Black Saturday

It’s the same story told over and over and over. Same horrific details. Same descriptions. Same turns of phrase –

It was like a hurricane – a hurricane of fire

You could feel the oxygen being sucked out of the air

The roar was like a thousand jet aircraft – I’ll never forget the roar

I saw the fire come in the smallest crack – like a blow-torch – searching for oxygen

The tops of the trees were snapped off – not by the fire – by the wind – by the force of the wind

We had no warning

We only had seconds

The house was on fire and so was the car

We lost everything – everything

The whole town is gone – it’s all gone

The whole family has gone

It’s a wasteland of death

It’s like Hiroshima

I haven’t been able to cry yet

This morning he was here —

The same story. But always a different story teller. So many story tellers. Too many story tellers.

Not enough story tellers.

It is Wednesday and five minutes before the end of the music lesson. Twenty five eight-year-olds have been happily engaged in rhythm games, some singing and playing instruments. We’re finishing up, ready for the classroom teacher to arrive and walk them back to their room.

A child sitting nearby mumbles something to me. I don’t quite catch what he’s said. He repeats it and I gasp. He says his brother and sister and Aunty were killed in the fires. I ask if he was there. In the fires. He says yes. And so was his mum. But she’s alright.

The room is suddenly silent.

The children are sitting in a circle. It is a circle of shocked and concerned faces.

He tries to explain what happened. He doesn’t have the language to match the experience. He steps forward, flings his small arms around me and buries his head in my chest. I can feel his body heaving. I fight desperately with the lump in my throat.

I manage to teach the next class. Just. At lunch time I find out from the boy’s classroom teacher that he has made it up. He’s told me a story.

I am flabbergasted.

I have an opportunity to talk with him at the end of the day. Yes, he’s seen the fires on television. It made him feel very sad.

I am not trained in child psychology. I do my best to listen, ask some questions, offer some suggestions.

I go home exhausted and perplexed and disturbed.

And I wonder about the impact of tragedy on a child. Wonder how it happens that reality and fantasy merge to become truth. That facts become irrelevant.

So many stories.

(Donations to help fire victims can be made to the Red Cross by clicking here for a link to the website or by phoning 1800 727 077.

“The 2009 Victorian bushfire Fund to assist individuals and communities affected by devastating bushfires in Victoria has been launched by the Premier John Brumby in partnership with Red Cross and the Federal Government.”)