‘The responsibility of privilege must always be to raise others up.’
- From ‘Still Life’, by Sarah Winman
In the latter half of 2019, I was gobsmacked to learn that just 15 kilometres from my home, 60 male refugees were detained in a crappy hotel, stuck in limbo between the government's rock-solid refugee policy and the hard place of yearning for freedom.
These men were unwell and were transferred to Melbourne for urgent medical treatment due to the trauma and cruelty they endured while imprisoned in a detention centre on Manus Island for eight long years. Yes, you read that right!
Because of a policy change, these men were left to wait, suffer, and suffocate in their hotel rooms until something changed. But nothing changed. Their hotel rooms were as imprisoning as Manus was, but without any fresh air (their windows only opened about six centimetres).
Then, in November of 2019, I was fortunate enough to meet one of the men—an Iranian refugee named Moz, who I'd first glimpsed behind the glass window of his room on the third floor of that shitty hotel.
Although approved with a visitor's permit, I had to go through a convoluted process to meet Moz in person. I could take nothing with me except unopened packets of biscuits and crackers or sealed bottles of juice. I couldn't take anything that might bring the men the comfort of distraction—table tennis balls or bats, pomegranates, gifts of any sort—nothing fresh or fun.
Moz was released on a temporary visa a year later—his first taste of freedom in nine years. Since meeting him, I've met many other wonderful, big-hearted, and beautiful refugees who have now been granted temporary visas. They can work but not study; they receive no government assistance aside from Medicare, and they're still living in a kind of limbo, wondering and waiting to see if they will ever call Australia—or anywhere—home. Or, ever see their families again.
As friend and advocate, Claire Gomez, wrote recently: ‘Many are still stuck in horrific conditions in Australia's offshore detention hellholes of PNG and Nauru.
And many in the community on visas called "Bridging Visa Exit" that tell them "You will never be allowed to make your home here, despite being into your 10th+ year of refugee asylum under Australia's care. You will be displaced at some unknown future date, sent to yet another foreign place, have to lose everything you have - your new network of friends, family, work, home. It will all be taken from you yet again."‘
Moz was one of the lucky ones - insofar as he was released from the hotel ‘prison’. But he, and thousands of others and their families remain ‘stateless’, living hand-to-mouth, without a right to further their education or standing in life. And no place to call home.
The money I raise from selling my wares is but a drop in the ocean. I know it won’t change policy, but it may make the lives of some a little easier in their day-to-day existence.
HOW YOU CAN HELP:
Every piece of glass art I sell goes into a personal fund-raising account, which I use to help refugees with specific needs. Money raised has contributed to rent, clothing, utilities payments, food, medicine and other living expenses. Every little bit helps.
Over the past few years I’ve raised over $4,000 that has gone directly - and anonymously - into the accounts of those in need.
HOW YOU CAN BUY:
Head to the gallery page and choose or call to create your piece. Once you’ve picked it up, pay using the bank details provided, with your name as a reference.
In-person collection from my ‘Wild Cherry Glass’ studio in Eltham is available and is my preferred delivery method. Packaging and posting glass can be time-consuming, expensive, complex, and full of excess packing materials that I’d rather not add to our already dire planet’s fragility. (And despite all efforts, sometimes glass art sent in the mail can arrive in pieces.)
Please collect your piece or ask someone to collect on your behalf where possible. If collection is not an option, please let me know and I will happily work something out for you.
I'm privileged to be able to play and work with glass, and it's an honour to help raise others up who would otherwise be stuck behind their glass walls. Sometimes seen, yet rarely heard.