bushfire's unsung heroes

The road into Flowerdale is an eerie sight, a visual retell of the fires that tore through the land beyond six days earlier. I’m in a convoy, trucking supplies to the town ahead. It’s hot in the valley and thick smoke makes it hard to breathe. The radio is off. We don’t talk. Everywhere I look the earth is black. Animals lie dead and the anomaly of a spared road sign, or sole tree, sends a shiver. Some houses stand triumphant amidst the ruins of the land that surrounds them, while others are mere remnants, broken echoes of what was once a working home. Bricks still smoulder. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Fire trucks constantly pass us and I get a glimpse of the blue and gold clad men with hard eyes and strong arms.

Immediately upon arriving in Flowerdale, road blocks check for the white wrist band that tells police we are on official business and not there to sight-see or conduct criminal activity. I share fleeting eye-contact with the officer that says more than an hours conversation ever could. I can’t believe this is real. Stories of abandoned homes being raided seem incomprehensible. The make-shift refuge, just metres from the now infamous Flowerdale Pub, is a host to the army lads, SES, firies, paramedics, police and volunteers. They crowd the tiny area, along with donated goods that overflow the small shed expected to supply the entire community. It is a battlefield. I’m not equipped for this. I panic.

Everyone’s face tells the same story. Ordinary humans, who lived lives of normalcy, now bear the grime and fatigue of a war not won. Somehow, hollow eyes still manage to crinkle in a shared joke. The feeling is one of victory in the resilient town. Residents have lost everything, yet feel solidarity in their efforts to rage against an unbeatable force. People now run on pure adrenalin. “I haven’t slept for six days,” one woman tells me. She hugs her small white dog close to her. As we drive her to a nearby shelter, I don’t know what to say to her.

No-one gives up. Even when I want to. I think of my home, my kids, my comfortable bed and the telly to look forward to. I am riddled with guilt when I have these thoughts. For the survivors around me, these things belong to a past life. Six days after the fires began, paramedics still roam the area, looking for wounded, offering assistance. Organised chaos remains a constant.

At the Wallan Relief Centre, morale is surprisingly high and the legendary ‘aussie spirit’ is out in full force. Those who have lost everything wander through the rows of clothing, bedding, shoes and suits, seeking to outfit an entire wardrobe for themselves and their kids. This is a humbling experience for many proud people, who now begin again. One, produces a weak smile, thankful to be alive. A proud family arrive with need, but leave, unable to take anything. I want to run after them and bring them back so I can help them.

My heart hurts when I watch a boy, the age of my own, become excited at discovering some silly, noisy, shiny toy he begs his mum for. I shake my head at her. She tells him he can have it. Tears are never far off. Pain is everywhere. One woman’s blistered lips hurt her as she sorts through clothes, looking for a shirt for her husband. One shirt. It’s all she wants. She doesn’t know where he is. Later I see her sharing a joke with a volunteer. But it’s fleeting and before long, her eyes well again. My arms ache, my head hurts, and I’ve cut my foot. I want to go home. But I haven’t done enough yet.

I’m not the only one torn between my own, unaffected, family home, and the people I’m trying to help. The volunteers beside me look ready to drop. Shoes are eased off for a bit. A cool drink and a bite, and it’s back to it. They are bruised, battered, injured and worst of all, grieving. Survivor’s guilt keeps them on their feet.

The unsung heroes in the back, endlessly sort clothes into sizes. They slip by unnoticed, work assiduously to do whatever they can. These men and women, who arrived en masse, are not the obvious ‘heroes’ of this war. They won't make it to the news. No body will know, and even care they are here. Hours later they go home, then, return the next day, and the next, and the one after that. Many are victims themselves, and they too work alongside the others, their belongings tucked in their back pocket.

The thick layer of smoke that covered Melbourne on Friday 13 caused us all unease. Fearing the fires had relit; the relief centre lines ran hot as people demanded to know what was going on. Fear that it wasn’t over propelled alarm and hands stilled from their work as reassurances that it was ‘just smoke due to the wind dying down’ were dealt out.

The centres are inundated with donations, to the point where they are no longer accepting clothes. Still in great need, however, were tools i.e. shovels and rakes, etc, required for the grisly task of clean-up. Volunteers hug the victims, dry tears and listen to awful stories. Unequipped and untrained, they handle the grief with a pat and a tissue. It'll never be enough.

While conditions have eased, fires continue to threaten communities and authorities warn it will take weeks before Victoria will see the impact of what has now been touted as ‘Black Saturday.’ As the world heads back to their lives, it is with hope that the survivors can find a way through the devastation. One can only speculate upon Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, Survivors Guilt, injury and grief, and the likely affects of the aftermath.

The ABC website are currently taking registration for anybody willing to help those who are now homeless and Red Cross are calling for blood donors. For general fire safety advice, and information on what to do in the event of a threatening fire, contact the Victorian Bushfire Information Line 1800 240 667. Or visit www.dse.vic.gov.au/firesor http://www.cfa.vic.gov.au/

Don’t stay. No possessions are worth the risk.

The official death now stands at 209, and everyone at the centre is broken from the fact of this. Those lost were just like us. Mother’s, fathers, kids, lovers, and friends.

First published in the Mercury and archived by the State Library of Victoria