From Mr Gassim Al Abbady.  He and his wife have 6 children.  The family have been held in Australia's detention Centres and prisons for over 3 years.  The youngest was 4 months when they left Iraq - now she is 7.  (Translated from Arabic into English by Zuhair)

A LESSON IN DRAWING

My son puts his art box in front of me                                          and asks me to draw for him a bird..                                     

I cover the brush with grey paint                                                   and I draw for him a square with a padlock..and bars         

My son tells me with eyes filled with wonder:                              "...But this is a prison..                                                           Dont you know dad how to draw a bird!??"

I tell him: My son forgive me                                                        I dont remember the shape of birds.....

My son puts his pencil box in front of me                                     and asks me to draw for him the sea..                                            I take the pencil,                                                                      and a black circle I draw..

My son tells me:                                                                    "But this is a black circle, dad...                                               don't you know how to draw the sea?                                         Also dont you know that the colour of the sea is blue?

I tell him: My son                                                                       I was in my time so skilled in drawing the seas                              but today..they took away the hook from me                               and my fishing boat..                                                                 They forbid me to communicate with the colour blue..                      and catch the fish of freedom.

My son puts the sketchbook in front of me..                                 and asks me to draw for him a stalk of wheat.                                 I hold the pen..and I draw for him a gun..                                     My son mocked my ignorance in the art of drawing                        and he tells me astonishingly:                                                     Dont you know dad the difference                                        between a stalk of grain..and a gun?

I tell him son..                                                                            I knew in the past the shape of a stalk of wheat;                            the shape of bread and the shape of a rose   ...                            But in this metallic age                                                            where the trees of woods enlisted with the militia men                   and where a rose wears a patch of cloth..                                    In the time of armed stalks of wheat:                                         armed birds; armed culture and armed religion..                           There is no bread to buy..                                                      without discovering a gun lying inside                                       There is no rose I can pick                                                      without raising its arms in my face.                                            There is no book to borrow from the library                                without exploding between my fingers.

My son sits at the edge of my bed                                               and asks me to read him a poem.                                                My tear drops to the pillow                                                         He catches it with bewilderment..and he says:

"But this is a tear, dad, not a poem                                               I tell him:  My son when you grow up...                                        and read the collection of Arabic poems,                                       you will realise that a word and a tear                                            are sisters                                                                               and that the Arabic poem...                                                                                      is only a tear rolling between the fingers.

My son puts his pencils and his painting box in front of me.              And asks a homeland for him to sketch.                                         The brush stirs in my hand..                                                      and weeping I fall.