Australian Refugees

The sky had lit up like fireworks that night, but instead of laughter, screams had filled the air as people fled from the blaze. The very concrete under their feet shook, and Billie clutched the sweaty palm tighter in hers as she struggled to keep her feet. Her heartbeat urged her “faster, faster” as it fought off the ice water of fear which threatened to paralyse her. Ash filled her mouth, and smoke filled her nostrils, seeking to smother her, to drag her under the feet of the people running behind her.

Skyscrapers stared down with cold, unfeeling eyes at their residents who were stumbling through the labyrinthine city; watching even as their faces melted in the fire dropped from the aircraft which whirred overhead. Billie’s face was wet, though from blood or tears she knew not. The only thing she knew at that moment was that she needed to keep running, to keep a hold of that sweaty palm tucked in her hand.

The pop of gunfire punctuated the escapees’ ragged breaths; becoming the drumbeat to their death march. A sob caught in Billie’s throat as her bare feet squelched sickeningly into skin, but there was no use stopping; the dead would be cremated along with the city. It was all anyone could do to try not to join the bodies strewn on the street.

Would they ever make it to safety? It was a question no one dared to ask; to lose hope was to lie down in front of the guns. So everyone kept moving, concentrating only on putting one foot in front of the other; ignoring the stench which filled their nostrils and turned their stomachs. To even grimace was one muscle which was not focused on moving forward, ever forward.

A line of people in front of Billie fell, the graceful curve of their bodies as they were thrown backwards a stark juxtaposition against the combat boot clad figures striding towards them, guns raised as they stepped over the bodies of their victims. Tugging on the hand in hers, Billie turned left and frantically stumbled over corpses, scrambling to flee from the hail of bullets. Sobs were wracking her body as she pelted down laneways, running, running, running.

A sharp pain in her arm and Billie turned to see a gun pointed in her direction; something that she had never expected to see in her safe democratic country. Adrenaline propelled her down an alley, away from the weapon, away from the chaos.

“Billie,” a voice behind her cried out, and she turned to see her sister wild-eyed and panting, still gripping her hand. A pair of combat boots were advancing down the alley and they were cornered like frightened animals, cowering against a wall, clutching each other in the face of their impending doom.

“No,” Billie shook her head. “No,” grabbing her sister, she boosted her up, over the wall. Looking back over her shoulder at the approaching soldier, she scrambled over the wall in a flurry of grazed fingertips and torn and bleeding nails.

“Keep going,” she gasped at her sister, grabbing her hand once more. Where they were running, she had no idea, but there was that faint hope that if they ran fast and far enough, they would escape the terror. And so through aching bodies and pounding hearts, they pushed on.

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A blanket of smoke hung over the city, obscuring the absence of iconic towers in the light of day. Earlier, they had witnessed planes tumbling out of the sky, and the black smoke was within them, choking them from the inside out. Billie and her sister had been caught up in the stream of people gushing out of the city, and now they paced, with their backs against the sea. Their pyjamas were torn and dirty, their feet bruised and bloody, but they were amongst others who in their haste to get out of the city had left their clothes and limbs behind.

The silence was deafening; even the wounded and widowed were too in shock to wail. Instead, they stared into the ocean, choosing to ignore the smoke and wreckage behind them. There was still the naïve hope that they would soon wake up; these sorts of things simply didn’t happen in developed countries. So they let the crashing of the waves drown out the apocalypse as it advanced on them.

It seemed as nice a place as any to wait out the inevitable and so they waited. Some turned to the sea, hoping that their smoke signal would be seen they would be rescued from the sinking island. Billie and her sister simply lay down, awaiting their verdict.

“Boats!” A cry went up from the crowd, and suddenly everyone was reanimated; laughing, crying, and hugging strangers. No one cared where these boats went to, just that they would take them away. All adrenaline and energy had left their bodies; they were just running on hope now.

“Anything has to be better than this,” Billie’s sister turned to her with tears in her eyes. “Please, we have to get on those boats.”

“We stick together.” Billie had been determined to get them on one of the boats as soon as she had heard the cry go up. Once again linking hands, the two of them pushed their way through the crowd, trying to get as close to the shoreline as possible. There was no way of knowing how many boats there would be, and they would not be left behind.

Breath was held collectively as small dinghies bobbed across the waves towards them. It seemed too easy to be rescued when they had seen so many escape attempts fail. Everyone watched the boats, waiting for the explosion, waiting for the sky to come crashing down around their ears.

It never came, the boats came ashore and people crushed forward. Some scrambled into the dinghies; others fell under the stampede of feet. Billie flung herself into a boat, and pulled her sister in after her, clinging desperately to the seat as people reached in to take the lucky ones’ places.

The skipper looked shocked as he started the motor and coaxed it out to sea, apologising profusely. Hugging each other, Billie and her sister shivered from the cold, from exhaustion, from hunger. Now their lives were in the hands of the crew, whatever they might decide to do next.

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Unbeknownst to the refugees as they faced waves and sweltering sun, the world was following their plight. Social media had lit up with prayers and well wishes for the refugees while politicians expressed their sympathy whilst declining to offer sanctuary.

Billie, her sister, and their fellow countrymen would be met with the echoes of their Prime Minister’s cry to “turn back the boats” while news anchors would discuss all the jobs which would be lost to these “boat people” if they were allowed into the country. Their white skin would be no armour for the labels of “illegals” as they would be locked away with all the people their own country had refused sanctuary.

They would not be consulted though; they would never get the chance to say that they didn’t want people’s jobs; they just wanted to sleep without being woken by gunshots and explosions.