I don’t answer.
‘I’m glad you’re taking an interest, doing your own research. Look, Michael, we didn’t start the fire. When we went into Iraq and Afghanistan we were there to help put the fire out. People twist the truth all the time, Michael. They want to paint us as the monsters. We’re not torturing and murdering people, Michael. If soldiers step out of line, we’re civilised and have enquiries. But when Muslims kill they think they’re doing God’s will!’ He shakes his head angrily.
Again, I don’t know what to think or feel. I don’t have the words or knowledge to respond, but something deep within me doesn’t feel right.
‘So you’re saying the trip hasn’t changed your mind at all?’ I eventually ask.
‘No, I didn’t say that. In fact, it’s made me even more determined to make this organisation a success.’
*
I stay up late surfing the net. I read articles and blogs. I watch YouTube documentaries. My mind is buzzing with information overload. September 11. Bombing Iraq. No weapons of mass destruction. With us or against us. Guantanamo Bay. Abu Ghraib. Chemical weapons. Arming the rebels. Backing dictators. Overthrowing dictators. Revolutions. Arab Spring. CIA torture. Beheadings.
I go to bed confused and overwhelmed. But I’m also angry with myself. I’ve never had a problem standing up to my parents and questioning them on trivial things. But when it comes to things that really matter, I just went along with what they told me.
Mina
Paula texts me at five-thirty on Monday morning.
There’s a poetry slam in Bankstown next Tuesday night. Want to come with me?
Is she kidding? 5.30 am? I’m half-dead and manage one letter.
K.
I switch my phone to silent and go back to sleep. When I wake up an hour later there are heaps more messages:
I can come to ur place and we could go together. We can take a cab. I’ll pay no prob.
It starts at 6. We can register to perform or just watch.
Let’s just watch for now.
Unless u want to perform?
OMG I’m so excited.
Hey are you awake?
Okay, I guess not. See you in a bit!
*
‘You’re not normal. Texting me before the sun’s up?’
She flashes me a winning smile. ‘Sorry!’
‘Broken sleep and you’re cheerful.’
‘So we’re all good to go?!’
‘My mum’s super strict about going out at night so I’d need to be back by nine at the latest – library closing hours obviously.’
‘Well, if you need to get back by nine that doesn’t leave us enough time.’ Her face falls and I nudge her gently.
‘Sorry.’
She smiles. ‘It’s fine. I’ll keep my eye out for something on a weekend, or closer to home instead. Does it feel weird? Having a strict mum who’s so young?’
‘Trust me, she doesn’t let me forget who’s boss.’
*
My solo free period? Seriously? How does he have the guts to show his face?
I ignore him. He’s standing on the other side of the table and clears his throat.
‘I had nothing to do with what happened at your restaurant,’ he says.
I continue typing.
‘I’m really sorry you all had to go through that,’ he adds hastily.
My mouth is dry.
‘My dad was overseas,’ he continues. ‘Even he didn’t know about it. One of the organisation’s members was behind it.’
‘The organisation your dad founded,’ I snap.
That shuts him up pretty quickly. I lean back in my chair, fold my arms across my chest and stare at him. My heart’s hammering away in my chest.
‘So tell me all about Aussie Values, Michael. I’m fascinated. Is it all immigration, or just Muslim immigrants? You all seem to be pretty big on assimilation for migrants too. So help me to understand because I’m struggling. Is there some kind of scale? What about a woman who wears a sari and speaks the Queen’s English, compared to, say, a guy in jeans and T-shirt with an accent? How would you rate them?’
I go on and on and he just stands there and takes it. It pisses me off even more.
‘Oh, so you’re too gutless to defend yourself? Happy to hide behind your dad and his stooges? Offer fake apologies?’
‘That’s not fair,’ he finally manages. ‘It’s messy.’
I search his face. He looks so uncomfortable, conflicted even. I refuse to make excuses for him though.
I shake my head, tired. ‘Just leave me alone, please. We’ve got nothing to say to each other.’
But he doesn’t move. He takes a deep breath. ‘Okay. But first I need to warn you about something.’
I snap my head up. ‘What now?’
‘My dad’s part of a new series.’ A pregnant pause. ‘Don’t Jump the Queue.’ He winces. ‘That’s why he was overseas. The promos will start running soon. It’ll be on in about a month.’
‘Wonderful. I can’t wait.’
He runs his fingers through his hair. ‘I had to go along with the family interview. You can make up your own mind about me. I just wanted you to know . . . it’s more complicated than you think.’
‘It was my stepfather that you saw on TV, by the way. Not my dad.’
He doesn’t know what to make of this, and fumbles, ‘Oh, okay.’
No. It’s not ok.
‘Let’s do complicated for a second, shall we? My stepfather refused to fight for a Talib warlord. He was held captive for a week and tortured. He escaped and went into hiding. Eventually he managed to leave Afghanistan and ended up in Australia after paying off some people smugglers. As for my dad, well he’s dead. Do you want all the gory details, or are you so cold it wouldn’t even make a difference?’
Michael stands there, staring at me, a horrified look on his face.
I can’t say any more. It’s just not worth it. It’s too sad to say out loud. That I was seven when some young guys trying to make a name for themselves in the Taliban knocked on our door and shot my dad point-blank in the head. A couple of months later my dad’s brother, our only male relative, was killed by some trigger-happy US troops. We had no protection, but enough savings to get us out. We left my aunt behind, who was later killed too. My mum had the guts to risk everything for the chance at a half-life of freedom outside our homeland. She was just twenty-four when she fled with me and Hasan. And then to Australia, with just me.
‘I could go on,’ I say, ‘but I wouldn’t want to complicate your already complicated world.’
‘Shit,’ he says and sinks into the chair.
‘Yeah,’ I say. I shove my books into my bag and walk out.
*
When I first arrived in Australia I was just a child. The nightmares visited me every night I was in detention. My mum was broken from the journey and the loss of Hasan. We were like two injured animals caught in a trap, cowering in the lights, unable to comfort each other. When we were eventually processed and released into the community, we slowly rebuilt our lives and the nightmares faded. It took longer for the bedwetting to stop. When my stepfather came into the picture, his tenderness and devotion to us both was a soothing balm. Slowly we healed.
Tonight is the first time in a long time that I have a nightmare about my father. I’m walking along a deserted street in Kabul. I’m alone. As I walk past each house, the front door opens, revealing the barrel of a gun pointed at me. Then the gun is withdrawn, the door slams shut, and I walk on. House after house, pointed gun after pointed gun. I don’t stop. I don’t scream. I just keep on walking. It’s only when I see my father standing at the end of the street, half submerged in a grave, that I start to scream.
My mum comes running into my bedroom and wakes me. Eventually she calms me down. Sh
e asks me about my dream, and I make up something silly. She laughs it off, chides me for having eaten too much before I slept.
I get up and have a shower, hoping to wash the images from my mind. And then I sit in the floral chair and place my head against the armrest. My memories of my life in Afghanistan aren’t vivid. I worry sometimes that my memory bank is running on battery power and that the further I move on, the faster the battery fades. Will I wake up one day to find the battery dead? And then will it all be like Hasan, that I remember only the form of everything, but not the substance? I can remember how my father would peel my orange in one move and make me a curly snake . . . or was it a curly worm?
Once, somebody on Facebook was ranting about boat people pretending to be refugees when they were just ‘economic migrants’. Her evidence was that she’d seen a group of them laughing and taking photos at the Opera House. They didn’t look traumatised, she’d said. Maha had gone all keyboard warrior on the Facebook thread and ripped through the person who’d posted the comment: I bet you’re the type of person who feels better if a homeless person begging for money looks really starved and miserable. Because then you can congratulate yourself on your charity, hey?
Unlike Maha, the post hadn’t angered me. Instead it had hit me with the force of a semitrailer. Was part of our contract here in this country that we should be walking around depressed and broken? Wearing our trauma on the outside? And what about everybody we’d left dead or living in fear back home? Didn’t we owe them? How could I just lead this ordinary life?
Tonight the questions hurl themselves back at me. It’s been such a long time since I’ve had a nightmare about my father. In Auburn I’d settled into an ordinary life; into a comfort zone that buried the bad thoughts and memories deep down, away from the surface of the mundane rhythms of my life. Maybe we were naive to think that we could go on like that forever. Were organisations like Aussie Values punishment for our naivety? A reminder that for some people in this world, freedom and ordinary aren’t basic rights. They’re luxuries you should never take for granted.
Michael
It’s the night of Sienna’s party. Terrence and Fred have already had too much to drink.
‘You look like shit,’ Terrence says when he sees me. ‘Cheer up, will you.’ He flings an arm around me. ‘What’s got into you these days? You’re PMSing. We don’t do that, remember?’
‘It’s not Zara is it?’ Fred asks, passing me a drink. ‘You missing her?’
‘Nope.’ I look around and take a swig of my drink. Terrence launches into a funny story and it gets us laughing hard. For a while I’m able to rewind my life back to a time when I hadn’t met Mina, when my life made sense.
We check out the crowd and complain to each other about the music. Sienna’s hired a DJ and has set up a dance space in the open-plan lounge area. The bi-folding doors open up onto a courtyard decorated with fairy lights and Chinese lanterns.
Terrence soon starts chatting up one of Sienna’s friends from outside school. There’s nothing more boring than watching your friend try to hit it off with a girl, so Fred and I leave them at the backyard pergola and head back inside, meeting Jane and Leica on the way.
‘Hi, guys,’ Jane says cheerily. Her eyes are darting around, surveying the backyard. It’s obvious she’s searching Terrence out. I feel sorry for her.
‘Hey, Jane,’ I say. ‘Hey, Leica. Is Cameron here?’
‘On his way,’ Leica says.
We make small talk for a bit. Jane’s clearly fishing, the way you do when the only thing on offer is the excitement of just hearing somebody’s name. But there’s an art to this kind of fishing and Jane’s clearly still an amateur.
‘So did you two arrive by yourselves?’ Her eyes are still all over the place, and she’s clearly trying to keep it together, but I can sense her agony.
Fred, trying to compensate for his general awkwardness around the opposite sex, launches into a terrifically random and irrelevant story about screaming goats as a YouTube sensation. Jane is listening politely, while Leica is clearly entertained.
Jane soon catches sight of Terrence. He’s emerged from a hidden corner of the backyard with Sienna’s friend. Jane’s face falls and she mumbles a hasty ‘See you’ to us and heads inside. The transformation in Leica is instant. A fierce look of loyalty and protectiveness flashes across her face and she runs after Jane.
‘Why she’s hooked on Terrence is a mystery,’ Fred says.
‘Tell me about it,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Come on, let’s eat.’
The house is packed by now. Awful techno music pumps loudly throughout, and people are moving around in what they might claim is dancing but looks more like low-impact step aerobics. The main action is at the large photo booth that’s been set up near the dance floor.
Fred and I sort through the retro dress-ups and props. I decide on a rainbow clown’s wig, oversized orange sunglasses and a moustache. Fred goes for a neon yellow plaited wig, top hat and beard.
Something about being in that photo booth brings out the idiot in us. We pull faces and strike as many silly poses as we can think of. When our turn’s over, we wait outside as the booth prints our photo strip.
And then, to my surprise, while still in dress-up, I turn around and see Mina, Paula, Jane and Leica together in the queue.
It’s quite funny actually.
Because they’re all in dress-up too: crazy wigs and masquerade eye masks.
Mina looks me up and down. She’s trying to look coolly amused but it’s difficult to pull off when you’re wearing a pink feathered masquerade mask and 1980s punk rock wig.
It’s too awkward not to say something.
I offer a ‘Hi’.
Mina glares at me. She doesn’t respond, and turns to the girls and throws herself back into the conversation.
Rejected by a masquerade punk. The night can only go downhill from here.
I throw my dress-ups into the box. Fred, who has been uselessly standing beside me and perving at the girls, follows me to the food table. Terrence and some of the other guys are there, in intense discussion over League of Legend. I try to feign interest but I’m too distracted, and my contribution is limited to an occasional grunt.
I can’t get Mina out of my head. I make an excuse to leave the guys. Put it down to alcohol, or a sudden surge of impulsiveness, but I find myself approaching the DJ. He has his eyes closed, head bopping to the techno beats. Interrupting his spiritual moment, I ask him to play a track by The XX. He pulls a face like I’ve stabbed him (freaking techno heads kill my life), but promises me he’ll play it soon.
On my way back to the guys, I steal a glance at Mina and Paula. They’re outside the photo booth, examining their photo strips and laughing. The guys are still talking about League of Legend. Eventually, after what feels like an age of techno, my song request finally plays.
I watch Mina out of the corner of my eye. It takes a few moments for her to realise what song is playing. And when she does, she turns her attention away from her friends and looks around the room. She seems to be searching me out. Her eyes eventually fall on me.
Her gaze lingers long enough for me to hope.
But then she turns away.
Mina
I beg God for forgiveness and then inform my parents that:
a. Paula and I have a joint project so important to my overall HSC performance that it requires no less than seven consecutive hours of work on it;
b. Paula can offer exceptional IT resources, whereas the internet at our apartment is slow and the printer regularly jams; and –
There’s no need for a (c).
Baba agrees to drop me off at Paula’s at five and pick me up at midnight.
*
As soon as we arrive I feel a rush of nerves. Sienna’s older cousin introduces herself (‘I’m Janette, babysitting you lot tonight
’) and asks me for a letter from my parents authorising me to be served alcohol. I can’t help but laugh in her face.
‘No note, no drink.’
Paula nudges me in the side and grins. ‘Here’s my note,’ she says, passing a piece of paper to Janette.
Back at Auburn Grove Girls High, Maha was the party animal, not me. She came complete with fake ID and a repertoire of stories to use on her unsuspecting parents who, honest to God, thought that Maha was about as innocent a girl as Our Lady of Lebanon had ever seen (the statute of Virgin Mary excepting). Most of the girls I went to school with celebrated their birthdays with a trip to the movies, dinners at a restaurant or a party at home with friends and family. It was a school population where girls spent recess swapping how-to-get-around-your-curfew ideas; where most of the tattoos you saw were henna ones; and where it became an annual competition to see who had attended the most weddings in the year.
Drinking alcohol or mucking around with guys was something you got away with, not something you did out in the open. I’d never been interested in sneaking into clubs, getting it on with a guy in the car park at Parramatta Maccas, or drinking.
Paula grabs a Redbull with vodka, I grab a coke, and we make our way through the crowd. The music is awful, but Paula’s into techno and swaying slightly as she walks, bobbing her head in tune to the music.
I lean in closer to her. ‘What if I see Michael?’
‘So what?’ she says firmly.
‘I really don’t have the energy to fight with him again.’
‘Then don’t,’ she says flatly. ‘The only fights worth having are with people who mean something to you.’ She grabs me by the shoulders and turns me around to face her. ‘Does he mean something to you?’
‘Of course not,’ I splutter.
She rolls her eyes at me and chuckles. ‘Hopeless liar.’
Suddenly the music volume gets cranked up a notch and conversation inside becomes impossible.
We go to the backyard and bump into Zoe and Clara.
To my surprise, Zoe grabs my hand and leads me to the back fence. She pulls me down to sit beside her on the retaining wall. Paula and Clara make their way over to us. But all Zoe wants to do is talk about how I went in the Emma essay.