A letter to my home town Bobin, burned down in the NSW fires but unvanquished

Extract from The Guardian

Opinion

Bushfires

Ned Haughton saw friends who escaped the bushfires, house intact and animals alive. And others who lost everything

Ned Haughton

Mon 11 Nov 2019 18.23 AEDT Last modified on Mon 11 Nov 2019 19.02 AEDT

NSW fires: the remains of a property destroyed by bushfires n Bobin, 350km north of Sydney. Photograph: Peter Parks/AFP via Getty Images

Hey Bobin, I came home today. I wasn’t really expecting to. I got a call when I was still asleep, asking if I wanted to drive up to see if the house I grew up in still exists. It does. I’m glad I came.

We’re reasonably well fire-prepped but the house probably only remains thanks to a well-timed water bomb from the RFS. The cottage I grew up in until I was 12 doesn’t.

Ned Haughton in the YouTube video he posted from Bobin. Photograph: YouTube/Ned Haughton

It’s an oddly pretty pile of corro, ash and charred logs supported by a couple of stone walls my mum built when I was in utero. The sculpted face of a warrior woman that looked over me from the mantel while I was sleeping in the lounge room as a kid now looks out over a ruined mess. Maybe a fitting end for that place. At least it means we don’t have to decide what to do with it.

Bobin, I saw parts of you today that I thought I’d never see. Parts that I probably shouldn’t have seen. I saw the insides of trees as infernos. I saw blackened hillsides with nothing left but rock and ash. I saw rainforest on fire. I saw fucking creek beds on fire. Creek beds completely dry, with water in the few deep pools a foot lower than I have ever seen in my 35 years of knowing you.
I saw a country school blackened and twisted and melted to the ground today. After only 136 years. I’m glad the library still stands, and I hope that the relevant authorities have the vision to bring it back. And the hall. We would be devastated without you.

The remains of a property destroyed by fire in Bobin. Photograph: Peter Parks/AFP via Getty Images

I saw a few people today. Some fucking amazing ones. I saw firefighter friends who I’ve known for years, still working after a few hours’ rest following 36 hours of chaos. I saw friends whose houses had been saved looking out for other people. I saw friends who had nearly lost everything, but had managed to escape with their house intact, and their animals still alive, riding the relief high. I saw other friends who had lost everything. Like, everything. Just got out to a neighbour’s house with wallet and laptop and a change of clothes before everything collapsed. Photos lost. Memories lost. The smell of home replaced with the lingering smell of ash.

I saw some of those friends still smiling, laughing even. I saw others crying. I met new friends helping old friends with a place to stay, and old friends helping new friends put out spotfires. I saw other friends getting ready for the fire that would be hitting right now, well prepared, but with fingers crossed that their place burns out slowly tonight, because if it isn’t burnt by Tuesday, it will probably burn harder then. I left knowing I have many friends who are prepared, but also knowing you can never be prepared enough. I hope they get it easy.
Bobin, you’re fucking gutted. I’ve seen fires run through you. The hall nearly burnt a few years ago. But there was never anything like this. No one expected six houses in the middle of the village, in the middle of open paddocks, to just disappear. What the fuck.

A hose on the grounds of property destroyed by fire in Bobin. Photograph: Peter Parks/AFP via Getty Images

But Bobin, if I know any place, and community, that can take a gut punch like that, and stand straight back up, it’s you. You’re a community of amazing people, with an amazing capacity to get shit done. You can pull through this. You’ll probably even do it in style.

I really came home today. I felt it so much. I am who I am because of you. I have fallen back in love, and I look forward to helping you back on your feet in whatever way I can.

The above was first published by Ned Haughton on his Facebook page and reproduced here with his permission