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