Tasmiya

On the spur of the moment, Husband and I took the boys to the park near our home. The older 2 quickly settled into their routine of running from one attraction to the next – first the slide, then climbing the web and lastly, attempting the rock climb. One and half year old settled into his routine of dutifully following his older brothers and collapsing into a lump of bitter frustration, realising he could not possibly keep up.

Another family watched all this with mild curiosity. A mother sitting quietly with her son, reading from a school book while her daughter climbed up and down the fireman’s pole. We greeted each other with friendly “Hello!”s while our children eyed each other up and down, too shy to attempt the same.

“Where are you from?” the mother asked me.

“I was born in Zimbabwe but I have lived here most of my life. What about you?”

“We are from Sudan.”

We quickly lapsed deep into conversation. I was surprised to hear she had FIVE boys and her daughter was her youngest child. How did she manage it and still look so calm? I wondered aloud. She just laughed and shocked me even more when she said she was keen to have another.

The book she had in her hand was her English textbook. “I am at Level 2 English!” she exclaimed proudly.

I awkwardly asked about the situation in Sudan, “Is there still a lot of trouble there?”

She looked away and remained silent for a while.

“Yes. Lots of trouble.”

She did not elaborate and I didn’t pursue it. Instead we spoke about her time here in Australia. Her family had been living in Darwin for 2 years but found it necessary to move to Brisbane as jobs up north were scarce. She didn’t like Brisbane. “Too cold!” she said.

I watched her daughter playing together with my son. For the first time, I studied the girl – Not only was she wearing shorts in this cold weather but they were threadbare and I saw at least 3 holes in that one item of clothing.

This family had left unspeakable trauma in their home country; left everything they knew to make a new life in an alien country. The mother was busy taking care of six children and learning English while her husband was working hard to put food on the table and clothes on their backs. My heart ached and I blinked away my tears.

“I have lots of clothes at home that I have been meaning to give away to charity organisations. Would you mind..I mean is it ok..can I give these clothes to you..for your children?”

She smiled. “Yes. Is OK.”

“I don’t have any clothes for little girls though.”

Laughing, she said, “Is OK.”

I gave her my address and told her that when she had finished at the park, she could come and see me and I would have the clothes ready for her. I raced home and organised Husband’s shirts, clothes from the boys’ cupboards and anything else I thought she may need.

I waited.

For two whole months I waited.

She did not come.

..to be continued

Last year while waiting for the school bell to ring everyday, I befriended an elderly Chinese woman. She had two grandchildren and she sat patiently and waited beside me every afternoon. She loved my children – always chatting with them and giggling as the boys made funny faces or smiled at her. She told me often to make sure my youngest had his feet covered (he loved taking his socks off and would not have a bar of footwear of any kind.) At times I thought I saw a twinkle in her eye and an itching to pick up and hold him. I didn’t offer to take him out of his pram – I worried that I might have misinterpreted those signs or that perhaps she was too frail to carry the little beast of a baby!

We spoke about the weather, especially the biting cold wind that seemed somehow to be worse on the school grounds than anywhere else. She taught me the Mandarin word for “strawberry.” At least, I think it was Mandarin. I’ve since forgotten the word. She giggled at my (mis)pronounciation. I don’t think I even came close. Sometimes we would just sit together without saying anything.

Her face lit up when her grandchildren finally strolled out of class (they seemed to take their time while the other children sprinted out). She talked quickly as she hugged them and started the walk to their home. I saw her sometimes as I drove home and watched in my rear view mirror; her face never lost that infectious smile and her grandchildren walked with her, laughing or stifling a giggle.

I didn’t ask her name. She never asked me mine.

In truth, she never spoke a word of English. We made ourselves understood by animated gestures or sometimes just a nod or a laugh. Politicians and many people in this country believe migrants need to learn English and pass an Australian values test. I’ve never thought it a necessity. I don’t know much about her family but I saw her take care of her grandchildren. I saw their smiling faces everyday and her undeniable love for them. My children looked forward to seeing her and were bitterly disappointed if we didn’t. I can say undoubtedly her family was that much richer, better and fuller as were mine for knowing her. There is no exam to measure her worth to this society.

On the first day of school this year I looked for her. She didn’t come to pick up her grandchildren. There was a much younger woman in her place (perhaps her daughter?). The next day I waited again. After a week of wondering and dreading, I plucked up the courage to ask her grandson about his grandmother.

“She’s gone back to China,” he said sadly.