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