Think back six years. What was your life like? How has it changed? How much have you achieved? What are all the things that have happened to you?
Think about it for a moment.
Asking these questions is the only way Amalan*, 30, knows how to help people understand all he has lost. During those six years he lived behind the walls of a detention centre.
“The detention centre life [drove me] crazy. Everything sadness. I lost everything. My family, my education, everything,” Amalan says. “Our life [was] contained within a few hundred metres. We [couldn’t] do anything, just eating and sleeping. What life is that?”
Amalan sits on a couch in a small living area adjoining the kitchen. He has short black hair, is cleanly shaven and wears a blue t-shirt and black tracksuit bottoms as if ready for the gym.
Sunlight streams through the windows bathing the room in a warm afternoon glow. A tambourine and two guitars lean against the wall in the corner, and piles of cookbooks are stacked on the kitchen bench. It’s easy to assume life in this flat is a happy one, full of comfort and enjoyment.
But every time there is a sound or movement from outside, Amalan’s body tenses. The wheels of a pram crunch against the gravel and his eyes dart momentarily towards the door, voice suspended.
When he speaks his hands quiver. Sometimes he drums his knuckles on the coffee table. Often he wriggles. Other times he is completely still staring into a world that only he can see.
Amalan lives his life haunted by the past and fearful of the future.
In 2009 the Sri Lankan civil war ended. In the latter stages of the war, Sri Lanka was accused of many atrocities. The final assault alone is estimated to have killed as many people as the previous 26 years of conflict.
“There are still problems [in Sri Lanka]. The gun is sleeping but the war is going on against Tamil people,” Amalan says. “I couldn’t stay. If I stayed in Sri Lanka I would get killed, my situation was like that.”
“When I left… I didn’t know where the boat [was] going but at that time I had to save my life. It was very scary. It was a small boat. How many people die?”
AJ+ on Twitter: “”No one puts their children in a boat unless the water is safer than the land.” #KiyiyaVuranInsanlik pic.twitter.com/88iUnpajbK / Twitter”
“No one puts their children in a boat unless the water is safer than the land.” #KiyiyaVuranInsanlik pic.twitter.com/88iUnpajbK
Amalan never said goodbye to his family but calls them every few months. They have been tortured, he says. He waves his hands and shakes his head as if shaking the thought before falling silent.
When Amalan arrived on Christmas Island he was overwhelmed with feelings of gratefulness and relief. It was the start of a new life. One where he could live in peace, free from danger, and prosper.
But while in detention in Darwin, Amalan received a negative security assessment from the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation (ASIO). He was considered a threat to national security. As a person seeking asylum, Amalan had no rights to appeal and was denied any explanation or advice.
“Even if I [saw] immigration officers in the detention centre, they [would] say, ‘sorry, I don’t have any answers’,” Amalan says. “So what [could] I do? It was [a] really hard time… I was powerless and helpless.”
Prevented from obtaining a visa, but unable to return home because of well-founded fears of persecution, Amalan faced indefinite detention. He was transferred to Melbourne, where the psychological effects of his ordeal began to take their toll.
“I couldn’t participate in English classes or other activities because mentally [I] was not good, I [couldn’t] focus,” Amalan says tapping his head with his finger.
While the Department of Immigration and Border Protection says its immigration detention facilities encompass a strong focus on the rights and wellbeing of detainees, The Red Cross Vulnerability Report (June 2013) states long periods in detention result in debilitating effects including increased levels of suicide, self-harm and psychological vulnerability.
Amalan describes his experience as torture. The waiting and not knowing, he says, is “killing” detainees.
“Jail is better than a detention centre. A prisoner knows he has ten years punishment, and then he is released. He can make himself strong. The problem is we don’t know and that is [a] hard time.”
The only respite came in the form of visitors. Amalan, first confused and surprised by visits from strangers, was grateful to have a connection to the outside world. It became the one thing he looked forward to each week. As they shared stories, hopes and values, these visitors became his friends and eventually his family.
“You have to understand while I was in the detention centre I met very, very good people but I had a bad experience. Australian people are good people.”
Earlier this year, life suddenly changed for Amalan. His negative security assessment was revoked allowing him to integrate into the community. He was both excited and terrified.
“[I thought] ‘What will happen?’ Everything is new for me. I [didn’t] know where I [was] going, where I [was] living, I [didn’t] have family.”
It is not only Amalan who has had these concerns.
According to The Red Cross Homelessness Census (2012), almost half of people surveyed seeking asylum, who received government support, didn’t have access to quality, long term housing, and more than 200 were living in emergency accommodation or sleeping rough.
Laurie Nowell from AMES Australia, an organisation for refugees and migrants, says there’s a large discrepancy in the services asylum seekers receive compared to refugees.
“Australia is recognised as having one of the best refugee settlement programs in the world. If you’re a refugee and you come to Australia you get very well looked after. Asylum seekers are not so well looked after,” Mr Nowell says. “The help they get is at a much lower level. They may get help initially to settle, but it is short-term accommodation.”
Organisations and community groups that deal directly with asylum seekers are often run by volunteers with limited resources. They struggle to meet demand.
One of the biggest organisations is the Asylum Seeker Resource Centre (ASRC). Its Humanitarian Services Director, Sherrine Clark, says more than 1700 members are in need of ASRC’s services with an additional 60 to 120 new members every month.
While Amalan received support from AMES, ASRC and Red Cross, he says he is lucky to have his friends. Many offered to accommodate him and teach him the basic skills needed to live, such as how to catch public transport and pay the bills.
Despite living in the community, Amalan is still not safe. While he was in detention government policy changed. People seeking asylum who arrive by boat can no longer apply for permanent residency. The best outcome for Amalan is a three-year Temporary Protection Visa or a five-year Safe Haven Enterprise Visa.
The uncertainty of a short-term visa makes it difficult to rebuild his life. He wants a chance to flourish, but at the moment, he says, all he can do is survive.
“I don’t know [in the] next moment, tomorrow or the next month what will happen. No one knows. They can put me back in detention, they can deport me because [of] the new law. I am suffering.”
“Even now I can’t sleep from stress. I’m thinking, thinking, thinking what will happen in the future and what [has] happened in the past.”
Work is a welcomed distraction. Amalan, who was once an electrician, now stocks supermarket shelves four days a week. Depending on his mental state, his manager allows him to cut and pick up shifts.
“It was difficult to find a job [because] they need qualifications. I have qualifications but back at home,” he says. After a short pause his face breaks into a smile. “When I [found] a job they stopped my Centrelink benefit. Now I sustain myself.”
There is also happiness in the small things such as playing cricket with friends in the park or doing what he loves most, cooking. Sometimes he cooks for a community program, where he can share his love of food with the public.
“I want to do more [activities] but it’s hard you know, [especially] if I’m thinking about my situation.”
Sometimes, when Amalan finds himself thinking too much, he goes for a drive. From the security of his car, he observes the city he hopes one day to call home. There is great comfort in witnessing the daily rhythms of other people’s lives, whether it is a group of construction workers leaning against their trucks with their coffees and cigarettes every morning or dog walkers chatting on the sidewalk at dusk.
“Many people don’t know their neighbours. They don’t know what’s happening [around them]. But I want to know. I want to learn. I go and see and [it makes me] relax.”
Every now and then, Amalan returns to the detention centre. Visiting is not easy; it’s a place full of bad memories but his friends are still inside.
While he is reminded of what he has lost and suffered, he is also aware of everything he has gained.
Passion, skills and determination have led to work and community involvement. His quiet, humble nature and infectious smile have led to many new friends. Bravery, courage and resilience have led to him being here today.
But there is one more thing Amalan wants.
He wants a future. To rebuild his life with the assurance it won’t be taken away from him. To start a family where his children will grow up without the fear of harm. To make a difference in a community that has welcomed him.
All he needs is the opportunity.
*Name has been changed at the request of the subject
