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