Six months from now...
Achmed sat alone in the cell and contemplated sleep. Or rather the lack there of. The fluoros had been burning since he'd been thrown in the cell some 12 days ago. At least, he thought it was 12 days. Because he sat without a watch, and without pen, with no idea how much time had passed.
He was so tired, his eyes puffy with fatigue. The light burned into his eyes and, for a second, he thought he was back in Gaza in the high heat of the day.
Gaza, I'm not in Gaza, I'm in Melbourne he reminded himself.
He'd come here as a child, and was now 24. He'd been working 12 day fortnights, having signed an AWA that removed penalties, annual leave, loading, and all manner of rights because that was the same for all the menial jobs he, having poor English, was able to get. They did get marginally more money per hour – well – at first – until the revised AWA had lowered the hourly rate because the companies' profit forecast had come in at only 12%.
'We all have to tighten out belts,' had said the manager, pulling his trousers up over his ample stomach as if to reinforce the point. It was okay for him. His AWA had a performance bonus built in because the manager was tight with the HR people at head office. They'd started together, and kept an eye out for ways of improving their lot without the benefit of collective bargaining to assist them.
The moth battered itself forlornly at the fluoro light. Achmed smiled despite himself and his position.
He'd been over his story a hundred times he thought when the state police turned up in the company of an ASIO officer. They'd showed him a picture of his brother, from back in Gaza. His brother was a member of Hezbollah, as were thousands of other dispossessed, angry young men. He'd gone over there from Australia to participate in the forming Palestinian state. Achmed had begged him not to.
'Don't do it,' he'd said. 'Palestine may be where our people came from, but Australia is your home now.'
But his brother was head strong and off he'd gone. And two weeks ago he'd called asking for money. Achmed had given it. That's what family does.
It turns out his brother gave the money to Hezbollah, to secure himself a ranking position in the organization. And to protect the small gym he ran for the children from being abandoned by the organization. Hezbollah may have twisted the tenements of Islam, and be conducting a stupid war against an implacable enemy, but for many Palestinians, they were the only organization capable of providing any measure of facilities, youth groups, even food, with a hopelessly corrupt Authority trying to protect its monopoly on power. How much money had Arafat secured away in Swiss bank accounts. One billion, two? Money from the US and Europe meant for reconstruction, but siphoned off instead. No wonder he'd not wanted peace. It would have destroyed his money-making enterprise.
So now Achmed sat in his cell, waiting for the interrogators to bring him back in once again. And they who were convinced he'd been supporting a terror group. That was a life sentence if he was convicted. If? Try when, he thought morosely
He had four interrogators now. Two women, two men. All very polite. All asking the same questions about his brother again and again and again. He'd asked to speak to his mother, to let him know he was safe. And they'd let him call her – but he couldn't say where he was, or what was happening. Because that was against the law – punishable by five years jail. Let along the life sentence they said he now faced for giving his brother the money. When the call had been ended by the unsmiling policeman, his mother had been screaming.
He rubbed his eyes and watched the moth batter itself against the light. He knew he didn't have a job any more, even if he got out. The AWA stipulated that more than three days absence without prior agreement resulted in termination. And the boss didn't like Achmed. Not after he'd seen the boss loading his car boot with produce from the market.
The shutter opened. It did so now and then. To see what he was doing. Why wouldn't they just watch him through the camera that recorded his every move? Who knows. They didn't answer any of his questions. They didn't have to.
'Relaxed mate?' said a voice from the shutter. 'Comfortable?'
'Please, I've said all I know,' said Achmed.
'The interrogators are back mate. I'll be down for ya in five minutes.'
'Can you tell me the time?' asked Achmed. 'And the date?'
The shutter closed, the guard not answering.
Achmed sat and watched the moth dance, and thought stupidly for a moment he was watching a bird in the sky, over the brown hills of Palestine.
HarrangueMan
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