Dear scattered band of brothers and sisters,
Week 8 at the Centre: most of the men had to attend their medical check-ups – we were thus a small group once again (to begin with at least). Apologies from a very busy Mateo, from the student Paola and from Aleathea who was on a performance tour in North Queensland. They will all be back next week.
While waiting for the first chord to be strummed, I spoke to two of the young men who somehow managed to avoid or postpone their medical encounter. They both looked fit and strong – perhaps the doctor has no need to see them. One was a weight lifter as well as being a mechanical engineer – softly spoken and obviously intelligent. The other was an industrial diver. He said he feels more at home beneath the surface of the Persian Gulf in the company of fish. It had been five months since he strapped on his wetsuit and oxygen tank. Here within the enclosure of the Detention Centre, he was the proverbial ‘fish out of water’.
We were introduced to a young adult male who apparently lives in community detention but is here for the day. He is not from Iran. I wanted to ask where he was from but thought that could be a little intrusive. I kept my question to myself. He was keen to participate in our activities – I had a sense that he was hungry for non-intimidating company.
Two men at the back of the room resisted our invitation to come and join us. They wore sun glasses, jotted a few notes in their note pads while sipping coffee. They wore Identification badges that I could not read from where I was. It was unnerving.
After our opening standard (Need One Another), Yani once again summoned us to our feet and began the warm-ups. They extended into a game called ‘fish, chips and vinegar’. The fish out of water gave us the word for fish in Farsi – he then explained that their word for chips is the same as ours and for vinegar they used ‘sauce’. At last, two Farsi words that I can remember. The game gathered momentum. One of the mums couldn’t get it right and turned to leave through the doors into the outdoor area. Yani chased her, embraced her and said “we want you with us”. She came back and soon got the hang of the game. Even resilient spirits need encouragement.
Romero Centre volunteer Lou could not bring strawberries this time. A policy had been recently implemented which prevented food being brought in from outside for health and safety reasons. Nicole, the Activities Officer explained it to us. It was awkward for her as she’d originally given us ‘the green light’ to bring in cakes etc but word had subsequently been passed down from management. The ‘residents’ however had been told, as I’d mentioned in a previous narrative that there were many people ‘out there’ looking for ways to make them welcome. We can’t underestimate the positive impact of this piece of information. Lou was undeterred. This time she brought her acoustic guitar and gave it to the gathering as a gift for their on-going collective use. It was a generous offering and very much appreciated.
She also brought the lyrics of Inanay – an Aboriginal lullaby.
in-a-nay gupu wa-na
ay ay ay oo-la
oo-la oo-la oo-la ay
yip-py yay yip-py yay
None of us knew what the words meant – we had that in common today but we learnt the song together and sang it beautifully (even if we do say so ourselves). Yani guided the men into the high harmony and the women into the low. We’ve come to expect the unexpected. The rhythms enticed Serco staff – they came in to join us. Everybody in the room (except the two in sunglasses) swayed to the music and sang with enjoyment. I wanted to tell the gathering about our Aboriginal history – the oppression, the separation from loved ones, the imprisonment and the need to escape. The story would have a familiarity about it.
I wasn’t sure about our two silent, shaded visitors though. I decided to save the story for another day with its undertones of political activism. We don’t want to do or say anything that could jeopardize the opportunity we have to come here.
None of the ‘residents’ had ever met an Aboriginal person. We resolved to bring some of our Murri friends to join us for one of our sessions. They will be surprised and no doubt delighted, to hear Inanay – Persian style.
The young woman who sang ‘My Heart Will Carry On’ in our first meeting was troubled today. Yani detected the occasional tear and in-between songs, sat with her and embraced her. In her broken but improving English she said “I will be alright. Nothing is too big for me. I have many maps for the future”. The songwriters were listening.
The men returned and immediately joined in the widening circle together with Mahin our beloved interpreter. The energy lifted once again. We performed our inaugural version of Inanay for them. They couldn’t help but join in. It’s that kind of a song. It was then time to rehearse the home-grown original ‘Free Like Butterflies’. Simon had researched Persian melodies and incorporated such a flavour into the verses. On realizing that the lyrics were those of the young mother, one of the Serco staff became teary herself. It was good to have the staff, the residents and the Scattered People in this resonant space.
The young mechanical engineer with biceps the size of my thighs was slowly turning the pages of a children’s picture book – maybe he was seeing how much he could understand, perhaps he was preparing for his daily role as ‘big brother’ to the children (all the men – single or otherwise, seem to take on the role of big brother to the children), then again, maybe he was projecting into his own future. His girlfriend had given Mahin a poem entitled ‘Mother’ for us to put to music. This morning she gave us the translation:
your tears are my rain
your face is my moon
your thoughts are my dream
your arms are my refuge
your love is in my veins
your sadness is a blade in my heart
when you pass … my life ends
An appropriate moment for that little ray of sunshine to arrive home from school early and to be embraced by her mother. She was unwell and looked exhausted. She had just enough energy left to smile and wave to us.
Since Mahin was with us, I took the opportunity to explain our song development process. I used short sentences – pregnant pauses. Mahin would fill in the gaps. I told the story of the questions we asked the young Aboriginal community of Urandangi. The first question “what is it you would like the rest of Australia to know about you?” It seemed at the time, a good question to us. It was however, irrelevant to them. We tried again: “What is it that you young ones would like to do to make this world a better place?” No-one had an answer. We were slow learners until Simon then asked “what do you like to do each day that makes you feel good?”. The answers came on top of one another – fishing, swimming, hunting, visiting our grandparents etc. The Aboriginal children of Urandangi brought us from our ethereal mental meanderings into the present moment where they live their lives. The song ‘Good Company’ was the result.
I said that I had a question (a request) for the gathering. I asked for a translation of the word ‘limbo’. The youthful rapper captured its essence with “pa dar hava” – a foot in the air – in other words, suspended animation. I went on to say that we recognize that in spite of their being looked after here with comfortable accommodation, very good food and the company of one another – they are still waiting, waiting, waiting – skilled people, determined people – waiting with their feet in the air. My request was that they think about this with a view to next week educating us as to what this is like for them. A quick look at the ever-present duo at the back of the room prompted me to add “We’re not asking for any political comment – we are asking about how it feels. Your responses will become a song for all of us to someday perform”.
Lunch together. I found out that the two mystery men were ‘escorts’ for our very amenable visitor from community detention. They weren’t ‘Big Brother’ after all. It was time to go. People walked with us to the glass security doors. The women kissed Yani three times each then held Simon’s and my hands. Even the men who said goodbye to us in the lunch room came to the door to shake our hands again.
As we leave we can’t help thinking: If only those who are unwelcoming within our vast country could see what we see and hear what we hear …
then surely they would feel what we feel.
In solidarity,
The Scattered P team