CYNTHIA: I pieced the whole thing together later.

Bra Zet had been smoking and drinking as usual, with his gang of hero-worshippers. One of the girls teased him about not being as brave as he used to be. He took a knife and slashed his knees. Blood oozed out and he laughed as the gang stood there horrified. He was rushed to hospital in an ambulance, laughing all the way.

Bra Zet had dangerous impulses. Always had. He was feeling that he was somewhat losing his grip on the gang, and he wanted to demonstrate to them that he was still the old Bra Zet, with all his bravery intact. If he can't impress them by moving around in style in a motorised wheelchair, he will impress them by showing how brave he is. How could they know that because of his paralysis he felt no pain?

I went to Baragwanath Hospital to see him.

The doctors told me it would be impossible for his wounds to heal. They would have to amputate both his legs. He refused. But as the days went on his wounds began to rot. The doctors had to amputate without his permission. He was discharged from hospital and I resumed 'caseworking’ him. He was now a changed man, except for one thing. He still wanted his motorised wheelchair.

But he was no longer the abrupt self-assured Bra Zet who used to threaten me. He was a scared man, and dreaded meeting people - even his gang of youths. He thought the whole world was laughing at him. He spent all the time alone in his room, brooding. But at last he was beginning to respond to my counselling and I found myself spending hours with him, talking about everything under the sun. And I don't know when it happened. But suddenly he was something more than just ‘a case’ - a human being.

You know, Bra Zet was not my only client at the welfare for the disabled. I had hundreds of others. Old men. Women. Children. Oh, children. Young boys and girls; cut down, as the saying goes, in the prime of their youth. Cut down by bullets, paralysed for ever. Casualties of the June ‘76 riots.