Tim Fischer's picture of Tony Wright in a refugee camp in Nong Khai, north-eastern Thailand, early 1987. I wrote years ago about this trip to a forgotten refugee camp, but perhaps it bears re-telling in this period when Australian leaders consign refugees to the outer edges of hell as a warning to the wretched of the earth: Don't come to Australia seeking asylum. Fischer, who became Australia's deputy prime minister, didn't see it that way. He was the National Party's member for Farrer, an electorate stretching along the Murray River and headquartered in Albury, when a young man took a gun into the town's regional immigration office in 1986 and sparked a siege. The 29-year-old man was from Laos.

Laotians from the Hmong tribe in a refugee camp in Thailand, July 1979. Credit:J.K. Isaac He and other members of his family were refugees from the communist regime that had established itself in Laos in the vacuum left by decades of civil war and years of secret American bombing. Fischer, a Vietnam veteran, knew the little Lao family living in his electorate. He'd made it his business to see that the family's modest needs were met. Laotian refugees at a school in Nan Province, Thailand, 1979. Credit:J.K. Isaac When he heard one of the Lao boys was waving around a hunting rifle in Albury's immigration office, right above his own electorate office, he told police he would sort things out.

The police weren't happy. This was a 1980s version of a terrorist situation, Specialists armed with big guns were flying in from Sydney. The last thing they wanted was a member of parliament becoming a hostage. February 1977: Laotians celebrate their arrival at Villawood after leaving a refugee camp in Thailand. Credit:Grant Peterson/Fairfax Media Fischer wasn't for turning. He strode in to the building and we held our breath. Hours passed. Eventually, Fischer appeared, the rifle over one shoulder and a big arm slung around the shoulder of the young man. Sydney Morning Herald coverage of the Albury immigration office siege, August 2, 1986. Credit:SMH Archive

He'd discovered the man's mother, grandmother and his brother were stuck in a refugee camp in Thailand. The grief-stricken man couldn't persuade anyone to help him get them out. Thus, the madness with the gun. Fischer made a promise during the hours of talking. Sydney Morning Herald coverage of the Albury immigration office siege, August 3, 1986. Credit:SMH Archive If the young man would hand over the weapon, Fischer would pay his own way to Thailand to see if he could get the family reunited. As a local reporter, I managed to persuade Fischer and my editor to let me tag along.

Laotian refugees who fled communist rule await processing in Nong Khai province, Thailand, in January 1978. Credit:AP Wirephoto And that's how, on a searing day in early 1987, I found myself trudging with Tim Fischer through the crowded lanes of a refugee camp the world had come to ignore. It was at Nong Khai, north-east Thailand, not far from the Mekong River, which formed the border with Laos. Fischer took a photo of me with smiling children at the entrance to the camp. It was the last time I can remember any smiles that day. Many tens of thousands of Lao refugees had fled across the Mekong in the years since 1975, when the CIA had pulled out and the communist Pathet Lao had grabbed power. By 1987, Thailand was sick of hosting refugee camps for an indifferent world. The Lao camps had dropped way down the priority lists - the bigger story was the flood of refugees from the killing fields of Kampuchea (Cambodia).

Nevertheless, Tim Fischer had made a promise. We found the Albury man's grandmother, mother and brother sitting on the deck of the shaky bamboo hut they occupied. They spoke no English, but their plight was too clear. A United Nations translator explained: the young man and his father had escaped Laos by clinging to a log on the Mekong. A Pathet Lao gunboat had found them. The boy survived, but his father, riddled with bullets, died as his son tried to hold his head above water. The boy had lost his mind. He would require psychiatric and physical help forever. No country would take him as a refugee. But his mother and grandmother would not abandon him. Fischer went off to plead the family's case with UN and Australian immigration officials.

Hours later, he was defeated by the bureaucracy. The women tied cotton to our wrists and spooled it out as we walked away, signifying attachment and misplaced hope. We didn't talk for a long time. There was an addendum. The young man in Albury, having sworn off guns forever, moved towns, established a restaurant and saved his money. His brother in Thailand died. The boy from Albury gathered his family - including his mother and grandmother - and placing faith in the country that those days still welcomed "your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free", moved the whole family to California, where they still live.

And Tim Fischer, who went on to become one of Australia's leading gun-control advocates. He remains in my memory as a bloke from another age, when it was worth at least trying to do the right thing, even if there are no easy stories in the restless search for refuge.