After dinner, I’m sitting on the bench in front of the officers’ donga drinking a very average cup of tea. I’m shooting the shit with a fellow guard who has the salt and pepper hair of Ray Martin and the face of some bloke whose name you can’t remember, except I do remember his name and I don’t expect I’ll forget it anytime soon because that name is Quincy.
I mean, what were his parents thinking? Did they hate the boy? It sounds more like a fruit you make jam with. Actually, now that I think about it, that’s what his face looks like, too — a fruit fit for jam.
I hear Benedict stomping our way before I see him. His walk makes me think of the SS. Each leg bends high like a crankshaft then pounds stiff into the ground with the force of a pile hammer. I reckon you could put him in a field with a stump-jump plough strapped to his back and you’d have a pumpkin patch in about twenty minutes.
All Benedict says when he sees us is, “Gabriel inside?”
“Yep,” I answer.
He’s in and out in under a minute. Then Gabriel comes out and tells me I’ve been allocated two interviews. I have not been looking forward to this.
Basically, there’s this bureaucratic shit sandwich called the personal officer scheme. Every day and night a certain number of detainees have to be interviewed so that a form can be filled out providing a rough and ready assessment of the detainee’s mental health. It’s meant to be that an individual officer is permanently assigned to a specific group of detainees so that a rapport builds and knowledge grows over time. But the staff turnover up here is monumental. In which case, the interviews are randomly dished out to whichever officers happen to be in the compound on the day.
I’ve been with other officers while they’ve conducted interviews, but these will be the first of my own. You’re required to ask a bunch of questions about how the detainee feels and what their problems are. Without fail, the detainees who report that they are miserable, depressed or upset cite the length and indeterminate nature of their detention as the problem.
No shit! They’re not meant to like it, or what would be the point of locking them up in the first place — in which case, why are we asking? The whole thing’s just awkward and stupid.
I knock on my first door, wait a second for the entreaty, then let myself in. Farhad is in his room with three friends. They’re sitting in a circle, talking. I explain that I’m here to do Farhad’s personal officer scheme interview. Though he’s been in detention for eighteen months, Farhad’s English is still sketchy, so his friend translates. I ask Farhad if everything is ok.
Farhad speaks at considerable length in his native Pashto. I gather from the tenor of his voice that everything is not exactly ok. Farhad finishes, and his friend translates for me.
Farhad is worried about his family. They fled from Afghanistan to Pakistan, where they now live in a small village with intermittent electricity. He has trouble contacting them, and he is concerned about his sister, who is suffering from some sort of illness. They cannot afford medicine for her. The whole family was relying on Farhad to send money, but he was denied a visa and has now been at Curtin for over a year waiting on the outcome of his appeal, so he is unable to help.
It gets worse. His family don’t understand why he fails to send money home now that he is in Australia — as a good son and brother should — because Farhad has not told them he is in detention. Too ashamed.
Yes, Farhad is suitably miserable. I jot down bits and pieces, though I know it serves no purpose. The last thing I ask is, “Any other problems or issues?” As if what he’s said isn’t enough.
Farhad answers. His friend listens, then looks at me and smiles. “He says, ‘I pray that no longer we have to live in this cage.’ ”
I don’t put that on the form. I finish with Farhad and then complete my other interview, head back to the office, make a cup of tea, laugh and joke with the other officers and try not to think about shit over which I have absolutely no control.