those who were accepted for processing didnât return to the isolation wing. One family ahead of Dhurgham were interviewed separately. The mother and the two daughters went straight into the main centre. The bewildered father and ten year old son returned and queued miserably every day for the interview they didnât understand was over.
Dhurgham was four weeks in isolation before he had his interview. He had stopped hoping that Nura was just the other side of the fence and had tried to calm himself to a rational expectancy. He had stopped straining to see whether he could catch a glimpse of his parents. He had once seen in the distance a slim woman in a white hijab with a very tall, willowy daughter and had told himself in rising excitement that Nooni would be grown up by now. His mother, he thought, might wear a white hijab now, thinking that he, Dhurgham, was dead. How exciting for them to discover him alive, to find what a journey he had made all by himself! But time dragged on and he tried to amuse himself by playing with the frustrated children who milled about, all well past their first fears and thoroughly bored. He was the only person unencumbered by stress and hardly tormented by the thought of a family elsewhere that might be yearning for news of him. It had been too long; and, if they were here, how he would surprise them! He was young and free. He could float around smiling, playful, untouched and giving.
In that first month, as the tension and bewilderment of their circumstances and the inexplicable behaviour of the guards had them all on edge and snappy, Dhurghamâs bright, hopeful face and endless play with the children brought him close to many families. And in that first month he stayed somehow half detached and happy, rocked in the cradle of the terrible boat journey, remembering it with clarity, without fear, even occasionally with a strange pleasure.
His first interview was very brief. There was an interpreter, a middle-aged Lebanese man who looked at him in an unfriendly way, and a blank-faced official seated at a white table with a computer on it. Dhurgham told them who he was, his real name falling off his lips with a sweet sound and a bright inner pleasure. He stated that he was fourteen, from Iraq, and that he sought the protection of Australia from the certain horrible death that would await him in Iraq if he were returned; and he asked for their personal benevolence and indulgence in considering his youth and circumstances. He said he could see that they were men of honour and that Australia was a land of peace and happiness. He was glad they didnât ask many details, for he realised in that moment that he really didnât know anything about why it was dangerous for him in Iraq. He had heard many terrible stories from his fellow passengers and knew their reasons for fleeing, but had no idea about his own. He waffled vaguely about Saddam Hussein and, suddenly inspired by what others had told him, about the secret police. He was asked where his identity papers were and he told them he had left Iraq without them and then travelled on a false passport in a false name, a passport he threw overboard, as his travel agent had told him he should. The official was inscrutable. The translator sneered at him in a particularly Arab way and said something at the same time to the official. The official shrugged. A slim manila folder with his name on it was stamped; he was given the ID number RRN 230 and told to memorise it; and then he was in the searing and vapour-shaken heat of Florida Compound, the main part of the centre.
Dhurghamâs donga could house sixteen but was less than half full when he moved in. Dhurgham was put in with the boysârowdy, cheery, annoying boys, big and little. At first he was offended by their immaturity and then he found that the boys had a much better time than anyone else and he joined them.
He was at first delighted with the remoteness, secrecy and
Dhurgham was four weeks in isolation before he had his interview. He had stopped hoping that Nura was just the other side of the fence and had tried to calm himself to a rational expectancy. He had stopped straining to see whether he could catch a glimpse of his parents. He had once seen in the distance a slim woman in a white hijab with a very tall, willowy daughter and had told himself in rising excitement that Nooni would be grown up by now. His mother, he thought, might wear a white hijab now, thinking that he, Dhurgham, was dead. How exciting for them to discover him alive, to find what a journey he had made all by himself! But time dragged on and he tried to amuse himself by playing with the frustrated children who milled about, all well past their first fears and thoroughly bored. He was the only person unencumbered by stress and hardly tormented by the thought of a family elsewhere that might be yearning for news of him. It had been too long; and, if they were here, how he would surprise them! He was young and free. He could float around smiling, playful, untouched and giving.
In that first month, as the tension and bewilderment of their circumstances and the inexplicable behaviour of the guards had them all on edge and snappy, Dhurghamâs bright, hopeful face and endless play with the children brought him close to many families. And in that first month he stayed somehow half detached and happy, rocked in the cradle of the terrible boat journey, remembering it with clarity, without fear, even occasionally with a strange pleasure.
His first interview was very brief. There was an interpreter, a middle-aged Lebanese man who looked at him in an unfriendly way, and a blank-faced official seated at a white table with a computer on it. Dhurgham told them who he was, his real name falling off his lips with a sweet sound and a bright inner pleasure. He stated that he was fourteen, from Iraq, and that he sought the protection of Australia from the certain horrible death that would await him in Iraq if he were returned; and he asked for their personal benevolence and indulgence in considering his youth and circumstances. He said he could see that they were men of honour and that Australia was a land of peace and happiness. He was glad they didnât ask many details, for he realised in that moment that he really didnât know anything about why it was dangerous for him in Iraq. He had heard many terrible stories from his fellow passengers and knew their reasons for fleeing, but had no idea about his own. He waffled vaguely about Saddam Hussein and, suddenly inspired by what others had told him, about the secret police. He was asked where his identity papers were and he told them he had left Iraq without them and then travelled on a false passport in a false name, a passport he threw overboard, as his travel agent had told him he should. The official was inscrutable. The translator sneered at him in a particularly Arab way and said something at the same time to the official. The official shrugged. A slim manila folder with his name on it was stamped; he was given the ID number RRN 230 and told to memorise it; and then he was in the searing and vapour-shaken heat of Florida Compound, the main part of the centre.
Dhurghamâs donga could house sixteen but was less than half full when he moved in. Dhurgham was put in with the boysârowdy, cheery, annoying boys, big and little. At first he was offended by their immaturity and then he found that the boys had a much better time than anyone else and he joined them.
He was at first delighted with the remoteness, secrecy and
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