Hate Is Such a Strong Word...

by Sarah Ayoub

  As a result, even the most enjoyable cultural celebrations leave me feeling isolated. I feel like the garlic sandwiched between two different slices of bread, and I like both slices very much. I don’t want to have to choose a side, and even if I could, the other side would question why I was turning away from it.

  So on the days we have guests over I sit at the table, away from everyone, eat quickly and make an inconspicuous exit. I go to my room and contemplate my identity. Am I Australian Lebanese or Lebanese Australian?

  The Lebanese people I’m surrounded by are not exactly open people; they stick to what they know. If they don’t know you, or your parents, or your culture, then you generally don’t cut it. I feel like I don’t cut it, because I don’t know who I am. I don’t fit in among the Aussies either. First of all, I have a woggy surname, complete with matching nose. Secondly, how am I supposed to get to know my Aussie friends properly if I’m not allowed to hang out with them? After all, a Lebanese girl isn’t supposed to leave the house at night. My ancestors would roll in their graves! What would the village folk say? How could I snag myself a Lebanese husband?

  I cherish my blood, but the further I mentally venture away from the little square my parents have fashioned for me, the more my blood thins. I feel like I’m dishonouring my cultural background simply by disagreeing with a few of its norms.

  But getting to this point has made me realise just how much I don’t want to let my culture go. Despite the fact that I’ll probably never return to the country of my ancestors, I finally understand the beauty of the mixed barbecue.

  My parents made a long, tumultuous journey here. When they arrived, they started from scratch and built their lives anew, like thousands of migrants before them. Their table – and to some extent, mine – is set with experience, hardship, accomplishment and pride. It’s a table that stands strong despite the struggles it has endured; a table that is testament to the ‘fair go’ this great nation offers.

  Despite my confusion over whether to forget my ancestry and embrace my new life, waving the banner of the Southern Cross while humming ‘Waltzing Matilda’, I know that I’m part of a nation that keeps the dream of a second chance alive.

  And should I stray from my roots, there’s something other than my blood that will always bring me back. It’s that spectacular smell of Lebanese cooking wafting before my woggy nose. And the fact that no matter where I go, there will be a relative waiting to welcome me with open arms. So I’ll follow the smell and find my way to the noisiest house on the street, where the men are drinking beer around the barbie and the women are gossiping while preparing lunch. Out front, the kids will be yelling in a mix of English and Arabic while they kick around a football.

  And at the table, I’ll defiantly claim that I’m Australian by birth, loyal to the land that has fed me, clothed me and educated me. A land that has given me the opportunity to sandwich myself between my two great loves, making me enriched, open-minded and appreciative of my blessings.

  I’ll look around at the people who have gathered in celebration of everything they’ve gained and with everyone they love. I’ll fill my plate from the feast before me, ready to join the party.

  This brings with it a comforting revelation. Australia will always be my home. But every time there’s a barbecue, I’ll be there, enjoying my culture – on a stick, on a plate, or on some bread. The fork is in my hand and I get to make the decisions. I can feed myself as much Lebanese as I want, and there is plenty to go around. Plenty because our feast is made all the more nourishing by this land that made the feeding possible.

  By the time I’m done writing, I realise that Shehadie is right. I do have the opportunity to change a lot, and I’m only invisible if I let myself be.

  As I pack the essay into its envelope, ready for posting, I smile, knowing just how far my head and my heart have come.

  28

  I hate … therefore I am

  Christmas comes and goes in a blur of present-wrapping, food preparation and visits to the endless relatives on our family tree. I realise how much I’ve changed this year when I sneak out of the house to meet Shehadie for coffee while my parents are visiting some distant relatives in Dural. He spends the whole time laughing at my poor attempts at disguising myself in case we run into anyone I know.

  For the first time in a long time, I don’t spend New Year’s Eve alone, because Dad decides he wants to have a party, and lets me invite Sue and Nicole. Then he spends an hour telling us how much he’s broadened his cultural horizons, how lucky we are to be living here, and how the riots and the brawls are a bad chapter that history will do well to forget. I want to roll my eyes, but I don’t because I’m proud of him for trying.

  Before I know it, the summer holidays are almost over and our family is on holidays at The Entrance, on the Central Coast of New South Wales. On Australia Day, I find myself sitting cross-legged on the sand watching the crowds, enjoying the last days before I return to everyday life.

  A lot of Sydney Lebanese come here for their summer holiday, and today they’re everywhere, walking around like they own the place. My sisters and I laugh, because we know they’re never going to change. Even Andrew comes to sit with us, his rebellious phase seemingly behind him. He’s actually been much nicer to be around since he was busted. As he explained to me a few weeks after he was charged, keeping it all a secret had driven him mad, especially with all the pressure and flak he copped from Zayden. All he wanted was justice for his mate, and if that wasn’t Aussie camaraderie, what was?

  There are people walking about wearing the Aussie flag or green and gold, singing ‘Waltzing Matilda’ or ‘Advance Australia Fair’. Dad joins in, and a man nearby yells, ‘Way to go, mate!’ Dad laughs even though the tips of his ears turn pink. I seriously want to hide, but I know that if I do, I’ll be the hypocrite who hid her head in the sand when she expected everyone else to get their heads out of it and embrace how good they have it here.

  My cousins are gathered en masse around a giant beach tent with the word ‘Oz’ repeated all the way around it, no doubt purchased from Go-Lo and made in China. They’re speaking in the loudest Arabic possible, and one of them has dabke music blaring from his phone. He has one arm wrapped around his mum while the other makes spirit fingers.

  It’s the most embarrassing thing in the world, but then an old lady wanders over and starts talking to Mum about where we’re from and how nice it is that we’re enjoying the national holiday. Mum reciprocates by doing what she does best – force-feeding the lady hummus and tabouli and giving her a few loaves of bread to ‘take back to the rest of the group you’re with’.

  To my horror, she starts teaching the lady how to make hummus, and although she mispronounces nearly everything, the lady looks ecstatic. I wish the Daily Telegraph was here to write something positive about the Lebanese, if only to save another seventeen-year-old from an identity crisis like the one I’ve just been through.

  I relocate to the shade under a tree a short distance away from my family, and look around at the vast sea of people on the beach. People of different colours, creeds, styles and personalities. It reminds me of a circular tile I saw outside Parliament House in Canberra that bore the words ‘The Commonwealth of Australia’. A man pointed it out to me on a school excursion and said that we weren’t just a commonwealth because of Britain but because our commonality was the wealth that each person’s background brought to our nation.

  I think of the police officer at school who told us, ‘To be a wog or a Leb, you have to be an Aussie first.’ It’s so true – the Lebanese in France or Brazil or Canada wouldn’t be caught dead calling themselves Lebs; it’s the nickname for Australian Lebanese. And here I’ve been, fretting about whether or not I belong, when there was a little niche already made for me.

  I breathe in the beautiful sea air and flick through my journal in the hope that it will inspire a script or two for the drama subjects I’ll be doing as part of my arts degree. Turns out, Dad was
thrilled with the idea, if a little concerned about my job prospects post-graduation. Apparently the accounting plan came out of his concern that I was too obliging and go-with-the-flow to determine my own future. I didn’t point out to him the irony.

  As I read through my journal, I see again all the energy and heartache I’ve burdened myself with. I’ve eventually come to understand that my dad’s rules, my aunt’s rebellion and my mum’s subversion aren’t always grounded in their ideals. They just have to do what they can with whatever life has dealt them. And I realise something else too: my hate list will never stop growing. I’ll always have something to complain about because that’s who I am: a sullen, complacent teenager who’s working out her strengths, weaknesses, blessings and limitations, and using them to help her leap into the unknown after years of sheltered existence. So I’ll let myself keep hating.

  I hate that my lack of money means I can’t afford to buy a Honda Jazz to zip to and from uni in, and that I’ll have to deal with the 1995 Toyota Corolla Dad bought off his friend instead. That’s if I manage to pass my driving test next month.

  I hate that my favourite jeans are too tight around my mid-thighs and that Thomas was right about me needing to lay off the sweet treats.

  I hate that all I ever wanted out of high school was to be acknowledged and remembered, and that I earned this acknowledgement by becoming a feisty snob who called my classmates ignorant after years of putting up with their attitudes because I wanted them to accept me.

  I hate the fact that I can be incredibly shallow.

  I hate the fact that despite all the headway I’ve made with my parents, I still have to lie to them if I want to see Shehadie and do normal teenage stuff.

  I hate that my first experience of a relationship has to be long-distance.

  I hate that I live in a man’s world.

  I hate the fact that it took me too long to realise that my attitudes were the only baggage worth worrying about.

  I hate the fact that I hate so many things.

  I hate the fact that I think this is okay, because to me it means acknowledging that life isn’t always easy and that I’ll have to pinpoint ways to improve it.

  I hate that for so long my idea of improving things was crying all alone in my room or whingeing about how no one understood me, when there were wonderful people all around ready to accept me with all my flaws.

  I hate the fact that somewhere there’ll be another Rita or Vanessa waiting for me to crumble, though I’m determined not to give them that satisfaction.

  Hate is such a strong word … But I LOVE the fact that I’m going to find myself, so that someday I’ll stop using it.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Writing Hate has been a long process, so there’s a long list of people I am indebted to for their encouragement and support.

  A massive thanks to my incredible agent and publishing powerhouse Selwa Anthony, whose knowledge and backing have been instrumental in making this book a reality. A special mention to Kennedy Estephan for the introduction – your generosity will never be forgotten.

  Drew Keys, I owe so much of this finished product to your advice and guidance. Thanks especially for that wonderful line: ‘To be a wog/Leb you have to be an Aussie first.’ It’s absolute genius and you deserve the credit for it. I appreciate your help more than you know.

  To the incredible team at HarperCollins Australia, who took such great care of me: my publisher, Tegan Morrison, for her unwavering enthusiasm and support, and Cristina Cappelluto, who understood Sophie’s dichotomous identity more than I could have hoped for. A big thanks to project editor Chren Byng, publicist Amanda Diaz and Children’s campaign manager Tim Miller who pulled everything together.

  Thanks also to my editor, Nicola O’Shea, whose comments and edits gave the story just the refinement it was missing.

  To the incredibly smart, talented and all-round amazing Rachel Hills for her mentoring from the outset of this writing career; and Tammi Ireland, whose enthusiasm and love have fast made her the friend of a lifetime. There’s no measure for how much I appreciate you both.

  To the writers who have been sounding boards on everything from industry to writer’s block: Megan Burke, Gabrielle Tozer, Bessie Recep, Liv Hambrett, Shitika Anand and Fiona Macdonald. Thanks for the constant inspiration.

  And to the cheerleaders who kept me going: Danielle Najem, Regina Assaf, Jamila Ayoub, Gloria Haddad, Hayley Bennett, Viola Doyle and Maha Coorey. And via social media: Abi Moustafa, Allison Tait, Khadija Taiba-Saddik and Scarlett Harris. And of course to Sue Aquilina, who inspired my character Sue, crazy hair included!

  Special thanks to Judith Ridge, Steph Little and Liz Goralewski, who offered me advice on the genre.

  I’m also thankful for the encouragement from my in-laws: Glenda, Nana, Marilyn, Lizzy, David and Christine; and for cuddles from Jude, Flynn and Lukas, who brought joy to my bad-writing days. And for Mum’s family on the other side of the world, who tended to me as though I was royalty when I sat on their veranda writing my final draft, looking out at their old-school Lebanese village.

  Thanks to every single person who purchased a copy, or tweeted and Facebooked their excitement at the release. You are making my dream a reality too.

  Finally, to my family: my wonderful husband James, for his patience and love. Thank you for always taking such great care of me. My sisters and saving graces, Marie-Claire and Josie, for all the printing and feedback, and Milad and Laura too.

  And lastly, to my parents: I hope your children’s lives here have made the big trek from the Mother Country worth it. Dad, we have reaped the benefits of your hard work and will always see you as our superhero. I hope I have made you proud. Mum, thanks for your daily prayers, the constant effort you make for your family, and for filling my life with all that is special. Everything that I have ever achieved is a result of your love and sacrifice. This book is yours too. I hope you like it.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sarah Ayoub is a freelance journalist and blogger based in Sydney, Australia. Her work has appeared in various print and online publications, including Marie-Claire, Madison, Cosmopolitan, House & Garden, Sunday Magazine, ABC Unleashed, Cleo, Notebook, Shop Til You Drop, Frankie, Yen, Girlfriend and more. She has taught Journalism at the University of Notre Dame and spoken at numerous industry events with the Emerging Writers’ Festival, NSW Writers’ Centre, the Walkley Foundation, Vibewire and more.

  To find out more about Sarah, you can follow her on Facebook and Twitter or check out her blog at http://sarahayoub.com.

  Copyright

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  First published in Australia in 2013

  This edition published in 2013

  by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

  ABN 36 009 913 517

  harpercollins.com.au

  Copyright © Sarah Ayoub Christie 2013

  The right of Sarah Ayoub Christie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  HarperCollinsPublishers

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  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

  Ayoub, Sarah, author.

  Hate is such a strong word / Sarah Ayoub.

  978 0 7322 9684 1 (pbk)

  978 1 7430 9916 2 (epub)

 
; For ages 12+

  Families – Juvenile fiction. Interpersonal relations in adolescence – Juvenile fiction.

  Violence – Juvenile fiction. Lebanese Juvenile fiction.

  A823.4

  Cover design by Hazel Lam, HarperCollins Design Studio

  Cover images by shutterstock.com

  Author photograph by Simona Janek, GM Photographics