by Sarah Ayoub
Part of me thinks Leila’s so different because she’s the youngest by a long shot and was spoilt rotten by their parents. She’s also the only one of their kids who was born and raised here, before the Lebanese community got so big they started taking over entire suburbs and using each other to reinforce their traditions.
I know Dad wants Leila to be married with children, but she’s never done the conventional Lebanese thing. I mean, there was the time she got engaged to an Asian guy a few days after her nineteenth birthday; the time she went on some sabbatical to Bali and refused to answer any of Dad’s calls; and the time she got a massive tattoo of a unicorn across her back. According to Dad, these kinds of things ‘damage’ her reputation and automatically give him the right to interfere and ‘take care of her’.
Uncle Anthony brings up the Brighton brawl, as the media are calling it, and Leila rolls her eyes.
‘Is something wrong, sister?’ he asks.
‘It’s going to be like the Cronulla riots all over again,’ she says. ‘For weeks the media’s going to sensationalise it, and every day they’ll get someone new to talk about it – questioning whether Australia’s racist, whether Lebanese people belong here, confusing the public about who Lebanese people actually are. When all it really comes down to is some drunk guy telling a lame joke and some stupid boys who like to solve problems with their fists. It’s ridiculous.’
‘What’s ridiculous is what happened after,’ Dad says. ‘Even Marie has more sense than to retaliate like a child in the dead of the night. Such shame on our people! At least before we could say it was a silly disagreement in the street. Now it looks like our community has done worse than the Aussies because they took it too far.’
‘What I want to know is who these people are,’ Aunty Paula says, waving her hands in front of her. ‘I can’t imagine a grown man vandalising cars. Grown men march in the street, they hold protests, they organise peaceful demonstrations, they talk to the police. This is either the work of silly children who think themselves adults, or people who genuinely do not belong in this country. Our community needs to alienate them for its own benefit.’
‘All I can say is I’m so glad I can trust my children,’ Dad says, smiling at me.
‘Hear, hear,’ Leila replies, squeezing my arm.
Mum looks worried. ‘I hope there is not a riot protesting against Lebanese people again. We’ve all worked very hard to make a good contribution to this country.’
‘Which is why we need to make sure our children are extra safe and extra careful wherever they go,’ Dad says. ‘So sad that this is going to give people even more ammunition to think of us as outsiders.’
Everyone nods in agreement, even Andrew, no doubt burdened by the fact that one of his friends could have gotten seriously hurt over something so silly.
The rest of the school holidays pass by with little fanfare. We’d started our HSC work in the last term of Year Eleven, so I spend most of the break doing assignments or turning my class notes into study notes and mind maps. Even I have to laugh at my OCD organisational skills, but considering just about no one except Dora calls to hang out with me, there isn’t much else to do.
The rest of the time I read books I’ve borrowed from the local library – Juliet by Anne Fortier, The Girl in Times Square by Paullina Simons and Revolution by Jennifer Donnelly – or sit on the veranda instagramming pictures of my DIY nail art and wishing there was somewhere to go that wouldn’t involve strategic planning or my parents accompanying me.
The fact that I hardly hear from anyone unless they have a homework question makes me worry even more about my invisibility complex. It’s not like I don’t have friends. I talk to the majority of people at school – it’s just that sometimes I feel like we’re all living in a big bubble. I’ve been at the same Catholic Lebanese school since kindergarten, and most of the time I like the fact that we have the same heritage. Our parents have all fled war; they’ve all started again from scratch, working hard to give their kids a better life, sending them to a school that will uphold the old traditions. But even with that in common, I still feel so different to them. Like I can’t really understand them, and they can’t understand me. Which isn’t exactly an ideal basis for profound friendships.
One day, after I’ve taken Angela, Viola and Marie to the movies, Dora calls and asks if I want to meet her at the shops so we can grab a pie from the bakery and have a mini-picnic in the park.
‘I’m in the middle of folding clothes,’ I say. ‘Give me about fifteen minutes and I’ll ask Mum.’
As I hang up the phone Mum walks into the room.
‘Aww, you’re folding the clothes for me?’ she says. ‘Thanks so much, sweetie. You’ve just given me the night off to enjoy my Egyptian soap.’
‘You’re welcome. But, Mum, I need to ask you something.’
‘Ah, is this what the Australian people call a catch?’
‘No catch, I promise. I was already folding when Dora called. She wants to know if I can go meet her at the shops. We’re going to get a few things and have a picnic.’
‘Sophie, there’s still mjadra from last night’s dinner. Who is going to eat it if you go out?’
‘Um, your other children and your husband,’ I point out. ‘Come on, Mum, please! It’s not my fault you always cook enough to feed a small village. If you made a little less we wouldn’t have leftovers.’
Mum raises her hands to the sky. ‘Why do you let her question me? She is fourteen years old and barely hatched out of her egg, just a little chick, and she already wants to go around making her own plans,’ she wails in Arabic.
I roll my eyes. ‘I’m seventeen, remember? And I just want to eat a pie with Dora. It’s not like I’m taking a gap year in Morocco to become the muse of a South American vegan artist who believes in free love.’
She stares at me blankly.
‘Please?’ I beg. ‘I took the girls to watch that stupid kids’ movie today. Let me do something for me.’
‘Mmm-hmm,’ she says absent-mindedly, inspecting my folding. She makes a face at me.
‘What?’ I ask, confused.
‘Sophie, you’re practically twenty years old and you can’t even fold the towels properly. What’s going to happen when you have your own home to look after?’
I shake my head. ‘Three minutes ago I was fourteen and a chick. Now, because I can’t fold towels to your liking, I’m old enough to be a woman with her own home?’
She sighs, then nods towards the door. ‘Fine, go. But I expect you back in two hours.’
I kiss her on the cheek and hurry to my room to grab my wallet.
‘And don’t talk to anyone we don’t know,’ she calls after me. ‘I don’t need your father breathing down my neck because you’re going out so much.’
I walk the five blocks to our local shopping strip. As I weave through the crowds and pass the different ethnic shops, I wonder if our lifestyle contributed to the Brighton Brawl. To outsiders, parts of Bankstown can be very confronting. Sometimes even I feel like they’re not in Australia. The banks and meat-pie shops and supermarkets that used to be on this strip are all gone. There’s just one fish and chip shop left, and one hot bread shop, and they’re both run by Asians. Except for the newsagency and video rental store, all the rest are Lebanese shops. Hairdressing and beauty salons run by women straight out of beauty school and straight into marriage and mortgages; bakeries that sell Lebanese bread and pizza; a giant mixed grocer that imports goods direct from the Middle East; and Lebanese butchers that guarantee their meat as halal and know what you need to make kibbe.
I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with this. I love that I can eat pork rolls, shawerma or fish and chips anytime I want, and that there’s so much culture in my suburb. But I can’t help wondering if in the process of trying not to forget where we came from, we’ve forgotten the country we’ve come to.
I stop philosophising as soon as I spot Dora, thankful for a break in my thoughts. We go in
side the bakery and she buys a meat pie and vanilla slice, while I choose a potato pie and mini fruit flan.
‘So much bad stuff,’ I say, grinning.
She makes a face. ‘Here’s hoping we’ll still fit into our uniforms.’
We’re about to head to the park when we see two mothers whose daughters are in the grade below ours. One of them calls out my surname. Dora rolls her eyes, but I stop to talk to the woman. I have no choice. She knows my family, and the last thing I need is some gossipy mother telling everyone that Theresa Kazzi’s daughter was rude.
‘Hello, Mrs Chahine,’ I say, my eyes pleading for Dora to come and join me.
Dora ignores me and takes a mouthful of her pie.
‘Can you believe what happened in Brighton the other week?’ Mrs Chahine says.
‘I know, how bad was it?’ I reply, shaking my head. ‘Such a shame. I hope it doesn’t reflect too badly on the community.’
‘Indeed,’ she says, looking like she couldn’t care less. ‘I heard that some of the boys from your school were involved. Is that true?’
Suddenly her desire to talk to me makes sense: she wants information. I’m tempted to tell her it’s none of her business, but she’d only label me disrespectful and my mother a bad parent.
‘A boy in Year Ten was hurt,’ I admit.
Mrs Chahine’s friend’s eyes light up. ‘Which one?’
‘Um, George Saab,’ I say uncomfortably.
She looks at Mrs Chahine. ‘Who?’
‘You’d know his parents,’ Mrs Chahine replies. ‘His father is the painter, and his mother is from that village near Zgharta. She drives a red Mitsubishi SUV.’
The woman nods. ‘Ah yeah, I know the ones.’ Her eyes widen. ‘Wow, so their son was there?’
‘Um, yeah,’ I say, my face reddening.
‘Anyone else that you know of?’ they ask, oblivious to my discomfort.
‘Don’t you even want to ask if he’s okay?’ Dora says behind me. She gives them a look and grabs my hand. ‘Let’s go, Sophie.’
The women stare at her disdainfully, but I’m glad my telepathic begging to be rescued has finally gotten through to her.
Lebanese gossip is the bane of my existence. Lebanese women know everything; they’re magnets for information on all things from real estate (they’re constantly trying to recruit relatives from Lebanon to the area) to the latest marriages and divorces, family dramas and church events.
‘Thanks so much for saving me,’ I say as we walk to the park. ‘Although it took you a while. You like seeing me miserable, don’t you?’
‘It’s your fault. Why didn’t you just fob them off?’
‘I can’t. They knew who I was. It’d get back to my parents.’
Dora gives me a pointed look. ‘For someone who supposedly sees through all the cultural bull, you care way too much.’
‘Let me remind you of Elias Kazzi’s manifesto,’ I say, and put on a deep voice. ‘There are some things that are simply unacceptable among our people, Sophie. You must remember that. And a mistake on the part of an individual will always have consequences for others.’ I go back to my normal voice. ‘Seriously, what do you expect from me?’
‘You act like there’s a mini version of him sitting on your shoulder,’ Dora says. ‘Live a little.’
‘It’s easy for you – your parents both grew up here. Mine are still wrapped up in the old country, just like plenty of others. If I do something bad, there are other parents like them who won’t let their sons date my sisters because I was rebellious.’
‘I don’t get that bullshit,’ Dora says. ‘I’m so glad my parents don’t buy into it either. You know my cousin Elaine’s in-laws didn’t think she was suitable for their son because her parents were divorced?’
‘My point exactly. Like, how the hell is that her fault? Divorce isn’t contagious or hereditary. Maybe my dad is the way he is because he’s trying to protect us from people like that. Half these stories happened a decade ago. People are still talking about how the Alachi family’s son gambled away his house to fund his crystal meth habit.’
‘Crazy stuff. I reckon that people will talk whether or not we do the right thing, so we might as well do what we want.’
Easier said than done, I think as we arrive at the park.
3
I hate that I can’t keep up with the rules of high school
Over the next few days, I notice that Andrew’s bedroom door is often closed. It’s disconcerting – normally he leaves it wide open and the whole house reverberates with the sound of his violent action movies and video games.
I knock, hoping he has time for a quick chat. Ignoring his angry ‘What?’, I go in. Andrew’s lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling and doing a whole lot of nothing.
‘Hey,’ I say, smiling. ‘Can you answer a few questions for me? It’s for an assignment I’m doing for Society and Culture.’
He rolls his eyes, then gestures for me to take a seat on the bed. ‘What’s the assignment?’
‘It’s a methodology – a big essay and analysis thingy – on asylum seekers. I want to look at what happens once they leave the detention centres, how well they integrate into the community, what they’re doing for work, whether they participate in wider society, and whether any of that affects their cultural identity.’
‘You actually chose to do that?’ he says, wide-eyed.
I nod. ‘Yep. I’m the only one in the class doing it so I’m hoping to do well. I’ve volunteered to go to a detention centre with one of the nuns from school every Thursday afternoon during Lent, so I can give the assignment a personal angle. I guess I’m trying to prove that you can retain your cultural identity and still integrate into the community without it causing social problems. It’s going to be a lot of work.’
‘But what’s the point?’ he asks, sitting up. ‘Maybe it’s the wider Aussie community that needs to adjust to the idea of migration. If they didn’t have a problem with other cultures, there wouldn’t be any riots.’
‘Yeah, but we don’t know what leads to events like that. Maybe people feel like they’re losing their identity because other cultures come in and change things – like using their own languages on shopfronts and stuff …’ He tries to interrupt, but I speak over him. ‘I’m not saying that they’re right – I’ve experienced racism too – but maybe those Leb guys at Brighton did something to incite the comment. And even if they didn’t, they probably made it worse by calling others in on the fight.’
Andrew’s eyes narrow, but he still answers my questions. I type up his responses afterwards and go online to do some more reading. I want to understand what sorts of things these people might be fleeing from. I’m pretty sure it’ll be a mixed bag: some will be genuine refugees, while others will have chosen Australia because we have a good welfare program. I see the attraction: we’re lucky to have a government that supports parents, students, the elderly and the sick, whereas in other countries some political groups shoot at girls to scare them off going to school. That makes me sick to my stomach, and I find myself signing up for updates from an organisation that’s trying to help the girls in those countries get access to education.
A Facebook notification comes through while I’m reading: Vanessa’s invite to her annual back-to-school party. She’s been doing it every year since we started Year Nine, except this time she’s evidently decided to mix up the location.
Vanessa Saade’s Back-to-School-Beach-BBQ-Bash
Let’s get the beach back at our Back-to-School Party!
Where: Brighton Beach
When: 3 February
Time: 7pm
Bring: Whoever you want so long as they can par-tay!
RSVP: Don’t bother! I mean, with me there, who cares if you make it or not? Ha ha!
It’s going to be the party of the year. Don’t miss out!
Love, hugs and kisses, Vanessa
I’ve barely had time to digest the invite when Dora pipes up in Facebook chat:
Did u get the invite? I can’t believe she’s doing it at the beach this year! She’ll be the first one calling the cops and blubbering like a baby at the first sign of trouble. Oh, well, at least it’ll be something different. I could do with a little bit of excitement in my life right now.
I type in my reply:
Yeah, but do you want the excitement to wind up on the news? I don’t want to get swept up in some kind of dumb dipshit teenage gang payback. The beach is a public place, other people will turn up and it’ll escalate. And when it does, it’ll just be more ammo to prove our shit reputation in this country. Like we need it after the gang rapes and terror trials and whatever else.
Dora
You’re being a drama queen again. I’m sure it won’t be that bad.
Sophie
Operative word being ‘that’. By the way, what’s with what she called it? Talk about appealing use of alliteration lol. I think this might actually be the first time I don’t WANT to go to anything!
Dora
Even if Zayden’s there? ;)
Sophie
Why, because he’ll notice if I’m there? He hasn’t noticed me for the past five years.
Dora
Okay, so he doesn’t talk to you. But he’s the most popular guy in school – he doesn’t have time to. He’s got a horde of crazy nutbag women around him all the time so why would he notice the girl who hides behind her invisibility and avoids him?
Zayden Malouf is hot. If we were in an American teen movie, he’d be the jock with the awesome car and masses of teenage girls after him, and I’d be the nerd girl in band camp he never takes any notice of. But then something magical would happen and he’d suddenly become aware of my existence and ask me to the prom (okay, the formal) and I’d take his breath away thanks to some contact lenses, copious hours of hair straightening, fake tan and a stunning red dress. And I’d actually be allowed to go with him, of course, because my American teen-movie dad would be awesome and cool and take photos of him giving me a corsage before we left the house.