Refugees

Wednesday 11th February 2009

My wife says they aren’t refugees because they speak English; and they’re Australian.
But a few miles away from where we live in Melbourne’s leafy eastern suburbs there are about 4,000 of them. People who have lost everything and managed to escape from the war zones left behind after the fires exploded through the little towns and hamlets nestled in the hills. All that’s missing from the photos are the horse and carts loaded with random pieces of furniture.
These refuges are all dinky-di Aussies just like me.
Now they’re living in tents, or town halls, or the homes of neighbours. They look haggard when interviewed on television, hair not coiffured, wearing clothes that don’t quite fit. They speak real Australian. They praise the fire fighters and their neighbours, and tell poignant stories of friends and family lost. Most of them have lost someone, not knowing whether they are still alive. They all look stoic but slightly lost, which isn’t surprising because their future is a mystery. They know only that they aren’t alone. They’re on the receiving end of a generous outpouring of solidarity and all kinds of support, and don’t know how to react. I wouldn’t either.
Hearing refugees speaking my language in my accent is bizarre. It’s confronting yet strangely comforting.
I live in a land where no-one expects familiar nearby towns to be flattened, with or without warning. I drifted over some of them last week in a balloon flight snapping pictures of the dry brown land below. Now newspapers and TV show confronting images. A black and grey landscape with twisted roofing iron and burnt out vehicles and endless hills, bare except for the black matchsticks that used to be tall proud familiar white gum trees. Dishevelled rough looking people of all ages and stations in life, many holding onto a loved one who is all they have left in life. All express acceptance of events and a gladness just to be alive. All express sorrow for lost ones and sympathy for those who lost everything, but somehow seem not to feel sorry for themselves.
It’s comforting to think that’s how I would be too. It is how stuff works in this great dry brown land. It’s what we expect of ourselves and each other because getting by in a harsh place like this breeds self reliance and that breeds self confidence. It’s a natural consequence of being here. As soon as we dust ourselves off, the next task at hand is helping those around us. First the little kids, then the old people, then ourselves. It has been ever thus. There’s comfort in belonging to this tribe.
Our land is populated by good hearted people who instinctively discern where help is needed and reactively provide it. We are a nation of good neighbours.
That’s evident everywhere since Sunday.
Warmer weather and strong wins are forecast. There are 23 fires burning all across Victoria, many still out of control.
Neighbouring states and almost states (I refer to our Kiwi friends, who almost joined the federation and we left room in our constitution should they ever want to change their mind) offer generous support too. Fire-fighters arrive from as far away as California.
The ever-selfless Salvos and the Vinnies and the Brotherhood of St Lawrence are out in generous force. God bless them for it.
They’ll be kept busy as the number of Australian-speaking refugees grows.