‘It’s a little before 10am on New Year’s Day 1915, and the sun strikes broadside the picnickers waiting at Sulphide Street station.’
In Broken Hill, Australia, thousands of miles away from World War I, hundreds of people are waiting to join the train for their annual picnic 25 kilometres out of town at a shady creek in Silverton. This had been a town ritual since 1901 when it was established by the Manchester Unity Independent Order of Oddfellows, a friendly society with its Australian foundation harking back to 1840. The train consists of 40 ore wagons, cleaned out for the occasion, with planks for seating and space underneath to pack blankets, chairs, and hampers with lamb sandwiches and lemonade for the picnic which spectators would eat while watching the races. The train, with its 1200 passengers, pulled slowly away from the station.
‘This is a day to forget absent ones. To set aside unwelcome thoughts of war.’
Two months earlier, on 11 November 1914, the Ottoman Sultan Mehmed V, and Muslim Caliph, declared a holy war against Great Britain and her allies - enemies against Islam - when he sided with the Central Powers in World War I. This call to arms was mostly ignored by Muslims, but two of the few who did not ignore it were in Broken Hill. Mullah Abdullah and Badsha Mahomed Gül were British passport holders from India’s north-west, and both were on the fringes of Broken Hill society.
‘The cutting is the perfect spot from which to mount a surprise attack, and will be cited as proof of Gül’s military experience.’
When the dust settled, three hours after the first shots were fired, six people were dead and seven were injured.
This novella is the second work of fiction I’ve read about this event (‘The Cleansing of Mohammed’ by Chris McCourt was the first). Before I read Chris McCourt’s novel in 2012, I’d never heard of this ‘New Year’s Day Massacre’. Since 2012 I’ve been unable to forget it: we need no reminder, now, of acts of terrorism.
In this novella, Nicholas Shakespeare takes us back to 1915, to the racialism - both casual and deliberate - that existed then, to the disdain for difference, and to the very real disadvantage that occurs when changing circumstances result in reduced opportunity for employment. I’m left wondering whether Mullah Abdullah would have taken part in this massacre if he’d not been fined £3 for slaughtering sheep at the camel camp, and had not lost his possessions in a fire. Would Badsha Mahomed Gül have been so disaffected if he’d not lost his job, first as a cameleer and then in the silver mine? We’ll never know.
I found this novella thought-provoking, a reminder that events like these should not be forgotten, that instances of terrorism in Australia are not new, and the causes may be complex.
‘As if this strange and tragic event had occurred and then been blown away by the desert winds, until there’s nothing much left or remembered.’
Jennifer Cameron-Smith