Home- back home

Richard, 65-year-old immigrant from South Africa is a construction worker in a five-storied building in the north of Perth city and there are many others who are in his league from all parts of the world to make few more dollars and a good life.

35 years ago, Richard came to Australia for a better life, which he has now (better than he would have in SA). He was 25 then. Today he has a job that fetches him AUD $ 37 an hour. He lives in a rented house.

“I have another four to five years to work” he says, you can’t go on working in a work like this, it would have been easier if I were a teacher or any work that would not require physical strength.” He adds in his accent with a trace of South African and Aussie in most stances.

Richard is an Indian by root, but one tends to forget as you start to converse with him. His English is good, most of the time with proper intonation and careful use of words. He is now a permanent resident of Australia.

I asked him if it was easy for him to come and settle down in Australia. He did not even hesitate to say life was better here, then and now. He is right, this is great country because it is possible to own a 50 plus inch plasma Television even for someone who have not been to school. He is planning to buy a house and settle down in an area where he lives now- the Northern suburb of the city.

“ It would probably cost me three hundred thousand dollar plus,” and referring to the building he was working on he added, “ you know, the top floor of this building would cost million dollars and prices falls as you come down on the floors.”

He is currently working on a building being constructed as a part of existing retirement village of the RSL care centre. It is located next to the Edith Cowan University in Perth, WA. The residents of the centre have all the facilities that one could dream off on their retirement plans. Most of the residents drive convertible BMWs, Audi, Mercedes etc. They have gardeners, cleaners, and fresh bread delivery every morning and other utilities one requires for a life during perfect holidays.

“ This life is possible for us if we won a multi-million dollar jack pot,” a New Zealander shouted when we saw a gray haired man pulling from a corner with a bright green Lamborghini.

Everyone laughed out loud and swearing the most famous word among workers, which qualify as any tenses in grammar.

A 32-year-old New Zealander, Brodie is one of the many among his countrymen to make some Australian dollars. He was a chef for the last ten years working in restaurants around the country and his own. In the past, he had come to Australia and worked through recruitment agencies, where major part of his earnings had to be shared between agency and him. It gave him one advantage in this visit; he used the personal relations he had made then to get a job without having to go through recruitment agency. 

“I also had restaurant jobs lined up,” he informed us. “ I called Frank (supervisor) and he had a job for me and took it,” he added, “ restaurants demand odd hours of work and this is good.”

Brodie is here with his wife and his two daughters are back home. He has his plans too. He sends few dollars back home and save the rest to buy a house in New Zealand. The interesting part of his current work is he gets to cook too.

Every Saturday, workers collect five dollars each and Frank tops up a bit for barbeque. Brodie does shopping with the money and enjoy barbequing to serve heaps of food for his mates at 9:30 am. He is good with his hands as he chop tomatoes and mushrooms with a skill of pro. He makes it look simple as he spreads olive oil on the stove and bacon over it. Ten years have taught him how to treat food for good taste. It becomes evident when Smoko shed becomes quieter than ever when workers work on their share of barbeque, omelettes, salad and sausages for another fifteen minutes. Quiet a food for five dollars.

Fifty to sixty thousand dollars is a fair amount of income in a year- construction workers are expected to make it. They can afford to spend on goods that have brand and style. Paul comes to work riding a Harley Davidson, which he bought as a second-hand ride for thirty seven thousand dollars. There are others who spend money in private parties, casinos, booze and women (this is a whole lot of another story).

Australia is a land of opportunity for those who have skills and willing to leave home for a new home. Settlers and Immigrants usually have a look of disbelief when you inform them that you want to go back home than stay here. I can understand them; they have come with an intention of staying here with all their gears. For some one like me why do I call home, if I wanted to stay away from it.

Sleepless nights and painful days

Alalla! Amaaa! huunuuuu… I am up. It is one in the morning. I hold my breath to decode the waves carrying communication of pain. It is human reaction to whipping, and a child, not over five, screaming out of fear. The horrific cry is coming from the house next to mine. One is obviously a mother and other one is a boy.

Ama! Ala! Amamaahuuuuunu…

There is sound of glasses and porcelain wares breaking as the abuse continues. I contemplate between going back to sleep and preventing violence against woman and child. I hold back within the serenity of my house.

Last time I tried to play the role of a responsible citizen, in my previous neighbourhood, I was accused of having an affair with woman being abused. Husband got back at me, questioning my intention.

Anyways, the fight that was going on is not between gladiators, nor any of the fight I had witnessed in the past. It is always a drunk or a possessive bastard thrashing guts out of his wife.

Mother and child continue to cry with inflicted pain to last their life. I believe more so with the child.

I have, as a child, grown up witnessing unpleasant affairs. I worry when it will stop. So many children are exposed to domestic violence in many forms.

A five-year-old girl, who lives in my neighbourhood told me a recent story.

“Uncle, you know that Didi who works upstairs, she has marks all over her body- she has bruises on her waist,” she added, “she was whipped for a minor reason.”

I had heard of the incident- babysitter who worked and lived with  the family for last seventeen years was punished for curry that didn’t turn well- but I let her continue.

“We all make mistake, and she had made small mistake and she was punished very badly.” She concluded,” this uncle is bad than I thought, so bad of him to beat someone who cooks food for him, looks after his baby, cleans his house and clothes.”

I thought so too. Not fair. It wasn’t fair for that woman who was crying for help, when I was dwelling in my old house, either. She was going up and down the stairs, crying and asking for help. She was beaten, robed off her mobile phone to prevent from informing the police, by her husband. Concerned, when I came out of the house, she asked me to help her inform the police. I went inside to get my phone and called 113.

“Hello,Police la?”

“Yes this is police.”

“There is a woman in my building who is seeking your help.”

“Could you give me your name and address,” police from the other end added, “and your phone number please?”

I diligently gave all the information I was asked. Fifteen minutes passed and no one turned up. The woman begged me to call again. She was worried her husband might come back and beat her again. I pushed the call button again.

This time conversation with the police did not start well. Never the less, police from the other end explained why they did not react to the call I had made earlier. They receive too many of it, all pranks. They took my number again and he informed that the patrol will arrive in five minutes. 

While I was waiting outside for the police, a man was coming towards us. I asked if he saw police who were suppose to come here. He pointed to the group of them who were in the nearby junction.

“They are there,” and he asked, “who called them?” He was sincerely interested and polite in his tone.

“I called them because woman upstairs requested me.” I informed him, “she was crying and calling for help.”

He did not say a thing, but he looked at me for a while, and left.

By then the policemen were nearing the building, I went ahead to introduce myself. One of them started talking with me and rest left for the house after I told them where it was. By the time, police was satisfied with what I had to say, we went inside the house of the woman. Husband was building his own case.

“Who is this guy who called the police, now you have to tell me and the police here,” he was interrogating his wife, “what is it that you have with this guy?”

Husband was the man whom I had inquired about the arriving police earlier.

I was infuriated by what I heard. Police did not heed to what he said and took him away. He was locked for few days.

Well the story of abuse continue.A primary school kid in his essay on happiness writes, " I am happy." He adds,"I am not happy when my father and mother fights." 

Number of incidents and related offenses are growing too.

In 2009, the reported cases of assault, battery and related offences were 565 incidents, highest among the nature of crimes. It was 440 in 2008.   

Scarecrow

Road was bumpy, dusty and the truck was old, my wife and I had difficulty holding ourselves to the seat- we were on to visit a house of a probable baby sitter in a village nearby Gomtu town. Local boy who was accompanying us informed that sometimes the difference in time is negligible between on wheels and by foot. It took us more than an hour.

Driver dropped us at the end of the road opposite the village; we were supposed to go on foot from there on. As we started to discuss the remaining journey, a man came to inquire what we were up to. We found out from him that most of the girls from that village worked in a Dolomite mining company few yards away from where we stood. It gave us temporary relief of not having to walk up to the village which appeared closer than it really was.

The girl we were going to see had an experience and worked with two families at two different times in Thimphu. She was carrying seven bricks stacked on her head in a construction site. The site was filled with dolomite dust, heat from the southern sun was on, and the risk of injury did cross my mind.

We waited for her to return to get the next stack of bricks. Her friend informed her (with whom we had conversation in her absence) that we were there to discuss new opportunity for her.

Her response was FLAT no. She would not say why, but insisted on a new stack of bricks for delivery. Her friends told her to hear us out and think about it. She would not. She earned eighty ngultrum per day, we offered her more. Discussed perks, advance payments, and rest. She told us that she would not work for anyone, and particularly not anyone from Thimphu.

We were loosing words of attraction and reasonably better proposal to change her mind. She would not listen and all she said was she did not want to go to Thimphu.  We decided to head back.

In the nearby camp, we talked to the some of the women who knew her and her stories. They told us that she had gone to Thimphu to work for some Dasho, where she worked for nine months. She was deprived of sleep because she had to work late and get up early. She cleaned house, cooked for the family, family gatherings, archery matches, washed clothes, she was abused physically and verbally and worst of all she was made to eat food prepared for pet dogs. So they were told. She ran from that house.

After few months in her home, she was send to another house because additional income was a necessity. Her father was wasted pain in the neck, and mother too sick to do anything. This time they were more promises, more money and less work. She was convinced to give a second shot.

Her stay did not last for few months (four months to be precise) she was accused of stealing, abused in all manners, refused telephone calls to her brother and payment for her work. She fled never to return.

So having heard what she went through, we gave up the idea that she might change her mind. Local boy kept telling us, he will continue to pursue her and we told him he should not.

On our way back, we further probed into her stories. Well we doubted on such cruelty. We could not rule out altogether, story could be true with little exaggeration. We feared what if it was true. Spiteful treatment of human being floated among the dolomite dust throughout our way back home.