By Elle Kaye
Winner of the Australian Jewish News 2015 Writing Competition
 |
| Award winning series Homeland and Prisoners of War |
The graffiti stared at her. Bright, dripping yellow on the grey
tunnel wall, illuminated haphazardly by a flashing, fluorescent light. She tried
to imagine what would possess someone to risk their life to write such a thing.
Tried to ignore that gnawing sensation that told her that she was meant to see
it. Today. Now. Urgently.
This wasn’t the train she had meant to catch home. She was
early. Classes had been cancelled in advance of the exam period starting the
following week. But here she was. Stopped. Blinking in time with a fluorescent
light and a spray of graffiti.
She imagined the anonymous author. An utter cliché, baggy
jeans, skateboard, backpack full of spray-paint canisters. And as she imagined
him there she shouted to him: “Hey! Does it even matter which you kill? It’s
not the answer that matters. It’s the question itself. Asking yourself the
question matters. Thinking is what matters. Intention matters.” And as her
monologue played out in her imagination and as her eyes scanned the text again,
the bag on her lap began to feel heavy.
She had never had access to her papers before. But today she
had had to reapply for the next year at university. On the previous two
occasions she had been escorted. But because she had been such a good girl for
the past two years, because she had returned home daily, because she continued
to tow the line, she was allowed to have her papers for today only. She had
stood passively as she watched the safe being unlocked and her papers
retrieved. She had promised faithfully to return them.
Every day she returned to her community was another day she
risked being married off. She knew how it would be. Knew that the marriage
would happen without her knowledge. Knew that she would be woken one morning
and married before the sun had fully risen.
Being different was not a good thing in her community.
Unless, of course, you could be useful. And so, improbably, she was given the
opportunity only a handful of women had been given before, a degree at
university. And because of her obvious aptitude for numbers, stellar lineage,
her quiet demeanour and outward piety, she was not seen as a flight risk.
She would have liked more time. But as the train continued
to stand still and as the light continued to flicker against the yellow
graffiti, she knew she needed to act.
She got off the train. She walked into the first bank she saw.
She opened a bank account with her papers and two cheques she had received only
that day. She had won two prizes this year. $6750 all up. Not enough to live
off. If it were only for the cheques, she never would have had the courage to
leave. It was actually having work prospects that did it. The other piece of
paper weighing down her canvas bag. A job offer. Full-time over the summer then
part-time when university returned. Mentorship. Even rental assistance.
She thought of the question again as she walked out of the
bank into the glaring sunlight. She laughed aloud as she thought of the irony
of her choices. She hadn’t killed a man or an idea. She had killed herself … by giving herself a new life. Back home, she
would be mourned as if dead. Excommunicated forever. And she knew that there
would be a deep and heavy sadness to reckon with. But for now, all she felt,
was free.
  |
| Gideon Raff is a guest presenter at the 2015 Sydney Jewish Writers Festival |
He will also be speaking on Sunday 30 August from 3:15pm - 4:15pm, TV espionage: In Conversation with the creator of Homeland, Prisoners of War & Dig, Gideon Raff with Michaela Kalowski.
To see the full program and buy tickets: www.sjwf.org.au
No comments:
Post a Comment