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at the memory of Truong’s body lying cold and inert, his blistered
lips parted in a state of guileless surprise at the tragedy of his own
death. I try to block the image frommy mind and, instead, appreciate
my good fortune in reaching safety. I worry about Quyen; she rarely
leaves her room, preferring to lie in bed, body curled in a foetal
position, staring blankly at the grey wall. ‘Come outside and eat
lunch with me Quyen’ I say to her.
‘I have no desire to look at the wire fence that entraps us, if that’s
what sitting outside involves,’ she groans, turning to face the wall again.
The trauma of the journey is my constant companion but as each
day passes, feelings of hope and optimism for the future grow
stronger. I delight in the taste of cool, fresh drinking water that
soothes my scorched throat and my sun-damaged skin begins to
heal. During the long, slow hours in detention I think about my
family. I recall my mother nursing me as a child; she wore a red
hibiscus flower in the long curtain of her hair and gently rocked me
to sleep. The soft hum of the soldier’s wife’s lament she sang and the
sweet fragrance of hibiscus interlaces my dreams each night. As
always, this memory resurrects my desire for the comforting sound
of Truong’s singing. I reach for his fragile body in my sleep, aching
for the reassuring press of his head against my chin. Yet as I grope at
the shapeless darkness, the chilling reality jolts me awake; Truong
will never return. Only the trick of the dancing shadows that form
ghoulish apparitions of the dead are here with me.
As the long, uneventful weeks stretch into months, a creeping
claustrophobia grips me. We are unable to leave the camp without a
travel document and despite my repeated requests; one has not
materialized for me. I respect the Australian government and its
procedures but I am a prisoner in this place. The sterile grey walls,
cramped rooms and narrow hallways leading to endless rows of
homogenized dormitories are squeezing the life out of me. I miss
wandering through the streets of my village and watching my little
brother, Loc, slay imaginary dragons with his friends under the light
of the silk lanterns that hang from acacia trees. I miss greeting my
aunty selling beef noodles and traipsing past the fish market lined
with gleaming silver-backed fish, its briny stink filling the air. I yearn
to wander through the vibrant fabric stands, coffee yards, hear the
rattling talk of women at the jewellery market and the bustle of
people going about their daily business. Yet despite the impossibility
Refuge
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