‘We started off here in a tent, so I guess we’ll be going back to one’

Gino McDonald, 61, builder (on left), and Patto McDonald, 56, artist, Upper Brogo

Patto We were keeping an eye on the Fires Near Me app. By about lunchtime on New Year’s Eve we’d packed our daughter and grandkids up and sent them off. We stopped by the fire shed on the top of the hill. They seemed to think we were going to be all right, so we thought we’d be back the next day. We grabbed some dirty clothes baskets, a few things. But when we looked at Fires Near Me the next morning, we were horrified at how big it had got overnight. They reckon the fire spread at 60km an hour.

It was a shock for days. It wasn’t until the third time we came back that I took everything in: the neighbours’ houses all gone, just a wasteland. It was as if we’d never been here before.

We’ve lived here around 17 years. I had a lot of things – my grandmother’s and my mum’s. It’s taken me two weeks of saying, “Oh, it’s just stuff”, until my daughter said, “Stop saying that, Mum, it’s not just stuff.” But it was; that’s been a lesson for me, not to get attached to things, because it doesn’t matter.

We don’t have any insurance, so we’ll be starting from scratch again. We started off here in a tent, anyway, so I guess we’ll be going back to one. It’s like Seasick Steve sang: “I started out with nothing, and I’ve still got most of it left.”

We lived simply. We had one solar panel that was enough to give us lights, and a gas fridge; we used a lot of recycled materials. So that makes it a bit easier to start over. Our chief concern is our daughter, who moved in with us before Christmas with two babies; we’ll probably rush to get something up for her.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Artist Jenni Bruce. Photograph: Gideon Mendel

‘The fire front was a land-eating monster’

Jenni Bruce, 63, artist, Upper Brogo, New South Wales

I’ve lived here for 44 years. It’s fringe farming country and we’ve got all kinds of people: tradies, chippies, sparkies; life-changers as well, retirees and artists who have come to live in the bush.

It was New Year’s Eve when we knew we’d have to evacuate, but we thought we had a great deal more time – that it wasn’t going to reach us until the next day. I was planning to stay in that night, but some of my friends had already evacuated to Quaama, a nearby village – I thought I’d just pop in and see them. When I turned around to come home, I saw the fire front. It was just a land-eating monster, tearing through with a ferocity like nothing I’d ever seen. I knew there was no going back into that.

We waited in Quaama and watched until it became very evident that we needed to move. I helped a couple of locals evacuate, so I was probably one of the last cars out. By the time I was on the highway, the fire was only a few metres away; it was just so hot and so loud – the noise was unbelievable.

At 5am we arrived in the tiny beach town of Bermagui and spent the day there. It was chaotic, a thousand people poured into a small space with only four toilets. None of us had much in the way of supplies, but the shops, bowling club, pub – everybody was doing their best to make people comfortable.

Coming back home for the first time, after a few nights, was awful. You always hold out that tiny bit of hope that, just maybe, there’s something. But it was all gone. I had a great workshop with tools that I had spent a lifetime gathering. There was a beautiful garden, with lots of blueberry plants and fruit trees. I’d recently sold a lot of things to fix the place up, so I could stay as I grew older, and I’d just finished renovating. I had a huge collection of paints and canvases, and I was working on a new body of work to exhibit. It was just devastating to lose that amount of hard work. All I could do was keen – it’s a really weird noise; I’d only made it once before in my life, but I keened.

There’s not a single person in the entire region who is not traumatised – all over the Great Dividing Range. I wish the people in power would listen; I wish they would stop using industries that are so bad for our environment. I hope that the underlying anger, because of mismanagement from our leaders, does not overrule the kindness and compassion that people are showing in the present moment. I don’t really know what my life lesson is: I’m just very glad to be alive.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Sharyn and Tom Wotton. Photograph: Gideon Mendel

‘I said, “I’ll come back tomorrow.” There wasn’t a tomorrow’

Sharyn Wotton, 61, teacher’s aide, and Tom Wotton (AKA Swampy Tom), 66, retiree, Wandella

Sharyn Tom and I have been together 45 years and lived at Wandella for 24. We have 100 acres about 15km from the nearest town. It’s not a hobby farm – we don’t raise animals. We just live here for the peace and quiet, the serenity.

We had always agreed we wouldn’t stay and fight a fire. We had used planks of foam, pontoons from Sydney harbour, as insulation for our walls. But the 75 acres we had behind us were wooded, and we’re in a gully, so we thought: we don’t have enough water. On 30 December, our eldest daughter, Carly, texted and said: “Mum, it’s doubled again.” Our two sons-in-law hooked up our 1979 Millard deluxe caravan, and we put a few bits and pieces in there and the car. I remember my daughter Teagan saying, “Mum do you want this, this?”, and I said, “No, I’ll come back tomorrow.” But there wasn’t a tomorrow.

After a few days, we went to Canberra, where we got word from our neighbour who had stayed to defend his property. He said a huge firewall just came from nowhere, up one side of their house, and he knew then our place was probably gone. He was alive, and his kids were alive, but there have been so many horror stories. We’ve got friends who ran through firewalls to save themselves and ended up with burns. One family lost a father and son. We might have lost property, but there are people out there who are traumatised for ever. For me, it comes in waves. If I’m not talking about it, I’m OK.

When we drove back, I was stunned. I joke that I’m a collector, not a hoarder, but I had a lot of stuff – big bookcases and stuff hanging from ceilings, and it’s all gone. We didn’t have insurance at the time of the bushfire. One of our children, without asking, started a GoFundMe page. When he found out, Tom was really angry and said, “We’re not a charity case.” Carly sat him down and said, “For 24 years, you have watered and fed people. People have come for two days and stayed for five because you make them feel welcome.” She said, “They’re donating to you. They want you to rebuild.”

We’ve pissed mother nature off big time, and she’s paying us back. We’ve just been watching it get drier and drier – the whole valley’s been a tinderbox. Nobody heeded the warnings. Surely they’ll listen now.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Fina and Anthony Montagner, with their sons Christian and Dylan. Photograph: Gideon Mendel

‘I don’t have any photos of my childhood. It’s like I never existed’

Fina Montagner, 49, care nurse, and Anthony Montagner, 64, former electrician, with their sons Christian, 10, and Dylan, six, Upper Brogo

Anthony We had gone into Bega to do some shopping on New Year’s Eve, and Fina and the boys decided to stay because everyone was talking about the fire. At about 5.30 that afternoon I came back here with the dogs to get the farm ready, thinking I could stay and fight the fire.

At eight o’clock, there was no sign of fire. At 10 o’clock I went out to turn the generator off and noticed the glow to the west, 10, 15km out at least. I’ve had fires here in the past and I thought, well, that won’t be here till the morning.

Forty-five minutes later, and the fire’s in my next gully. So I barely had 15 minutes to grab the dogs, a couple of cans of fuel, the kids’ bikes, a pair of jeans and I took off. I was only ever 10 minutes from the fire all the way to the coast.

I’ve had fires get away on me in the early years. This was a monster; it was racing as fast as my van would go. And the noise sounded like a couple of freight trains. It was sucking air in from all directions. It was a fire-breathing dragon, spitting hot flames everywhere. But it’s not climate change – I’ve heard of at least 180 people arrested for arson.

I haven’t been insured for 25 years. I’ve built what I had by scrounging. When I met Fina, she got a job so we were able to buy some new materials, but other than that everything in the house was built from bush wood. It was all repurposed junk. But I’m not going to do that again, there’s nothing left here to do it with. I’m not prepared to start scrounging again.

We’ve got a caravan for the boys. We’ve got another coming for us. So we’re just going to camp here for the time being, maybe six months, a year.

Fina The little one seems OK, because he’s only six. But Christian is having issues. He gets very angry and then he’s anxious. He’s been really sad in the last few weeks.

Anthony I don’t have one photo to show them what their grandmother looked like. I’m hoping my siblings might have some. I don’t have photos of my childhood or anything I’ve done as a teenager. It’s like I’ve never existed.

Fina We’re just hoping to be strong, emotionally, for the boys. They have got no one but us, so we need to show them that we are tough.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Ron Corby Snr. Photograph: Gideon Mendel

‘My brother’s bull was killed. It was instantly cooked, mummified’

Ron Corby Snr, 87, farmer; his son, Ron Jr, 67, farmer, and his wife Gloria, 71, housewife; granddaughter Tammie, 42, carer, with Brett Jee, 45, painter, and their sons (from left) Blake, 16, Myles, 12, Beau, 10, Mason, 14, in Wandella

Ronald At 2.30am, I received an urgent call: “If you want to get out, get out now!” I looked out the window – everything looked normal and I went back to bed. Ten minutes later, my daughter pulled up and said, “Pop, get in the car and go! My house just burned down and the fire followed me, nearly as fast as I could drive.” When I came back a couple of days later, there was just charcoal.

This fire was hotter than anything. I saw cars’ aluminium wheels melted and running down the gutter like a stream. The fire came from all angles, in whirling winds and twisters. It’s 35 years since the bush was last burnt out. The stuff in the mountains has been building up; you couldn’t walk through it, there’s that much rubbish. When the fire came, the whole mountain seemed to explode. I don’t think it was the climate crisis that caused this; I think it was neglect, not keeping the mountains clean.

I grew up in the Great Depression. Back then, it was a bit like this. We had nothing. But when someone was sick, the community would come together. I thought, in this modern age, that was gone – it looked like people would rather cut your throat. But I was wrong. A man who didn’t know me gave me A$500, and he’d probably lost his job the same as anyone. But the human love is there and stronger than ever.

Ron All my life I’ve fought bushfires, but there’s never been one like this: the fireballs, the way it roared, the flames, 50-60ft high. Sometimes it seemed to be above the ground, just burning the air. It sucked the roof off the house and threw our cars a kilometre away.

Tammie Forensics think two fire fronts collided and created their own storm. My brother had a bull that was killed in the fire and is still sitting upright. It was just instantly cooked, mummified. They told us that for that to happen, it had to reach 2,000 degrees. I don’t think it’s climate change; the bush here hasn’t been burned back in 15, 20 years.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Ron Jr and Gloria Corby. Photograph: Gideon Mendel

We have five boys. Mason has muscular dystrophy and we’d set up an aviary for him. He can’t do anything active, but loves birds and wanted to breed them. They were all lost. He was hard hit and cried quite a bit, but we’ve told him we’ll build him a new one.

We didn’t bring the boys straight out here. But our youngest, who’s 10, would not stop asking what it was like. Is this still OK? Is that still OK? So we thought we should show them that there is nothing salvageable. But he found a few garden ornaments and said, “Look, Mum, you can put this in the new garden.”

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Tammie with Brett Jee and their sons Blake (16), Mason (14), Myles (12) and Beau (10). Photograph: Gideon Mendel

Brett and I have been together 24 years. So when the insurance company says, “Can you write down a few lists of your assets?” there aren’t enough notebooks. I’ve not seen my husband cry like this. Brett’s father passed away a few years ago and he had a lot of his belongings here, tools and stuff you’ll never get again. But we’re just thankful that none of us are lost. All our family’s still here.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Veronica Coen and Murray Gibbs. Photograph: Gideon Mendel

‘Everybody’s falling apart, then holding each other together’

Veronica Coen, 59, mental health clinician, and Murray Gibbs, 62, trike tour guide, Quaama

Veronica We were away, visiting my daughter and her family. But this just wasn’t a fire that human beings could tame. It’s become very political. I call myself a fire refugee, and think about the people in the Pacific Ocean on the low-lying islands, and war refugees – because it’s as if there has been a war.

For a while I had a great deal of hope that the people who run the country would have to get it. That’s dissipating now. There has to be some kind of transformation in the way we govern. This two-party system is combative: they consume too much energy on the ego stuff and don’t respond to human need.

Do your homework, give cash and avoid scams: how to donate to Australia's bushfire crisis Read more

A lot of people I’ve spoken to are clearly dealing with post-traumatic stress. I had a meltdown the other day and made someone else really sad. I was able to collect myself the next day and was welcomed back with open arms, because everybody’s falling apart. I’m a trauma-informed practitioner, and it’s a slow process. I’m not someone who usually posts my status on Facebook, but before I knew it, I just put it up there: “Don’t rush my recovery.” That’s really what it feels like.

In my work, we talk about collective trauma. Until now, I’ve only read papers and heard it spoken about in relation to Indigenous communities, for example. We talk about intergenerational trauma and collective trauma – this is what we have.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Pam Sweeny. Photograph: Gideon Mendel

‘We’ve done too much damage, us whitefellas ’

Pam Sweeny, 63, nurse, Cobargo

My husband, Michael, and I had four children, and brought them up here in a way that’s kind to the environment. We’ve been using stand-alone solar power for 31 years. We’ve got our own water, and got rid of our own effluent in a way that’s friendly to mother nature. We had our family of native birds, too. We’d lie on the grass with the kids at night and watch the little gliders glide out.

When we came back, the trees were still falling. It felt sad and unsafe. There was a big tree across the driveway, and piles of tin from the sheds that had been burned out. I wake up with tears, but then you just get busy. What we’ve done to Australia in the years that we’ve been here, us whitefellas, we’ve got to learn – we’ve done too much damage and mother nature’s hitting back.

We didn’t even have a lock on the door, so we couldn’t get insurance. That is not unusual here. There’s loss, but we can replace it. New year, new beginning. We’ll be fine, but people who were used to spending five minutes in the shower and leaving their lights on [will struggle]. We’ve got to stop being such consumers, and think about where things come from: from mother nature.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Kyle Moser and David Wilson. Photograph: Gideon Mendel

‘What upsets me most is the political inaction’

David Wilson, 59 (on right), and Kyle Moser, 41, both post office workers, Cobargo

David I’m the licensee of Cobargo post office. Kyle and I moved here four years ago from the city, and we love the place. It’s the most unique community: 50% old-style farmers, 50% new people, often very musical or artistic. One in three says they’ve lost their house. We’re still hearing of people in hospital. Each one that dies is just a blackness, a real sadness.

We didn’t really sleep on New Year’s Eve; we just watched and waited. It got to a point where it was coming in all directions. There’s only one road out, and it looked like the single bridge that leads into town was on fire, too. We headed for the ocean with four dogs, two cats and two rescued wallabies in the car.

The community response has been amazing: we had a relief centre, operational pretty much from that night, and it just grew. There were toilets, showers; they quickly got a generator on site.

When Kyle and I came here, we were widely accepted as a gay couple. Quite a few families, although they might seem tough on the exterior, have a gay son or a gay nephew. During the marriage equality debate, we raised the rainbow flag, and Australia Post told us to take it down – they wanted to remain impartial. The response of the community was: “Well, if the boys can’t fly their flags, we’ll do it for them.” Shops put rainbow-coloured clothes over the balconies, the bookshop put rainbow-coloured books in the windows. It was amazing.

We’re lucky that we’re insured, but precious things were lost. For my 50th birthday, we had a ring made with diamonds and my date of birth on – that’s gone.

But what upsets me most is the political inaction of the last two years, when they’ve been warned of these conditions. People had been asked for additional firefighting aircraft. They should be held criminally responsible.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Seraphina Leahy. Photograph: Gideon Mendel

‘We have a lot of hard work ahead of us, mentally and physically’

Seraphina Leahy, 20, artist and barista, Wandella



I moved out here to get away from everyday life, and to try not to have an impact on the environment. When we heard there were fires coming, we packed up a few things and went to my mum’s house in Bermagui. Then the Rural Fire Service said we needed to evacuate. We went down to the beach, and when you looked back, you couldn’t see the mountain any more: it was pitch dark and a huge glow reflected on the ocean. We camped on the beach, and went fishing to calm our nerves, so we kept ourselves fed. We had my nana with us, who’s in her 80s.

We had word that the house was gone, but until we saw it I didn’t really believe it. We have a lot of hard work ahead of us, mentally and physically.

The support’s been amazing; if we didn’t have that we probably wouldn’t be doing OK. You’ve got social media, and sometimes it feels as if everyone’s always arguing, but when something like this happens, humans pull together and look after each other.

We were doing our best not to make an impact, having a carbon offset with all our trees. In two years it’s gone from lush green pastures and forest, to the leaves on the trees just dropping. The flowers don’t come out, the animals are struggling, everything is yellow and brown.

I think the prime minister needs to have more empathy. The government cut so much funding to forestry and national parks. Everyone’s dry in terms of resources; we need the land managed properly.

• Additional research by Annette Widitz.

The Cobargo Community Bushfire Recovery Fund is crowdfunding for the local area. This article has details on how to help with the Australian relief effort more generally.

If you would like your comment on this piece to be considered for Weekend magazine’s letters page, please email weekend@theguardian.com, including your name and address (not for publication).