My little Sister Sandy dresses up for Halloween. Can you guess what her costume is???
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Happy Halloween
My little Sister Sandy dresses up for Halloween. Can you guess what her costume is???
Sunday, October 28, 2012
A Burmese Taboo
Nous, les innommables. Un tabou birman
[We who cannot be named : a Burmese taboo]
by Habiburahman, with Sophie Ansel
Steinkis, Paris, 2012.
We who cannot be named is the story of Habib, a tireless activist and fighter for the rights of the persecuted Rohingyan minority in Myanmar, now a refugee facing the prospect of lifelong detention in Australia. Habib arrived on Ashmore reef on 29 December 2009 and was recognized as a refugee in 2010. His book recounts the recent history of his persecuted people and his own odyssey to reach Australia, where, instead of the freedom he craved, he has only faced further persecution, confinement and mental torture.
Habib’s book is the fullest account ever given of the psychological effects of mandatory detention. It presents the harrowing costs of Australia’s asylum seeker policy from the point of view of one of its victims, detailing in unprecedented depth the human cost of detention: bureaucratic indifference, senseless cruelty, suicide, self-harm, despair.
Never before have readers been given such a glimpse into what it is like to be a refugee imprisoned in an Australian detention centre. Among other things, the book recounts
• the way in which solitary confinement is used as a control measure in detention;
• how Habib was kept in solitary confinement for refusing to sign a letter admitting to offenses he did not commit ;
• the details of a suicide attempt at Darwin ;
• the negligence of SERCO guards in failing to attend quickly to a severe electrocution.
It also throws new light on the psychology of detention, particularly the state of mind behind rooftop protests.
Habib’s determination to fight for justice for the Rohingya is both an inspiring story of selflessness, and an indictment of the inhuman brutality of Australian refugee policy.
ARRIVAL AT XMAS ISLAND AND DREAMS OF FREEDOM
‘From the deck of the navy boat, I look onto the endless blues of the sky and ocean, the blues that have become calm and peaceful again and which have finally given us a reprieve.
Our dream and prayers as lost, unnameable, stateless, clandestine refugees have been heard. We’ve reached [Christmas Island].
A simple dream, but an impossible one for a whole people over three generations – the dream of a humble, ordinary life, free from extortion, violence, threats and prison. A life free from the fear latched to the pit of my stomach. A life with children with the right to go to school, to dream of the future. A life with two meals a day. A life with the right to start a family without being taxed and arrested just for wanting to love. Soon we’ll have peace, rights, freedom and democracy.’ (p. 318)
LIFE IN DETETION
‘We remain under surveillance and our freedom is restricted.
Immigration personnel question us about our past. We understand that our odyssey isn’t yet over and we still have to clear the walls of the detention centre in order to find peace and freedom.’ (p.318)
‘Now in a world where everything is subject to the law, we find it difficult to talk about our former life spent in hiding, just trying to survive and work, sometime by using false papers; our life spent avoiding arrest by paying to avoid human traffickers. We spent our lives in the most illegal kind of illegality. That was the life the Burmese regime reduced us to, right up to exile.’ (p. 320)
he gives English lessons to his fellow detainees. (p. 320–1)
‘Sport is our first taste of freedom’. Just being able to play soccer with other Rohingyans was unimaginable until now. (p. 321)
May 2010: now in Darwin. 125th day of detention. Hopes of freedom dwindling. Men miss their families. Anxieties return. People feel paralysed, and can’t accept not being able to help or provide for their families. (p.323)
August 2010: depression sets in. People lose contact with their wives in Malaysia and don’t know what’s happened to them, don’t know where their children are. (p.323)
THE TORTURE OF DETENTION
‘My initial enthusiasm is distinctly shaken. I’ve realized that the personnel’s politeness isn’t the sign of any respect for our rights and humanity, but just their systematic procedure and professional discipline. Resigning oneself to wait in a confined place with no power to make decisions about our future is a totally new kind of mental torture. The guards’ replies to our questions are hazy and send us mad: ‘the process is underway’. Rohingyas are set free in a tiny trickle. I’m eaten away by bitterness. I can’t distinguish day and night anymore, because my nights are sleepless and my days have no light. I’ve become a zombie. I pass whole days in bed. I avoid the dining room at meal times, and only leave my bed to make myself Burmese style rice in the middle of the night, with the kinds of spices I like. Then, when my courage and faith reawaken, I spend hours on the internet to communicate, call for help, in everyone’s name.
We force ourselves to contain our anxiety. We have to stop ourselves complaining or getting carried away because we’re under surveillance. Any excess emotion is looked on badly and noted down. Stay calm. Don’t ask for information on the months of detention in front of us. The future is a blank page which we’re forbidden to write anything on – that’s the authorities’ job, in their own time. Our freedom is in the hands of the administration, public servants who evaluate us for an indefinite amount of time.
Some crack. Then it’s solitary confinement and drugs. That happens to me sometimes. They separate me from everyone. And then I find the strength to continue within myself. I take things back in hand. I read legal texts. I write. I tell the story of our detention, the things we feel, the injustice.’ (p. 323-4)
WILL WE HAVE TO SPEND OUR WHOLE LIVES HERE?
they ask themselves why they’re not told how long they’ll be detained. Even criminals have that right. No one tells them what they’ve done wrong. Will they have to spend their whole life there? (p. 326)
HOW CAN THIS HAPPEN IN A DEMOCRACY?
‘We spend hours going over the problem again and again. In vain.
“Australia’s a democracy, isn’t it?”
“We’re not criminals. We’ve always worked hard and we’ll continue doing so if they give us a chance.”
…
“We’re not asking for anything, only the right to live, work and adapt to their laws, contribute to the development of their country.”
“What’s the use of leaving us in these detention centres? We don’t do anything, we just go mad. We don’t work and we lose our minds and our lives and our hearts are broken. They feed us and give us somewhere to stay. That costs them money when we could just work for their country and pay for our food and lodging ourselves. All of this is absurd and unjust.”’ (p. 326-7)
Habib thinks that his past as an activist may complicate things for him in Australia. Maybe the government will keep him locked up as a disincentive to other Rohingyas. (p. 327)
SUICIDE AND SELF-HARM IN DETENTION IN DARWIN
‘Around us, detainees from other countries attempt suicide on several occasions and mutilate themselves repeatedly.’ (p. 327)
‘Every day, I ask the officers how my case is going, along with those of Bilal, Fadel, Assim, Nour, Wadi.
“They’re being processed. Wait for them to get back to you.’ (p. 328)
A SUICIDE ATTEMPT IN DARWIN
‘A commotion breaks out at the other end of the courtyard. Detainees are leaping and running round. I come out of my torpor.
Abdul is already on the tree in the courtyard, putting a foot onto a high firm branch. All the prisoners gather round the tree. He is going to take the final step. I barely have the time to get up before he has put a long sheet around the broad branch. I have just a single thought: save Abdul. He puts his head through the knot. I race over there, feeling my blood freeze as I do so. He lets himself drop down into the empty air. His heavy body is caught at the neck by the piece of cloth which is already tearing him away from life. The guards run up and surround the tree, pushing away the detainees clamouring around it. Abdul’s body is already swinging calmly. One of the officers tries unsuccessfully to climb the tree. Too heavy, too clumsy, he gets stuck half way up. I push back the arm of the guard blocking our way and leap onto the trunk, followed by Nurul, another Rohingyan friend. The survival drive gives us new energy. Not a second to lose. We reach the fatal branch. I sit astride the branch and lift up Abdul’s arms to immediately stop the pressure of the knot on his larynx. Nurul grabs the sarong strangling Abdul, untightens it. Our movements naturally synchronise with each other in the urgency of the moment. We hitch him upwards to free him completely from the grip of the cloth before gently sliding him into the arms of the dozens of detainees and officers on the ground and instantly carefully take him before lying him down on the ground where he is given first aid. He is still breathing. Ten minutes later, the emergency services arrive and take him away in an ambulance.’ (p. 331)
THE ‘KAFKAESQUE NIGHTMARE’ OF DETENTION
‘Our mental health is gravely harmed by this interminable wait and lack of information. Four of us have tried to commit suicide in the last year. One of them set himself alight. After getting first aid, he was informed that he would be prosecuted for destruction of Commonwealth property!
Suicide cases affect everyone’s state of mind and are contagious. I suffer from violent headaches, and I feel like my chest is in the grip of a vice. I have trouble thinking. I continue to shut myself away, my head under the pillow so as not to see these guards, these walls and these fences whose very perpetual presence in my field of vision is a torture. In the pillow, I try to go blank, to imagine that I’m somewhere else. I now only eat during the night. As much as possible, I refuse their drugs, anti-anxiety medicine, sleeping pills, antidepressants. When I accept them, I sleep. For a long time. I forget. Here, I’ve lost control over my life. I can no longer choose dangerous routes, whatever they are. The ambivalence between my body and mind eats away at me. I’m treated properly, without physical violence, and given healthy food, but emotionally I’m going through hell. And, insidiously, my mind tortures my body.
I feel trapped in a Kafkaesque nightmare. Where can the stateless be sent back to if Australia doesn’t accept us?
Day after day, month after month, I’m told that my case is being investigated, that I have to wait. During this time I see detainees from other countries released, sometimes without having gone through the same procedures as us. I don’t understand it.
The process is currently stuck at the ‘national security test’: am I a danger for the country or not? That’s the question which arises for everyone at the detention centre. That’s the procedure. …
Sometimes I recover the strength to speak, my fight.
After two long years in detention, bearing witness becomes more important than getting a visa. I don’t want to put an end to my days, nor do I want to be perceived as a victim. I just want to share our reality. This circle of hell which we’re walled up in, away from the world.’ (333–4)
June 2011: ‘My indefinite and infinite detention today has gone beyond 17 months without anyone having asked me precise and relevant questions about my origins, family and the persecutions I am fleeing. The officers seem not to understand that I came neither for a visa, nor for a naturalization. I came for freedom.’ (p. 335)
Asked to be transferred to another country. ‘I prefer a definitive rejection to continuing to roam through an administrative limbo. … I feel as though I am sailing hopeless and alone. The officers around me just try to calm the situation without trying to solve the problems. This detention is completely unjust and illegitimate.’ (p.336)
‘I AM NOT A TERRORIST’
‘Today I am starting a hunger strike so that a decision will be made. Positive or negative. A final decision. My case has been neglected, with no transparent response. My first hunger strike in June 2010 lasted 12 days, with no result. I have no choice but to start again, it’s the only option I have for resisting and being heard. … My freedom cannot be trampled over and sacrificed to perpetual detention. I am not a terrorist. I shouldn’t be detained to be made an example of because I’m seeking a country of refuge. I haven’t been involved in criminal cases, neither in the past, nor today in the detention centre.’ (P.336)
ROOFTOP PROTEST – ‘THE AIR, THE ONLY FREEDOM I HAVE LEFT’
Habib spends World Refugee Day 2011 (June 20) on the roof of the detention centre, ‘in the air, the only freedom that is left to me.’ (p. 338)
THE INHUMANITY OF PROCEDURE
June 24 2011: Habib decides to come down from the roof. He is immediately put into solitary confinement.
‘Then, they come to ask me to sign a letter listing a series of unacceptable acts. I refuse to sign. The truths have been distorted. Deformed. The centre supervisor tells me that I won’t be able to leave my isolation cell if I refuse to sign this letter.
I reply to him with bitterness:
“Freedom of expression isn’t a crime. The cause I’m defending also has to be respected and before I sign a letter like this, I have to have the reasons for my inappropriate detention explained. No one gets hurt by my roof-top hunger strike.”
“The centre has a role and it has rules,” he replies.
Then I understand that there’s nothing I can do. Procedure and regulations don’t enter into dialogue with human beings. The system is a wall that I can only break my head against. Human rights only apply beyond the detention centre walls. I’m in the waiting room for freedom and I’ll only be let in if I stay compliant and mute. Inhuman.
I subside into my bed and roll myself in the sheets like in a shroud. I weep for a long time.’ (p.342) (Habib is later allowed to leave his isolation cell without having signed the letter.)
Habib is in the isolation sector again, following a court appearance for allegedly assaulting a SERCO guard. ‘Here the restrictions are complete: telephone, internet, visits of detainees from other blocks, medicine: everything is refused.’ Between 9 and 12 guards are exclusively dedicated to the 3 Rohingyas who’ve come off hunger strike. (p. 356)
ELECTROCUTION
15 November 2011: Habib climbed the fence separating him from his friends in the S1 block, and in doing so was severely electrocuted. He was then shut into an interrogation room by guards for an hour. Finally he was taken to hospital where he was treated for almost six hours. On return to the centre, he was kept in the N3 isolation cells, without being given a reason. Since then he refused to eat.
THE PLIGHT OF THE ROHINGYA
August 10 2012: 955th day in detention. ‘I no longer count the days of my detention in Australia. From now on I only count the number of deaths in my country. Victims of the hate and racism that have been cultivated for too long in a land of tyranny.
…
My own detention becomes insignificant. The only thing that’s still important is to go on writing the story of the last Rohingyas. It’s what dad would have done. In Arakan, the last identity papers burn. Soon there’ll be nothing left to prove anything. And now’s the time they’re asking us to prove our identities! Decades of oppression, confiscation of land, arrests, escapes, houses destroyed – and they ask us for papers. Whatever we held in our hands has all gone up in smoke, insidiously cleansed away.’ (p.361)
[We who cannot be named : a Burmese taboo]
by Habiburahman, with Sophie Ansel
Steinkis, Paris, 2012.
We who cannot be named is the story of Habib, a tireless activist and fighter for the rights of the persecuted Rohingyan minority in Myanmar, now a refugee facing the prospect of lifelong detention in Australia. Habib arrived on Ashmore reef on 29 December 2009 and was recognized as a refugee in 2010. His book recounts the recent history of his persecuted people and his own odyssey to reach Australia, where, instead of the freedom he craved, he has only faced further persecution, confinement and mental torture.
Habib’s book is the fullest account ever given of the psychological effects of mandatory detention. It presents the harrowing costs of Australia’s asylum seeker policy from the point of view of one of its victims, detailing in unprecedented depth the human cost of detention: bureaucratic indifference, senseless cruelty, suicide, self-harm, despair.
Never before have readers been given such a glimpse into what it is like to be a refugee imprisoned in an Australian detention centre. Among other things, the book recounts
• the way in which solitary confinement is used as a control measure in detention;
• how Habib was kept in solitary confinement for refusing to sign a letter admitting to offenses he did not commit ;
• the details of a suicide attempt at Darwin ;
• the negligence of SERCO guards in failing to attend quickly to a severe electrocution.
It also throws new light on the psychology of detention, particularly the state of mind behind rooftop protests.
Habib’s determination to fight for justice for the Rohingya is both an inspiring story of selflessness, and an indictment of the inhuman brutality of Australian refugee policy.
ARRIVAL AT XMAS ISLAND AND DREAMS OF FREEDOM
‘From the deck of the navy boat, I look onto the endless blues of the sky and ocean, the blues that have become calm and peaceful again and which have finally given us a reprieve.
Our dream and prayers as lost, unnameable, stateless, clandestine refugees have been heard. We’ve reached [Christmas Island].
A simple dream, but an impossible one for a whole people over three generations – the dream of a humble, ordinary life, free from extortion, violence, threats and prison. A life free from the fear latched to the pit of my stomach. A life with children with the right to go to school, to dream of the future. A life with two meals a day. A life with the right to start a family without being taxed and arrested just for wanting to love. Soon we’ll have peace, rights, freedom and democracy.’ (p. 318)
LIFE IN DETETION
‘We remain under surveillance and our freedom is restricted.
Immigration personnel question us about our past. We understand that our odyssey isn’t yet over and we still have to clear the walls of the detention centre in order to find peace and freedom.’ (p.318)
‘Now in a world where everything is subject to the law, we find it difficult to talk about our former life spent in hiding, just trying to survive and work, sometime by using false papers; our life spent avoiding arrest by paying to avoid human traffickers. We spent our lives in the most illegal kind of illegality. That was the life the Burmese regime reduced us to, right up to exile.’ (p. 320)
he gives English lessons to his fellow detainees. (p. 320–1)
‘Sport is our first taste of freedom’. Just being able to play soccer with other Rohingyans was unimaginable until now. (p. 321)
May 2010: now in Darwin. 125th day of detention. Hopes of freedom dwindling. Men miss their families. Anxieties return. People feel paralysed, and can’t accept not being able to help or provide for their families. (p.323)
August 2010: depression sets in. People lose contact with their wives in Malaysia and don’t know what’s happened to them, don’t know where their children are. (p.323)
THE TORTURE OF DETENTION
‘My initial enthusiasm is distinctly shaken. I’ve realized that the personnel’s politeness isn’t the sign of any respect for our rights and humanity, but just their systematic procedure and professional discipline. Resigning oneself to wait in a confined place with no power to make decisions about our future is a totally new kind of mental torture. The guards’ replies to our questions are hazy and send us mad: ‘the process is underway’. Rohingyas are set free in a tiny trickle. I’m eaten away by bitterness. I can’t distinguish day and night anymore, because my nights are sleepless and my days have no light. I’ve become a zombie. I pass whole days in bed. I avoid the dining room at meal times, and only leave my bed to make myself Burmese style rice in the middle of the night, with the kinds of spices I like. Then, when my courage and faith reawaken, I spend hours on the internet to communicate, call for help, in everyone’s name.
We force ourselves to contain our anxiety. We have to stop ourselves complaining or getting carried away because we’re under surveillance. Any excess emotion is looked on badly and noted down. Stay calm. Don’t ask for information on the months of detention in front of us. The future is a blank page which we’re forbidden to write anything on – that’s the authorities’ job, in their own time. Our freedom is in the hands of the administration, public servants who evaluate us for an indefinite amount of time.
Some crack. Then it’s solitary confinement and drugs. That happens to me sometimes. They separate me from everyone. And then I find the strength to continue within myself. I take things back in hand. I read legal texts. I write. I tell the story of our detention, the things we feel, the injustice.’ (p. 323-4)
WILL WE HAVE TO SPEND OUR WHOLE LIVES HERE?
they ask themselves why they’re not told how long they’ll be detained. Even criminals have that right. No one tells them what they’ve done wrong. Will they have to spend their whole life there? (p. 326)
HOW CAN THIS HAPPEN IN A DEMOCRACY?
‘We spend hours going over the problem again and again. In vain.
“Australia’s a democracy, isn’t it?”
“We’re not criminals. We’ve always worked hard and we’ll continue doing so if they give us a chance.”
…
“We’re not asking for anything, only the right to live, work and adapt to their laws, contribute to the development of their country.”
“What’s the use of leaving us in these detention centres? We don’t do anything, we just go mad. We don’t work and we lose our minds and our lives and our hearts are broken. They feed us and give us somewhere to stay. That costs them money when we could just work for their country and pay for our food and lodging ourselves. All of this is absurd and unjust.”’ (p. 326-7)
Habib thinks that his past as an activist may complicate things for him in Australia. Maybe the government will keep him locked up as a disincentive to other Rohingyas. (p. 327)
SUICIDE AND SELF-HARM IN DETENTION IN DARWIN
‘Around us, detainees from other countries attempt suicide on several occasions and mutilate themselves repeatedly.’ (p. 327)
‘Every day, I ask the officers how my case is going, along with those of Bilal, Fadel, Assim, Nour, Wadi.
“They’re being processed. Wait for them to get back to you.’ (p. 328)
A SUICIDE ATTEMPT IN DARWIN
‘A commotion breaks out at the other end of the courtyard. Detainees are leaping and running round. I come out of my torpor.
Abdul is already on the tree in the courtyard, putting a foot onto a high firm branch. All the prisoners gather round the tree. He is going to take the final step. I barely have the time to get up before he has put a long sheet around the broad branch. I have just a single thought: save Abdul. He puts his head through the knot. I race over there, feeling my blood freeze as I do so. He lets himself drop down into the empty air. His heavy body is caught at the neck by the piece of cloth which is already tearing him away from life. The guards run up and surround the tree, pushing away the detainees clamouring around it. Abdul’s body is already swinging calmly. One of the officers tries unsuccessfully to climb the tree. Too heavy, too clumsy, he gets stuck half way up. I push back the arm of the guard blocking our way and leap onto the trunk, followed by Nurul, another Rohingyan friend. The survival drive gives us new energy. Not a second to lose. We reach the fatal branch. I sit astride the branch and lift up Abdul’s arms to immediately stop the pressure of the knot on his larynx. Nurul grabs the sarong strangling Abdul, untightens it. Our movements naturally synchronise with each other in the urgency of the moment. We hitch him upwards to free him completely from the grip of the cloth before gently sliding him into the arms of the dozens of detainees and officers on the ground and instantly carefully take him before lying him down on the ground where he is given first aid. He is still breathing. Ten minutes later, the emergency services arrive and take him away in an ambulance.’ (p. 331)
THE ‘KAFKAESQUE NIGHTMARE’ OF DETENTION
‘Our mental health is gravely harmed by this interminable wait and lack of information. Four of us have tried to commit suicide in the last year. One of them set himself alight. After getting first aid, he was informed that he would be prosecuted for destruction of Commonwealth property!
Suicide cases affect everyone’s state of mind and are contagious. I suffer from violent headaches, and I feel like my chest is in the grip of a vice. I have trouble thinking. I continue to shut myself away, my head under the pillow so as not to see these guards, these walls and these fences whose very perpetual presence in my field of vision is a torture. In the pillow, I try to go blank, to imagine that I’m somewhere else. I now only eat during the night. As much as possible, I refuse their drugs, anti-anxiety medicine, sleeping pills, antidepressants. When I accept them, I sleep. For a long time. I forget. Here, I’ve lost control over my life. I can no longer choose dangerous routes, whatever they are. The ambivalence between my body and mind eats away at me. I’m treated properly, without physical violence, and given healthy food, but emotionally I’m going through hell. And, insidiously, my mind tortures my body.
I feel trapped in a Kafkaesque nightmare. Where can the stateless be sent back to if Australia doesn’t accept us?
Day after day, month after month, I’m told that my case is being investigated, that I have to wait. During this time I see detainees from other countries released, sometimes without having gone through the same procedures as us. I don’t understand it.
The process is currently stuck at the ‘national security test’: am I a danger for the country or not? That’s the question which arises for everyone at the detention centre. That’s the procedure. …
Sometimes I recover the strength to speak, my fight.
After two long years in detention, bearing witness becomes more important than getting a visa. I don’t want to put an end to my days, nor do I want to be perceived as a victim. I just want to share our reality. This circle of hell which we’re walled up in, away from the world.’ (333–4)
June 2011: ‘My indefinite and infinite detention today has gone beyond 17 months without anyone having asked me precise and relevant questions about my origins, family and the persecutions I am fleeing. The officers seem not to understand that I came neither for a visa, nor for a naturalization. I came for freedom.’ (p. 335)
Asked to be transferred to another country. ‘I prefer a definitive rejection to continuing to roam through an administrative limbo. … I feel as though I am sailing hopeless and alone. The officers around me just try to calm the situation without trying to solve the problems. This detention is completely unjust and illegitimate.’ (p.336)
‘I AM NOT A TERRORIST’
‘Today I am starting a hunger strike so that a decision will be made. Positive or negative. A final decision. My case has been neglected, with no transparent response. My first hunger strike in June 2010 lasted 12 days, with no result. I have no choice but to start again, it’s the only option I have for resisting and being heard. … My freedom cannot be trampled over and sacrificed to perpetual detention. I am not a terrorist. I shouldn’t be detained to be made an example of because I’m seeking a country of refuge. I haven’t been involved in criminal cases, neither in the past, nor today in the detention centre.’ (P.336)
ROOFTOP PROTEST – ‘THE AIR, THE ONLY FREEDOM I HAVE LEFT’
Habib spends World Refugee Day 2011 (June 20) on the roof of the detention centre, ‘in the air, the only freedom that is left to me.’ (p. 338)
THE INHUMANITY OF PROCEDURE
June 24 2011: Habib decides to come down from the roof. He is immediately put into solitary confinement.
‘Then, they come to ask me to sign a letter listing a series of unacceptable acts. I refuse to sign. The truths have been distorted. Deformed. The centre supervisor tells me that I won’t be able to leave my isolation cell if I refuse to sign this letter.
I reply to him with bitterness:
“Freedom of expression isn’t a crime. The cause I’m defending also has to be respected and before I sign a letter like this, I have to have the reasons for my inappropriate detention explained. No one gets hurt by my roof-top hunger strike.”
“The centre has a role and it has rules,” he replies.
Then I understand that there’s nothing I can do. Procedure and regulations don’t enter into dialogue with human beings. The system is a wall that I can only break my head against. Human rights only apply beyond the detention centre walls. I’m in the waiting room for freedom and I’ll only be let in if I stay compliant and mute. Inhuman.
I subside into my bed and roll myself in the sheets like in a shroud. I weep for a long time.’ (p.342) (Habib is later allowed to leave his isolation cell without having signed the letter.)
Habib is in the isolation sector again, following a court appearance for allegedly assaulting a SERCO guard. ‘Here the restrictions are complete: telephone, internet, visits of detainees from other blocks, medicine: everything is refused.’ Between 9 and 12 guards are exclusively dedicated to the 3 Rohingyas who’ve come off hunger strike. (p. 356)
ELECTROCUTION
15 November 2011: Habib climbed the fence separating him from his friends in the S1 block, and in doing so was severely electrocuted. He was then shut into an interrogation room by guards for an hour. Finally he was taken to hospital where he was treated for almost six hours. On return to the centre, he was kept in the N3 isolation cells, without being given a reason. Since then he refused to eat.
THE PLIGHT OF THE ROHINGYA
August 10 2012: 955th day in detention. ‘I no longer count the days of my detention in Australia. From now on I only count the number of deaths in my country. Victims of the hate and racism that have been cultivated for too long in a land of tyranny.
…
My own detention becomes insignificant. The only thing that’s still important is to go on writing the story of the last Rohingyas. It’s what dad would have done. In Arakan, the last identity papers burn. Soon there’ll be nothing left to prove anything. And now’s the time they’re asking us to prove our identities! Decades of oppression, confiscation of land, arrests, escapes, houses destroyed – and they ask us for papers. Whatever we held in our hands has all gone up in smoke, insidiously cleansed away.’ (p.361)
Monday, September 24, 2012
Selling the movie rights
My local newspaper did an article on me & couchsurfing. you can view it here
I was a little hesitant at first considering my newspaper has a reputation for getting facts wrong but the article is light and positive for the CS world and hopefully it inspires more people to open their minds a bit.
Although I kind of know my fellow darwinians and so many would be shaking their head in redneck disbelief its nature of the world now that people expect the worse of everyone before even meeting them. We can blame that on the media, the politicians and the mob mentality.
Anyway now im waiting on the call from Universal Pictures for the movie adaptation :)
I was a little hesitant at first considering my newspaper has a reputation for getting facts wrong but the article is light and positive for the CS world and hopefully it inspires more people to open their minds a bit.
Although I kind of know my fellow darwinians and so many would be shaking their head in redneck disbelief its nature of the world now that people expect the worse of everyone before even meeting them. We can blame that on the media, the politicians and the mob mentality.
Anyway now im waiting on the call from Universal Pictures for the movie adaptation :)
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Just a typical Day in my couchsurfing world
Last night I made it home for a brief hour to organise my newest CSer. My phone had died in true smart phone fashion and I was worried about the missing him.
When I got to my house I could hear the sounds of guitar notes drifting through the air intermixed with the foreign voices of a few of my surfers. I made my way over to the area only to see the chaos before me. Beer bottles strewn everywhere with a torn up carboard box thrown onto the lawn. Bottle caps and random utensils in various spots. I raise an eyebrow at the three guys sitting innocently in their chairs staring back at me. They grinned as only three men who have been drinking beer and smoking green all day could
“Hello Amanda”
It was only 8pm and Laurent my French couchsurfer of nearly four months swayed back and forth in his chair not to anything in particular just the motion of somebody who had perhaps devoured 12+ beers in only a few hours
“What the fuck happened here” I questioned wondering what sense I would get.
It turned out they had been playing some kind of beer game and Laurent had lost. According to him Charly was very good. According to Charly, Laurent was very bad. Regardless I rolled my eyes, cracked a beer and joined them.
I had planned to sit around for just an hour and then return to my many tasks for the night but as usual I got lost in conversation and before I knew it two hours had passed, I was on my second beer and late to meet a friend. Just as I thought I would finish my beer and head off in walked a new guy with a huge backpack. It was 10pm and finally my missing surfer had arrived.
I settled him in quickly, showed him briefly around, gave him a set of a keys and then raced off to my appointment I was already an hour late for. And that was just a typical night/day in the Couchsurfing house Malak.
When I got to my house I could hear the sounds of guitar notes drifting through the air intermixed with the foreign voices of a few of my surfers. I made my way over to the area only to see the chaos before me. Beer bottles strewn everywhere with a torn up carboard box thrown onto the lawn. Bottle caps and random utensils in various spots. I raise an eyebrow at the three guys sitting innocently in their chairs staring back at me. They grinned as only three men who have been drinking beer and smoking green all day could
“Hello Amanda”
It was only 8pm and Laurent my French couchsurfer of nearly four months swayed back and forth in his chair not to anything in particular just the motion of somebody who had perhaps devoured 12+ beers in only a few hours
“What the fuck happened here” I questioned wondering what sense I would get.
It turned out they had been playing some kind of beer game and Laurent had lost. According to him Charly was very good. According to Charly, Laurent was very bad. Regardless I rolled my eyes, cracked a beer and joined them.
I had planned to sit around for just an hour and then return to my many tasks for the night but as usual I got lost in conversation and before I knew it two hours had passed, I was on my second beer and late to meet a friend. Just as I thought I would finish my beer and head off in walked a new guy with a huge backpack. It was 10pm and finally my missing surfer had arrived.
I settled him in quickly, showed him briefly around, gave him a set of a keys and then raced off to my appointment I was already an hour late for. And that was just a typical night/day in the Couchsurfing house Malak.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Saving the world with Social Media.
Once again its R U OK day which is aimed towards reaching out to people in your vicinity of all backgrounds to ask them if they are ok. Many people at risk of suicide suffer silently.
A friend of mine mentioned how this one day vigilantism didn’t help anyone. And that it was slightly annoying. It seems that every day is something day, suicide, remembrance, humanitarian. You know I actually relate to him. There are hundreds no thousands of people out there who will be all up in a cause for a day and then when that day is over they forget. With social media its become more evident the amount of one day freedom fighters around the world. Perhaps 90% of people that share these causes will never give another thought until the day goes around again.
Does anyone remember KONY 2012? You know that video you shared that accomplished nothing. Ok that’s a bit of a rare case because that was a ridiculous cause that was never going to get solved by public pressure in fact was already getting solved to the best of the abilities of international intervention.
What if for every 1000 people that share the cause one person listens? And that one person finds the cause that they are passionate about. There are tales of people who changed the world by fighting for what they were passionate about. Martin Luthor King for example. Whilst sometimes these one day vigilantes gets on my nerves I try to look past that and see the positivity and realise that if just one person’s world could be changed, one person’s life could be saved than all the social media spam I spent the day looking at was worth it.
Everybody is different and everybody has their own battles to fight. Some have none and you know that’s their choice. Mine is quite evident since the amount of work I do for asylum seekers rights, the political spam I fill my Facebook page with. My ultimate mission is global equality but I can’t change the world – but I can change one person’s world. And for every person’s eyes I can open to global equality and dismiss cultural stereotypes and fears that’s one more step towards my goal.
And suicide is something I feel strongly about mostly because I’ve felt the pain of being a survivor. When my partner committed suicide I was ignorant. The signs were all there and I ignored them. I spent a long time suffering and I would never wish that kind of pain on anyone. I would do anything I could to prevent other people going through what I did. So yes I will join the bandwagon and promote awareness. And I hope that I can reach at least one person that matters.
A friend of mine mentioned how this one day vigilantism didn’t help anyone. And that it was slightly annoying. It seems that every day is something day, suicide, remembrance, humanitarian. You know I actually relate to him. There are hundreds no thousands of people out there who will be all up in a cause for a day and then when that day is over they forget. With social media its become more evident the amount of one day freedom fighters around the world. Perhaps 90% of people that share these causes will never give another thought until the day goes around again.
Does anyone remember KONY 2012? You know that video you shared that accomplished nothing. Ok that’s a bit of a rare case because that was a ridiculous cause that was never going to get solved by public pressure in fact was already getting solved to the best of the abilities of international intervention.
What if for every 1000 people that share the cause one person listens? And that one person finds the cause that they are passionate about. There are tales of people who changed the world by fighting for what they were passionate about. Martin Luthor King for example. Whilst sometimes these one day vigilantes gets on my nerves I try to look past that and see the positivity and realise that if just one person’s world could be changed, one person’s life could be saved than all the social media spam I spent the day looking at was worth it.
Everybody is different and everybody has their own battles to fight. Some have none and you know that’s their choice. Mine is quite evident since the amount of work I do for asylum seekers rights, the political spam I fill my Facebook page with. My ultimate mission is global equality but I can’t change the world – but I can change one person’s world. And for every person’s eyes I can open to global equality and dismiss cultural stereotypes and fears that’s one more step towards my goal.
And suicide is something I feel strongly about mostly because I’ve felt the pain of being a survivor. When my partner committed suicide I was ignorant. The signs were all there and I ignored them. I spent a long time suffering and I would never wish that kind of pain on anyone. I would do anything I could to prevent other people going through what I did. So yes I will join the bandwagon and promote awareness. And I hope that I can reach at least one person that matters.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
My Couchsurfing family
A Maltese girl I met through one of my CSers who turned out to be quite the couchsurfer herself mentioned to my surfer “I don’t know how you can surf there, its to awesome I would never do anything or go to bed.”
To which my surfer replies “now you see my problem!”
Sam an English guy who surfed my couch back in December 2011 wrote in my guestbook “I’m sure Darwin is a great place but I never saw it because I couldn’t get off the awesome balcony chatting with the other couchsurfers”
Last night I was sitting downstairs drinking a bad german beer with three of my couchsurfers. Dan from California, Anders from Denmark & Charly from France.
Californian Dan proceeded to drunkenly inform me how I was Couchsurfing Northern Territory. I was the most experienced host/surfer in the whole of the NT. I guess its quite a feat to be the most experienced host in the whole of a region and I do have a few hosts not far behind me. But there is only 250,000 people in the whole of the Northern Territory so its not like I’m trying to be the most experienced host in California or anything.
Dan stood up and looked towards the balcony, the balcony of awesome. And he said “Imagine how many people have stood right here. How many surfers have passed through these gates” Dan was having a bit of a drunken spiritual moment I have felt time and time again when I stare out at the tents parked under my house and contemplate just how lucky I am to be given the chance to meet these people.
But sitting there listening to my three long term surfers rattle on drunk about the amazing stories and experiences that would have happened under my roof it I couldn’t help but think its not just me and my real life family who created this epic story it’s the surfers who passed through. I pride myself on my ability to select awesome people and time and time again I am rewarded. Each season I create a new family plucked from various countries that somehow all meld together despite being completely different. Its these connections that create the vibe that resonates through the house and creates the legend of the couchsurfing house in Malak.
Probably my first real CS family was a bit of a mixed bag of Gypsies. July 2010. You would have the frenchies Pierre, Greg & Eric & their token female Flavia the loud & proud Italian. Then there was Ilona the overly talkative German who became my CS protégé and European sister. The Morgans, a French couple with the same name sort of slid in there as well. Jon the American riding the country on his motorbike. I couldn’t forget Jordan! Who has his own CS bedroom now two years down the track we still refer to as ‘Jordans Room’. Where is that book? Oh its in Jordans Room. Then Kevin the crazy hippy surfy French guy who kept us with a constant supply of crepes in the cupboard. Of course there was also Tom the strange swiss guy who learnt English in Indonesia and kept us interested with tales of accidently blowing up cows with artillery tanks. And then Dominik, the slowest german in the world who started so innocently in Australia and ended up one of the biggest vagabond hippies ever on his exit two years later. We had crazy camping adventures, nights out in the city, raves on the beach, snake catching expeditions.
I can’t write all the families because there has been so many. I remember one particular day on the balcony in 2011 with A couple from USA Kat & Jeff, Ben from Couchsurfing (and also Scotland), Claire from the UK, Tal & Eran from Israel & Philipp my favourite crazy German statistic and Kat said to me “Its incredible how you can have all these different unique people in one place and it just works so well” Its effortless the combination of personalities.
Many hosts talk about that empty feeling when you say goodbye to somebody you make a connection with. Because hosting is temporary eventually one day they will all leave. And that empty feeling affects me considerably. But each time I think I will never have that connection again a new surfer walks through my door and a new surfer family is created. I never forget my past families and I hold a spot for each of them in my heart. I know I will see many of them again.
Its comforting in a way to know that all around the world I have family and that I will never be alone when I travel.
Other things may change us, but we start and end with family
To which my surfer replies “now you see my problem!”
Sam an English guy who surfed my couch back in December 2011 wrote in my guestbook “I’m sure Darwin is a great place but I never saw it because I couldn’t get off the awesome balcony chatting with the other couchsurfers”
Last night I was sitting downstairs drinking a bad german beer with three of my couchsurfers. Dan from California, Anders from Denmark & Charly from France.
Californian Dan proceeded to drunkenly inform me how I was Couchsurfing Northern Territory. I was the most experienced host/surfer in the whole of the NT. I guess its quite a feat to be the most experienced host in the whole of a region and I do have a few hosts not far behind me. But there is only 250,000 people in the whole of the Northern Territory so its not like I’m trying to be the most experienced host in California or anything.
Dan stood up and looked towards the balcony, the balcony of awesome. And he said “Imagine how many people have stood right here. How many surfers have passed through these gates” Dan was having a bit of a drunken spiritual moment I have felt time and time again when I stare out at the tents parked under my house and contemplate just how lucky I am to be given the chance to meet these people.
But sitting there listening to my three long term surfers rattle on drunk about the amazing stories and experiences that would have happened under my roof it I couldn’t help but think its not just me and my real life family who created this epic story it’s the surfers who passed through. I pride myself on my ability to select awesome people and time and time again I am rewarded. Each season I create a new family plucked from various countries that somehow all meld together despite being completely different. Its these connections that create the vibe that resonates through the house and creates the legend of the couchsurfing house in Malak.
Probably my first real CS family was a bit of a mixed bag of Gypsies. July 2010. You would have the frenchies Pierre, Greg & Eric & their token female Flavia the loud & proud Italian. Then there was Ilona the overly talkative German who became my CS protégé and European sister. The Morgans, a French couple with the same name sort of slid in there as well. Jon the American riding the country on his motorbike. I couldn’t forget Jordan! Who has his own CS bedroom now two years down the track we still refer to as ‘Jordans Room’. Where is that book? Oh its in Jordans Room. Then Kevin the crazy hippy surfy French guy who kept us with a constant supply of crepes in the cupboard. Of course there was also Tom the strange swiss guy who learnt English in Indonesia and kept us interested with tales of accidently blowing up cows with artillery tanks. And then Dominik, the slowest german in the world who started so innocently in Australia and ended up one of the biggest vagabond hippies ever on his exit two years later. We had crazy camping adventures, nights out in the city, raves on the beach, snake catching expeditions.
I can’t write all the families because there has been so many. I remember one particular day on the balcony in 2011 with A couple from USA Kat & Jeff, Ben from Couchsurfing (and also Scotland), Claire from the UK, Tal & Eran from Israel & Philipp my favourite crazy German statistic and Kat said to me “Its incredible how you can have all these different unique people in one place and it just works so well” Its effortless the combination of personalities.
Many hosts talk about that empty feeling when you say goodbye to somebody you make a connection with. Because hosting is temporary eventually one day they will all leave. And that empty feeling affects me considerably. But each time I think I will never have that connection again a new surfer walks through my door and a new surfer family is created. I never forget my past families and I hold a spot for each of them in my heart. I know I will see many of them again.
Its comforting in a way to know that all around the world I have family and that I will never be alone when I travel.
Other things may change us, but we start and end with family
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
work like you don't need the money
I’ve been kind of uninspired to write recently. In fact I start with a few sentences and then suddenly my focus is drawn somewhere else and then I don’t even care about what I’m writing about any more.
I’m thinking about my style of travel, of life compared to everyone else. You see I’ve been hanging out with a lot of Iranians lately. Yes they are all refugees but recently released and living in Darwin. In Iran your social status is very important, most will go to school to become engineers or doctors which in fact means that there are a lot of unemployed doctors & engineers in Iran.
One particular Persian I have been spending some time with is Hossein he is a motorcycle mechanic. His father is a very famous poet in Iran. When Hossein decided to become a mechanic his family frowned upon him. To say your son is a mechanic let alone a motorcycle mechanic is socially embarrassing for the family. But Hossein told me that he didn’t want to have an education and no job so he decided to be a mechanic. Really what is the point of telling people that you’re a doctor if you are not doing anything with it?
In Australia being a mechanic is quite an achievement and I told Hossein this! We pride ourselves on our tradesmen. No wonder doctors & engineers are in such short supply when we are so enthusiastic about mechanics!!! You can be a mechanic on a mine site and earn more than a doctor with less education & stress!!!
So in Iran social standing, income etc is very important how much money you make is really a big deal to them. It must be hard for them to come to Australia with these incredible educations and have to work as taxi drivers just to make ends meet.
And then you have me, I’m spending time with these guys who will give me the shirt off their back just to prove they have some kind of social standing and yet money has always been a moot point for me. I used to think I cared about that sort of stuff the house, the 2.4 children etc but after going through my partners suicide life really becomes so temporary.
For me ultimately life is about being happy and as long as you aren’t hurting anybody else than your happiness should be number one. Perhaps this is why I sympathise with “boat people” and their reasoning behind the journey to Australia I mean who are we to judge when everything for us is so easy? Don’t they have a right to be happy as well.
But travelling for me is also the same, im not into the fivestar hotels, guided tours, top rated resturants. I am more likely to have a better time sleeping on the floor of some random local following them to some obscure adventure in the woods and finishing up with a local meal at their friends house. Maybe that thing I ate that was given to me by that random guy was deep fried cockroache or I don’t even know where the fuck I am the next morning as I crawl bleary eyed out of a tent not recognising the five people passed out beside me. Or maybe I have no money because the closest ATM is miles away and I gave my last 10 bucks to the bartender for a round of beer with my new found associates who names I can’t remember but im fairly certain one of them had a monkey.
So I’m sitting at my 8:24-5 job and then I head off to university so I can get some paper to get a better 8:25-5 job. My office is huge, my boss is awesome, I love the work I do. But a little piece of me inside is kind of wishing I could be somewhere… anywhere where I don’t need anything.
I’m thinking about my style of travel, of life compared to everyone else. You see I’ve been hanging out with a lot of Iranians lately. Yes they are all refugees but recently released and living in Darwin. In Iran your social status is very important, most will go to school to become engineers or doctors which in fact means that there are a lot of unemployed doctors & engineers in Iran.
One particular Persian I have been spending some time with is Hossein he is a motorcycle mechanic. His father is a very famous poet in Iran. When Hossein decided to become a mechanic his family frowned upon him. To say your son is a mechanic let alone a motorcycle mechanic is socially embarrassing for the family. But Hossein told me that he didn’t want to have an education and no job so he decided to be a mechanic. Really what is the point of telling people that you’re a doctor if you are not doing anything with it?
In Australia being a mechanic is quite an achievement and I told Hossein this! We pride ourselves on our tradesmen. No wonder doctors & engineers are in such short supply when we are so enthusiastic about mechanics!!! You can be a mechanic on a mine site and earn more than a doctor with less education & stress!!!
So in Iran social standing, income etc is very important how much money you make is really a big deal to them. It must be hard for them to come to Australia with these incredible educations and have to work as taxi drivers just to make ends meet.
And then you have me, I’m spending time with these guys who will give me the shirt off their back just to prove they have some kind of social standing and yet money has always been a moot point for me. I used to think I cared about that sort of stuff the house, the 2.4 children etc but after going through my partners suicide life really becomes so temporary.
For me ultimately life is about being happy and as long as you aren’t hurting anybody else than your happiness should be number one. Perhaps this is why I sympathise with “boat people” and their reasoning behind the journey to Australia I mean who are we to judge when everything for us is so easy? Don’t they have a right to be happy as well.
But travelling for me is also the same, im not into the fivestar hotels, guided tours, top rated resturants. I am more likely to have a better time sleeping on the floor of some random local following them to some obscure adventure in the woods and finishing up with a local meal at their friends house. Maybe that thing I ate that was given to me by that random guy was deep fried cockroache or I don’t even know where the fuck I am the next morning as I crawl bleary eyed out of a tent not recognising the five people passed out beside me. Or maybe I have no money because the closest ATM is miles away and I gave my last 10 bucks to the bartender for a round of beer with my new found associates who names I can’t remember but im fairly certain one of them had a monkey.
So I’m sitting at my 8:24-5 job and then I head off to university so I can get some paper to get a better 8:25-5 job. My office is huge, my boss is awesome, I love the work I do. But a little piece of me inside is kind of wishing I could be somewhere… anywhere where I don’t need anything.
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