Italy, valtournenche

Less Free Than Me

By Michael Quin

We shared no common past, and expressed ourselves in different tongues. Their faded shirts exaggerated the years between us, which were only three or four, and our life trajectories could hardly have been more different. But we did share something, and it would illuminate my perspective on life and travel for years to come.

In contrast to my comfortable life, when I met these Afghan refugees they’d recently been incarcerated in detention centres, called by their number, criminalised - whether for months or years I was too ashamed to ask. This their reward for managing to escape the Taliban, more or less in one piece, which they sometimes spoke frankly about, but more often avoided. This group of men, alone without their wives or children, kept themselves together by looking to the future.

I met them weekly to teach English, but it was always going to be about more than that. Rashid asked about the music he heard from my car as I arrived. Was it Australian music? Was my car a good car for an Australian man? How much did it cost?

He was about my age, and desperate to explore the culture of this country so foreign to everything he’d spent the first part of his life learning. He, like the others, was starting again from scratch.

For the older ones it seemed more difficult, learning so many new tricks. When the younger men noticed their scrunched faces they translated the last sentences to bring them up to speed, then smiled and patted them on the back.

In class they jostled for position, as if they might learn more by being closer to me. When I sat with them they smiled, some of their smiles marked by scars, so enthusiastic for the lesson to begin. You wouldn’t have guessed that they’d just come from a ten-hour shift at the abattoir. They smiled a lot in those classes.

While watching this group of men sketch maps of their native Afghanistan, trying to out-do each other in accuracy, I wondered privately about their journeys here. Proudly they spoke of the professions they’d left behind, and what it’d meant to them.

I taught them some Australian customs, explained surfing and barbecues and things to do at the beach. They wanted to leave for the beach immediately. They ooh’ed and aah’ed at newspaper images of spectacular AFL marks and demanded I explain how it was done. They always asked if what I was telling them was true.

One night a dinner for the teachers was held. They forced platters of skewered kebabs upon us, and never took the last of anything, in case their guests may’ve wanted more. They laughed at my pronunciation of the more exotically named dishes. We all laughed a lot that night, they seemed so proud to see us stuff ourselves sick with Afghan food.

After dinner they invited me to join them at their home. I was flattered as they promised as much tea as I could drink. Rashid came in my car, he wanted to listen to Australian music on my car stereo, and asked questions all the way.

It was a modest outer-suburban house we arrived at, but it oozed hospitality. The door was open, and in the spartan front room old sofa’s lined the walls. There was comfortable seating for 12 in a house for three. I remember thinking how I’d never seen so many seats in one lounge room before.

Their kitchen was almost bare, but for an old cardboard box of oranges, which they of course offered me. We drank black tea, glass after generous warm glass, and smiled at each other.

On the floral carpet sat a small TV. We watched grainy video of one man’s wedding, all the smiles of those he’d left behind. It must have been hard for them, but I also felt their relief at showing me, or anyone, that they too had a culture and a community.

The last time I saw them I explained that I was going to live and travel in Europe for the next three years. Mid-way through telling them I felt guilty that they couldn’t have travelled even if they had the money. They asked me not to forget them, and to wave to Afghanistan from the plane window as I flew over Asia, though they were sure they hadn’t been forgotten there.

The freedom to travel, and the endless possibilities to learn from others are things to be celebrated with adventure. In all my journeys I never forgot those who taught me that.

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