How to Recruit an Ordinary Australian, How to Torment Her, How to Drive her to madness 

Sitting watching Eva Orner’s movie, ‘Chasing Asylum’, I fully expected to be appalled. I anticipated I’d feel the old outrage. I feared I’d see things that would shock me.What took me unprepared was the vision of Australian workers on Manus and Nauru as they disintegrated before the camera. Three in particular found the courage to expose themselves before the slow, careful camera of Eva Orner. Two of the three were young women. The camera never revealed them full face, their names were not mentioned. Like their charges who subsist behind Boat Numbers, these are humans without names. Their voices told us what was happening to the people seeking asylum; but it was their hands that gave them away. Nail-bitten fingers worked continually. A writhing was seen, a slow dance of agony. Voices hesitated, speech fell away as the young women spoke. I watched these young people as they struggled to shed a burden that will never leave them. The third beanspiller was not young. A former prison guard, he was a man in his fifties, a man surely innured by his past experience. He spoke to the camera of what he saw. He recounted carefully and precisely his attempts to bring about change from within the system. How he spoke to superiors, how he complained of wrongdoing, how anonymous threats to ‘shut up’ mounted, until he feared for his life. Finally he fled his island. He returned home and lay low. For some time he did not speak of what he’d seen, what had happened to his detained charges, how he had been threatened and lived alone in fear. Finally he decided he could keep silent no longer: “I was brought up to know right from wrong. I couldn’t live in silence.” The man’s face worked as he spoke. He struggled for composure but grief and pain defeated him as he wept his honest tears.    

Elsewhere in my life I have a colleague, a mental health worker, who has been engaged in the repair of a wounded offshore worker damaged deeply by trying to protect and support detained refugees. Hired by the government, that worker can never safely return to the work that is his vocation, which is to care for vulnerable people. He is now counted among the vulnerable. Innocent casualties, these, like the mates of the former detention worker who told me of two fellow guards who attempted suicide, one successfully.

What are we doing? What have we done.? What price do we demand of our own people? How we disgust ourselves!

When, at some time in the next century, I become leader of this nation I will do some things urgently. Apart from what ever I do to abate our present cruelty, apart from preparing for the Next National Apology, apart from prosecuting the Prime Ministers and their Border Control Ministers for crimes against humanity – apart from all these necessary steps, I will seek out these whistle blowers and offer them honours in the highest echelon of the Order of Australia. But I will not be surprised if they decline any honour offered in the name of a nation that betrayed itself. 
Chasing Asylum is screening now. See it and learn where our taxes are going and what is being done in our name. 

http://www.chasingasylum.com.au/

The Last Refugee

Imagine this. A disaster at sea, a lifeboat adrift, full of survivors, now despairing, now in hope, as land takes form through the mists ahead. A form is seen in the water. The boat comes alongside, the form is human and alive. The human extends an arm in supplication. Weary survivors take the limb and heave. The lifeboat, already heavily laden, tilts, takes water. The heavers persist in their heaving and the boat takes more water. A murmur within the boat swells to a cry: “Let him go!”

But the human is already aboard. The boat rights itself, the shouting subsides to a murmuring. The boat drifts on.

Imagine this: a second story. Australia prospers, confidence surges and trust becomes the settled order of things. Somehow Australia’s peoples lose their fears of difference, neither Sharia nor Tjukurrpa nor Kosher is imposed by any person upon any other person, but all are respected and all thrive. The leaders of the government decide to lead opinion rather than to follow it. They declare, “We who have plenty can take in those who have nothing more their need and their stories. Let us welcome them, let them come in!”

And so it comes to pass. Australia booms, its empty lands are claimed, cultivated and nurtured under the guiding hand of the first inhabitants. Australia feeds its peoples, feeds Asia, and prospers greatly. The seekers for asylum fulfil the promise that every newcomer brings. Australia accepts scores of thousands, who succeed in the new land and become part of the community. The community now takes in hundreds of thousands as History smiles upon the land and even the climate shows clemency.

The seekers for refuge are numberless, the land is vast, its resources seem endless. Eventually the land is filled. The flow of seekers for refuge slows to a trickle. It stops. All now are saved, all are safe. But wait! A boat. Aboard the boat are two persons. They extend supplicating arms. The peoples of Australia, accustomed to rescue, habituated and drenched in its ethos, wish to help. But their land is full. There is no room for newcomers. Australians squeeze up together, they wish to rescue those people who extend those arms. They make room, a little room: just one, one alone can be squeezed in. But there are two humans in the boat.

Imagine this: a third story. A lifeboat full of survivors of shipwreck drifts in an uncertain sea. This boat is full. Its gunwhales barely clear the calm surface. Whenever the seas rise all bail mightily to save the boat that saves them, and the boat remains afloat. The boat drifts on.

A shape is seen ahead in the water. As the boat comes alongside, the shape moves, cries, flings human words of thanks, raises an arm in supplication. All aboard the craft can see, all understand: “This lifeboat is barely afloat. If we take in this human his weight will sink us; every one of us – every human person – is lost.”

So much for my little stories. Readers of this blog are well acquainted with my pain, my outrage, my shame. All that old stuff. My eruptions of moral rage have brought a brief pleasure, a relief not unlike the visceral satisfaction of purging. But these explosions achieve nothing, convince no-one who is not already convinced, influence no-one in government.

A couple of years ago I spoke at an awards ceremony for defenders of human rights. I told my lifeboat stories. I pointed out Australia’s lifeboat is not full. I was grand in my flight of brave words and noble ideals. I carried the audience, which, led by two Federal parliamentarians, rose as one to applaud. Afterwards each of the parliamentarians, one a frontbencher in the government, requested a copy of my speech which they’d put up on their websites. One confided: ”You have said what we would like to say but cannot.”

What to do? What more to do? What can we – we powerless people do – beyond voicing our outrage, our shame, our grief? Firstly, we must continue to raise that human voice, to give human words to the suffering of fellow humans. That voice, those words, these are the marks of our being human. These words, the irreducible minimum:

Written in Pencil in the Sealed Railway-Car

By: Dan Pagis

here in this carload
I am eve
with abel my son
if you see my other son
cain son of man
tell him I

But what more? As my little stories suggest, ultimately we persons of good will – and I mean that to refer to my fellow Australians at large – sooner or later must face a terrible choice. At the end of all our rescuing there will always be one more supplicant, one too many for our resources, for our lifeboat. We will face a choice. This is Sophie’s choice, whereby we will chose one to be saved and send another – a human other – to perdition.

But Australia’s lifeboat is not yet full. So, what more, what wiser, what more potent act can we non-governors do? The answer cannot be simple, but our powers of imagination, of thinking hard and speaking softly, have helped in the past. Thus Petro Georgiou of happier memory, with Jozef Szwarc, softened the adamantine policies of John Howard. The image of a dead child floating in the shallows of Lesvos softened the policies of Tony Abbott.

I know of one small group in a faith congregation that has approached leaders of other faiths in an attempt to think hard together and to speak softly together to those who govern. State governors have spoken for their people, saying, give us the children; let them not return to offshore detention. Dr David Isaacs blew a whistle on his return from offshore that mobilised doctors and nurses at Melbourne’s Royal Children’s Hospital and now at Lady Cilento in Brisbane. The RCH refuses to discharge child patients to places of detention. We must understand that for what it is: the RCH is not some Marxist commune, not a place of sedition. It is rather an emblem in the state of Victoria. It stands for the highest skill and care. When the RCH speaks it carries Victoria. None gainsays its voice or its acts.

So, what to do? Think hard, confer, suggest, bring ideas to government. One idea, hardly original, strikes me as promising: let Australia progressively divert funds, currently used for offshore detention, towards a respectable, respectful supra-national staging and assessment process in south Asia. There we would maintain accessible, supportive consular representation. No-one would need to board a leaky boat, no-one would need to jump a queue, no human person would come to Australia and be called by a SIEV number. Our brothers and sisters would arrive with their own names.

We might save money, we might not. Neither governments nor we the governed see these issues in money terms: governments never count the cost when augmenting our cruelties; and we bleeding hearts never count beans. No, these issues are strangely unmonetised. The people of Australia hanker quietly to regain some self-respect.

Respectful policies will save lives. We might save our souls.

Do you have a better idea? Work on it, tell your minister of religion, your minister of the crown, the playgroup mothers, the neighbours. Governments need to follow. It is up to us to lead. We won’t save everyone, but we can hardly do worse than we do at present.

The Clinician and Detention

Recently Dr David Isaacs, a courageous Australian paediatrician, returned from a working visit to one of Australia’s offshore immigration centres with distressing reports of the suffering and what he considered to be torture of the detained asylum seekers. He called publicly for doctors and nurses to question whether it is ethically permissible for them to accept employment in such settings. Since Dr Isaacs spoke out doctiors and nurses at Melbourne’s Royal Children’s Hospital have refused to discharge asylum seeker p[atients to island detention where they believe the children would be unsafe.
Dr Isaacs risked imprisonment for speaking out and he donated his earnings to asylum seeker relief. He then published an essay in The Journal of Medical Ethics, whose editor – an Australian medical graduate – asked me to respond. This is what I wrote. It is published here with the kind consent of the editor of the Journal of Medical Ethics, British Medical Journal.
ABSTRACT: An examination of ethical issues encountered in the author’s clinical work with detained patients. The author seeks to clarify in which ways, if any, the detained patient might differ from the generality of patients, and hence to identify any distinct ethical duty of the clinician. Also addressed is the broader question: how – if at all – do medical ethics vary from universal ethics? The author reflects on the distinctive duties of a free human towards a detained one. And finally addresses the topical suggestion that a doctor or a nurse should positively refuse to serve in an immigration detention facility on the grounds that to do so would be to condone or facilitate torture.

BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION

The author is a general practitioner of wide experience, having worked in Australian urban, suburban and country practices over greater than four decades; and having spent about eight weeks a year for the past twenty years working in remote clinics. These ‘outback’ postings have been predominantly in Aboriginal communities, while (in 2009) the writer worked for a time In Alice Springs Correctional Centre, and (in 2010) in an Australian Government Immigration Detention Centre offshore.
 
 
DECLARATION OF INTEREST
 
1. I worked in Alice Gaol for lower than average wages; I worked offshore for inflated wages; I banked all proceeds and I paid tax on them.
2. I tutored the editor of this journal in general practice. Our conversations ran particularly to ethics. I became your editor’s friend, his referee, his failed marathon running mentor.
3. As a result of the foregoing I must accept partial responsibility for any ethical errors in your editor’s writing and in his clinical work.
4. I have written and published elsewhere on these themes and continue to do so. They constitute a substantial element in my forthcoming book, ‘Burned Man’ (in press, Hybrid Publishers, for release in August 2016), to be marketed with mercenary intent (and with the opposite expectation).
5. I signed a confidentiality agreement with my employer prior to working in the island Detention Centre. 
6. I worked in Torres Strait (2008) on behalf of the Department of Customs, charged with medical assessment and initial treatment of illegal fisherman captured in Australian waters.
 
 
MEDICAL ETHICS VS ‘UNIVERSAL ETHICS’
 
I read with interest and admiration ‘Are health professionals working in Australia’s immigration detention centres condoning torture?’ The paper addresses a number of important issues explicitly as well as raising equally significant questions implicitly. As I read that valuable paper I found myself wondering whether any distinction actually exists between medical ethics and human ethics generally. An alternative way of formulating my question runs something like this: Why, and in what ways, should a nurse or a doctor – or any clinician – be answerable differently from any other moral agent?
At first blush there would seem to be no difference: in the encounter between any two humans who find themselves respectively in need of help and in a position to help, their inequality mandates a response. That one is sick and the other is skilled in healing is an accident, a detail. This is the bedrock ethic of the Good Samaritan.
However, if among a number of willing passers-by there be one who is a nurse or a doctor, the twin facts of clinical training and of vocation, demand that person in particular step forward and help.
Similarly, the training of the Surf Life Saver selects her to rescue one washed out to sea; and the paramedic is the one who should commence CPR in case of roadside cardiac arrest; and the infectious diseases physician respond to the Ebola outbreak.
 
Common to all these is a degree of risk to the rescuer; the life saver risks drowning, the paramedic risks injury from passing vehicles or hostile lawyers, the physician risks contracting infection and the asylum-seeker’s clinician risks criminal penalties should she reveal official wrongdoing. Traditionally society expects its ‘rescuer class’ to accept those personal risks. In entering our professions we who are clinicians have implicitly accepted – indeed embraced – those risks. So much so that it was with shock that I first heard the suggestion – made in 1969 – that a doctor should not stop to help a road victim, lest the doctor be sued for an adverse outcome. (That advice was given to doctors in litigious America. The advice was ethically wrong, and in many jurisdictions laws have been passed that protect a clinician who responds ethically.)
 
 
ARE DETAINED PATIENTS DIFFERENT?
 
 
My detained refuge-seeking patients resembled all patients in that they were variously unhappy and anxious; their understanding of their condition was inadequate; and they were sometimes unwell, although not in the way they understood themselves to be.
These were patients (although my employers insisted they were ‘clients’); their complaint, their pathos, was the detained condition, to which more familiar clinical entities were superadded.
 
To a man – and the great majority in my care happened to be adult and male – patients in immigration detention suffered from a spiritual malaise, an affliction I have not seen described and which I struggle to categorise. Its features include an inversion of belief such that the detained person replaced trust in fellow humans with mistrust, an expectation of mendacity and malignity of purpose. Thus the clinician, ostensibly present to help, was felt to be the adversary, present only to frustrate and harm the detained one. Our method of harm was supposed to destroy sanity, literally to drive mad the supplicant for our help. The two protagonists became respectively the anti-patient and the anti-doctor. The inversion of belief was pervasive. Hope, the constitutional belief in life and its goodness, were alien, felt to be elements of the fabulous, not congruent with life as it was now known. In a community of almost one thousand believers the mosque was largely unattended.
 
This inversion of the spiritual substrata of life reminded me of Primo Levi’s descriptions of that distinctive moral universe, the Nazi concentration camp, where the SS intentionally destroyed a world of hope, faith, kindness. I do not suspect any such intent on my island. But the outcomes here are as certain as they are unintended. 
 
An unanticipated hazard was experienced by carers, both among the guards and the clinicians. The hazard was moral in nature. Quickly many came to sense wrongness in the system. The wrongs included treating as criminals persons who had broken no law; imprisoning persons who had shown every desperation to be free; humiliating our patients with a dehumanizing system of identification by boat number rather than by name. All who worked in the Centre understood we were functioning parts of an unkind system: while we were to do no harm we were to delimit our own capacity to do good.
Evidence of the moral hazard, the sense of our violence against our own values, emerged in the behavior of the captors. Doctors drank every night, smoked heavily, suffered nightmares. More than one guard attempted suicide, one successfully.
 
In one more than one instance my medical superior refused my referrals for imaging, apparently on the unspoken grounds such would have to take place outside the Detention Centre. In one case, evidence of acute lumbar disc herniation indicated urgent CT scanning. This would require transfer to the mainland. My boss said: ’No. That can’t be done.’ Knowing that it could be done and it should be done, I asked, ‘Why can’t it be done?’
Displeased by my insubordination she stepped forward, stopped half a pace from me and shouted, ‘You can’t ask that question!’
 
For months following my return to the mainland, my reunion with friends and family, my resumption of normal medical work, I experienced nightmares. In those dreams I was a member of a tribunal, sitting in judgement on refugees’ pleas for asylum. In those dreams no voice was heard; supplicants argued mutely; mutely, we judges refused their pleas. The whole was an accusation against my implicated self, against my silent self.
 
 
CRIMINAL DETENTION VS IMMIGRATION DETENTION VS CUSTOMS DETENTION
 
 
The author of ‘Condoning Torture?’ refers to both criminal detention and immigration detention. I have worked in both categories as well as in compulsory detention for Customs. In all three cases detained persons are held inside locked areas behind high fencing in locations beyond view of the public. These arrangements serve to ensure ‘security’, an idea with more than one understanding: ‘security’ has evolved from the safety of the detained person and of the community to security of secrets. Briefly put, locked behind a series of heavy steel doors, detained persons remain invisible to outsiders and hence vulnerable to abuse. These are the settings which some refer to as Black Sites.
 
In the case of my island Detention Centre, the detained resided in their quarters, out of reach and sight of clinicians, who saw and treated them only when they were admitted to the Clinic located in a second secured area. The communicating door between the broader compound and the clinic was manned by the bulkiest of the male guards, charged with selecting and admitting our patients according to acuity of need. In practice these selections were opaque; we clinicians could never know who was excluded from our view and on what basis.
 
Offshore detainees manifest a critical and unique pattern of behaviour which distinguishes them from the great majority of patients of my clinical experience in other settings: they see it in their interest to achieve, demonstrate and maintain the worst health possible. The purpose – or the function – of this ‘poor health’ is to qualify for urgent transfer to ‘the mainland’, a location endowed with a mythic access to liberty in Australia proper. Thus the asylum seeker will exaggerate or fabulate to save himself. The clinician is mistrusted (like all in authority, for all have ‘lied’, and lied maliciously to drive the poor patient mad); in turn the clinician is unable to take symptoms at face value. Trust, the substrate of every decent clinical encounter, is shattered. For the clinician and the imprisoned person have opposite objectives.
 
Quite different are the assumptions in Alice Springs Correction Centre where eighty percent of prisoners are Aboriginal. Here transparency is a cardinal virtue. Prompted by blackfella outrage and whitefella shame, and by the political hazard of failing to care well for imprisoned indigenous people, authorities hasten to identify risk of harm to their charges and to act upon it. Often warders and clinicians over react, such are the anxiety and the dread of misreading need through the clinician’s cultural subliteracy.  
 
 
SHOULD A DOCTOR ACCEPT WORK WITH DETAINED PERSONS OFFSHORE?
 
 
This question arises because of the apprehended possibility that a doctor will participate in or facilitate wrongdoing; and having witnessed harm to patients will be constrained from ‘whistleblowing’ against that wrong. The apprehended risks are real. Under new Australian legislation a clinician who speaks out is open to prosecution and if convicted, to imprisonment for up to two years, for revealing secret information. An additional constraint is the Confidentiality Agreement employees are required to sign as a condition of employment.
 
The author of “Condoning Torture” suggests Australia’s treatment offshore of detained refugees constitutes torture. The writer adduces evidence for that suggestion but stops short of declaring categorically that such treatment is torture. At the same time he acknowledges the clinical needs for care of the refugees. He writes: Australian health professional thus face a major ethical dilemmas. Individual health professionals need to decide whether or not to work in immigration centres. If they do so, they need to decide for how long and to what extent restrictive contracts and gagging laws will constrain them from advocating for closing detention centres.
 
I find the author’s formulation of those questions helpful in pointing a clear ethical path. He authorizes each individual to forge a personal response. This seems to recognize the moral autonomy of the individual practitioner, as well as the individual responsibility of the individual. As the Mishnaic sage Hillel taught: if not me, then who? If not now, then when?
The author breaks the decision into two or three parts:
1. Will I work there? (Do I have the right to do so? Do I have the right to decline?)
2. If I do accept that work, I must do so provisionally, ceasing when I form a judgement that to continue more offends ethically than to desist.
3. In answering the second question I must consider how much my gags prevent me from doing needed good?

The argument allows me to approach the questions as follows: Here, in the offshore ‘facility’ – a black site or a blackish site or at the very least a grey site – we have sick human beings. Our government, their custodians, seeks to employ doctors, nurses, psychologists, mental health nurses, to attend to clinical need. The employer presents the qualified clinical professional with a contract to perform professional duties and to treat the conditions of the workplace confidentially. The government does not stipulate, ‘You must agree to torture your patient’.
 
On the basis of my own experiences, where I was not required to do positive harm but I was constrained from doing some needed good, I could sign the contract and enter upon my employment in good faith and in the assumption of my employer’s good faith. After all, I was employed a medical professional. That profession implies first and foremost a refusal to do no harm. If and when I form the belief my employment required me to do harm, I must refuse and make clear my reasons for doing so, both to my superiors and to my peers. Where possible I must make this clear also to the detained person. Should my employer dismiss me I must make public my employer’s wrongful instruction and my actions and the circumstances of my dismissal. I run a risk in doing this, the risk of incarceration. That is my lifesaver, my paramedic, my infectious disease specialist moment, my moment of familiar medical hazard. A hazard, yes, but in our relatively non-totalitarian system, a hazard without risk of death. Safer far than the ebola risk. Safer than the choices of a psychiatrist in the Soviet Union, safer than those of doctors under the Third Reich. A hazard but not a mortal hazard. 
 
On the other hand if no objectionable command requires me to take a self-sacrificial stand I remain free to work, to watch, to listen and to consider. And upon making my judgement I should speak out. If all is kosher, if detained persons are treated with full human dignity and compassion, then I must cry it from the rooftops. And conversely, if I find my hypothetical centres to be objectionable I must call for their improvement or their closure.
 
Those are equally clear ethical imperatives – not matters of narrow medical judgement but the call of every citizen. In the end the doctor, the nurse, the guard, the journalist, the therapist, the pharmacist, the interpreter, the public servant all answer to an ethic which is universal. Medical ethics represents but one corner of that wide universe.

Should Nurses and Doctors Accept Work in Australia’s Detention Centres?

In 2010 I worked in an Australian detention centre for short time that felt like a long time. The experience was the worst in my fifty years in Medicine. I signed a confidentiality agreement, sewing my own lips in the process. I saw no atrocity, no wrongdoing, other than torture by impersonal and meandering bureaucracy. Yet the suffering was general; it saw inmates, guards, nurses and doctors all resorting to self-harmful acts. I saw honourable people treating the detained with skill and humanity. I saw them constrained by employers and distrusted and insulted by patients, who felt sure that we too were liars. Yet we did some good. People, whether sick in body or in spirit, were treated with kindness and respect.

For six months after I returned to the mainland I was visited by dreams in which I sat on Tribunals without name, determining the fate of nameless individuals doomed by history and by Australian laws. Captive in these dreams, I doled unequal laws to defeated supplicants. I’d awaken and ask myself, did I really do that? But, inescapably, I knew I was implicated.

My island was a paradise of procedural propriety compared to today’s islands of Nauru and Manus. Doctors and nurses have returned from these places with distressing reports. Some have argued that, knowing what is now known, it is in unethical to work in these places; that the system tortures inmates; that participating is to become complicit in torture. More moderately, all clinicians and observers who return seem to agree that incarceration harms the inmate. The first law of medical ethics being, first do no harm, is not an ethical practitioner obliged to refuse to share in that harmdoing?

A new element affecting the work of a detention clinician is the outlawing of reporting wrongs seen in that work. Offenders face the threat of two years gaol. Nice systematic irony: to protect the liberty of Australians we incarcerate boat people; to protect the integrity of the system we incarcerate truthtellers. Interestingly, the flood of job offers to work in Detention that recruiters used to send to remote doctors such as myself has dried up. Someone, somewhere must have decided Australian clinicians are unreliable.

What then must a nurse or a doctor or a psychologist or a psychiatric nurse do? If offered, may we accept this work? Even if we are forbidden to speak of what we see?

I compare the situation to working with patients in places of dangerous epidemic disease. The first such case I read of was the cholera that broke out in eighteenth century Naples, where a young Swedish doctor left his fashionable private practice in Paris to work with the afflicted. He found himself working alongside a young nurse who was both beautiful and a nun. At any moment the disease might take them. The two work steadily on, afflicted by the losses and by the erotic fever that seizes them both. The drama of the two who risk all for strangers has never left me. The doctor, Axel Munthe, wrote of this in his memoir, The Story of San Michele.

We saw just such heroism played out by Australian nurses and doctors who went to Africa recently to save people from Ebola. We saw it, and -as a nation, as individuals – we prayed for our heroes and we applauded them.

Nothing new here: nurses and doctors work with AIDS, with multi-drug-resistant TB, with Lassa Fever. It is natural to the species to measure the need before the personal risk.

The second precedent is an unhappy one; during the twentieth century doctors working under dictatorships accepted orders, accepted payment, enjoyed promotion and protection, and participated in abuses ranging from imprisoning sane dissenters in psychiatric institutions, to ‘eugenic’ murder, to torture. And being bought, they shut up about it. If clinical ethics learned anything from these abuses it was the imperative to speak out.

In the light of history I see the duty of free citizens, clear and uncomplicated. It is to go to the camps, to do such good work as might be done, and to speak out.

I No Longer Know my Country

I Left Home a Few Days ago and When I Returned it wasn’t there

Australia is my home; it has been since adventurous forebears from England and France arrived in the 1840’s and 1850’s, and desperate forebears came in the 1890’s. Nowadays we might call these people economic migrants and queue jumpers.
I flew from my home country last Thursday and returned yesterday morning. I read the paper and I knew I was no longer at home. My home had gone. I might never get it back. What had changed?

Border Force to have up to 6000 armed officers

Border Force in Australia sbs.com.au

Border Force in Australia sbs.com.au

I read the headline. I didn’t understand it. This Border Force would be deployed not on the border but inside my home. Most of its officers would be armed, many already are ‘trained for use-of-force operations.’ I sat and I wondered: what ‘operations’ inside our borders do they contemplate? Against whom are they armed? Who is the enemy within?

In the home where I used to live people trusted each other. We were different and we were OK. Some of us were very different indeed: in the small country town of my boyhood a sole Jewish family lived, trusted and trusting. That family was my own. Trust was rewarded, we were neighbours, we became friends, we knew each other and we were citizens together.

In the home where I became a father I met a man who was extremely different. He was the son of a Muslim cleric who went on to become Mufti of Australia. The father worked for amity and respect between communities and became a Member of the Order of Australia. The son, a ratbag or scallywag or black sheep or white sheep, became my friend and danced at my daughter’s wedding with the then President of the Zionist Council of Australia.

All that took place in Australia, which used to be my home.

On September 11, 2001 the world changed. Three days later the Melbourne ‘Age’ reprinted an article by respected Israeli journalist and novelist, David Grossman. Grossman had witnessed the effects of terror within his own community. He wrote that terror’s greatest victim is trust between citizens. When you believe your neighbour might wish to hurt you, you cease to trust her; you cannot afford to trust. Grossman predicted in 2001 we would see that erosion of communal trust, that injury to community.

Grossman’s prophecy has well and truly come to pass. Ironically, in Australia’s case, the principal destroyers of trust have been politicians who promote fear recklessly. We have a government led by a man who acts like a boy who swoons at the sight of a uniform.
Little by little, day by day, our masters in government – as well as the odd mistress – attack trust. The headline in the paper on the day of my return to my homeland appears below another: Transfield to remain at Nauru;
and alongside a third headline: Yongah Hill detainee hurt after incident of self-harm

All of this is relegated to Page 8. In this country that used to so welcome the stranger it is no longer big news that a private corporation be rewarded (at a daily cost of $1500 per head) for its systematic unkindness to inmates. This is not news. This is policy. As is ‘turn back the boats’, the policy that hath made my name to stink upon the earth.
In this place that used to be a home a man who cut his throat in detention is hospitalised, then returned to that place of detention where he ‘is receiving appropriate medical and mental health support and care.’ In that place his doctors and mental health carers risk two years of gaol if they report on that ‘appropriate’ medical care. I know detention. I sewed my lips, I accepted overpayment and I worked as a doctor in detention.

But in the place that used to be a home nothing like this is news.

The Security Lobby

I am free. They said, you are free to go. For the moment. I’m not in Gitmo. I haven’t been rendered. Not yet. I’m taking the opportunity to set it all down.

There’s not that much to tell. Step this way please sir.

The officer in Security at SFO spoke politely. All her colleagues – in a short space I met quite a few – spoke politely. I followed the officer to an open space at one side of the XRAY scanner. Your XRAY was not satisfactory, sir. My colleague will pat you down.

Her colleague is male. He pats me down, very thoroughly from the rear. From the front he pats me down vigorously, albeit selectively. A man asks me to touch some paper. After I do so the paper is tested in a machine. Your fingers show the presence of residues, sir. For a short space we stand in silence. The silence of the officers is an interrogation. I offer my own silence in return. How will this play out? It is only six am. I arose this morning at four. What have my fingers touched over these hours? I mean, what chemicals?

The officers asked me to come this way. Politely. This way is a small room. A third officer joined us and closed the door. The smallness of the room brought all occupants closer. Opposite me, smiling broadly, the patting officer, broad and tall. A powerful man. The presiding officer slim, female, perhaps forty years of age, standing at my right, the line of fine dark hairs running along her upper lip interrupted by the fine surgical scar of her neatly repaired hare lip. The last-entered officer took up his position behind me, between me and the door.

Are these your items, sir? I looked at the items resting mysteriously on the bench behind the widely smiling Patting Officer. The items are mine. I said so.  Please open them sir. I did so as they watched and waited – for what? Explosives? Firearms? Tweezers? 

The lady pulled open a box of sky blue plastic gloves, inserted her delicate hands and groped inside my baggage. I pointed out the small velvet bag containing my ritual gear – phylacteries, prayer shawl: Those are holy. Please handle them with respect. The officers, being American, respected ‘holy’.

The groping of my backpack completed, they turned to my roll on. The gloves were pulled off and tested for residues, a fresh pair pulled on. Grope, grope: What are all these books?

They are gifts for family, books. I wrote them.

Really?

Eyebrows shot up, faces turned from my items to me; for the first time the officers – all three – reacted to the unexpected. They looked impressed. Or something. For my part I misgave: perhaps ‘writer’ equals ‘leftist’, equals ‘intellectual’, equals ‘terrorist’? Should I have said, I am a doctor? That might remind them of terrorist doctors from George Habash to the English train bombers to hapless cousin Mohammad Hanif, who wasn’t, but who owned a guilty Sim Card. 

What guilty information lies concealed in my laptop?

What traitorous phone calls hide in my phone? They wilI find I have advocated for refugees, cheats, Muslims, border violators.

 

I reverted to silence as the chief Groper resumed groping and the others seem to disengage. The silence was very silent. Only a few feet distant from this room hundreds of bootless feet passed through Security. The hall that buzzed and rang around me a few minutes ago was not heard in here. It occurred to me that just as I did not hear the world, the world was unable hear me.

 

Groper looked up. Her hand rested upon something I did not see, something I own. Do all these items belong to you?

To the best of my knowledge, yes, they do.

To the best of your knowledge.  A harder edge to the voice.  An unpleasant pause.

Sir, do you know or do you not know? Did you pack this bag? Has this bag been out of your direct sight at all?

I mumbled reassurance that made things no better, no clearer.

 

Blue gloves that had done groping touched strips of test paper. All quiet as the machine pondered my possible residues. 

Groper-chief officer straightened, exchanged a look with the tall broad man. A small movement from behind, a sensation of space encroached.

 

You can go, sir. The ritual fringes you wear set off our scanner. We see that in people of your faith. And you

must have touched something this morning, perhaps a bench in the Security Lobby. You are free to go. Have a safe trip, sir.


We’re Better Than This

The Refugee people sent me a young mother today with her four-year-old child who had a cough.
She said: “Interrupter, please.”
I looked at her, not understanding.
“Needing interrupter. Not English.”
I preferred to have a go without an interpreter.
“You tell me, I listen” – I said.
“My child much coughing.”
I listened to the chest of the vivacious child whose smile would melt an official from Immigration and Border Protection. I looked at her throat, I felt her glands. She was well, simply suffering from a snot attack. I ordered an anti-snotic.
I addressed Mum: “From what country.”
“Iran.”
“Salaam.”
A look of surprise. A brilliant smile.
I hadn’t picked her nationality. Her peasant blouse, embroidered with edging of magenta and primrose, somehow made me expect she’d be Hazara. That and her creamy skin. Wrong.

“Are you a Permanent Resident?”
A shake of the head. “Commentary Detention.”
“Are you on a Bridging Visa?”
“No. Commentary. Not visa. Commentary Detention.”

“Ahh… community detention?”
Nodding, a smile, we two are doing well despite the lack of an interrupter. But the smile empty of joy.

“My husband, the police, make shee – you know, shee?” The young woman waves her hand in a whipping movement. “Shee. Sixty times, they make shee.”
The woman pulls out her phone, shows me a photo: an adult lies face down on a narrow bed. The creamy skin of a broad back, fine scarlet streaks, the skin must have been lashed with wires.

“They do this before five years. We are not marry, he is boyfriend. I have baby” – she points to her belly – “They tell, ‘You wait, you come after baby, you also sixty shee.’”

The young woman’s pregnancy approached its end, she was summoned to the police station, but fled here, arriving four years ago – pre-Rudd solution.
“My mother, police tell her ‘where is your daughter?’ Mother tell, ‘daughter in Australia.’
They say, ‘No is hiding. Is in Iran. Must come to police station, have shee.’ They call mother many times. She very scare.”

The daughter appears to believe full well the police intend to keep their promise.
So, the boat. Detention at Curtin, then in South Australia. ‘My baby, not Iran.” The smile, this one half-charged: “Born Darwin.”
 
Her visa is not permanent resident.
Her visa is not bridging.
Her visa is not.
She is community detention.
 
What are we that we might send her back?
 
Whom are we bombing in Syria and Iraq?
Why?
 
I believe it likely the tide of opinion will swing in Australia because we – not our leaders – are better than that.

http://wbttaus.org


http://m.youtube.com/watch?feature=youtu.be&v=tl19NhC0d78