No Friend But the Mountains: Writing from Manus Prison

by Behrouz Boochani

It seems to me the women are fighting off death even more bravely than the men. Their maternal instincts make of them predatory she-wolves; they stare down the ocean, revealing their sharp teeth.

The blind will of a wave strikes the sleeping quarters. The blind will of scared people clings to some metaphysical force or illusion in these last moments; they don’t dare stare death straight in the face. Like bellowing deer, they forage for their salvation within these eerie harmonies.

For years and years I contemplated finding protection within the mountains, a region where I would have to take up the gun, a region where I would be among those who couldn’t comprehend the value of the pen, a region where I would be obliged to speak their language, the language of armed resistance. But every time I pondered the glory and power of the pen, I would go weak at the knees.