Me. You. Us.

Renee Pettitt-Schipp

Me. You. Us.

There are twenty-seven Afghan males
that come to our make-shift school
in the afternoon.
At first I am battling
to tell them apart;
the Mohammeds, Alis and Ali Rezas.

Today is their third day
the guard brings me three
sixteen and seventeen year old boys.
We sit in the demountable
by the whir of an ancient air conditioner.
On the window painted wire
forms thin bars.

We look at
letter sounds and names
pronouns, proper nouns, conjunctives.
They are struggling
to form the 'n' sound
so I show them, a little self consciously
how my tongue is positioned
behind by teeth.
The students try,
furrow their brows and try again
until the strange task
has us holding our stomachs
laughing in one language.

Suddenly they seem so proximate
the blood and breath of them.
I look toward Ali and see the shape
of his eyebrows
notice the way they thicken then disperse
the gradations of brown in his iris
when lit by the light from the window.

I witness the wounds crudely stitched
that run up Mohammed's arm
until they disappear beneath
his shirt sleeve.
I inhale the warmth of Mussa
his scent of cigarettes, spice and sweat.

Later, the music teacher arrives
with drums, CDs and a
whiteboard marker.
Together the students sing
'I am, you are, we are Australian'.
The air is thick with soft song
and heavy hope.
I turn, and quickly leave the room.

Photo: With detainees on Christmas Island on an excursion to a phosphate mine Renee Pettitt-Schipp