Tomorrow marks 15 years since the Bali Bombings, which killed 202 people, including 88 Australians and 38 Indonesians. Naomi Corteen lost two sisters, Jane and Jenny, in the attacks. This is her tribute to the loves and lives lost, and to a way forward.
My sisters Jane and Jenny had legendary laughter. They were widely loved and remembered for the joy and abandon with which they chased humour, as well their enjoyment of food, wine, anything that facilitated a good time with those they loved.
And how openly and beautifully they loved.
They were the children from my Dad’s first marriage, my sister Ellie and I the children from his second. The age gap between us gave room for them to fill a space in our lives left by our troubled relationship with our mother, and her struggle with mental health.
They were endlessly supportive and present for my sister and me, and if it weren’t for them I’d be an even bigger mess than I already am in life, having spent many years recovering from a difficult childhood and the traumatic events that took place within it.
Jane and Jenny were a sanctuary for Ellie and I, the time we spent with them often felt like breathing oxygen rich air after leaving a confined space.
In many ways, they provided my sister and I asylum when we needed it from our emotionally war-torn home lives.
When they were taken from us in the Bali Bombings the pain and lasting effect left behind has been beyond devastating. I’m glad that I had their unconditional love as an example in my life, because it has helped me see that hating any generalised group of people for inflicting the wound the bombings left on our family, while understandable from the viewpoint of a bereaved family member, is ultimately purposeless, and indeed does nothing to build toward the prevention of the radicalisation of young people.
I can never condemn anyone seeking asylum on the basis of the actions of small factions of one of the world’s largest subsections of people.
I hope that the grief expressed in the following poem can serve to remind others of the grief many across the world are racked with due to similar attacks on their loved ones, affected by wars fought for reasons beyond their control. And that we can all think of the asylum our borders, and we ourselves, can offer others.
Whether they are children in difficult and toxic situations, starving poster children for foreign aid or swathes of the middle class being attacked and villified for having an education and the ability to speak out against oppressive and fanatical regimes.
The right to seek asylum is inalienable from our common humanity.
The decision to actively give it, along with love, trust and understanding, can be world changing.
It most certainly leaves a more positive impact than inciting or holding on to hatred.
A piece of you
Not long after you were gone I dreamt I couldn’t touch you But I could see you dancing And felt all the awe and love I’d ever felt for you All at once
I went snooping in Dad’s shed the other day With shadows of childhood’s wonder and fascination with his piles of rusty things chasing me And I found a part of you Buried in a box By mistake You had written a letter to Grandma On a typewriter Which at six or seven would have been very exciting You could hear it in the tone of every sentence
You told her about Dad making you a fishing line And it made me glad he still chases that passion. That he’s continued to chase anything at all after losing you both Leaves me in awe So does the fact that I could hold Such tangible, solid, earthly proof
That you were here That you were once both a tiny effusive girl And the epitome of awe to me when I was one And that you could be just a memory now Having been so big and real.
I feel like I can’t touch the letter any more I stow it away Not sure if I should share this moment with anyone For fear of this massive sadness and buoyant discovery Feeling different to another Too much Or worse somehow. It would hardly be a discovery to Dad That you were once this little girl Captured so well in this short missive. Just painfully obvious.
I tuck it back into its folder Lovingly kept by Grandma But not before taking a photograph As though the flimsy paper were too sacred to be taken from its resting place In a trunk in the shed But had to be documented Added to my collection of images of you That stand in stead of ever fading memories
I visited your graves once with Dad We took some cleaning supplies he’d prepped in a little basket Especially But when we got there we just stood He reached over and instead of using one of the cloths or scourers to rub clean the plaque He brushed it with his thumb The way a father would to grime on the cheek Of his little girl. I felt I could see you Feel the weight of both of you in my chest But not touch you.