In
the night these words whispered
to me on the curtain rustle.
—Take the fruit that is ripe on the branch; the branch closest
to you! Accept blessings!
“You
too?”
Two
winners of the Asia-link grants (of which there are only twenty in
the whole of Australia) sit in our Guerilla Bay living room, just
introduced five minutes before. One of the women, Mary-Lee, is going
to Japan to translate a classic work from a woman living 1000 years
ago in Kyoto; the other, Naomi, is travelling to the Philippines to
research, write and produce plays about the resilience of Filipino
women in Australia.
M.
said: “I feel hardly deserving, since I just sent off an application
and gained it without really much more thought.”
Naomi
said: “Yes, I had no idea this would fall into my lap. I think
the grant sponsors want to know the recipients have a clear intention
based on previous work that shows their interest in Asia; and that
they won’t cause any trouble in the cross-cultural arena. They
want people who know what they want to do.”
Still,
the pair shook their heads in amazement at the synchronicity.
—We don’t need a grant to be linked to Asia. We are already
linked to Asia by sympathy.
The
rest of the extended family are sitting, eyes glazed, watching tsunami
stories of horror on television. Wave after wave of shock passes through
the room. An uncharacteristic silence has fallen across the blended,
extended family.
There
had been a bizarre cold change, with winds buffeting us as we strode
the Bingi Point to scan the coal grey sea for signs of dolphins, whales
or even tsunamis ... we cannot start to imagine the scale of the disaster
taking place on the other side of the Pacific, and yet we are distinctly
connected by threads of understanding and experience. Someone we know
could be on holiday in Phuket or Malaysia. We have all travelled in
Asia.
Millions
of people who never have holidays live there. Now they are surrounded
by collapsed buildings, floating cars and corpses. We are here, swimming
on a sea of family love and generosity, cushioned by our sense of
connectedness. Yet the threads tug and tug at our rug of protection,
threatening to unravel our tranquillity.
One
of the younger ones says: I know the planet is going to die. I’m
scared.
Another
one says gently: The people living on this planet just need a big
shake-up before they realise they are all part of the human family.
Yesterday
the sea was fragmented, broken up by wind and foreboding. This morning,
says the older brother, the sea is flat. Cold but flat; silver wrapping
paper with not a wrinkle on it. No memory of what has passed the day
before.
Today
the houses will be cleaned, the glasses dried, and our Christmas will
disappear into the celluloid on the laptop to accompany next season’s
dried arrangements.
We
will all take with us the strong flavours of our laughter, an abundant
table of stories and fruits from land and sea. The links to Asia are
deeply felt, and like the tectonic plates we lurch from comfort to
fear, from compassion to awe.
Memories
of a recurrent childhood nightmare keep swamping me. A massive wave
towers over my head as I run screaming with my family. This dream
remains close to consciousness. Like the snarling lion teeth gnashing
close to my face, the tsunami is poised in slow motion ready to close
its jaws with a crash.
Only
the distance of sea and land separates us from the hundreds of thousands
taken by the wall of water. There is a fine line between them and
me, a thin veil between dream and reality.
One
last coffee is offered before we depart. Somehow the aroma of coffee
on this final morning of our feasting is so pungent it brings tears.
©
Fiona McIlroy
28 December 2004