I look wildly around the pitch for Andrew.
We have to get a rescue boat launched.
I can’t see him among all the weeping, howling people. Then I remember he’s out on the warship.
A group of Australian sailors are leaning against the fence smoking, just past where Bibi is sprawled sobbing on the grass. I sprint over to them, waving my arms.
‘Quick,’ I yell. ‘We have to get a boat launched to go and help search for survivors.’
The Australian sailors look at me.
‘Now,’ I scream. ‘Before it’s too late. There are people in the ocean. My Dad can’t swim.’
The Australian sailors look at each other. One of them says something to me that I can’t understand and waves me away.
I don’t believe it. Then I realise what’s happening. They can’t speak my language. They don’t understand.
I grab a stick and draw frantically in the dust. A sinking fishing boat. A warship doing all it can. More people in the water than the warship can cope with, including Mum and Dad.
The Australian sailors stare at my drawing.
This is unbelievable. One of them is actually smirking.
‘Don’t you care?’ I scream at them. ‘Don’t you care that my parents are drowning? I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that people can be like this in Australia.’
One of the sailors stares at me. ‘Australia?’ he says.
He takes the stick from me and draws in the dust. A big island. Then he draws, a long way away from it, a small island. He points to the big island.
‘Australia,’ he says.
The smirking sailor smirks even more.
The sailor with the stick points to the small island and gestures around us at the soccer pitch and the tents and the harbour.
‘Here’, he says. ‘Not Australia.’