I walked down into the Regional Processing Centre (RPC) with a sheaf of papers in my hand. The RPC was grey and dusty.

In the sheltered area, called ‘The Green Room‘ because of its shade-cloth covering, men stood or sat in groups. Some were watching programs on the TVs – pre-recorded from their home countries - in Tamil, Pashtu or maybe Farsi. Others were playing or watching games of carom, fingers quickly flicking black or brown discs across a powdered board to sink their opponent’s discs.

I approached one group and smiled in a general fashion and called out one of the ‘boat numbers’ I had on the papers. Each man had a number. My job was to find the man who had this number and get his details – usually with help of an asylum seeker who spoke a little English.

A chair suddenly appeared for me to sit on. Because chairs were scarce, certainly not enough for each man to have one to sit on, they were valuable. Some men took them back to their tents and used them as bedside tables to store their things off the ground—to keep them out of the wet when it rained, as it did, often.

I was given one of the precious chairs to sit on—a gesture of hospitality and welcome that I would meet with consistently in my interactions with the asylum seekers on Nauru. As I tried to write down details, resting the papers on my thigh, another man handed me a piece of cardboard to lean on. I learned that this man’s name was Uzutallah.

Uzutallah was grey too. He wore the grey track-pants and nondescript T-shirt issued to him. He offered me the cardboard and smiled. I think I said ‘thank you’ but I know I was dumbfounded. Uzutallah had nothing. Few possessions, meagre clothing. He’d noticed my difficulties in writing down details while resting papers on my thigh - not only noticed but did something about it. He’d picked up a flattened water bottle box (which were also highly prized as makeshift seats on the gravelly ground) and gave it to me to lean on.

This was humbling for me who had everything—I didn’t have to sleep in tent or wear clothes other than my own or be in a place against my choice.

Some time later, with the help of an interpreter, I told Uzutallah how grateful I’d been for his help. And in a wonderful piece of ‘coincidence’ I met Uzutallah in Sydney in mid-2014 when I was taking part in the Salvos Red Shield appeal. I’d door-knocked most of a small cul-de-sac when a voice called out, ‘Teacher’. I looked round to see Uzutallah smiling at me from across the road! He knew me only as Teacher from my work in the classroom in those early days. I was astounded - and overjoyed.

My time on Nauru taught me that connections and conversations can be had with minimal common language. Where there is intention, connection and conversation are always possible – but it can take courage to make the first step.

In this situation, Uzuttalah was the courageous one.