Sanctuary

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Welcome to our midst, sir,’ he said with respect; stepping forwards he formally offered his hand. ‘I am Dr Rassen Khurdaji.’

  The man accepted the handshake and returned it firmly, recognising the introduction but clearly not understanding the language.

  ‘My name is Luigi Panuzza,’ Lou said, signalling hopefully to Jalila that perhaps she might translate for him. With the exception of one woman, all of the group appeared Middle Eastern, so it may well be the girl was the only one who spoke English. ‘But I am not called Luigi,’ he said, speaking very slowly in order, hopefully, to be understood. ‘Everyone who knows me calls me Lou.’

  ‘Ah.’ Rassen cast a brief look to Hala; so their suspicion about Jalila’s knowledge of English had been correct. Surprising that it had taken the arrival of the stranger to reveal the truth, he thought; surprising and fortuitous both, for it was surely a healthy sign.

  ‘And I am Rassen,’ he said, discarding the formal approach and reverting to English. ‘Please do join us, Lou. Take my seat, I insist.’ He indicated his own chair, pulled up a spare milk crate for himself, and motioned for Jalila to sit also. Then he began the introductions, giving a little background for each person as he did so, although in Jalila’s case it was impossible. They didn’t even know her full name, let alone where she came from.

  Lou was flabbergasted. Good God, he thought, as he nodded acknowledgement to everyone and shook the men’s hands, this bloke speaks better English than I do. He sounds like a Pom, and an upper class one what’s more. Lou was aware of his own mangled accent. Beneath the broad Australian twang there remained heavy elements of his Sicilian origins, despite the fact he’d been in the country since the age of ten.

  ‘Would you like some rice?’ Hala offered when the introductions were over. ‘We have ample left,’ she added, gesturing to the serving bowl that still sat on the small table around which their miscellany of chairs and milk crates were circled.

  Lou was further taken aback. She sounds like an upper class Pom too, he thought. Well she looks like a Pom and she’s married to the doctor, so I suppose it’s only fair that she should.

  ‘The dish is very tasty, I can assure you,’ Hala said invitingly. Lou seemed a little lost for words.

  ‘Oh yes, that’s very kind of you, um …’

  ‘Hala,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Yes, Hala, thanks, very kind.’

  She fetched a fresh bowl and spoon and when she’d served him some rice, they all watched intently as he ate.

  Lou scooped up a large mouthful, despite the fact it looked rather dry and unappetising. He was aware that even if he hated the stuff, this was a welcoming gesture of hospitality and that he would have to lie.

  He didn’t need to.

  ‘Delicious,’ he said. The rice wasn’t dry at all: it was crunchy on top and moist underneath, with the sweetness of sultanas, a taste and a texture unlike anything he’d eaten. ‘This is really, really good. What is it?’

  ‘A Persian dish,’ Massoud replied, ‘burnt rice, we call it tadig. It is very popular in my home country of Iran.’

  As they continued with the niceties, Lou quickly realised that the doctor, his wife and the young man they called Massoud were the only true English speakers in the group. The girl, Jalila, had lapsed into silence and did not even react when the doctor translated for the others. Her knowledge of English was obviously very limited.

  Several minutes later, Karim arrived with Azra, who was distraught.

  ‘I am sorry, I am sorry,’ she begged, ‘please, please forgive me.’ She was so distressed that Karim explained the situation on her behalf.

  ‘Azra fell asleep in the sun,’ he said apologetically. ‘She feels very guilty for failing in her duty.’

  ‘Oh, I do, I do, please forgive me.’ She could have attempted to explain the circumstances. She had slept very little the previous night, the awful images of the sea continuing to taunt her, and there on the bench, with the warmth of the sun on her back and the comfortable meal of tadig in her stomach, sleep had stolen over her with such ease. She had no idea how long she’d slept, but Karim had had to shake her in order to awaken her.

  Azra made no attempt to explain or to seek excuses, however. She was too riddled with guilt – her dereliction of duty was shameful. ‘Please, please forgive me,’ she begged.

  ‘There there,’ Rassen said briskly, ‘calm yourself and sit down, Azra, no harm has been done. See?’ He indicated Lou. ‘We did not need to light the fire. We have been discovered.’

  Rassen introduced Karim and Azra as the parents of little Hamid, and when Lou had finished his rice and they were all drinking cups of black tea, he decided it time to pose the many questions that begged answers. First and foremost, the question that had plagued them above all else.

  ‘Where are we, Lou?’ he asked. ‘Where is this island?’

  ‘You’re forty kilometres off the coast of Western Australia,’ Lou said, aware of the instant reaction that followed. Even those who did not speak English had registered the word ‘Australia’.

  ‘This island is called Gevaar Island,’ he continued, after Rassen had translated the information to the others. ‘It’s roughly fifty kilometres north of the Wallabi Group of the Houtman Abrolhos Islands.’ He could tell this was confusing even for the doctor, who had plainly never heard of the Abrolhos. ‘Hang on,’ he rose from his seat, ‘I’ll get my navigation chart from the boat and show you.’

  The non-English speakers looked confused as Lou abruptly walked out of the hut, but Rassen explained he was fetching a map from his boat.

  ‘May I go with him and look at his boat?’ Hamid asked eagerly.

  ‘Not now,’ Rassen replied, ‘a little later, perhaps, we’ll see.’

  But they all ventured from the hut to look out at the vessel where it was tied up at one of the two larger jetties. They couldn’t resist. Here, finally, was their contact with the outside world, the new world that would hopefully become theirs. The sight aroused in them a multitude of conflicting emotions as yet impossible to analyse; things were suddenly moving very fast.

  When Lou returned with the navigation chart, he spread it out on the small table. After clearing aside the various seats, they all stood around watching as he pointed to their location.

  ‘You’re here,’ he said.

  Everyone peered down at the tiny island barely visible on the chart.

  ‘The closest township is Shoalhaven, here,’ he said. ‘It’s just a small coastal village really, that’s where I live. And the closest major city is Geraldton, about a hundred kilometres to the south.’ He pointed to another name in larger print a little further down the coastline.

  Rassen and Hala were surprised. They had studied a map of Australia prior to embarking on their journey.

  ‘So far south,’ Rassen remarked. ‘We were told the boat had been headed for somewhere around Broome. I had presumed we were much further north.’

  ‘The storm could have taken us anywhere,’ Massoud said.

  ‘True,’ Rassen agreed.

  ‘These are the Houtman Abrolhos that I mentioned,’ Lou said, tracing the chain of island groups with a broad forefinger, ‘and up here,’ he stabbed once again at the small island further to the north, ‘up here is where we are right now. See the name? Gevaar Island. Funny actually,’ he went on, ‘everyone who isn’t from around these parts pronounces it “Jeevar”, but they’re wrong. It’s a Dutch word meaning danger, and it should be pronounced “hoofire”. We all reckon it’s hilarious the way everyone mucks it up. But they do,’ he said with a shrug, ‘and we don’t bother correcting them – it’s the way you can tell strangers from locals.’

  He gave a brief laugh before continuing in a more serious vein. ‘Actually, all of these reef islands are a danger,’ he said, sweeping his hand over the general area of the Abrolhos, ‘big shipping hazard to the early explorers. Gevaar’s not the only name that spells out a warning. The word “Abrolhos” comes from an old Portugues
e sea-faring term that means “keep your eyes open”, or at least that’s what they say. Heck of a lot of shipwrecks around these parts,’ he said with an ominous shake of his head.

  ‘You see, Rassen, I was right,’ Massoud declared triumphantly, ‘the perfect spot to lure ships to their doom. What did I tell you? We’ve been holed up in a pirates’ den.’

  Rassen flashed him a warning look. Lou was a local and could well find Massoud’s attempt at humour insulting. Although did Massoud intend to be funny? As usual it was difficult to tell.

  But Lou just laughed. ‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘I don’t reckon you’ll find many pirates around here.’

  Which led Rassen to the next question that had plagued them.

  ‘Who owns these houses,’ he asked, ‘and why are they deserted? The people who lived in this village, where did they all go?’

  ‘This is a fishers’ camp,’ Lou explained. ‘The fishers themselves own the huts, they pay an annual lease to the Department of Fisheries. I own the green hut just down the path. Well I used to,’ he corrected himself, ‘my grandson has it now. I retired a few years ago, but I still think of it as mine and use it now and then. We’re a pretty close community, all of us fishers.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rassen was struck uncharacteristically silent, as were Hala and Massoud, all three exchanging incredulous glances. So this genial man, this man so willing to offer information and be of assistance to them, was actually one of those whose homes they had invaded, whose personal belongings they had ransacked, whose supplies they had stolen. ‘I see,’ he said finally, as if things now made sense. But he didn’t see at all, he was thoroughly mystified.

  The others had noted the reaction and their focus was now trained on Rassen, awaiting his translation.

  Not unsurprisingly, the general response to the news he imparted was one of great surprise to all, and they were quick to give voice.

  ‘He owns the green house?’

  ‘Why is he not angry?’

  ‘We have looted his home and the homes of his people.’

  ‘We have robbed him and we have robbed his friends.’

  ‘Why does he not hate us?’

  Everyone started speaking at once, but when Rassen finally called for silence and the babble died down, Karim demanded to be heard.

  ‘I wish to make an apology,’ he said. ‘I may do so, Rassen? You will translate the words for me?’

  ‘I will, Karim.’

  ‘Sir …’ Karim faced Lou squarely, addressing him with the utmost respect. Already he felt guilty for having so rudely pushed past the man in his haste to get to Azra. As a rule he was most respectful toward his elders. ‘I have been living in the green house; my wife, and my son also,’ he said, speaking very slowly and choosing his words with care, uncertain of his Arabic, hoping he was getting each word right. ‘We have been living in the house that is your house.’ He looked to Rassen and waited while the doctor translated the sentence faithfully word for word. Then … ‘We wish for no harm to your house,’ he continued, ‘but what we do is not right. From my heart, I apologise that we invade your home.’

  When Rassen had completed the translation, which the others, including Rassen himself, recognised really spoke for them all, they waited in silence for Lou’s reply.

  ‘There is no need for apology, Karim,’ Lou assured the young man. ‘I hope you have been comfortable in my house, and I know that my grandson would wish the same. You and your family are welcome guests in our home.’

  Lou knew he was correct in speaking for his grandson. Paolo will understand, he thought and even if at first he doesn’t, he will listen to me.

  As Rassen translated his reply to Karim, however, Lou pondered the reaction of the other fishers to the invasion of their huts. Would they be equally embracing of these poor desperate people? Some will, he thought, those with an immigrant past anyway. There are others like me. They will remember.

  Lou recalled all too vividly the prejudice he and his family had encountered as postwar immigrants in the mid-1950s. Unable to speak English, considered second-class citizens, his Sicilian parents had been constantly humiliated, and as a ten-year-old he had been mercilessly bullied at school. Australia was not ready for those perceived as different back then, he thought.

  Now, watching young Karim, who appeared only several years older than his grandson, hanging on to every word of the doctor’s translation, Lou was touched by the sight. He was touched by the sight of them all, clinging so dearly to a word of welcome. How easy it is to be kind, he thought. Yet there are still many not ready for those they perceive as different. Australia hasn’t really changed all that much.

  Karim, nodding and beaming like a happy ten-year-old, his arm around his wife, was now gabbling some response in his own language, whatever it was, so Lou offered his hand and they shook.

  When the general reaction had died down, Rassen continued with his line of questioning.

  ‘Why have the fishermen deserted their homes?’ he asked.

  ‘Because of the season,’ Lou answered. ‘They’re lobster fishers, western rock lobster fishers to be precise – a very profitable industry around these parts and a big Australian export trade, particularly to the American market.’

  Rassen nodded, the business part made sense, but it didn’t explain the deserted huts.

  Registering the doctor’s need for more information, Lou went on to explain. ‘The whole of the Abrolhos, as well as Gevaar, this little island to the north, is a breeding ground for the western rock lobster,’ he said, ‘so the species needs to be protected. Fishing was once forbidden altogether during the breeding season, but these days fishers are allowed to work on a year-round quota system in order to keep catches under control …’

  Lou realised things were sounding altogether too complicated and that, even if the doctor understood, it would be impossible to translate to the others in a simple form, so he cut to the chase.

  ‘There are four or five months in the year when the weather conditions aren’t the best,’ he explained, ‘and half the catch has to be thrown back anyway, because it’s the breeding season and there are too many spawners, so the fishers return to their homes in Shoalhaven, leaving their huts vacant.’

  Rassen was thankful: this was certainly a lot easier. His translation to the others was brief, a mention of poor weather and off-season fishing, no more.

  Everyone nodded, content with the explanation.

  Given the brevity of the doctor’s translation, Lou was left wondering how he might possibly simplify his answers, but the next question requiring an answer of him was easy.

  ‘So I take it we will be discovered when the new lobster season starts and the fishermen return to their huts?’

  ‘Yes.’ The direct answer may have been simple, but in actuality the situation was far more complex. You might well be discovered a whole lot earlier, Lou thought, but he didn’t go into the details at this point. It would be easier if he could talk to the doctor on a one-to-one basis, he decided. He didn’t want to frighten the others.

  The following question sealed his decision.

  ‘And what will happen when we are discovered?’ Rassen asked. ‘I recognise of course that the other fishermen might not be as generous in their welcome as you have been, Lou, which is quite understandable given the fact we have ransacked their homes. But I would like it known that I will make personal reparation to all for the costs incurred. I have the means to do so,’ he added when the Australian appeared hesitant. ‘I have funds that can be forwarded from my bank account in London, I can assure you of this.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I believe you,’ Lou replied, and he did, there was no reason to think otherwise – the doctor was eminently believable.

  ‘So what will happen when we are discovered?’ Noting once again the man’s hesitation, Rassen repeated his question. ‘Will there be trouble from the fishermen?’

  ‘Things are a bit more complicated than just the reaction of the fisher community,’ Lou said w
ith care, including Hala and Massoud in his response, flickering a look also to the girl who spoke English, although she did not appear to be following the conversation. ‘Maybe we should talk in private,’ he suggested, ‘it would be easier for you to translate, Rassen.’ Lou was painfully aware of the breathless anticipation surrounding them, everyone eager to know what was unfolding.

  ‘Yes, of course, you’re right,’ Rassen agreed, alerted to the fact the Australian was sending a distinct signal there was news that might alarm the others.

  ‘I’d be happy to deliver any supplies you need between now and when the fishers return to their huts,’ Lou prompted. ‘Why don’t we draw up a list?’

  ‘An excellent idea.’ Rassen returned a grateful smile and translated the suggestion to the others, who accepted it unquestioningly. ‘We have paper and pencils to hand in the yellow hut,’ he said. ‘Massoud, perhaps you’d care to join us?’

  Massoud nodded, Lou collected his navigational chart and the three of them prepared to leave, Rassen signalling a request to Hala, which she instantly understood. She was to apparently observe the customary female role and allow the men full control, but in actuality she was to remain as a pacifying influence to the others, keeping them unaware of the fact there might be reason for concern. Rassen was thankful when her eyes replied she was prepared to obey. He never quite knew which way his wilful wife might jump.

  ‘We will report back to you all shortly,’ he said.

  Once settled around the table in the yellow hut, paper and pencils before them, Lou spelt out the facts to Rassen and Massoud. He told them of the regular Coastwatch surveillance flights conducted across the islands on lookout for border protection breaches. The Department of Fisheries vessels, too, he said, made regular trips around the islands, mainly checking on the fishers’ properties, it was true, but any sign of illegal immigrants was bound to be immediately reported.