Member-only story
Vignettes — #9
Imran
“So, remind me, Mr Afghadi, what work you were doing before you left your country.”
“Please, call me Imran. I like people use first name in this country.” Imran is sitting a bit uncomfortably on a metal chair in a soulless office run by an NGO charged with helping refugees. Facing him across a stained desk is a young woman with dark curly hair and rimless glasses. Looking at her, he acutely misses his wife. “Can I call you with first name? How you pronounce?”
“Yes, certainly. It’s Im-o-jin.”
“Imogen, I was doctor in hospital in small city when Taliban come. I very frightened, because last time they come they shoot my brother. We are Shi’a and my brother he study engineer in France. When Taliban come again, I take my family away. I had money and we get to Malaysia. I get on boat and get to Australia.”
She leafs through a file on the desk. “Did you only ever work as a doctor?”
“No. When I am at university, I need money, because my parents are poor. I work on building. I learn carp… How you call building with wood?”
“Carpentry. Did you do any sort of apprenticeship?”
“What is that?”
“Did you … um… did you learn officially to become a carpenter. Like learn all about wood and making joins and go to classes?”
