As a long financial year drew to a close, my psyche told me I needed a holiday. My accountant told me I needed deductions. And so, I flew myself and my family (read: employees) to a resort in Malaysia for a Journal of Contract Law conference.
After making myself Robinson Crusoe by showing up to the first session in shorts, I slunk back to my room to change into my suit, returning in time for lunch. Of course, the Australia/Malaysia refugee swap was the buffet-queue stopper.
“We have no right to criticise,” said one Malaysian lawyer. “We are awful to refugees.”
I suddenly came over all Scott Morrison-esque. I decided I must inspect an immigration detention centre.
I canvassed the local lawyers, but no one could offer me an ‘in’ until, a few days after the conference, I was relaxing by the pool (read: checking my emails) with my new baby (read: the newest member of my staff) when I received a message.
“I can take you to an immigration depot, but you’ll have to tag along with me to a drug rehabilitation centre afterwards.”
I took the deal.
“They will be suspicious of a white man like you,” said Edmund, my Christian missionary guide, as we tore down the highway in his old four-wheel drive. “I’d say we have zero chance of getting in. Why do you want to go there anyway?”
I explained the lopsided refugee swap. It was all news to Edmund.
“Where do your refugees come from?” he asked.
“These days, mostly Afghanistan and Iraq.”
“Then, you Australians have the better deal.”
“What? Why do you say that?”
“Because, I bet you will get 4,000 Christians, and we will get 800 Muslims.”
At first, I was staggered – even offended – but, the more I thought about it, the more I wondered whether Edmund had nailed the policy intent.
The refugee centre approached, with tiger wire and steel. It reminded me of such places back home – except there was a restaurant in the car park.
I studied the menu while Edmund approached the guards and tried to talk his way in. He returned, shaking his head.
“I can get in anywhere with barbed wire – except these places. To rehab?”
Edmund peppered his driving with tales of his car crashes all the way to the drug rehab centre which, to my surprise, turned out to be a prison as well.
“One rule,” said Edmund as he fussed with boxes of bibles in the back of his car. “You keep your fancy phone in your pocket.”
In dying light, Edmund led me in past a mosque to a sweet corn-coloured hall where 40 broad shouldered, unguarded inmates were waiting. He directed me to a seat and distributed bibles into a growing fuss.
“What is your name? Where are you from?”
I apologised for the distraction.
“Don’t worry,” said Edmund. “They’re just excited because they have new bibles today.”
Edmund stood up the front, preached, and spilled everything he knew about me. After he was done, rain conspired to keep us captive, so I asked about everyone else.
Most were guilty of drug crimes. Others were ‘voluntary’ inmates – volunteered by family for 18 months of medium-security clean up.
“A new healthy life, eh? You have a gym in here? You all look so strong.”
There were smiles – indeed they were last thing I saw – before there came a crash of thunder, and the lights went out.
I waited for my eyes to adjust. They didn’t. I remembered the weapons in the room: the benches, the lectern, the glass slats in the windows, the power cord on the fan. I backed up to a wall, and waited, widening my eyes.
“Do you still have your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Then get it out. Now! This is the one exception.”
I shone it, and we splashed our way back to the car.
“Praise the lord for smart phones!” said Edmund as we jumped in. “Were you alarmed?”
“Not really,” I said. “Just very alert.”
Tailgating in heavy rain, Edmund made sure I was alarmed, all the way home.