He told me that he had an argument with a boy who did not believe the story about his grandmother. He did not believe I was the woman who survived in the water. The boy said to Yanal, “You are a liar.”
‘I told Yanal, “Call your friend and bring him inside.” He brought him to me. He was a little boy and he was wearing glasses. Yanal said to him, “This is Amal, my grandmother. She saved her life. The boat sank. She was in the water, and she saved her life. I am not a liar.”
‘I told the boy about the dead woman who saved me. I told him about the children in the water. I told him about the whales and the dolphins. I told him about the shark who swam so close I almost touched him. I told him that I saw my son returning on a wave from the sky back to the ocean. As I talked his eyes were growing wider. He said, “I am sorry. I will tell all my friends about the woman who saved her life in the water.”
‘After one month, I left my daughter and flew to Iran to see Ahmed. It was too dangerous to meet my family in Baghdad. We planned to meet in Ahmed’s flat in Tehran. I waited two weeks for my family. I was scared they would not get out of Iraq, that they would not give them a visa. For eight years I had not seen them. Then my father arrived with three of my brothers. One of them came with his wife and daughter, and my father brought my sister and her nine-year-old son Ali.
‘Ali stared at the running water in the bathroom. He could not believe there was running water. He could not believe there was electricity. He could not believe that when we were sleeping there were no bombs, no terror. He said, “We are in paradise.”
‘My family’s skin colour was strange. Yellow. In Baghdad they did not have enough good food. On the first day they walked like zombies and they did not know they were like this. My father was very sick. He looked very old. He walked very slowly with a stick. I did not want to tell him I was sick. I did not want him to worry.
‘I went with them to the beach. I tried to make myself look healthy. My father told me, “I can’t believe you fought with the ocean.” I told him, “Father, don’t worry, the ocean is soft.” My sister and brother went to play in the sea, and they looked back at me and said, “We are going to kill the ocean. We are going to ask the ocean, why did you try to kill our sister?” They wanted to make me happy.
‘They said, “Baghdad is dangerous. It does not matter which people are in the government, they are all thieves. They want to steal the oil. The only ones who do not have oil are the people. We wait for oil in queues for hours. We open a gas cylinder for cooking and we are afraid we will never have another cylinder. We cut down trees for heating and now there are no more trees in our suburb. We go to the stream for water. It takes us three hours to go there and return. We see dead dogs in the water.”
‘My brother’s little girl is eleven, and she said to me, “Auntie, I want to go with you. I want to go to school. I want to be something. Please take me with you.” She was afraid. One of her friends was kidnapped. It was dangerous in Baghdad.
‘On the last day we went to the mountains near Tehran. The children played in the snow. On the bus Ali was very sad. He did not want to go back to Baghdad. When he came to Iran he was free. He could talk, he could shout, he could go outside. He was not worried that someone might kill him or kidnap him.’
Amal pauses. She folds up the newspaper and returns it with the photos to her handbag. ‘My brother, there is something I must tell you. Something changed in me in Oman, in Tehran. I fought with the ocean. I fought with people smugglers. I fought with immigration to give me a permanent visa. And I was right. Everyone in this hospital is an angel. Australian people have been kind. They help. They help people. I want to tell you something: I started to love Australia.
‘Before I went to Oman I told my husband and my son, “When I die, bury me in Iraq.” I told them, “I don’t want you to bury my body here. If I die please send my body to Baghdad, to my family. I want to sleep near my mother and my two dead brothers. Yesterday I told my husband and my son, “Bury me in Australia.”
‘I said, “You must forget everything, because there is no Iraq. It is over.” I want my children to stay here. I want them to bury me here. They are going to have something here. They are going to put a big stone over me, in this earth, in this safe country.
‘When I was in Dubai I heard Australian people talking. I was happy. I wanted to hug them. My brother, when they gave me a five-year protection visa they killed me. And when they gave me a permanent visa, I came back to the living.
I saw Amal for the final time two months later in the last house she rented, the house in which she hoped to receive her older son Ahmed, whose arrival was imminent. She lay in bed, defiant, two days before her passing, refusing to eat, refusing to be shifted to a palliative care unit. She opened her eyes when she heard me entering the bedroom. She was making an effort, willing herself to be lucid.
‘My brother, it is good to see you,’ she said, lifting her head from the pillow. She talked of her hopes for her son Ahmed who, she had learned just days earlier, had finally obtained a visa, and would soon be flying from Tehran to Melbourne. She was holding on for the day of his arrival, to be at the airport to welcome him.
She hoped to bring her daughter and grandchildren, and other members of her family to Australia. She knew she was dying, but she talked of the future, talked until she lapsed into a sleep that I hoped would be dreamless.
The following day, Amal had consented, after the entreaties of her family and doctor, to be shifted to a hospice. From her room on the last evening she watched the sun set over the city. The dome of the exhibition buildings reminded her of the domes of Baghdad. Amal Basry died on March 18 2006, a warm Saturday afternoon in autumn.
Days later we gathered in the forecourt of the Fawkner Mosque. As we waited for the arrival of the hearse I talked to Faris Khadem, another survivor of the sinking. He said that when the three boats disappeared, he gave up hope. He no longer cared whether he lived or died. He had lost his wife Leyla and his seven-year-old daughter, Zahra. He saw them disappear from his outstretched arms into the ocean.
The thought of seeing his son, who was already in Australia, had kept him afloat. But his desire to survive was crushed when the three boats that had appeared in the night vanished.
He had turned onto his back, placed his hands behind his head, let the life jacket support him, and settled back on the surface of the water as if it were a mattress. He no longer cared if he was dead or living. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, and when he woke, the sun was rising.
He heard the hum of a motor and saw a fishing boat approaching. The crew dragged him from the water. He was the first to be rescued. He saw other survivors clinging to debris, their strength ebbing, and he helped drag them one by one from the ocean.
Late morning they sighted Amal clinging to the bloated corpse. The crew failed in their first attempt to lift her on board the vessel. She was too heavy. They lowered a tyre to retrieve her and Faris went down to help her. They were hauled back on board together.
Faris heard her frantically asking her fellow survivors about her son, Amjed. He saw her pleading with the captain. She would not stop until the captain agreed to search for that extra hour. He witnessed her son’s rescue and the reunion between mother and son, an embrace that just one hour earlier had seemed impossible.
In Jakarta, Amal became the mother of the bereaved survivors. She cared for her son. She cared for the girl Zainab. She cared for them all. In the months after the rescue, she visited Faris every day to see if he was well, and to give him comfort in his grief. She visited everyone. She was concerned for their health, for their despair and their hopelessness. She moved about in her black hijab with that urgent expression I would come to know so well, but her face softened instantly whenever she talked to the children.
It was in those first weeks after the sinking that she began to tell her story. To offi
cials, to journalists, to diplomats, to anyone who would listen. Overnight she became the teller of the story, the one who sought to make sense out of the calamity.
Faris’s recollections brought to mind stories of people whose hair had turned white overnight after extreme tragedy. Amal’s hair retained its colour, but talking with Faris I came to understand that in clinging for over twenty hours to the corpse in the ocean, Amal had aged many years. Overnight she had become the Ancient Mariner.
The hearse entered the forecourt mid-morning. The coffin was lifted onto the shoulders of the pallbearers and the crowd followed it into the mosque, chanting. They placed the coffin on the carpeted floor and performed the ritual prayers.
Behind the partition wall, hidden from view, women were weeping. A mudlark flew in through the open door and over the mourners. It paused on the chandelier and darted past a banner embroidered with the Quaaba of Mecca.
The coffin was driven to the cemetery, to the Islamic quarter. The children ran about in the sun, the women squatted by the coffin, Korans in hand, chanting, while the men stood around the grave attending to the burial. Amal’s body, clothed in a white shroud, was lifted from the coffin and lowered into the ground to Amjed, who had climbed down to receive it. His task was to arrange the body in accordance with tradition: right side resting on the earth, head facing Mecca. The men lowered a mixture of earth and water to Amjed to fix the body in the correct position.
Amal was buried to the chatter of birds, the laughter of children, and the murmur of prayers and conversation. This was how she would have wished it.
Ten days later, Amal’s older son, Ahmed, arrived in Melbourne. The brothers had rarely been apart until they were separated in Iran, Amjed told me as we waited for Ahmed to clear customs. They had not spent any time away from Amal until she was forced to choose who would go with her on that ill-fated journey.
