Graham Atkins

Story

Harare, Zimbabwe…

From 1997, Robert Mugabe, president of Zimbabwe, sponsored a wave of violence against his own citizens Ð his targets were the MDC (the emergent black opposition party) and white Zimbabweans.

‘The white man,’ thundered Mugabe, ‘is not indigenous to Africa. Africa is for Africans. Our party must continue to strike fear in the heart of the white man, our real enemy, they must tremble!’

I sensed a little of what it must have been like to be trapped in Nazi Germany during Hitler\’s rise to power – a feeling of time running out, of doors closing, the stench of moral decay assailing one\’s nose, and all around the drumbeat of evil on the march.

I knew there was now no hope left for the country of my birth. It was time to gather my family (my wife Avryl and our children Kyle and Chelsea), and get the hell outÉ

Perth, January 2001…

The Arrivals Hall beams with lightness – bright, air-conditioned, crisply clean. Passengers bustle across the wide concourse, their criss-crossing footsteps muffled by a spotless grey carpet. Chrome stanchions, sparkling under a winking dome of halogen lights, reflect an unfamiliar efficiency. I sense that there is an unseen organising hand behind the scenes guiding everything so that it is done just right. It\’s so different to the stuttering half-chaos I have left behind in Africa. I breathe deeply, inhaling the smell of polite efficiency. A smartly dressed woman in a blue uniform catches my eye, smiles. Her blonde pony-tail wags like a friendly dog\’s tail. We are the last passengers in a long queue that shuffles towards the immigration desk. But I am in no hurry. I feel I need to savour every moment of this first taste of freedom, to soak it all in, to reassure myself that we are indeed rid of that scowling, angry, bitter darkness that we have left behind. Only twelve hours ago we had had to face the last hurdle, Zimbabwe customs: ‘Are you carrying any Zimbabwe currency?’ the surly official in threadbare jacket had glowered at me. I had almost laughed then, almost told him where he could shove his worthless Zim dollars. Instead, I simply told him I had a hundred dollars, just enough to buy one Coke before getting on the plane. Then he had waved us through, and we walked into the future.

Now, as we wait patiently in line, I look out through sparkling plate glass windows, into the shimmering heat haze that announces the start of an Australian summer. The distant landscape is washed flat beneath a cloudless dome of blue sky. The sky in Australia seems so wide, so crisply clear!

‘Good day, sir.’ The immigration officer behind the desk motions for me to step forward. ‘Welcome to Perth.’ The official greeting is shocking in its politeness and sincerity. I face the immigration officer, my stomach knotting itself like it always does at border posts. My memory of border crossings in Africa is of tense encounters with surly and drunk officials, a sneer on their lips as they intimidate or look for a bribe. The Australian official just smiles encouragingly at me, waiting for my passport.

Suddenly the lightness of this strange new place seems to swirl around – it rises like a wave from my feet, surging through my body, overwhelming my fragmented thoughts of the past. I feel as if a huge weight is lifting from my shoulders. I hold on to the edge of the desk as I struggle to keep my balance.

‘I feel like I just escaped from jail,’ I whisper.

‘Pardon, sir? Are you all right?’

I blink hard, until I can again see the sharpness of the wood-grain desk in front of me. I look at the immigration official. He has steady brown eyes above a well trimmed black beard, flecked with grey. Iraqi? Afghan? Pakistani, perhaps? I stare into the depths of the man’s face. I want him to know how important this moment is to me. My throat catches with an inexplicable lump.

‘Thank-you,’ I croak. ‘Thank-you for letting us come here.’ Salty tears prick behind my eyes. The immigration officer holds my gaze for a moment, then his eyes flick away. He is no longer looking at me, he is staring far away. Immediately, instinctively I know he is remembering his own past, his own journey, a journey maybe like mine, probably worse, a ruined life smeared with torture and anguish. I stand there, silent.

Slowly the officer\’s eyes return to the present. He focuses back on my eyes. A smile flickers across his lips. An unspoken understanding exists between us, born of our shared fate.

‘Don\’t worry mate,’ he says gently. ‘It\’ll be all right.’

(The full story of my life in Zimbabwe is told in my book ‘Once Upon a White Man’ by Graham Atkins)

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