Transcriber: Preksha Jain Reviewer: David DeRuwe
Hello everyone.
My name is Behrouz Boochani.
Some of you will know me; some of you will not.
I am a Kurdish novelist and journalist.
In May 2013, I fled Iran
because of my journalism and cultural activities.
I traveled to Australia by boat, but never arrived.
I was exiled to Manus Island alongside 1,000 other people.
Manus Island is a remote tiny island
in the north of Papua New Guinea, PNG, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
This is my story:
A man who left his country because he didn't want to live in prison.
A man who sought asylum, but ended up in a prison for six years.
My story is the same as 2,000 other innocent people.
People who have been in prison
in Manus and Nauru for seeking asylum in Australia.
My story is only one of many stories in these two islands.
When they exiled us to Manus in 2013,
we found ourselves in a place that was worse than a prison.
We were deprived from having access to many things.
Basic things, including having a phone.
For four and a half years, we were living in this prison
with metal fences and guards, and with much deprivation.
At the end of 2017,
we were forcibly moved from that prison to other compounds on Manus Island.
So the history of our life here is in two parts:
The closed prison and now the compounds
which have fences around them and guards,
but we are allowed to move around the island during the day.
Although we have been moved from the first prison,
we are still in a prison,
a bigger prison,
an island prison.
After three and a half years, the PNG Supreme Court ruled
that keeping innocent people in prison is illegal
and deprived us of our human rights.
It also ruled that we should have access to phones.
This was a big achievement.
Before that, I had smuggled a phone into the prison
by exchanging my clothes, shoes, and cigarettes
with a local man who was working inside the prison,
and I started to communicate with the outside world,
with people such as journalists.
The guards would sometimes attack our rooms, looking for phones.
Twice they found my phone and took it, and I had to smuggle another phone.
This happened to many of us here,
so it was not easy to communicate to the outside world.
I didn't feel safe with the authorities and guards,
and that's why I worked under a fake name for more than two years.
When I became sure that I had made
a strong network of journalists and supporters internationally,
I decided it was safe to publish my work under my real name.
For me, writing has always been an act of resistance.
In this situation on Manus, it is still my resistance.
The system that operates this prison aimed to reduce us to numbers,
to remove our individuality, and destroy our identity.
For me, writing and creating is a way of fighting
to get my identity, humanity, and dignity back,
in front of a cruel system that is established to take anything
that has meaning of life from us.
In Manus, I soon found that the language of journalism
is not able to describe the systematic torture that we are under
and the life in Manus prison camp.
The language of journalism is a kind of language
that is part of the power structures that I am fighting against.
How can I describe six years living in exile
in one of the worst prisons in the world?
Twelve people have died already.
For so many people who have heard about people in Manus and Nauru
we are reduced to some simple pictures.
But we are human.
We exist.
And we are suffering.
We are human, same as you.
How can I describe a father's suffering
who is separated from his wife and children for six years?
How can I describe a mother witnessing her small kids growing up for six years
in a prison camp?
How can I describe a young man who was full of life,
but has lost opportunity to continue his education,
to find love, has lost his health, his family, his hope,
has lost many opportunities that you take for granted?
That is why I have worked for years to tell this story,
through creative and literary language.
That is why I wrote a novel on my phone
and sent it, text by text,
through WhatsApp to my translator in Australia.
Language is important.
You will notice I call this place a prison,
Manus prison,
not an offshore processing center.
Naming this prison as a prison shows the lies of government language.
It helps us to understand the structural and systematic torture
of Australia's detention regime.
Part of creating my own language
is to fight against the commodification and objectification of our pain.
It is a deep part of this system that imprisons and tortures us.
I know that people who participate in TEDx share their inspiring life and perspective
to create a way for others.
But, for me, as a person, who is still struggling
alongside hundreds of innocent people against this system,
what can I say?
How can I inspire people while still I am not sure
if I will survive or not.
I am really sorry, sorry that I make you uncomfortable,
but I think that I don't have a choice other than to make you uncomfortable
because this is my story.
I'm a kind of person who was born in war,
I have had the life full of adventures,
I've experienced homelessness, poverty,
and sometimes the luxury of an income and a home.
I have met many kinds of people,
I experienced amazing love,
and of course, I have many stories to share.
But, I think I don't have this right to talk about myself
while many people are suffering in these two islands.
I don't know, perhaps, one day, when I am a free man,
I will be invited to talk with people about other experiences -
about love, life, and the meaning of life.
I don't know, perhaps, if I smoke less, I will survive.
I smoke too much.
For now, I must write and talk
because there are still 500 people with me in prison on Manus Island.
There are still hundreds on Nauru .
We are still in prison.
I have the tool of language, of writing.
It's not easy to write from here.
It costs me a lot.
I fight to write and hope that people actually read my words closely
and engage deeply with them.
In the end, my wish
is that people in Nauru and Manus reach their freedom soon.
Thank you
(Applause)