Michael:
Not now. Terrence needs a lift to basketball. His dad’s confiscated his car for a month. And cut his allowance. Some major shit going down for him at home because of the suspension. He didn’t see that coming.
Me:
Boo hoo.
Michael:
Try not to be too happy. He feels persecuted by Morello. Wallowing in self-pity at the moment. And plans for revenge.
Me:
What’s he going to do? Slashing tyres is so lame.
Michael:
If you cross Terrence, slashed tyres would be the least of your worries.
*
It’s Friday night. The door to the restaurant opens and a couple enter. One of our waiters, Mariam, approaches them to seat them. After about five minutes I hear what seems to be a heated discussion in the middle of the restaurant. I quickly walk over to investigate.
The couple are arguing with Mariam.
‘Is there a problem?’ I say calmly as I approach the table. I notice other customers have stopped eating and are staring at the table, trying to listen in.
The man flashes a smarmy smile at me. ‘Oh, hello there, miss. We were just trying to place our order and your waiter seems to have a problem understanding us.’
I look at Mariam, my eyes searching hers for a clue. The man’s tone is so condescending that I’m pretty sure the customer-is-always-right rule has no application to this scenario.
‘Mariam?’
She tucks her hair behind her ears and seems to be struggling to contain her anger. I feel sorry for her. She’s constantly making mistakes but Baba and Irfan want to give her a chance. She’s another one from community detention they took pity on.
‘I came to take their order,’ she explains to me in Farsi, ‘and after I wrote it all down they said they wanted the non-halal option.’ She scrunches up her face. ‘I explained that all the meat is halal and they’re not happy.’
‘Um, excuse me, English please?’ the man says. ‘Just common courtesy I would have thought.’
‘So you’re not happy about the meat being halal?’ I ask.
‘Damn right we’re not,’ the man says, flashing me that patronising smile again. ‘Is it too much to ask that a person doesn’t have halal food shoved down their throats in Australia?’
I take a deep breath, try to conjure a smile. I need to diffuse the situation quickly because we’re now providing free entertainment for the busybodies nearby who have swivelled around to get a better view.
‘Sorry, I’m not sure I understand. What exactly is the problem?’
‘We. Don’t. Eat. Halal,’ the woman says slowly as though I’m an imbecile. ‘It’s barbaric and inhumane and who knows what halal funds. So we refuse to eat it.’
‘Maybe you’d like a vegetarian dish instead?’
‘But we’re not vegetarians,’ the woman says indignantly, as though I’d accused her of being a devil-worshipper. ‘If you insist on serving up that barbaric meat, you should at least offer a non-halal option. This is Australia, not the Middle East after all.’
‘Afghanistan isn’t in the Middle East,’ I can’t help but snap back. I quickly recalibrate, take a breath to calm myself down. The man demands to speak to the owner and so I tell Mariam she can return to work and let me handle the situation.
‘I’ll go and get him,’ I say. ‘But I normally deal with all the complaints.’
The woman smirks. ‘Oh, really? That’s quite a lot of freedom for a Muslim girl, isn’t it?’
I walk off quickly, worried I might go down for assault and battery if I stick around another second longer.
Baba is in the back, bent over a delicate dish he’s trying to assemble. I fill him in on the situation.
‘Can you ask Irfan to deal with it, Mina? He’s in the stockroom. His English is better anyway.’
I talk to Irfan and he joins me, but not before first smoothing down his clothes, combing his jet-black hair to the side and spraying on half a bottle of aftershave.
I notice Mariam is back at the table, looking overwhelmed as they talk to her. I quicken my pace to reach her before any more damage is done, although they seem to be quite friendly and chatty with her now.
‘It’s okay, Mariam, we’ll handle this,’ I tell her hastily, and she gives me a bewildered look and steps away to deal with a new family lined up waiting to be seated.
‘Well,’ the man says triumphantly. ‘Is this the manager?’
‘Yes, sir. Mina has been telling me about your worries about the halal food. It is humane, I promising you. That is what our religion is preaching us.’
Good Lord, Irfan’s going to make things a million times worse now! I quickly interrupt.
‘Look, there’s nothing we can do for you, sorry. We’re not here to debate halal slaughter practices. We clearly advertise this as a halal restaurant. It’s entirely your choice and right not to eat halal and there are plenty of other restaurants you can go to.’
Irfan is looking at me with horror but I refuse to meet his gaze and tell him in Farsi that he needs to trust me to do the talking.
‘So you don’t offer a choice of non-halal?’ the woman says.
‘No we don’t,’ I say losing my temper. ‘Just like a vegetarian restaurant isn’t going to serve up a roast lamb. We’ve chosen to use halal meat and we know we might lose customers but restaurants make those calls all the time. As you can see from how busy we are, it doesn’t seem to bother most people. I’m sorry you wasted your time tonight but the sign is at the front.’
I would have thought the conversation would be over by then but the man folds his arms, seems to have more to say.
‘Is it true you’re hiring people who are on bridging visas?’
I blink once. I feel like things are spinning out of control.
Irfan stares blankly at them. ‘Begging pardon?’
‘Mariam – sweet girl – has a bridging visa, she told us. And you have two others working here too.’
‘And so what? Why is this your business?’ Irfan says.
I wince. He’s just confirmed it to them.
‘She says they’re all very grateful for the help you’ve given them. But from what we know, they’re not allowed to work. So you’ve got yourself a bit of a situation there, don’t you? Cheap labour, cash wages.’
‘Work you could give an Australian citizen,’ the woman snaps.
‘I think you should leave the premises now,’ I say softly but firmly under my breath.
‘Sure thing, love,’ the man says, and they stand up. ‘But you haven’t heard the end of this. We’re actually part of a new political organisation and we’re going to make sure this comes up in the State election agenda. People like you are taking jobs away from honest Aussies.’
A wave of fury takes over me, wrenching itself from the pit of my belly.
‘You’re from Aussie Values?’ I demand.
‘Yes,’ the woman says proudly.
‘That is the bullshit organisation who coming with the TV!’ Irfan says angrily. ‘Get out, please.’ He’s all worked up now. ‘You getting out now!’
Everyone’s eyes are on us as Irfan’s voice rises. I try to calm him down but he’s too distressed. ‘You making us terrorists on the TV!’ he cries. ‘Get out!’
The man and woman are calm, smirk at us and walk out. I’m mortified. Irfan storms to the kitchen, no doubt to consult Baba. I smile meekly at the people closest to us, offer as many apologies for the disturbance as I can, and quickly follow Irfan.
I try to calm them down but they’re both panicking, wondering if they’ll be caught. Mariam walks in with an order and I stop her before she leaves.
‘What did you tell them?’ I ask her urgently.
‘They were friendly and asking me where I’m from, how I’m coping here. I
explained how kind your baba and Irfan have been to me and the others. They kept asking me questions and I did not know how to get away.’
I groan, lean my forehead against the doorframe.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says guiltily. ‘Did I do something wrong?’
‘No, nothing, Mariam,’ I console her. ‘It’s fine. You didn’t do anything wrong.’
I go out to the front for some fresh air and call Michael. He’s our only hope.
He picks up after the first ring.
‘Hey,’ he says brightly.
‘Michael I need your help!’ I say quickly. I fill him in on what’s happened, ask him to stop the organisation from taking it further, talking to immigration or the media.
‘They’re not allowed to work but how are they supposed to live? We’re just helping them out. And the media?! I can’t let my parents go through the stress of it all. Why are they picking on us? We’re an Afghan restaurant in the lower North Shore. We’re hardly going to swing an election for them.’
‘I don’t know,’ he says with concern. ‘I’ll talk to my parents.’
*
Baba comes home that night and heads straight to the verandah. He drinks tea and chain-smokes until past midnight. Mum paces in the family room until eventually she falls asleep on the couch.
She wakes up in the morning and cancels her lunch invitation to Emily and Rojin. It tears me apart to see my parents so distressed.
Michael
I text Mina on Sunday night.
Me:
Haven’t seen Dad all day, he’ll be back later tonight. Tried calling him but he’s at some convention on the Central Coast. Better I talk to him face to face.
Mina:
Okay. What about your mum?
Me:
She’s with him.
Mina:
Do you think they’ll go to the media?
Me:
They’re always looking for a story to get them in the news.
Me:
I’m sorry.
Mina:
My dad’s been up all night. And Mum’s stressed because he’s stressed, and he’s stressed because he thinks Mum’s stressed so everybody’s stressed. Why can’t your organisation just back off?
Me:
It’s not my organisation, Mina.
Mina:
Yeah, I know. Sorry.
Me:
No, I’m sorry you have to go through this. But don’t work yourself up. They’re all talk they can’t do much damage. They get some attention from trashy media and then it all dies again.
Mina:
Meanwhile we just have to toughen up and learn to cope with racism, hey?
Me:
There’s nothing in the world that kills me more than the fact that you’re in this situation because of my parents.
I promise Mina I’ll speak to my parents. They’re back late from the Central Coast and so I grab the chance the next morning before school. Dad’s at the kitchen bench, eating his breakfast and reading the news on his iPad. Mum’s packing Nathan’s lunch, and Nathan is eating his toast and watching TV in the family room.
I pour myself a bowl of cereal and sit down at the bench across from my dad. I start eating, trying to figure out the best way to bring up the topic. Stuff it, I think. I just have to throw myself in.
‘Dad?’
‘Yep?’ He doesn’t look up.
‘Apparently a couple from Aussie Values were at a local Afghan restaurant on Saturday night. There was a bit of a commotion about –’
He looks up sharply. ‘Oh, yes! I completely forgot to mention it. Listen to this, Mary. Jeremy and Margaret were at some Afghan restaurant – the same one Andrew busted on News Tonight – and there was a scene over the halal food they serve.’
‘Really? What happened?’
‘The usual. Halal or nothing. So we have them on that front. But the best part is that they found out that they’re hiring people on bridging visas. They don’t have work rights, remember?’
My mum shakes her head in frustration.
‘We can really do something with this, Mary. Expose the rot at the core of this system. These people are in breach of their visa conditions. They’ve been released into the community on trust. And these restaurant owners are happy to exploit them as cheap labour.’
‘Dad,’ I interrupt. I take a deep breath.
‘Yes?’
‘Please, could you leave this one alone?’ My eyes plead with him.
‘What do you mean?’ He’s genuinely confused. ‘We have to speak out, Michael. Bad things happen when good people remain silent.’
‘They’re not allowed to work, Dad. Is it so bad if somebody helps them out?’
‘They should have thought of that before they decided to break the law,’ Dad says seriously.
Mum nods as she cuts up Nathan’s sandwich.
‘How can this possibly make any difference to you? You’re getting results in Jordan Springs, you’ve got some more members. Why can’t you show some freaking mercy?’
Dad is taken aback and Mum, raising her eyebrows at me in dismay, says, ‘What has this restaurant got to do with you?’
‘The owner’s daughter is in my class.’
‘I thought they were refugees too.’
‘Yeah, they came here from Afghanistan. So?’
Mum seems surprised, indignant even. ‘And they can afford Victoria College?’ She shakes her head in disbelief. ‘That only makes things worse, hiring cheap labour when business is obviously highly profitable.’
‘For God’s sake, Mum, Mina’s on a scholarship. Don’t worry, they’re not going to overtake you on the class ladder.’
‘What’s gotten into you, Michael?’ Mum stares at me, clearly stung by my words.
I take a deep breath. ‘It’s one restaurant. I’m asking you to please let it go.’
Dad fixes his eyes on me. ‘If it means that much to you, I’ll talk to the others,’ he says calmly. ‘But I can’t promise you anything. This is bigger than us now, Michael. And the personal shouldn’t matter when it comes to what’s right and wrong.’
‘Right and wrong is always personal.’
Mina
Emily stops Mum and me in the hall on our way out to the car on Monday morning.
‘Is everything okay?’ she asks Mum with concern. ‘You didn’t sound like yourself when you called to cancel.’
‘Everything is fine,’ Mum says, smiling at her. ‘Thank you, Emily.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I am sure. I must take Mina to school now. I will see you soon, okay?’
‘Okay,’ Emily gives her an uncertain smile.
We rush to the car and I scold Mum.
‘She does not need to know about our problems,’ Mum says firmly. ‘I am sick of problems. She has her problems and I will help her. We will deal with this by ourselves. Understood?’
I stare out the window. ‘Suit yourself,’ I mutter. I’m sick of everything.
*
I go to school with my stomach in knots.
I’m opening my locker when Michael grabs me from behind and hugs me.
‘Michael,’ I say under my breath, wriggling my way out of his embrace. I can’t help but laugh though. ‘People will see.’
‘Relax, there’s nobody around. Anyway, so what?’
‘I can’t. And no, I’m not ashamed of you, so don’t even start that up again.’
He laughs. ‘Yeah, yeah, I get it. The Afghan rumour mill that works from Kabul to Auburn to Lane Cove to your mother’s mobile phone. Got it.’ He pecks me on the cheek and I giggle and push him away.
‘Hey!’ I warn him.
‘Okay, okay.’ He holds his hands behind his back in submission. ‘Happy now?’
r /> ‘Yes, thank you.’
He leans against the locker.
‘Did you speak to your parents?’ I’m almost too scared to ask.
He nods, but the expression on his face worries me.
‘No use?’
‘Dad said he’ll talk to the others. He’s the leader of the organisation so that has to mean something . . . But he said he can’t promise anything. I know that’s not very reassuring. I’m so sorry, Mina.’
I bite my lip, too anxious to say anything. He puts his hand on my arm and peers into my face.
‘I tried. You believe me, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do,’ I say. And I mean it.
‘I’ll speak to him again tonight to check he’s spoken to them. They’re all busy with the Jordan Springs campaign, so this will probably drop off their radar. They’ve got bigger Muslim fish to fry.’ He grins at me and I hit him in the arm, a faint smile on my face.
*
I need to vent to Paula. With Michael, I have to hold myself back from swearing about his parents. I mean, as much as I wish they’d drop off the face of this planet, they are the parents of the guy who makes me weak at the knees.
But I don’t get a chance to talk to Paula because she arrives at home room after the bell. It’s our weekly one-hour period with Mr Morello today. Terrence is back and the colour has returned to Jane’s face. She was moping for three days and it took all my self-control not to slap her out of her stupid crush.
Paula walks in and says hi to Mr Morello who smiles warmly at her and continues talking to us about leadership skills. A few minutes after Paula’s taken her seat I hear sniggers from behind. I peer backwards and see some of the kids looking at Paula with amusement, trying to stifle their laughs. Terrence is sitting with his arms folded across his chest, a triumphant expression on his face.
Mr Morello is in no mood for disruptions and we get a two-minute power silence. Clara yells out at Terrence to shut up and respect the fact that some people actually come to school to get an education. That sets him off giggling and so Mr Morello increases the power silence to four minutes. Mr Morello asks what the joke is, which only gets Terrence and some others laughing more. They don’t say anything though, and Mr Morello gives us six minutes.