Making my tenth coffee for the shift, or something like that. No matter how many I have, I can’t shake the funk. I think it’s mind more than body.
Nothing was resolved last night. I’m not even sure what it is that needs resolving. This thing with Meg — I’m just trying to make it something it isn’t. What we have, or what we had, was sex. That’s all, and that’s fine. So why have I been acting all overwrought and excitable like some pitiful damsel in a period film? I just about cried when Meg hugged me, then again when she let go of me and said we’d speak tomorrow and went back to her own room. I mean, truly, cry — it’s becoming embarrassing. For some inexplicable reason I’m pursuing something that isn’t there and as a result I’ve become weak and needy, when I’m never weak and never needy.
For the record, I didn’t cry when Meg left. I had a cup of concrete washed down with a chaser of whisky. Then I was so awake and yet so tired that I boiled the kettle and made a coffee. I splashed some whisky in and four hours later I got to work buzzed, head askew, not in a great place for the start of a shift. But I’m just a dumb grunt so it doesn’t really matter how badly I do my job or how much I slur my words in conversation or how stupid the things I say are. I’m a body. I could be anyone. I am anyone. No one, in fact. Just a number like the detainees. A blue-shirted scarecrow flagging and flapping in humidity and wind, stopping dumb animals from burning the buildings down.
I think scarecrow is a much better description of the job I do than guard. A scarecrow is passive, its presence alone intended to dissuade certain behaviours, whereas a guard is active, seeking to enforce certain behaviours. But if I am a guard, and the blue shirt says I am, then I must admit to being a particularly shit guard. I fail to turn in contraband, I allow food out of the mess, I disappear out the back of no-man’s-land during my shift, I wander aimlessly when I could be performing pointless bureaucratic tasks, and I occasionally show up drunk. Oh, and I don’t think all the detainees are scum. To be honest, I feel like I have more in common with some of the detainees than some of my colleagues.
Meg is my opposite. Meg is a very good guard. She’s Brown Two today and acting the part. I’ve been watching her strut up and down the mess hall throughout lunch, conscientious and keen like a roo dog in a pine plantation. It’s weird watching her, actually: friendly and gregarious with detainees in one instance, then strict and unsympathetic the moment she judges something a transgression of even the pettiest rule or expectation.
It’s a pita bread day, and I’ve already seen three chaps stash packets into pants or tops. I don’t care, whereas Meg does. She strides over to the exit and speaks with Roberto, a strapping Italian bloke who actually rolls up the sleeves on his polo shirt so we can see his biceps better. He also insists on the “o” on the end of his name being pronounced. Need I say more?
Roberto is the perfect sidekick for Meg — he’s the dumb muscle captivated by the nice set of tits and arse. I’ve certainly got no claim on the tits and arse; probably never did. Maybe Roberto is in with a chance. No doubt he thinks he is, if he only plays it right and shows Meg sufficient machismo and toughness to convince her of the size of his Italian cock, even bigger than his nuggety biceps.
They stand either side of the exit. A few people leave without incident, then a group of Sri Lankans get up. I know that two of them have pita bread in their pants. They move toward the door as a group, a common tactic where the innocent party engages the officer in conversation while the guilty one slips past. But Meg isn’t letting anyone out. She’s obviously on to them.
Roberto steps in front of the exit while Meg initiates an exchange. I can see the Sri Lankans gesticulating, professing their innocence. Then Meg points to one of the guys who I know has pita bread in his pants. They still refuse to give it up. Meg says something to Roberto; he steps into the Sri Lankan’s personal space. I think surely not, he wouldn’t, and then he does — Roberto attempts to pat the man down. The Sri Lankan man slaps Roberto’s hands away. Roberto tries to grab him, but then the other Sri Lankans are yelling and pushing the man out the door, and Roberto and Meg have the sense to yield to the greater numbers. Once outside, one of the Sri Lankans really arcs up, abusing the shit out of Meg and Roberto. A Code Black is called. Five more officers arrive. All because of pita bread.
Once the commotion settles, an older Sri Lankan man approaches me. He speaks as if I was one of the officers on the door patting down his compatriot; as if one blue shirt represents all blue shirts.
“Why you do this, officer? Why the rules, officer? Why so many rules? Why?”
It’s a fair question, but a question I cannot answer. There are lots of little, seemingly arbitrary rules, rules that may seem innocuous to a new arrival, but which take on great significance once a detainee has been here six months, twelve months, two years. Rules which come to seem oppressive and humiliating, like not being allowed to lock a door, or being allowed to have two apples but not three, or telling someone that as an adult human they are not responsible enough to consume pita bread at their own discretion without putting their life at risk or otherwise jeopardising the security of the detention centre. Imagine telling a group of Australians that — we’d just as soon burn the place to the ground, then celebrate doing so for the next hundred years.
After lunch, I wander the compound. I pass a portico with a line of microwaves on a bench. The Sri Lankans are gathered around, not even trying to hide the fact that they are microwaving the pita they just smuggled out of the mess, creating rough and ready pappadums. Some of them know me well enough to recognise that I’m not one of the officers who gives a shit. We exchange waves and conspiratorial nods.
I really like the spirit of these guys. I like the fact that they are flouting the rules. I like the fact that they do what they need to do so as to feel like they have a modicum of control over their lives. There’s a little plant nursery attached to the detention centre, which the detainees have access to. It used to have barramundi growing in an aquarium, until the Sri Lankans snuck in and ate every single one. There was a feral cat that had a litter of kittens under one of the dongas. One day the kittens were gone and the Sri Lankans were sighted having a feast; conclusions were drawn. Whatever it is they need to do to stay sane, they’re doing it.
“Hey, fellers, you see the cricket the other night?” I ask, knowing that they would have seen the one day game where Sri Lanka lost to Australia. “Too bad, too bad. Next time.”
“No. We happy. We support Australia,” says one man.
“Really?”
“Yes. We hate Sri Lanka. Team all Sinhalese. Only one Tamil. We love Australia.”
“Oh. Well, good then.”
I should have known better. These men are the Sri Lankan minority, underdogs in the civil war raging for a generation. Now, the war lost, our government deems them terrorists simply because they are Tamil, whereas other countries like Canada see them as freedom fighters. Really, they are neither. Not these men. Not anymore. Now, they are just refugees. They just want a new life without the violence and, for better or worse, we are their chosen country.
Most have been in detention going on two years, yet they remain staunch, willing to endure for the hope of a better future, all the while playing cricket, building gardens and monuments, barracking for the Aussies, drinking secret homebrew, furtively eating the aquarium barramundi, playing cards and waiting to see the real Australia.
I mean, for Christ’s sake, I could be describing POWs in Changi.