Kimberley Sun

by Di Morrissey

  Sami pulled up at the house and two women sitting outside gave Farouz a lazy wave. He got out and a few more people shuffled around the corner of the house, and a gaggle of curious shouting kids came bounding from up the creek.

  ‘Where’s everyone?’ asked Farouz casually. Formal greetings seemed superfluous.

  ‘They be round. Who this?’ The women looked at Sami curiously and with some suspicion.

  ‘Hello. I’m Sami. I’m a friend of Farouz,’ she said with a big smile.

  ‘She’s all right,’ Farouz reassured them.

  Sami followed him into the house. There were several women and an old man seated in the main room, which had a long table covered with sacks of salt and sugar, bottles of tomato sauce, Worcestershire sauce and a jar of instant coffee and tea bags. A Dingo brand flour drum used as a saucepan was boiling on the stove, giving off a stewy odour. Farouz dropped a hessian bag on the table. ‘Few tins of tucker. Anyone painting?’

  ‘Yeah, that mob down at the trees. Got any cigarettes?’ The old man who answered watched Farouz expectantly as he pulled a carton of cigarettes from the top of the tucker bag.

  ‘Good on yer, F’rouz.’

  ‘You want tea or something?’ Farouz asked Sami.

  ‘Well, a mug of tea would be good. That was a hard drive.’

  One of the women handed Sami a mug. ‘Help yourself. She an art dealer, agent?’ She spoke over Sami’s head.

  ‘Nah. A friend. Knows about art. Came t’help,’ said Farouz, lapsing easily into a different style of speaking.

  Sami looked around for hot water feeling that she was invisible. The woman waved at the large aluminium kettle simmering on the gas stove and passed her a packet of sweet biscuits.

  ‘After tea we’ll go see ’em, orright?’ said Farouz.

  They walked past the row of houses across a clearing to where a shelter was set up – a hessian roof stretched on top of saplings. Some women were seated on the ground working on a canvas, some were bent over a trestle table. Dogs and children played outside. A few women sat at the back working together, but before Sami could see clearly what they were doing, a large woman came forward to meet them. ‘So, you bring a friend, eh Farouz? We bin waiting.’ She was glistening with sweat, her pudgy body fat rolled over the hitched-up sarong, her hands stained with different colours. She smiled at Sami. ‘I’m Gussie. You look pretty green. You gonna help us. Eh?’

  Sami wasn’t sure what that meant, but concealed her confusion. ‘I’m fascinated with your paintings and want to learn about them. And especially the weaving. It’s so different. Can I see what you’re doing?’

  ‘You come to help, right?’

  ‘With the art? If I can.’ Sami raised an eyebrow towards Farouz, but got no reply. They walked into the shelter.

  ‘You come to help Leila. So how you gonna do that?’

  Sami looked blankly at the woman who was now pointing to a far group sitting in a circle on the floor, weaving. As if on cue, a woman with her back to Sami, rose and turned and gave a hesitant, shy smile.

  Sami was stunned. The woman was white, she had wide dark eyes and dark wavy hair covered by a scarf that was knotted over her head and tied at the back. A shapeless ankle-length skirt and long overblouse hung over her thin body. Around her waist was a cloth belt woven with an intricate pattern. Her face was drawn and gave Sami an instant impression of infinite sadness. Sami returned the woman’s smile and held out her hand. ‘I’m Samantha Barton, Sami.’

  ‘My name is Leila. Leila Kassadi.’ She had an accent Sami couldn’t place. She was quietly spoken but sounded educated.

  ‘Are you a teacher? I’m afraid Farouz hasn’t told me much about you.’ She didn’t add that in fact he’d told her nothing.

  Leila guided Sami out of the shelter. ‘Come, I will explain.’

  Sami stole a glance at Farouz, who mutely waved a hand, signalling her to follow Leila. The other women took little or no notice, going about their work and chatting, laughing, occasionally raising a voice to shout at a child or one of the dogs.

  ‘Farouz is a friend. He was asked not to talk about me. No one knows I’m here.’ She added quickly, ‘I am contented here. There is nowhere else for me.’

  Sami looked at Leila, trying to make sense of the puzzling meeting. She was possibly in her late thirties or early forties, but there seemed a tiredness, a kind of defeated air about her that made her seem much older. ‘Where are you from? Why are you here?’

  ‘You are right. I was a teacher. I taught English to students in my home town. But that was years ago. There is a blanket under that tree, we will sit there.’ The tough old bloodwood sprinkled some shade over the dusty blanket. Swishing flies away the two women settled themselves.

  ‘So where is home?’ asked Sami, now realising she’d been brought here to listen to Leila’s tale and, apparently, to help her.

  ‘It is a long story. I am from Afghanistan. A village close to Herat.’

  ‘How the heck did you end up here? Here, of all places?’

  Leila gave a slight smile at the surprise in Sami’s voice. ‘It is a story that goes back many years. It is my story, but there are many others who could tell one just like it.’

  C h a p t e r F i f t e e n

  WE LIVED IN A CLUSTER OF VILLAGES – AN OASIS NEAR Shindand, south of Herat. It was peaceful, quite traditional. I taught at a school in Herat and my husband worked as a doctor. Our daughters were born two years apart. Our ancestors had been nomads before settling along the river several generations ago. My family were weavers; they made carpets in the Baluchi tradition. Our family symbol was a crescent moon and a full sun. On the narrow flat band at the end of our carpets, which have sumac or brocaded detail on them, you will find the symbols of our family genealogy. My two sisters were younger than me, very pretty. Then we moved to Kabul. Life was good.

  The Soviets invaded in 1979 and then the war came. It was bad during the Russians’ time. My brother joined the Mujaheddin and was killed. My father also went to fight in the hills against the Soviet invasion.

  When the Russians withdrew and the Taliban took over Herat in 1995, we thought things would be much better. But they got worse. My husband, Azad, was very worried. It was hard to treat the sick, there were few medicines and then the women working as nurses, like all of us women, had to stay indoors. We had to wear the chaderi to cover all our face and bodies. The school was closed. My husband sent me with our baby daughters home to be with my parents and sisters. We heard such terrible stories. Women lashed and punished for wearing incorrect shoes, for not lowering their voices in public, fingers cut off for wearing nail polish. Then we heard of women being stoned to death, of the executions in the football stadium in Kabul – terrible slaughter. My husband sent word that food was in short supply in the city and we must be very careful. He told my cousin who came to see us that they were helping people to escape. Some of our friends learned that their lives were in danger because they had spoken out or defied the Taliban orders, which were getting harsher and more crazy by the day. They were misreading and putting their own distorted interpretation on the wise words of the Koran.

  We kept thinking things would change but it went on and on. For four years we suffered. I hardly saw my husband and when he did come home he was sick and exhausted. For my own safety he didn’t tell me anything, but I knew that he was working with resistance people to try to get word out and seek help from the rest of the world. But it seemed no one was listening.

  We were so bored inside the house. So my elderly uncle taught my sisters and me to weave, and with my mother we made a chuval for me. It is a carpet backed with canvas, open, like a suitcase that can be rolled up, hung or used as a mat. Brides make a dowry chuval to take with them to their new home. We decided to weave into the pattern the legend of Leila and Majnun. I am named for Leila. It is like a Persian story, similar to your Romeo and Juliet. Before my brother was killed he brought us the best wool from the best sheep. Carded and spun it
looks finer and shinier than silk, and as it falls over the hand it appears wet and evocative. The carpet bag is so delicate and rich looking yet belies its true nature – it is practical and almost indestructible. To me it represents the ability to sustain love.

  Then a man came to our house late at night, an American. He was a carpet dealer but was also buying family possessions like jewellery, festival clothes – heirloom dresses ornately embroidered and sewn with gold and silver coins – as well as antiques. People were selling everything so they could get enough money to escape into Pakistan and India. They hoped they would be able to wait there in safety until things changed, and then go back to their homes.

  The fighting got worse and the Taliban fanatics would go through towns and villages – wild young men who had been brought up in all-male religious schools. They had never known the kindness or nurturing of women. They hated us.

  Our life was like being in jail. Our country was being destroyed. Our hearts were broken, but our spirits were strong. We told each other stories, and secretly and softly, we sang songs; we reminded each other of happier times, reliving special family events. One afternoon we would recall everything we could remember of a wedding or a particular feast. At night we would retell the classical stories from Persian literature or the Koran.

  One awful night some heavily armed Taliban fighters came to the village. They dragged the men into the streets and demanded money and valuables. Seeking information they beat our men, but no one had any answers to their insane questions. Then they tied the men up and made them watch as they raped and beat their daughters, wives and sisters. It was cruel and heartless. Some women were killed. My uncle was shot. My father was beaten and later died. Some pretty, younger women were taken away. We do not know what happened to them. My sisters were among them.

  I survived because my uncle had the good sense to send my daughters and me out to hide by the river as soon as he realised the Taliban were in town. It was a desperate move, but it worked and I pray for him every day.

  With my mother’s blessing, I took my daughters to a carpet dealer’s home in the Herat bazaar and made contact with my husband. It was wonderful to be together again. Even in one room, squashed above a small shop. Azad warned me that the situation was dangerous and would be for a long time, so we made plans to escape, to go to Pakistan. He had friends over the border not far from Peshawar.

  But one night a friend from the hospital came and told us Azad had been arrested. We could not find him, no one would tell me anything. Finally I was told that he had been killed. I did not believe it. I did not want to believe it. I heard that he had been helping people escape, treating the wounded and sending messages outside about what was happening in our country. Eventually I knew that Azad would never return.

  Later I was sent word that he had indeed been murdered and that his last message had been for me to escape with the girls. And so I sold practically everything I had and went on the Grand Trunk Road through the Khyber Pass to Pakistan. We found shelter with Afghan friends who knew my husband, then slowly made arrangements with a network of contacts to join the refugee stream heading abroad. It was impossible to get proper papers or a passport, and, you see, by then I learned that my poor mother had died, and our house had burned. All I had were my girls.

  It was a terrible time; another nightmare journey. I had never been out of my country before this, and it was strange indeed to come to the hot tropical island of Roti in Indonesia. There were many of us, all pawns in a large international money game. We stayed there for many months until one of the smugglers agreed to take us to Australia. It was very close, Australians knew of the terrible things happening in our country and would help us. I gave the man all the money I had and packed our clothes and a few precious personal things into my carpet bag.

  We were told it was a comfortable boat but it turned out to be a smelly, old fishing boat. We were crammed into it, just able to sit crushed together. We felt like animals. There was little food, usually nothing more than a cup of rice. The seas were bad and my daughters Madhu and Roshani were seasick and cried.

  Then one night, when we were told we were close to Australia and we were quite excited, forgetting for a moment the terrible rolling of the boat in what must have been the worst storm of the trip, the engine stopped. There was a lot of shouting among the crew, then among all of us because suddenly there was water in the boat. It was sinking fast. We had no life jackets, no lifeboat. One poor woman went into labour.

  The next thing there was a grinding crunch as the boat hit a reef and pandemonium broke out. There was a mad scramble to get out, but somehow I managed to keep the two little girls beside me until we were all in the water. One woman was screaming, her baby was coming and two men were trying to help her. The waves were fierce and my three-year-old daughter Madhu was ripped from my grasp. I still feel her little hand in mine, trying to hold on tightly. My five-year-old daughter Roshani was hanging onto me – until a piece of wood from the boat hit us.

  I woke up at first light. I was lying on sharp coral not far from the beach, parts of the boat were scattered around. I dragged myself up, calling for my girls. I found the bodies of a man and a woman. In the morning sun, I saw a small open boat coming through the debris. There were two black men in the boat with two men from our boat. They pulled me on board and circled the area slowly, looking for my girls. All I found was my carpet bag caught in some floating wood. We were the only survivors.

  The men took us to their home along the coast. There was a mission some place but they told us if white people found us we would be put in prison. We stayed with them for a few weeks. It is hard to explain how I felt, but life seemed utterly pointless. My heart was broken. I was now alone in a strange world. The people were kind but nothing could heal me. The two men who had also been rescued asked the Aborigines to take them to a town so they could move on to one of the cities. They were educated and spoke English. I do not know what happened to them.

  I was badly cut and had infections. The black women treated me with their herbs and a clay paste, and my wounds slowly healed. Then they told me friends were coming. Friends from the desert. It might be safer for me to go and stay with them. I knew, and they knew, I needed to be with my grief.

  So we came to this desert community, this outstation. I have not been to the main community, but I have heard so many stories about the problems there – drugs, alcohol, petrol sniffing, violence. The people here explained how they got aid from some agency to help them set up this place free of alcohol, and with strong leadership. At first I didn’t understand why the black people of Australia had to live away from white people to practise their culture, to heal themselves.

  Each day was the same as the one before. I still said my prayers, I still spoke to myself in my own language. I didn’t want to lose my culture, so I began to tell the women and children our stories. I told them stories of the guls – the flowers – on my carpet bag. Roses are for happiness; the sun is joy, the moon peace. Weaving for us is like writing a story. Each knot is a memory, a feeling, a heartbeat – beyond price. The main stories are in the centre field, the borders tell of family, relationships and history. Each time I touch my weaving in the bag I hear my sisters’ and mother’s laughter, feel the touch of my father’s and uncle’s hands on my head, and think of my brother.

  I drew pictures in the sand. And they did the same. Then we began to create them together. One day art supplies came, but some of the old women decided to make their paints in the old way – showing me how they mixed the colours from plants and sands, and crushed rocks and little insects to make paints and dyes.

  After that I started to teach them to weave, card weaving – like these tassles and my belt – and then we made some mats. We used goat and camel wool, anything we could get. Someone came from the coast and brought shells and lengths of pandanus, which we dried and dyed.

  When I met Farouz it was sad for me. His family came from near where I lived, we share the
family symbol of the sun. Yet he knows only a few words and has no memories like I have. He was born here, but we share something in common – our stories. His father told him the old tales. He promised he would bring someone to see me. To help me.

  But there is no one who can help me. My girls, my family, my home. All are gone.

  An insect hummed in the silence. Sami reached out and took Leila’s hands and their eyes met. Leila was dry-eyed, she could cry no more. But tears rolled down Sami’s face. It was the first time in her life that she had been so close to a personal story of such incredible agony. And she knew it was one of many.

  Something cracked in her. Some shell that had been protecting a soft part of her innermost self was crushed, exposing her feelings to a fresh reality. Nothing in Sami’s own life now seemed so hurtful, nor did she feel so vulnerable after hearing this story. She moved from needing someone to understand and soothe her own small hurts to wanting to give all she could to lessen the anguish in Leila’s face.

  ‘How can I help? What do you want?’ She felt overwhelmed. This was bigger than anything she could have imagined.

  The incongruity of them sitting there, in the Australian desert, didn’t seem remarkable. Some people make epic journeys in their lives, by choice, circumstance or tragedy. Sami tried to imagine herself in Leila’s place, but she couldn’t. Would I not do the same? thought Sami. We are a nation of boat people. In her own family, her half-American father, her great-great-grandfather the Irish Tyndall, her Macassan relative Niah whose forebears had floated from Sulawesi on the monsoonal tides, her English family through Conrad and Hamish Hennessy. All had come here seeking a new life. And looking at the sad, sweet faced woman before her, knowing her story, how could she say, ‘You are not welcome here.’