31st letter

Dear Khodayar, what drives your enemies to plot against you and wish you harm? From which ancestors does this sickness come that makes them hate? I know that I am bound to not disown them; these criminals are my sisters and brothers. They are your sisters and brothers. And it is the urgency of this fact that makes their cruelty against you all the more futile and ugly. There is one sky above, there is one rock below our feet. These fences, these prisons that surround us are our own creation. We do not need to live like this. The food of the world is for all of us to share. No one should be starved, no one should be pushed from the table. Love is the only honest way to live – everything else is based on lies and cheating. The powerful take what they do not need from those whose need is greater. They take food, they take land and they take water. They take warmth and shelter. They will even take life and then call it justice.

Khodayar, you know all this. You have learnt about the ugliness of being tortured and sentenced to death. This all happened to you. This was done to you for no reason. It was for the shape of your face and the colour of your skin and the place of your birth that you were killed. How can people not see the hideouslness of this barbarity? They must be broken minds and sterile hearts that make these cages. Love Stephen

#FacesOfKhodayar (continued)

#FacesOfKhodayar

One year after your death we remember you Khodayar.

The many #FacesOfKhodayar defy tyranny and death.

Anniversary of your death, 30th letter

Dear Khodayar, it is nearly the anniversary of the day when you “cut your life”. I want to mark the first year since your death by going to the final camp at 11:15 in the morning. Maybe I will read out one of these letters to you and some words from Michelle Bui about the last few moments of your life. In my efforts to remember you Khodayar, I also pay respect to the other dead refugees who have not made it to safety. To your friends Nasim Najafi, Reza Reazyee and Ahmad Ali Jaffari. To Leo Seemanpillai, Fazel Chegeni, Hamid Kehazaei and Reza Barati. To Omid Masoumali, Reza X, Mohammad Hadi and Saed Hassanloo. To Rakib Khan, Mohammad Nazari, Omid Ali Avaz and Rezene Mebrahta Engeda. All of these people suffered Australia’s cruel treatments and were killed in this way – as you yourself were Khodayar. False slogans of humanity stuffed your ears with nonsense as the flames destroyed your body. Your desperation a year ago was intense and I wish that I could offer you some comfort. These rituals of homage at the place and time of your death is a measure of my rage and regret. Love Stephen

29th letter, the death of my mother

Dear Khodayar, I want to tell you that my mother has died. Since she has died I sometimes wake up in the night and think about her. The shock of her death interrupts my sleep and makes me cry. I used to talk to her about you, about my drive to make art about your life, and about the persecution of refugees by the Australian government. Now I can’t talk to her ever again. And I can’t talk to you either, Khodayar. Inspite of this I feel her presence and your presence in my life. I am not dead yet and I am determined to use my life for love and for remembering. I can’t undo your cruel death but I am witness to what you endured and what you discovered. I must work to free our sisters and brothers who are falsely locked in the same prison where you once stood. Your guidance and her guidance make me strong in that determination. We should not be cruel to each other. You told this to the world Khodayar. Others have also said this. While we are alive we must be kind and loving to one another. We are nor seperated. Anyone who thinks about your life and death can see this. After my mother died I had to write, “Life is so beautiful”, with tears in my eyes, because it is true. Love Stephen

The city at the foot of the mountain - 28th letter

Dear Khodayar, I dreamt that I journeyed to Afghanistan – to the place where you were born. It was night-time and I was on a bus with other people. We travelled in the dark across a great plain toward a range of mountains. At the foot of the mountain the city stretched out. All along the edge of the plain we could see the lights coming from buildings of the city. I didn’t know the name of the city.

It was too dangerous for us to get out of the bus. All we could do was look out the windows. All around us Afghans walked and rode motorbikes through the light of our headlights. They were mainly young men – like you Khodayar. Even though I didn’t know the name of the city I knew that it was very old; almost as old as civilisation itself. It was time for us to return to where we had come from. With the doors still shut tight, the bus driver spun the wheel, the bus hissed and heaved and our bus turned around back toward the border. Love Stephen

Leaves of Remembrance - letter 27

Dear Khodayar, we gathered in the city at the State Library to stand up for the rights of refugees. There were thousands of us. I took with me a branch from a tree, that was full of long green, curving leaves. Each leaf was beautiful and on each leaf I had written your name. We had all come there because of the cruel treatments inflicted on you. We are opposed to the slogans of humanity that are being used to sentence people to death. How could we not find these crimes abhorrent? How could we not remember your death and the deaths of all the others and all the harm done? We are human beings and we feel your pain. We know your name. To each person I offered a leaf of remembrance that bears your name. The leaves were received and I moved through the crowd distributing more leaves. The sky and the air are witness to your life, Khodayar. We are witness to your extraordinary humanness. After your death, after my death, after the deaths of all of us, the story of our lives will remain with the weight of our failures and the beauty of our success. The leaves became fewer and fewer until the last one had been given out; the branch was bare and my hands were empty. 

Love Stephen

26th letter

Dear Khodayar, I write these letters to you in the hope of you being found. I post them to you and ask others to post them to you. From all around the world people drop letters that are addressed to you into letter boxes. From Italy, from Hong Kong, from Turkey, from America and from all around Australia these letters are sent to you at your final camp. We leave letters for you at the tree beside where you died. And we leave letters for you on your grave. I listen to the clock tick and I feel my hands tingling as I await your reply.

Is it too much to ask that one of these letters might reach you and make you smile? That it might reach you and make you un-dead for just a moment? It is with great hope and great love that I write and send these letters to you. That your eyes may run over these words and that you may speak in reply. That I can hear your voice again and read your words; you who are so human – who we need so much. It seems you have passed into the great silence. I wish it was not so. I am still waiting here for you. Love Stephen.

The game of Sangirag - 25th letter

Dear Khodayar, I went to visit your final camp – the place in Dandenong where you lived out the last days of your life beside the creek. The winter afternoon was cold but sunny and beautiful. As I walked through the bush I saw many people gathered near your tree. Drawing closer I saw that they were Hazara men playing a game. I was astonished. I watched the men as they threw smooth stones at small wooden targets. The stones arcing through the air against the bright blue sky and the sunlit leaves of the eucalyptus trees. There was the dull thud as the stones fell back to earth near the target – the occassional click as the target was hit directly. When each man had taken a turn the group changed ends and collected their individual stones. I asked what is this game called? It is called sangirak they told me. You can’t stand here, it is dangerous. I moved off to your tree and straightened the flowers that I had put there days earlier. Later when I was departing the game was still continuing. The small smooth rocks being hurled one after the other at the target as player after player took aim. I saw in their faces a continuity with you and your story, Khodayar. Love Stephen

Letter 24 to Khodayar

Dear Khodayar you have stepped into my life and turned everything on its head. You have taught me to see this country as a refugee does, to hear this language I speak with different ears. Now there is no going back for me. What I know from your words I can never un-know. You have widened my mind and you have opened my heart. My safe house where I lived before, is now an infinite sky with winter rain. Your words are so compelling that you did this to me – I could not resist. You, who are so human, insisted that my own humanity must grow. And you continue to insist and so my humanity must expand even more in the manner you have shown. This is not easy, this is not predictable, this journey you lead me on. I struggle to understand what is happening and where to put my feet. But the certainties I used to reside in are not there anymore. They are destroyed – not by your words but rather by the inevitable knowledge that your words bring. So I have to search for where to be amidst this confusion in my world. I have to continue in your example. What is known can never be un-known. Love Stephen Clendinnen

Dream letter - number 23

Dear Khodayar, I have dreamt about you. In my dream I had travelled to a small town and found a man who knew about your death and who knew where your remains were stored. He told me that your remains were going to be loaded on a truck and taken away to another place. He said that he would let me look at what was left of you before this happened. I was scared Khodayar. I know how badly you were damaged and I didn’t know if I could bear seeing you like that. But I have come so far to find you, and to solve the mystery of your murder that I couldn’t turn back.

The dream ended before I actually looked at you but I saw the container that your remains were lying in. It was beside the truck, ready to be loaded. And I don’t know where the truck was going to take you – maybe all the way back to the mountain kingdom where you were born. In waking life your body has been buried in the Islamic section of a cemetery here in Melbourne. In the dream it was going to be taken on a long journey before finding a place of rest. Love Stephen

More flowers for Khodayar at his Final Camp

There are never enough flowers for you Khodayar.

Letter of horror, number 22

Dear Khodayar, another refugee has died on Nauru. This man is called Rakib and has fled from Bangladesh. He was another one who didn’t find safety here – only torture and death. And of course there is young Hodan from Somalia. She burnt herself on Nauru and is still alive but in a critical condition. I hope that she doesn’t die but I know that the injuries she has received will cause her horrible suffering.

A monster is eating human flesh. Taking one life and then another. You were also consumed by this monster Khodayar, and I don’t know when this killing will stop. This is an evil and wicked thing that Australia is doing. A country created by dispossession and genocide. And these crimes too were cloaked in lies. This is the country of the White Australia Policy and of pogroms against the Chinese miners. Now this same violence is directed against different people; people like you who flee from wars in boats. This savagery is a corrosive poison for all who touch it. Thank you for giving us the antidote. Love Stephen Clendinnen

Twenty first letter - for my friend Khodayar

Dear Khodayar, refugees are still burning themselves and people are still dying. I am very sorry to tell you this, but your words have not been listened to. I was heavy with the news of Omid Maoumali’s recent death whin I went to your camp. I brought flowers which I left at the base of the tree. I looked at the photographs of your face and again read your last statement posted to the tree. And I hear your voice clear and defiant. This comes to me strongly as I stand in your last camp. And I hang onto this comunication from you – this impression of your presence.

This is like air to my lungs and I drink it in. A letter has been left for you at the tree. I don’t know who wrote it. I do know that your words are not forgotten and will not be forgotten. Your words are special because they make sense of these crimes. Your words are antidote to the false slogans of humanity that beguile and deceive us. A heart can’t function when its openings are blocked by shit. A mind can’t live while we consume our own young in violence. The fools who own these prison camps will not listen to your words but they can’t silence them either. In their monstrous confusion they ignore the truths that you have spoken with such courage. Love Stephen

Twentieth Dead Letter to Khodayar Amini

Dear Khodayar, with your name I honour each refugee that there is in the world. I honour those that have been killed and those who have made it this far. I honour all the perilous paths that people have fled along and all the dismal sea crossings that have been made. In your story I see myself and my ancestors and my children. I see my friends and family in your struggles and suffering. Yours was a gigantic and a mortal quest. Even as a child death was a threat that hung above you. You had to move; you had to try to find a place that was safe. Your only chance was to push apart the mountains and search for the key that would give you true freedom. You threaded a way through the mountains, passed over the water and managed to arrive here. But there were only dry and brittle hearts to be found – our arms refused to help you up and would only push you under. Relentless logic excluded you from our community. You were put in the camps and learnt there what a living death could be like. Peeling away your name and your past the Government made you like refuse to be burnt. Your future was a grey nothingness. You were forgotten and forgettable and utterly without love and dignity. But they could never stifle your voice, never negate your compassionate words. Love Stephen

Nineteenth Dead Letter

Dear Khodayar, this country that you came to looking for peace and safety has a violent and racist past. Now we re-enact that violence and racism in the present on people like you – the people of the road fleeing unthinkable misfortune. Our false slogans of humanity are both to strangle our own guilt and to harm your spirit. It is not just you bodies that we lock away from freedom but we also stuff your minds with lies and filth. We can not admit what we do to you so we deny the reality of your enslavement. We can not bear your weakness and vulnerability so we blacken your names and demean you. We can not bring ourselves to embrace our sisters and brothers so we deny your humanity and take away your voices.

You know all this Khodayar. This is what you lived and died, and this is what you taught to me. You bore witness to this crime that is being done by us. This was a difficult thing to do and I congratulate you. This crime that is decried in history books yet made afresh each day. Love Stephen

18th letter to Khodayar

Dear Khodayar, when I go to visit you I start from my home in Woiwurung country and drive to your final camp in Bunwurung land. In your plight you withdrew from the cities of concrete and asphalt and turned to the timeless landscape of Australia; to the animals and plants and stories that have always lived here. Settler Australia with its cities and towns is a recent growth on this land. You looked for the gaps between the carparks and the buildings and found some sort of respite in the indigenous paradigm of water, land and air. When I look at the eucalyptus leaves I see your name in their long curving shapes. It is as though this very land remembers you and sighs your name from its pores. As much as the city wants to forget you, the earth and roots and rocks won’t stop singing your name.

I am glad. This land is witness to your agony and to the others who came here and to those who will come after. This land holds the shape of your voice and the light of your face. Deep and large beyond reckoning, this place is witnessing the tragedy inflicted on you and remembering. Each of the cuts with cotton that killed you is folded in animal skin and fur. Love Stephen.

Breaking....Khodayar buried in a pauper's grave

I was stunned to learn a few days ago that Khodayar Amini has been buried in secret.

His body has been with the Coroner for a few months and several people had been negotiating with the Coroner's office about getting his body released to the Hazara community in the Dandenong area so that he could be buried by his friends and supporters. I have spoken on the telephone to the Coroner's office about this.

And now we find out that they have given him a "pauper's funeral" against the wishes of the Hazara community and his other friends. This type of funeral - also sometimes called a "destitute funeral"- is reserved for those who die and who have no one who is willing to come forward and organise the funeral.

This is not the case with Khodayar.
He has many friends.
I have met with and spoken to some of them.
And others I know by the flowers and the cards that they leave at his final camp at Robert Reserve in Dandenong.

Khodayar Amini has many friends and is not forgotten.

I am still confused and distressed by the news of his secret burial.
As if his death was not horrible enough already.



(Below is a statement from the Hazara community of Melbourne)

Hazara community of melbourne have been disgusted, to have NOT been informed or consulted by corner & police for burial of Khudayar Amini body which has been buried few days early at this unknown crematory in far far away land fearing repressions.

Flowers of love and candles were laid in the memory of Khudayar Amini who have burned himself and lost his life in unjust manner! Where is justice for refugees may he R.I.P and bless his soul.

We, many community leaders and family friends have attended a symbolic funeral at Northern Memorial Park 56 Box forest road Glenroy in the Islamic Section at 3 today 21/02/2016

THANK YOU.

The ugly letter - number 17

Dear Khodayar, before the flames closed over you for the last time your mind had been broken. The death of your friend, Nasim Najafi, was particularly destabilising. That shock, after all the other things that had happened, took away the last resilience of your spirit. You no longer believed you could stay alive. You could not find hope in the future, only your own death – in pain and isolation.

I don't like to think about this, about the mental illness that made your suffering even more full of terror. I would prefer to see you as a hero than as a victim. But in the end it was hard for you to tell what was real and what was not. The false slogans of humanity that we buried you with had anguished your mind. It was not only your body that was hurt and imprisoned. We did this to your mind also. Until it was sick and broken and unsure and empty of imagination. I feel so low to write this. Love Stephen

18 February 2016

Sixteeth letter to Khodayar

Dear Khodayar, I hope this letter finds you well. I wish that you will live a long and happy life. I couldn’t wish you any less, but I fear it is not so and all hope for you is dead. My concern, my love for you has come too late. I can only stir the ashes where you died, I can not touch your hand.

I hope that even after you have been killed I will keep your name, your words and your story alive. I hope that in doing so I will cheat the killers of their victory. I hope that in so doing I can make the stain of your death a little smaller. I would prefer if your life had been less eventful. If you had a family and a home and work. I would prefer if you hadn’t had to make the hero’s journey into danger. If so I would have never heard about you, you wouldn’t have died in a bush camp on the edge of this city. I remember you Khodayar Amini, and your friends Nasim Najafi, Reza Rezayee and Ahmad Ali Jaffari. Immagination is memory. Love Stephen

Fifteenth letter to my friend Khodayar

Dear Khodayar, as humans we share things. You and I can be hurt, we can be beaten and tortured. You and I can be scared and we can be enslaved. You and I can be humilliated and we can be killed. These are things that can be done to us or to any other human. I know I have protections against these things happening that others don’t have. I have my maleness, my whiteness and my wealth. But these are still possibilities for all of us, for all the sisters and brothers of this world.

Khodayar, all these things were done to you. They were done by other humans. These are bad things, ugly things. Things that should never be done. I am terrified to change places with you, for these things to happen to me. You needed asylum but you ended up in the barrens. A place bereft of compassion and love, that runs on racist violence. All you knew were false humane slogans and harsh treatments. You knew such bitterness here in the barrens. Love Stephen

Fourteenth letter

Dear Khodayar, how far have you travelled in this warm rain? The scent of warm earth all around you. I know you haven’t brought much with you, the danger was too great and the journey was too long. Did you have to tell any lies to stay alive a bit longer? You made it to this island full of birds and then you were force fed on our lies. You got past the reefs that surround this place like teeth; behind which hides our insecutity.

This place is a harsh land. All lands are harsh. We all have blood on our hands. Now we have a bit more blood on our hands – your blood Khodayar. You were not able to stay alive any longer. The “friend of God” was abandoned by the people. You found no friendship here, only harsh treatment and false slogans of humanity. You and your sisters and brothers of the road have scorpions pressed into your hands. Hateful things, shameful things, behind the razor wire, inside the prison gates. The colour of your skin and your need are your only crimes. Love Stephen

Flowers for Khodayar (images)

13th letter to Khodayar

Dear Khodayar, may I offer you tea here in my house? The sound of children’s voices can be heard and the summer sun dances through the leaves. I have never looked on your face or heard the sound of your voice but your words are so familiar to me. Now that I have you here at my table our friendship can begin again, with the veil of death removed from between us.

We can forget the little things like country, language and religion, and talk about love and work – about life and suffering. How much time left together do we have? Life can be so long, so short. Tell me that your name means friend of God. Tell me about your family’s death. Lay down your words that I know will be read and understood. Let me hear you laugh as well as cry. Make yourself at home. Love Stephen

Final Statements (images)

Twelth letter for Khodayar

Dear Khodayar, I go to the Maiwand supermarket in Dandenong and I buy the dried apricots and dried mulberries from Afghanistan. After this I go to your camp by the creek and clean up any rubbish I can find there. There is a rhythm to my movements as I work in the hot sun. I am dealing with certainty now, but you lived with possibilities. A door broken down in the night, a bomb at the market, or a new life on a different continent.

Khodayar, you were on the move from the day you were born. We are all at the mercy of things much bigger than our lives but there was a shadow on your face before you even had a name. Your family would be taken by the endless war and your heart condemned to the endless road. A hero must take his chance when the time comes. The sun is never foreign to any of the children of this planet. Love Stephen

Eleventh letter

Dear Khodayar, I listen to your words and hear about the hardships in your life. I know about some of the troubles you have seen, both before and after you crossed the water to come here. You were so young when you died but had already been through several lifetimes’ worth of pain. I am sorry this happened to you – that we did this to you. Both the Australians and the Taliban did this to you. We killed your family and friends and then we killed you.

We did not show you mercy. We did not show you love. Instead we showed that we fear you and despise you. We could not look you in th face, so we lock you away because of the colour of your skin. We drop you in the ocean and let the waters close over your head, as if you had never been born.

But it was flames that closed over your head. You crossed the water safely but it was flames that closed over your head. The fire extinguished your life and left the whole world to mourn. Our memory hostage to time. Love Stephen

Photos of Khodayar

'A Struggle to Be' by Khodayar Amini

He came knocking on your door
carrying the broken hopes of a father
the lost smiles of a mother 
and the innocent dreams of a child.

He reached out his hand; you were too hesitant to grab it
you asked him in a distrusting tone
“What is your name and why have you come here” 
He said - “my name is Khodayar and I come from the mountains”

“I bring no harm” - he uttered in a soft voice
yet you were afraid of his innocent presence 
he explained - “ I am a displaced person, 
drifting across unfriendly borders in search of a friend”

When you imprisoned him behind the barbed wires
He said in a nostalgic voice - “I have a great skill;
I used to fly kites back in my homeland, 
making them dance with the freedom of the wind
So just like you, I too have a desire to taste liberty".

When you stamped your authority on his life
crushing his spirits and
rendering a hollow despair in his heart
A thread of ghastly loneliness encircled his throat

Your cold gaze enfeebled his purpose for living,
between the choice of life and death, he chose the latter
just like his kite, his soul burned to ashes in the flames of hate.
And the petals of liberty waver in the wind as you hunt your next victim.

To Khodayar with love, tenth letter

Dear Khodayar, again I take up my pen to write to you. I have to tell you that I read your words, I pay attention to you and I understand you. Your tears are not useless to me, they are beautiful to me. They are precious. You have taken me with you from the village where you were born to the bush camp where you ended your life. You are an Hazara and you are a refugee; you are full of human dignity and you were born free. You spent your life to stay free. You are an Australian and a citizen of the sea. You are the traveller from the mountains who must take his chance on the ocean.

It is in the hearts of people that our boat will be wrecked or saved, not amidst the salt waves. Your death is like a mystery that must be solved and I am the survivor who must redeem this. They say that the dead have no voice. So why do your words become more and more compelling and urgent each day that passes after your death? Water tastes different to me now that you are gone. Love Stephen

Christmas letter, number nine, to Khodayar

Dear Khodayar, today my thoughts are with all travellers who have no place to stay. Like Mary and Joseph were all those years ago. We have to find space for them and share what we own with them. We have to provide refuge for our sisters and brothers; at out tables and in our houses.

Khodayar, many people hear your story and turn away – they never pay attention to you. He is a refugee they say, close the gate, don’t let him in. They will not listen to the end of your tale because they can’t bear the cruelty that you have endured from people like them; the pain that you have felt. So much easier to seal up the burning house so that none can escape; to stop the ambulances and abandon the burnt and injured far away. Out of sight and out of mind. We will not help you, we will not let you near. Love Stephen

Eighth Dead Letter

Dear Khodayar, the wind and the rain has scoured your camp. And now, in these dragonfly days, the sun beats down on a burnt patch of grass. We keep your camp clean, with flowers in it. I don’t know who the others are but I see the things they leave for you at the tree or in the burnt circle.

So the camp is ready for you if you can ever come back, or in case someone else needs to use it. Each time I go there I look for anything there that might have come from you. I look at the dried, dead flowers and at the dappled patterns that the shadows of the leaves make. What are you now Khodayar? Are you a shadow or are you the marks left by flames? Your name and your story is left here with us. I am stuck half way between a mouthful of words and nothing at all; between a lifetime of experience and an empty camp.

I circle the camp to find new perspectives. I find some C.F.A. tape tied in a tree near the walking path. It shows the way to the fire with which you cut your life. You won’t come back. Love Stephen