Miracle on the port

Culture Matters

Adventures of an Xmas Angel

DARA E HEALY

THE HUGE containers felt like prehistoric giants.They stretched towards the night sky, contemplating the deserted port. The cranes, rising even higher in their rectangular structures, completed the illusion of an abandoned, futuristic city. The sea hummed and lapped softly against the port wall in its ancient rhythm. Christmas lights in the trees along the water’s edge twinkled on the surface of the water.

Angel darted between the containers. Dressed entirely in black with a hooded sweater, she moved cautiously, ignoring the churning in her stomach. The dimly lit port helped her confidence. Plus, she had heard that none of the surveillance cameras were working anyway. The guard never even saw her, neck flopped against the chair back, snoring loudly through his open mouth.

“Doh move.”

Something, probably a gun, pressed into the back of Angel’s neck. She froze, slowly putting her hands up, wondering if she could fight off whoever was behind her.

Angel’s body language betrayed what she was thinking. The next sound she heard was a click as, definitely a gun, pressed harder into her neck.

“Doh test meh,” the man whispered tersely.

She put her hands all the way up and the man roughly turned her around and pushed her against the container. Their eyes met. The man sucked his teeth, then put away his gun.

“Angel? Wha you doing here gyurl? You taking this ting too far now.”

“Too far?” Angel spoke quietly, shaking with anger and frustration. “A 12-year-old boy dead from a cocaine overdose. His 15-year-old sister with ah STD. My friend who is a teacher in primary school tell me she had ah eight-year-old talking about more sexual positions than you or I know about and how she help Daddy clean his gun the night before. Dey flooding the place with guns and drugs, and the children suffering. What you think I doing here?”

Dexter, Angel’s detective friend, looked away. He pulled her to the back of the container.

“You cyah be here Angel. These people doh play.”

Angel reasoned. “Look, dem druggies, they trust me. I does carry food for the children sometimes. I hear them talking. They know the scanners on the port not working, so any and everything passing through. Customs, police, government, business…everybody want they cut, everybody making sure the guns and drugs coming into my community!”

Angel’s eyes filled with tears of rage. “The druggies does work the port, you know – nobody doh take on ah set ah addicts. They does move in and between, get to find out when shipments coming through, who moving what, when, what time. You know it coming in from all over – New York, Mexico, Venezuela, wherever. A whole network. Dem druggies is small fry, passing information to whoever up the chain. All they interested in is getting enough for dey next fix. Last time I pass, the children ent eat for days. And forget Christmas. The children …”

“Ok, ok.” Dexter cut her off. He whispered, “You shoulda talk to me instead ah playing detective.”

Angel interrupted, “I ent playing detective, somebody have to do something. And I know if I tell you anything, you woulda tell me keep away.”

Dexter replied, “Listen, it have some of us who still care about this country, about the children. Ok? But you can’t be here. I warning you. You lucky is me who find you. Go home. We’ll handle it. Cool?”

Angel reluctantly left the port.

Over the following days, she joined with her neighbours and friends to organise hampers for families and gifts for the children. She listened out for any information that could help Dexter. In the weeks before Christmas, a couple she knew, a mother and father, were shot in the head; the father covered their five-year-old daughter with his body. so, luckily, the child survived. Gun battles intensified.

“Hold on,” Dexter told her, “hold on.”

Then it happened. Angel saw on the news a massive haul of guns, ammunition, cocaine and other drugs worth hundreds of millions of dollars. And the best Christmas gift – images of senior people involved in the criminal network being arrested, taken away in handcuffs.

A few days later Dexter appeared as Angel was about go and deliver hampers.

“Oh gooosh. Look ting!” he exclaimed.

“Doh worry,” smiled Angel. “Everything get scan.”

They laughed and headed out to take Christmas cheer to the children.

Dara E Healy is a performance artist and founder of the Indigenous Creative Arts Network – ICAN