Hannah Moore

I could paint a picture of that moment and every shape, every colour, and every tone of that colour would be as it was or as I saw it thirteen years ago. I can see blood streaming from his torn wrists and spilling in puddles onto the brown pillow turning it a deep maroon. His eyes were hidden behind his black hair and his body became relaxed as he fell asleep, forever.

I was five, a five year old that had crossed many seas, felt more pain, and lived more years than any five year old I know. It was not this one man that I witnesses the death of, but many. My own childish ignorance died so quickly during the time I spent at Woomera Detention Centre. It was another world behind those 4 metre fences where a deep fear was installed in me. A fear that silenced me for many months, which made me feel helpless, frustrated and angry. It was a fear that blinded me so I could not see beyond the present or even that. I relived the past events and terrors in my dreams, in my drawings and while I was silent, while my mind was plagued with fear.

I remember a time when a guard passed my door and I opened my eyes, startled and scared. A shadow was cast over the room as he blocked the hallway light but moved on, only for that night, because I knew he'd be back to taunt me tomorrow. His steps faded down the hallway as he moved to scare other children, other people like me who he kept from sleeping. Images passed to mind of the stories I overheard from the Iranian women. They would sit and gossip as if they were back in Iran, as if nothing had changed, but everything had. If we were home, I know my mother wouldn't be talking to these women, they weren't Muslims, but here in Woomera our social prejudices had been forgotten or pushed aside because we were all in the same situation; we were all in fear. I ran to my mother's side for the third time that night and lay on her rounded stomach.

A child was growing inside her as she became progressively worse and worse. I used to wonder if the baby was taking all of her spirit. Maybe the baby could never cry because my mum had cried all of its tears.

It was after we'd been at the detention centre for five months that my sister was born. A day that would usually cheer a family brought my parents greater distress. My father wasn't permitted to accompany my mother to the hospital for the birth, but was forced to remain behind the gates. We had not been separated since our arrival and it made me lonely to see my mother leave. Having another child in the family was a big one; the only one at that time that I longed to see. That was the time that I wanted to remember. I wonder if that memory had replaced the one of the man dying, how different my life would have been. To realise that people were being born while others were dying was of a little comfort. My sister was a short-lived novelty and I soon tired of watching her. She began to cry like the rest of us.

So many people, even children terrified me. I became disturbed by my memory of the horrific riots and of the dying man. My parents became more and more worried every time I drew the fence on the paper we were given to keep busy. I did this repeatedly for six months. I was not consciously aware of how much that fence terrified me. It was more than four times my height and reminded me of a gaol I saw back in Iran. I was a prisoner in Australia, the lucky country, and I was only five. I internalised all my feelings, my thoughts and my voice. I was a mentally disturbed child suffering from post-traumatic stress because I had witnessed things that I wasn't meant to see. I was suffering because I sought refuge in this great country. I asked my mother for many years why she had brought me here. I got angry with her and my father for bringing me to Australia, and they could never tell me that it was alright because I knew and they knew, that it wasn't. I believed that I saw. I believed that this was everything and there was nothing beyond those gates because I had never seen past Woomera. For fourteen months this was my complete understanding of Australia. The ACM guards were the way I believed all Australians to be.

I moved from hospital to hospital and began to talk slightly until I was released and went with the rest of my family to Villawood Detention Centre in New South Wales. Physically I grew, but emotionally I crumbled. I became more upset, traumatised, depressed and worried. I sat huddled trying to comfort myself, to hide. My parents always sat beside me and that comforted me, but never stopped the fear. Thirteen years later I wonder why and how. Images of the events I saw at Woomera have kept me awake for many nights ever since and probably many more to come. A fear within you cannot be forgotten like it can be instilled. I have become slightly paranoid and lonely. I am moving on, but I can never understand how Australians could imprison me when I was not a criminal, when I was only five. People my parents knew were sent home to be killed. Was it worth so much pain to tell these people that they were unwelcome in the land of the free?

Hannah Moore is 15 years old. This essay is based on a true story of a child from Iran who was at Woomera Detention Centre in the year 2000 and part of 2001. He now suffers post-traumatic stress disorder and his mother suffers from depression. They had no mental health problems before they entered Woomera. They have been told that they will be deported and it is likely that they will be killed if the return to Iran.