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‘The Museum of Modern Love is more than just that rare treat,
a book that requires something of the reader—it is a book
that painstakingly prepares you for its own requirements. In a
playful way, this bold new novel by Heather Rose is an astute
meditation on art, bravery, friendship, love, how to live, and
on dying . . . Once the novel is closed there is so much left to
consider, leaving the reader at the start of a journey but well-
equipped.’ Louise Swinn, The Age
‘From its conception to its last page, this book challenges our
perceptions of where life ends and art begins . . .’ The Australian
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WILD RIVERS Maria
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Hobart Airport
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Sandy Bay
Huon Kingston Tasman 43˚ S
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SOUTHWEST Valley Tinderbox Peninsula
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The far shore, Bruny, is one of the largest and most popular
islands off the Tasmanian coastline. It is almost one hundred
kilometres in length, half as big again as Martha’s Vineyard but
without the mansions, wealth or famous seasonal occupants.
Bruny is a long stretch of farmlands, eucalyptus forests, green
and gold hills, and long white beaches. For those who come to
holiday, it’s a place for fishing, swimming, and simply sitting on
your deck with a beer or a glass of wine and thinking about how
good life is. Tasmanians do quite a bit of that, given the chance.
Permanent residents on Bruny number just a few hundred.
Several thousand shack owners swell the island population
through summer and school holidays. And more than two
hundred and fifty thousand tourists visit year round, staying in
the hotels, cottages, caravan parks and national parks, filling the
restaurants, buying local chocolate, local cheese, local whisky,
gin and vodka, local salmon, oysters and local wine. If Tasmania
is the new France for global gourmets, Bruny is the new Cote
d’Azur. Tourists fill cruise boats and bus tours, car parks and
craft stores. It is for the tourists, the Tasmanian government
says, that the great bridge is being built.
shrug off their tanks and lower their weight belts to the deck.
Four large catch bags are winched out of the sea. The contents
are heavy and unmoving. No wriggling fish, crayfish or abalone.
Everything is done with as little noise as possible. None of them
remove the balaclavas they are all wearing.
‘That bloody drill . . .’ says one of the divers.
‘Let’s move,’ says a second, surveying the shore and the sky.
They look towards the bridge and fall silent.
The boat engine comes to life and the gull lifts away. Within
moments the boat is heading south out of the bay and leaving
a widening wake down the channel. A security guard for the
bridge comes out of his office on the hill at Tinderbox and notes
the disappearing boat. He scratches his chin and frowns. He
calls his colleague over on Bruny Island. It goes to voicemail.
He calls again. Still no answer. The boat is mid-channel now
and moving fast. He calls another number and looks to where
he knows the foreman lives on North Bruny.
‘Yep,’ says the foreman. Dan Macmillan doesn’t sound like he
was asleep, though he was when the phone rang. He’s quickly
alert.
‘Can’t raise Clarke,’ says the security guard. ‘Just had a
strange-looking boat close by. Don’t know when it came in.
Didn’t hear it.’
‘Is it still there?’ Dan asks.
‘Headed down the channel now. Reckon you can see it from
your place.’
Dan gets out of bed and walks into his lounge room. The
distant hills are just catching the early light, their forested peaks
aglow. Dan picks up his binoculars on the bookshelf and surveys
the water. He finds the wake and travels his gaze along it to the
speedboat moving south fast. Too far away now to see much, but
it’s no recreational fishing boat. He’s sure about that. It looks
like a military vessel, almost invisible against the sea.
‘What’s that doing here?’ Dan says more to himself than the
guard. ‘No-one called you?’ he asks.
‘No. Just saw it come out under the cliffs.’
‘Clarke see anything?’
The security guard sighs. ‘Can’t raise him. It’s quick though.
Quiet too. Navy?’
‘Maybe,’ says Dan. ‘Pretty sure we don’t have boats like that.’
From either side of the channel, the two men observe the
great bridge and the colour coming back to the world. The
wake settles and the channel resumes its vivid calm. The vessel
is out of sight.
‘I’ll go down and take a look,’ says the security guard.
‘Check carefully. And ring Hobart,’ says Dan. ‘Find out what
you can. Maybe someone forgot to tell us something.’
‘Will do. Let’s hope it’s nothing.’
‘I’ll go wake Clarke,’ says Dan.
A s the hours went by, the truck began to smell more and
more of men. If we were passing through towns blasted
to rubble, I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that we were squeezed
into the back of a truck, part of a midnight convoy entering
a stronghold of land I had observed only on satellite images.
When we finally drew to a stop, it was after dawn. I slipped
the niqab over my clothing. The truck doors opened on a
bleached dusty street with the usual piles of rubbish. Decomposing
plastic bags were caught on thorn bushes and underfoot my
boot broke an abandoned plastic fork. It was twenty-eight
degrees and 6.30 am.
The compound had traditional dun-coloured walls. Half of
our security detail went ahead, assessing the place for threats
and traps. When they returned with the all-clear, we entered
the home along a short corridor that opened into a wide, central
courtyard. It was a beautiful home—or at least it had been. The
ornate circular fountain at its heart was dry now. The citrus
trees had been stripped of fruit. The mosaic floor and intricate
stonework spoke of history. The black flags and the militants
you really seeking? You have come a long way.’ He had a lean,
bearded face with a beaked nose and dark, inscrutable eyes.
If the world knew we were looking to return Daesh militants
held captive, there would be uproar. I had been working on
the release of the women for years. This was the last of those
still alive, we believed.
A Daesh recruit receives an additional monthly stipend for
keeping a sex slave. And the slaves they had taken en masse were
Yazidi women. We knew they were broken, diseased and severely
damaged. Under the laws of sabaya a man is entitled to rape, beat
and punish his slave. Some had been as young as seven when they
were captured. They had been slaves now for over seven years.
The caliphate had open passage to the sea through Turkey
thanks to President Erdogan, and it was expanding across the
Syrian border. So much for Daesh being crippled. This was
what the US withdrawal had done. That was the message of
the US flag in the body.
I have learned through my years in this role that violent
extremists can appear perfectly reasonable even when their ex-
tremism has obliterated charity, mercy and clarity. The emir had
a political science degree from the London School of Economics
but had returned home after the death of his father in Abu
Ghraib prison at the hands of US interrogators in 2004. His
brothers had disappeared in Fallujah. Our intelligence said he
had a wife and two daughters living in Saudi. I knew he had
agreed to this meeting because, with access to the sea, everything
had changed.
In these situations, I quiet my fear as if it were an animal. Fear
is how you get yourself killed. Or you kill someone else. I would
have liked to pull out a hidden weapon and open fire on all of
them. But I didn’t have a hidden weapon. We had been carefully
searched. Not quite well enough to find the tracking device under
my skin, but enough to make me feel quietly violated.
More than twelve million people now lived under this regime.
I had seen the tens of thousands of refugees made homeless.
I knew how many Yazidi daughters had died. In all this, I
did not forget what the emir had lost nor the horror he had
witnessed. Or how he had chosen to disconnect himself from
the world he once inhabited. I would kill to protect my chil-
dren, I have no doubt of that. But when I saw a man like the
emir, I wondered about the power of an ideal. The certainty
of a belief. Would I ever kill for an ideal?
The ex-president said, ‘A caliphate without mercy and
compassion will never be viewed as anything but a threat to
its citizens and its neighbours.’
‘Christians have killed millions of my people without cause,’
replied the emir. ‘What was the war in Iraq if not an assault by
a Christian coalition on my people? Where was this Christian
compassion when my father was murdered? When my brothers
were thrown into a mass grave outside Fallujah?’
This is negotiation. It’s emotional, sometimes predictable
and rarely simple.
‘But we share—’ began the ex-president.
‘You think I can help you,’ the emir interrupted. ‘Perhaps
I could. But what is fifty brothers when five hundred are joining
us every week?’
This was an exaggeration, but in truth we had no idea. If it
wasn’t five hundred each week now, it might well be by next year.
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I met the trucks transporting all the women home. There were
powerful scenes of reunion, but within a few hours each of the
women fell into an almost catatonic state. I had warned their
families that this would happen. When the enormous effort
to survive was no longer required, they would go into shock.
Only with time and gentle coaxing, with tenderness and love
and family members to lure them back, would some of them
emerge, so deep was their trauma. We know this from thousands
of women rescued and returned the world over. None of them
truly recover. They simply learn to go on, each in her own way.
Some kill themselves. Two of these women were only fourteen
now, and one of them had been bought and sold fifteen times.
I was at one of the girls’ homes when I heard a strike had
destroyed the home of a Daesh leader and a nearby training
camp in northern Iraq. White phosphorous was used—an
American weapon of choice. The American State Department
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