The Very Important Case of Rami and the Rainbow Bird

The incident happened at lunchtime in the playground. Anje had seen it from the teachers’ lounge as a blur of exploding colors. The porcelain bird had shattered into hundreds of multicolored pieces; its beak severed from its face, and its wing split apart into its many fragile feathers. Some of the smaller pieces continued to jump along in the wind like tiny crickets, until finally they disappeared in the long grass entirely.

Rami, six years old, was knelt down in the grass, finding splintered colors here and there, like trying to pick up glitter. He kept reaching his hands downward, now haphazardly pulling out fistfuls of grass when the grade advisor yanked him by the shoulder into a standing position. Rami stood there, looking down and away from the grade advisor, red-faced, eyes pooled with water.

As it turns out, there were multiple accounts of the incident. A crowd of curious children congregated at the commotion directly afterward. Upon discovering the victim of the incident, a little runt known to be prone to tears at any provocation, the beloved Rami Saleh, who was shy but known to never have a bad word to say about anyone, the crowd of children stirred. It was a funny thing, because the other children, though terrible they can sometimes be, seemed to know that Rami did not cry to be a bother, but because he couldn’t help it; they were kind and tender with him. Sensitive little Rami Saleh, who cried at the first school bell and the last one too, who cried whenever he lost sight of his bird, and most certainly bawled when he had broken it.

“My bird! My poor bird! He’s dead! I miss my poor bird!” Rami screeched, shining with tears.

One particularly tall and precocious child proclaimed: “We need to fix this now!” and then, stepping onto the platform of the jungle gym to project her point to the children’s assembly, “We must go to the court and have justice!”

Another child from the crowd: “Yes, yes, the court! I’ve heard of it! The Federal Magi-magi — “

“The Federal Magician’s court!” another child generously offered. There was nodding all around.

At once the children collated the objective accounts of witnesses situated at the positions of one o’clock, six o’clock and so forth at the time of the incident.

One account from the bystander at one o’clock states: “I saw that boy looking at Rami’s bag. He flew right at it on purpose! He has it out for everyone!” (So the record told, but one wonders if the child had really said so in so many words.)

Another account, this time the one originating from six o’clock, addressing the tall precocious child who was now the makeshift appointed judge of the Court: “It was a provoked action, your honor. I saw Rami bump his shoulder into him as he was running. Rami’s bag was open, and I thought I saw Tommy push back so hard that the bird slipped and flew right out!” (So it was reported.)

The children erupted at this new information; the older ones embroiled by the injustice, and the younger ones now activated by the restless energy of their peers. Some started to turn and point at the implicated boy.

Then a third account, from the alleged, self-described best friend of Rami, though he talked to Rami more than Rami talked to him, who climbed up the ladder of the jungle gym to plead the tall judge child to calm down the crowd for his consideration: “Your honor, your honor! Regardless of who was at fault, the consequence of the incident is too great for one child to bear. The bird was of sentimental value, you see. Given to him by his mother, who is not here. It’s very important to him.” (We are not sure whether the child used the words “consequence” or “sentimental,” but this is what is stated in the record after the fact.)

This caused a great controversy, and the jury of children jostled and whispered to each other and came to consensus in a single nod. The verdict of the Federal Magician’s Court was clear: Firstname Rami lastname Saleh was owed a new multicolored bird, to be recompensed in full, with such recompense allowed to be obtained by any means necessary.

The grown-ups, too, had been interested in the commotion in their own way. At the time of the inciting incident they were having tea in the teacher’s lounge before they heard the shatter. Steam curled upwards from Anje’s chai as she spoke with Principal Marconi. They were in the middle of reviewing Rami’s file.

“The kid isn’t the problem, Ray. I do think you know that,” she said. “I don’t think we know what it’s like to go through what his family’s experienced. It’s easy to forget how big the little things are at that age. They don’t have any other comparison point.”

“You know what I mean, Anje.” The principal tapped Rami’s casefile. “His progress has been very slow lately, and his constant crying is disrupting the other children’s learning. I think it’s emblematic of a larger problem with the program.”

Anje put her hand to her temple.

“I get they have it tough, Anje. I really get that. And I’m glad we’re able to do what we can for them. That’s why I set up the school to receive kids like Rami.” The principal leaned in, pushing his face into the stream of steam lifting from Anje’s cup of chai. “But at a certain point we hit capacity. There are other parents effectively paying to cover these children’s re-homing programs. Basically subsidizing them. And it’s really not fair when program kids end up disrupting the learning outcomes of kids who are properly funded to be here.”

“I just think it’s too early to make that call.” said Anje, sipping her tea. “Socializing with other kids helps. Feeling normal helps. Kids are very sensitive to new environments at this age,” said Anje. “We need to give them a bit more time.”

“Is this environment that new, Anje? Rami’s moved forty, maybe fifty kilometers from home. You’ve definitely seen much worse than this.” This made Anje shift in her seat a little, and she lifted her cup again to sip while she thought of what to say next. She wasn’t entirely sure if the principal was trying to flatter her work, or if he really felt that way.

“There are other conservation schools that are part of the re-homing program. You could figure it out.” The re-homing program, as all well-constructed programs are, was multi-pronged: Firstly, it was to immerse environmentally displaced children in conservation activities that enhance their wellbeing; secondly, it should rebuild a healthy relationship between themselves and their new environment; thirdly, it should provide the children with a climate grief-trained counselor just like Anje to help support them.

“The last thing kids like Rami need is to be moved again. He likes it here.” 

“He likes you. He is too attached. He hardly interacts with the other children.” Principal Marconi looked sideways at the window into the playground at the commotion again, where a frazzled teacher had come in to attempt to break up the fuss. “I’m just trying to keep this school running, Anje. For all of the kids. The auditors are just going to be looking at outcomes. Maybe kids like Rami would be better off spending more time with his mum, in the hospital.”

Anje had visited Rami’s mother only once in hospital, for their second check-in meeting. His mother was there at the hospital often: The doctors said the burns required several rounds of reconstruction surgery over months. The casefile recounted the circumstances of the disaster: She was still at their house, in Rami’s room next to the veranda, while the emergency services were shouting at her to get out, as the bushfire replicated itself in bright pillars shooting from the ground. Anje remembered how his mother had cried at the end of their meeting and asked for her to please take care of him; she was so sorry she couldn’t be there for him at home all the time. Anje remembered thinking how crude it was that we called them bushfires; that their name felt so remote from the homes full of life that they ravaged.

When they brought Rami in for the program, he had come in with a handful of belongings, the most important to him was a multicolored porcelain bird. She had looked over his file, which deemed him “a little obsessive, in need of constant reassurance,” and she watched him looking down into his palms, turning over the fat little bird many times. 

“That’s a lovely little bird, Rami,” Anje had said to him. “Where does it fly to?”

“He goes home,” he said, to which Anje only smiled gently, feeling a little sad.

First, by decree of the Federal Magician’s Court, the children swept the field for pieces of the multicolored bird like an army of meticulous minesweepers.

Then, the children arranged an assembly line. The arts and craft children had smuggled in glue from an undisclosed source (the third drawer of artsy Miss Hart’s desk), and they distributed it to the assemblers in hope of reviving the once-fat broken bird, which had now slimmed down quite significantly. The child artisans were hopeful that their labor would bear fruit on presentation to the client, none other than the inconsolable Rami Saleh, but said client only burst into tears, repetitively beseeching: “My bird! My poor bird! He’s dead! I miss my poor bird!”

A hush fell over the child artisans, who were more sensitive and touched by the tenderness of the issue than other classes of children in the school. Other solutions were trialed: Colored origami birds; then pom-pom birds (perhaps the origami was simply too flat, the makers reasoned!); balloon birds (perhaps the pom-pom was simply too small!) — the artisan children tried and made it all, none to the pleasure of their particularly particular client, who sobbed and sobbed at the conclusion of each innovation. With consistency like a blaring siren, Rami only wailed: “My bird! My poor bird! He’s dead! I miss my poor bird!” He then struck his arms out and flailed, striking the other children’s offering to the ground, which disheartened the sensitive artistic children.

A more novel solution was required. They were magicians, after all, and could surely persist to find a solution. The children, seeking justice and fair recompense for Rami by aforementioned means of any necessity, now ventured into vigilantism. They needed a wild solution, thus they called in the Wildlife 101 children.

Now, convening at the ring of the last school bell and squatting secretly in the school garden, an “aha!” moment!

“Behind Mr. Macaroni’s office! The rainbow birds!” By “Mr. Macaroni” they meant the principal, of course. There were swallows, sparrows, and most appealing of all was a special green bird, whose round eye seemed to glow and grab their attention just like Rami’s rainbow bird had.

The wild childs hatched a wild plan indeed: They worked with the kid tinkerers, poring over a crayon map scrawled onto the back of a muesli bar box, and hatched a plan to break into the principal’s bird sanctuary. 

The children clandestinely collaborated during the school assembly the following morning, when school principal Mr. Macaroni was sure to be occupied in the school hall. A SWAT squad was recruited for the infiltration, their roles indicated by the differently colored candy stickers stuck over the school crest of their cotton jumpers.

One lollipop-sticker-designated child, who was particularly small and sneaky, jostled the door lock with a cleverly bent wire and heard a satisfying click. The children crept in dutifully and quietly, like a set of ants, while the jawbreaker children stood guard at the doorway.

A gasp!

The children stifled the noise quickly from their offending teammate. The principal was still in his office on the far end across the entrance with Anje, both looking very serious and stern.

A hiss traveled down the procession of children: “The macaroni is in the pot! I repeat, the macaroni is in the pot!”

An alternative plan was to be executed, urgently.

“There!” said another, a Pop-Tart child appointed as scout. “The window!” She pointed at a window behind the bathroom that shared the courtyard with the principal’s office.

The children climbed through after one of the strong jawbreaker boys had cranked open the window, and spotted the vivid colors of the rainbow birds across the courtyard. One of them gazed directly at them, highlighted by a distinctive wedding cake frill around its eye.

The sneaky one nodded to the others and left them behind, drawing open a little canvas bag from over his shoulder. And in one swift, silent move — the frilled-eye bird was acquired!

SCREECH! SQUAWK!

They had made a grave error. Though the children’s operation was silent and sneaky, the bird was not. It was mighty loud, and the bag shook and squirmed violently, in turn igniting the other birds in the cage to make a fuss, knocking open the loose cage door in a furious flurry of dagger-like beaks and flapping wings. The children passed the squirming bag of bird backwards through the line to Rami like a hot potato. Rami, confused about what to do with his tiny hands and this writhing bag, tried to tighten the opening of the bag even further, which caused it to thrash about in a panic even more.

Worse still: the principal’s attention had been attracted by the commotion. Principal Marconi quickly lurched at Rami to drop the bagged bird and scare it away as it flew out. As it poured out of the bag and up again into the sky in a fright, it dragged its talons across Principal Marconi’s face. Anje sprang into action to capture the bird again, grabbing her jacket to wrap around the distressed bird. The children shrunk back in shock and intimidation. And of course Rami cried again, terrified at the cruel and violent bird.

The principal’s expression was dead in a still rage, his face scratched and bleeding. He could only open his mouth agape at Anje, who struggled to hold the torso of the frazzled bird in her jacket. He paced around the courtyard with an authoritative fury, pointing fingers here and there, lecturing about the school boundaries and the assembly currently still going on in the background. Rami ran to hug Anje’s legs, and she only locked her gaze on the children and jerked her head towards the exit, imploring them expressively to leave and go back to the rest of their schoolmates immediately.

“These children — ” The principal said through gritted teeth to Anje, ” — need to be in therapy, not at school. They’re completely out of control.” Anje opened her mouth but the principal interrupted her: “I understand it’s not their fault, Anje. But he doesn’t have the family support at home to help him get a grip. There really isn’t that much we can do for him.”

“Yes there is! We need to listen to them.”

“And what do you suppose listening is going to do? Have you ever listened to the things a child has to say, Anje?”

Anje had just started feeling powerless at the situation, but now her blood began to boil. “Have you!? You need to be patient with them, and if you’re not willing to do that, you need to seriously consider what you’re doing in this job.” She said it before she could stop herself, and wanted to put the words back in her mouth. 

“Are you being serious with that right now?” He was covering half his face with his hand, scratched and reddened by the terrible incident. Anje’s heart sank.

“That was out of line. Look, let’s go to the nurse’s office now. I’m just trying to tell you that we don’t have to make it worse on the kids. Let me deal with it.”

It was time: Anje went to seek out the Federal Magician’s Court herself. They had barricaded themselves in the sports equipment shed with an arrangement of cricket wicks. Rami was obscured by a couple of the children.

“Where is Rami? I need to talk to him now,” she insisted.

The children only stood their ground more firmly: “The Federal Magician’s Court is here to defend and deliver justice for Rami. He is missing his very important bird.”

“His bird?” Anje asked, and they turned their backs to her. They seemed starkly determined to keep her out. This caused her to pause a moment, before she backtracked around the corner and re-approached the Federal Magician’s Court with a different demeanor.

“Excuse me.” The children turned to listen to her next solicitation. She bowed playfully, which seemed to please them.

“To the Esteemed Federal Magician’s Court: I recognise and respect your power, and seek leave to approach your leader, Rami Saleh.”

Anje knelt down to look at Rami, whose face was still snotty and soured up in his grief. She sat down, holding the bird in her gloved hands, now settled and calm.

“It’s an angry bird!”

“It’s no longer in a bag, or in a cage, so it’s friendly again. You can stroke it — gently.”

Its feathers were like neon glowing against stone; a shard of foreign material against a monochrome stone. Anje passed the bird to Rami, cupping the bird in her hands so that he would place his hands over hers. He flinched at first, and then as the bird dropped from Anje’s hands and settled into Rami’s, he ran his chubby fingers along its feathers. It chirped gently in delight.

“Rami — do you see! The bird likes you.”

Rami was still sniffling. “Doesn’t it hate me?”

“It wants to be protected by you. I’ve been sent here to tell you: these are birds to protect, but never own. Can you do that?” Anje was surprised to see that this triggered another flow of tears down his already wet, pink cheeks.

“No, I can’t.”

Anje frowned. “Why not?”

“I’m not good at taking care. My bird is dead, he’s dead, he’s dead.”

Quiet opened up between Rami and Anje. “I’m sorry about your poor bird, Rami.” She looked at his soft round face, which in turn gazed down at the special little bird. “Can you tell me what it looked like?”

“It was green, like this. But also blue and yellow.”

Anje had with her a notebook and a pen, and started taking down Rami’s impressions.

“Like this?”

“No. A bit different. It was blue there.”

“Then like that? Or that?” They sat together and worked through iterations of remembering Rami’s rainbow bird. The children of the court observed curiously from a distance, watching him shake his head, and then nod, and then shake his head again, approving each line by line construction of the little bird. The children were amazed, like watching a sculptor unearth one’s likeness from the anonymous rock in real time. At last, little Rami was a little pleased. 

A funny thing happened then, because Rami remembered the first time he saw his little rainbow bird. He was crying in his bed, he couldn’t remember why, and his mum slipped into his room to console him, though he turned her away and hid in his bed, with no words to explain his hurt. She gently pulled the bedsheet away from his face and popped the bird over the sheet, like it was cresting a gentle hill, and the light from the window poured in and lit up its many colors, which made him laugh. 

Rami saw in his mind the gentle emerald of its wing glinting in the sunlight; this image flashed quickly over another, as he remembered how it glinted scooped in his mother’s dress on the day of the fires, its colors as vibrant and ever, the only thing he recognised amidst the pile of rubble; that day, too, he sobbed and sobbed until his mother brought him his precious bird.

Anje did not know what he was thinking now, but she thought she saw something bright spark quickly across his mind, and sensed him shift. ‘Rami, what do you need from the Federal Magician’s Court, if you could make it come true?”

Rami shook his head tearfully; it was too silly, he said. Mum said they could never do it.

“What! Did you forget that we have the magic and will of our Magician’s Court in our hands?”

He was looking down at the white-eyed bird, with its tiny barely perceptible tweeting, sweetly decompressing in his hand: “I just wanted to go back home.”

A-ha! Anje thought. “Rami, this bird is not from here too, like you. It misses its home and wishes it could go back, but its home is not that same as it was. It’s not safe there anymore.” Anje introduced the species of the bird: the elusive Christmas Island White-eye. The state’s conservation authority had taken in breeding pairs of many of the island’s threatened species, who had dwindled to a tiny fraction of their original population, and sent generations of birds to conservation schools to continue their custodianship. 

“That’s so sad, little bird.” Rami pushed his face to its round feathered body. “I know what that’s like.”

“That’s why we brought it here, Rami. So it can recover and flourish again.”

“If it can’t go home, where is it going to go, then?”

“We’re not sure yet. But we’re trying to build a place for it here, and learn about it, and take care of it the best we can.” Anje saw something in him shift, the most subtle change. “I understand the little bird’s sadness, too. I came so far to leave my old home, and even though it wasn’t safe there, I wanted to go back because this place was so new and different. I didn’t understand it.”

Rami was now closing his eyes, and he started remembering other things, too. The window of his old room led him to the veranda out the front that he spent so much time with his mum on. She cradled his fat, soft arms in her long and elegant ones, the ones that had extended to his as they saw plumes of smoke rising in the distance. He saw the stairs descending from the veranda into the bush outside, and the tree his mum had picked berries from. There they would sit together and gaze out at the trees, waiting with berries to see if his favorite rainbow lorikeet would come visit before dusk descended. He remembered that she had a knack for calling it with a perfect imitation, which he couldn’t yet purse his lips to whistle accurately, though he would close his lips in a small “o” to try and practice it. None of this he had words for to capture so accurately, but he pointed at Anje’s paper and dragged her pencil across it excitedly, babbling as quickly as he could.

Now Anje started to get excited and inspired by Rami, the soft runt now turned formidable architect. She started to orchestrate the children to get to work. She drew up a large picture of Rami’s memory palace, and brought them to the drama room to erect a miniature set. The wildlife kids went out to scavenge for gumleaves, the right kind, and came to Rami to approve their selection. The artisan children brought their palettes and brushes to color its brown brick walls. The precocious little judge expressed her approval of Anje excitedly: “Miss Anje! You’re the leader of our court! You’re the Federal Magician, Miss Anje!”

Rami remembered a great many more things as they built, and he loved the construction, though none can say it must have been truly accurate. Some questionable details slipped into the scene, like the secret tunnel that went straight to the snack pantry, the mighty dragon in the window — so it was reported, and sworn to be the truth and nothing but the truth by Rami Saleh, and even then, enthusiastically emphasized by his peers.

There is no telling what had really happened, though what was certain amongst the Federal Magician’s Court was that justice had been served. None can say if it really looked like Rami’s old home, but importantly, he had now felt like he was home. He and the others in the Federal Magician’s Court took turns to feed the birds, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the gleeful dances and songs the birds gave them in return. And Rami’s mother started to slowly heal, which was helped in some way by the fact that her little one braved the world with a growing resolve, and he cried less and less, one school bell at a time.

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