It’s mid-morning and I’ve calmed down. There’s one more personal officer scheme interview to be done. The name and number seem familiar. I check the client photos. It’s a man named Soheil. Every time I see him in the mess hall, Soheil shakes my hand and asks me how I am. We don’t really talk beyond a few pleasantries, but there’s an intelligence in his eyes and something in his calm demeanour that intrigues me. Talking to him will be good.
I knock on Soheil’s door. Soheil greets me warmly, invites me in and offers me a drink. I notice how meticulously his room is kept. Not an article out of place. And clean. I take a glass of water from Soheil; I put my clipboard on the floor. I want to speak to him as two humans, not as an officer following a script.
I ask how long he’s been at the centre. Seven months, he tells me. His application for a refugee visa was rejected at the first interview; Soheil cannot articulate the reason for this, if there is one. Like many of the men in here he is now waiting on his review — and he has hope, because the review stage frequently results in applicants being awarded a visa.
I ask Soheil if he knows how long he will have to wait for the decision. He thinks it will be six more months, but isn’t sure. To me, it is an unimaginably long time when all you’re doing is waiting.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“It is no problem. I wait,” says Soheil.
There is a quietude about Soheil. He moves gently, he speaks gently; his eyes have both warmth and reservation. I ask Soheil why he chose to come to Australia. Without giving me specific details, he tells me that it was very difficult in Iran. I ask about family and friends. He tells me he has a brother in Europe, but that much of his family died in Iran. He doesn’t say who, or how.
I ask if there is anything I can do for him. Then I remember how well it went down last time I asked a man that, so I qualify my question with another question.
“Maybe there is something from town you need?”
“Thank you. No. Nothing. Thank you.”
I get up to leave.
“Ahh, sorry, there is something, please,” says Soheil. “I live in room on my own. Just me. Soheil,” he says, tapping his chest. “This is good for me. Best for me. I am alone, it is … this is best. To think. And sleep is very hard. I sleep two, three hours every night. No more. I have nightmares. I go, I see mental health every week, they give me pills. I want to stay in room on my own. Can you make request for this?”
I tell him I will do what I can. Soheil is grateful. He tells me that I should come and join him and others playing table tennis sometime. I tell him I’d like that.