No Friend But the Mountains: Writing from Manus Prison

by Behrouz Boochani

I have always despised waiting. Waiting is a mechanism of torture used in the dungeon of time.

A major incident has occurred in my mouth. Unconsciously, my tongue keeps poking that soft gap that was once the place of a strong, hard tooth. My tongue is shocked by the monumental occurrence in its immediate environment; missing that tooth creates a void in my mouth.

These nights uncover many years of tears deep in our hearts and open old wounds; they plough into every dimension of our existence; they draw out the bitter truth; they force the prisoners to self-prosecute. Prisoners are driven to crying tears of bitter sorrow.

Their overbearing presence makes sitting on the toilet seat an anxious moment. It is as if their gaze has the power to penetrate the wooden doors and pollute the space, disrupting the degree of freedom experienced within the cubicles.

But the prison system means that the one who desires food has to suffer.

Starvation is a drill / It drills down into the stomach / Then it drills down into the mind / It drills down into all the nerves / It drills down and makes holes / In the end it just drills all the way down.

So what difference does it make whether a human being is born into such a world, to be born beside cows and within an abandoned village? / So what difference does it make whether a human being is born into an environment like paradise, somewhere graced with the fragrance of prosperity?

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