‘Your father?’ Abdhul asks me, still unsure given our earlier conversations.
‘Yes.’ I smile. ‘I found him.’
Abdhul reaches forwards and hugs my father. ‘Your daughter is very kind. She is my sister. It is good to meet you, Daddy.’
My father’s expression wavers between surprise and amusement. I manage to hold the laughter in for a few seconds, and when it finally erupts it is a spluttery noise that no one can ignore. My mother, Bronwyn and Ellie, who is now between the two women, turn towards us.
‘Sorry, Abdhul,’ I say quietly, unsure where to start. ‘He isn’t used to being called Daddy. That’s all.’ I press the back of my hand to my mouth.
‘But I am very pleased to meet you,’ my father tells Abdhul. ‘Any friend of my daughter is a friend of mine. Welcome.’
28
I drop in on Abdhul on my way home from work and school pick-up, sending Ellie home ahead of me with the key to the cottage. As I wait for my knock to be answered, I look again at the assortment of well-cared-for shoes lined up on the top step. There are only three pairs, so one of the men is out.
‘Hello,’ Abdhul says flatly, and I sense he is tired.
‘Any word yet from Immigration? About your interview time?’
He shakes his head. I don’t know what to say.
‘We have another party soon,’ he tells me. ‘You will come? There will be more dancing. You can wear the dress I gave you.’
‘Yes, okay. I would love to come.’ I think how much richer my life is for knowing Abdhul. I almost ask if I can bring Sean, but I don’t. It is as if I am moving between separate worlds: work, Sean, my new family, and Abdhul and his friends. They are like the bubbles Ellie and I used to blow from a loop of twisted wire, each one entirely self-contained, but fragile. We used to try to make the bubbles assorted shapes, long and ghostlike or perfectly round, and laughed at how changed we looked in the various reflections. I fear that the worlds I move between are not compatible, and that if two of them collide, they will burst.
Claire is running late to collect Ellie, and I am already dressed in the traditional Afghan clothes when she arrives. She is wearing a crisp linen shirt and slim-fitting jeans, her hair newly coloured and styled.
‘Fancy dress?’ she asks.
‘Something like that. Thanks for having Ellie. It’s my turn to have Sally next, that’s for sure. They’re lovely friends.’
‘It’s no problem. I’m lucky, there are two of us.’ It comes across as smug, but I don’t think it’s intentional. Her marriage is certainly not one I envy and I suspect she sees that.
‘Isn’t Mum pretty in it?’ Ellie says beside me, holding out the dress fabric. She is wearing three-quarter-length pants and a shirt that I realise she has just cut short to reveal her stomach, which explains why she asked to borrow the scissors earlier. A ‘tummy top’, like those worn by the pop musicians gleaming out from the new poster on Ellie’s bedroom wall, a gift from Sylvia. I am about to comment disapprovingly when Claire speaks.
‘They’re extraordinary earrings.’ She reaches out and touches the elaborate costume jewellery that Abdhul’s wife sent.
‘All the way from Af-ghan-is-tan,’ Ellie says. ‘Abdhul’s wife sent it to Mummy.’
Claire admires my earrings with her fingers. ‘How could she afford them?’
‘It was very generous of her.’ I want to tell her that Abdhul’s family are not so much poor as persecuted. That Abdhul was a successful craftsman back home, a master craftsman, but I don’t want to sound like one of the human-rights email fundraisers my gmail account seems to attract.
‘Okay, Ellie. Be good,’ I say, bending down to kiss her at the same time as giving her shirt a gentle tug so that she knows I’ve noticed her alteration. She tugs on my long necklace in reply.
‘How’s your mum, Claire?’ I ask as she goes to leave.
‘We’ve had to move her into a hospice. It’s heartbreaking leaving her with strangers. I mean, they’re kind and caring, but it feels wrong after all she’s done for me. In other cultures,’ she says, pointing at the outfit I’m wearing, ‘they keep their old people at home, but I can’t manage her pain well enough.’
‘No, it’s horrible to see people you love suffer.’ I think of the time Nina was so gravely ill with pneumonia. I think of all the love I am bestowing on Ellie, which I have never doubted will be returned when it is my turn to be old. I think, too, of Helena and what our relationship will look like down the track.
At the community hall, I am waved through and pointed in Abdhul’s direction.
‘Welcome, sister. You look very beautiful.’ He stands back and admires the outfit, and several of his friends pay their compliments, although regard me with curiosity.
‘Thanks.’ I feel myself blushing. I give Abdhul a brief hug, which only attracts more questioning gazes from those around us, that and the fact my scarf is around my neck instead of over my hair. I am not sure where I stand with this. This is Australia, where women are free to dress as they choose, where women like my mother are vocal about equal rights, but I am at an Afghani event, in Afghani dress, and am making people uncomfortable. I decide, as a sign of respect for Abdhul’s culture, to pull up the scarf. The women at a nearby table appear instantly less suspicious, as if I have just said aloud that they can now trust me around their husbands, although one woman is pointing. I realise it is my unglamorous sandshoes under the dress that have caught her attention. I shake one of my feet at her and pull an expression of embarrassment and, finally, she laughs.
The music coming from loud speakers in the corner of the room sounds vaguely Indian. People are already dancing. Abdhul laughs brightly with a man I have never seen before and they move onto the dance floor, hands above their heads, bodies swaying, feet sweeping off the ground in small, quick lifts. More men join in, and I cannot help but watch. The women beside me whisper as they point now at the men.
‘Come, come,’ says Farzhana, the aspiring doctor, appearing from nowhere and taking me up onto the dance floor once the men have finished. We turn and smile and our dresses flash brilliantly, their tiny mirrored adornments reflecting the colours of those around us. I am soon giddy from the dancing but keep going until late. On my one attempt to offer help in the kitchen, I’m shooed out. When the meal is served, it is already 10 pm. I take a fork and devour the food, aware that many around me, particularly the older people, are using their fingers to eat.
‘Those women over there?’ I point, asking Farzhana about a group of women seated alone in the corner. They are of slightly different appearance. ‘They didn’t dance with us.’
‘They are Iranians,’ she tells me.
‘They shouldn’t be here. Not real refugees,’ an older woman leans in and announces bitterly. Farzhana frowns, seeming to disagree.
‘Oh?’ I ask, taken aback by the tone of her voice and the derisive glares. I think of the Hydro camp where Nina and my grandfather lived and the inevitable tensions that must have arisen, the complexities and prejudices. Abdhul is walking towards me, his white pants and loose shirt brilliant under the fluorescent lights of the hall. His hair appears even darker and his teeth whiter. His only form of jewellery is the blue amethyst ring on his left hand.
‘All good?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’ He, I realise, has been watching us. ‘But I should leave soon.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes, probably now.’ I smile at the women around me, and bid my goodbyes.
‘I will walk you home, sister,’ Abdhul tells me. ‘I am ready to go.’
‘Thank you.’
I leave, lightheaded from the evening without having touched a drop of alcohol, aware of several women whispering again behind my back. Perhaps they resent me for being here, as if it is, for me, just a form of no-cost voyeuristic travel, without so much as having to get on a plane.
The evening is cool, and I leave the scarf over my head for warmth, enjoying also the glide of the perfumed fabric against my bare legs. I
feel more sensual in this modest dress and the long loose slacks underneath than I ever feel in my normal clothes: t-shirts with jeans or straight skirts cut off just above the knee. I wonder if Abdhul is imagining it is his wife with him, for I am certain it is her scent on the clothes.
‘How did you and your wife meet?’ At least we can talk of her.
‘Our parents introduced us. At the wedding.’
‘At whose wedding?’
‘At our wedding.’
He glances across at me, waiting for me to react.
‘It was an arranged marriage?’
‘Yes.’ He laughs. ‘Of course.’ He shakes his head. His lighthearted attitude makes me think of the Dalai Lama, whose jolly photograph stares at me daily from my copy of The Conquest of Happiness, which I brought back from Brisbane without any argument from Ian. I have been meaning to read it now for five years.
We are a hundred metres from the community hall when I hear footsteps approaching quickly behind me and, as I go to turn around, my scarf is wrenched from my head, catching around my throat before being torn away. Someone knocks me over.
‘Muslim pigs,’ a young man shouts, my scarf streaming from his hand like a victory flag. ‘Fucking go home, fucking terrorists.’
I see Abdhul on the ground looking across at me, then a man is kicking him in the stomach and ribs. Still he looks at me, reaching out.
‘Run, sister.’
I look up at the hooded youth, and he looks back at me, clearly shocked that I am Caucasian.
‘Fuck!’ He pulls at another youth’s jacket, moving him backwards. I am not sure who is more shocked, them or me.
‘Are you okay?’ Abdhul asks when they are gone.
‘Yes. Are you badly hurt?’
He stands and can walk, but holds his side. ‘I will be fine.’
‘Was it the same group as last time?’
‘I think so.’
I link arms with Abdhul and convince him to come back with me to the cottage where I can look after him. I tell him I have a friend who is trained in first aid.
‘First aid?’
‘He is a bit like a doctor.’
We make our way slowly up the hill and, as soon as we are through the door, Abdhul heads for the couch and lies down.
I phone Sean, starting to shake. I tell him what has happened.
‘On my way,’ he says. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes.’
I am still in Afghani dress when Sean arrives. Straight away, he notices the red mark across my neck.
‘You’re hurt.’
‘Not really. They pulled off the scarf, that’s all.’ I lift the scarf that is now draped around my shoulders. It is damp from having fallen into the gutter.
‘You don’t have to dress in that way to show your support. It makes you a target.’ Is he angry? He looks at me as if realising he might not know me as well as he thought.
‘No one should be attacked for what they wear.’
‘No, of course not … I’m not saying that.’ He appears frustrated. ‘Is your friend okay?’ He looks past me towards the lounge room.
‘I hope so. He seems to take it all in his stride. I don’t know how. He’s here to get away from violence. His housemate was attacked, too, a while back. Abdhul thinks it’s the same group.’
‘Did you get a look at them?’
‘Sort of. But it was pretty fast. And the guy I saw best was wearing a hoody. Young. Fair, I think. Redneck.’
Abdhul is lying on his side on the couch, the blanket over him and his hands crossed in front of his chin. His turquoise ring is bright against his dark complexion and black leather jacket, a blue eye shining. He looks like a sleeping, swarthy Elvis Presley.
‘There’s nothing between you?’ Sean asks me, a whisper. He doesn’t look me in the eye, and still hasn’t kissed me hello.
‘No!’ Ian was never jealous so this comes as a surprise. ‘Abdhul is almost half my age. He’s a friend.’
‘Sorry, it’s just …’ He points to me, his index finger scanning up and down, indicating how I am dressed, the lengths I have gone to to impress. ‘He’s on your couch.’
‘He’s married. I’d never …’
‘No, I know. Sorry.’
I’m not accustomed to this – an apology that so quickly short circuits an argument. I reach out my hand and he takes it, briefly meeting my eye before refocusing on Abdhul. Sean squats beside my friend and goes to gently take his pulse, but Abdhul startles, defensively lifting his forearms over his face and drawing his knees up and forwards. Abdhul shouts something in his own language.
‘You’re okay,’ I tell him, taken aback by the strength of his reaction. I put my hand firmly on his shoulder. ‘Sean is my friend. He’s here to check you’re all right.’
Sean extends his hand and Abdhul, reassured, shakes it. ‘I should have woken you first. My apologies. It was stupid of me. Are you in pain?’ Sean touches various parts of his own body to illustrate the question, as if Abdhul might not understand. ‘Where is hurting?’
Abdhul points to his side, his ribs.
Sean asks him to roll onto his back and take a deep breath, and Abdhul grimaces with pain as he tries to do as he is asked.
Sean presses gently around Abdhul’s ribs, locating the injury, then examines his abdomen and kidneys. He takes his pulse.
‘Hopefully it is just bruising, but he might have cracked a rib,’ Sean says. ‘We should probably get him X-rayed. Have him properly examined at the hospital.’
‘I am fine,’ Abdhul says. ‘Just need to sleep now. No hospital.’
‘Sean thinks you need an X-ray.’ I turn to Sean. ‘How do you treat broken ribs?’
‘Rest mostly. Pain relief.’
‘I’ll get him some Panadol.’
‘Thank you, sister. Please tell my friends I’m okay.’
In the kitchen, I look at Ellie’s framed school photograph, now hanging on the wall, and wonder what I’ve got us into. She needs me. What if I had been badly hurt tonight?
Abdhul swallows the tablets I’ve given him and answers Sean’s questions about his family back home: How many children does he have? Where does his family live? He nods when Sean comments how difficult it must be for him here. I have told Sean much of this already and tap his back discreetly to suggest that he stop the interrogation, but Abdhul answers the questions without complaint, as if it is part of the deal of being a refugee, to have to tell your story over and over.
‘Have you asked him about the research?’ Sean asks me.
‘No. Not yet.’ I flick him a warning glance for suggesting this now.
‘Sister?’
‘You need to rest. We can talk about it later …’ I say.
‘About what?’
I sigh. The worlds I was trying to keep separate are colliding as I feared they might.
‘In my research at the university,’ I begin, ‘I want to show that what you and other Hazara people are suffering as refugees is not good for you or your children.’
‘It is not good, no.’
‘I want to show it with science. From your genes. Not yours, in particular, because your children are sadly not here, but from your friends’ genes, those who have children here in Tasmania. Do you think they would be okay with that?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He rolls over and closes his eyes. ‘I think I will sleep now. Please tell Sayed.’
He hands me his phone, and I see Sean note the image of the Australian flag on the cover. I find Sayed’s number in the contacts and tell him what has happened and that Abdhul is resting here. That he is sore but not badly hurt.
‘Okay, thank you,’ the young man says, his voice quiet and sad, but resigned. The fact that this is not out of the ordinary is more devastating to me than the assault itself.
The next day, I insist that Abdhul accompanies Sean and me to the police station. We report the attack and the police officer makes notes. He takes my description of the youths, particularly the one wh
o stood over me.
‘If it hadn’t been me under that scarf, I suspect the assault may have continued,’ I say.
‘And you were wearing the scarf why? Are you Muslim?’
‘No. But I was attending an Afghani function. I was trying to show my respect.’
‘I tried to tell her it makes her a target,’ Sean says quietly, leaning forwards so Abdhul mightn’t hear.
‘That is unfortunately true,’ the police officer confirms. ‘You are asking for trouble dressing like that.’
I can feel my face and neck flushing with anger and think of Muslim women coming here for support and being told such a thing.
I look the policeman in the eye. ‘And is a woman who is raped at fault if she wears a short skirt?’
I am aware of Abdhul tilting his head from side-to-side, as if trying to answer the question himself, or wonder why I am asking it.
‘It is not good for women to wear short skirts …’ Abdhul tisks his tongue.
I look at him, annoyed at the side he is taking.
‘Are you reporting a rape?’ the policeman asks.
‘No. You know what I mean!’ I am rarely so quickly angered. ‘Is it the victim’s fault? Surely you are not telling me this?’
‘I am telling you, there is political correctness and there is common sense. Do you have a daughter?’ He studies me.
‘Yes, I do.’ I go suddenly cold at the mention of Ellie in the context of an assault. ‘But this isn’t about me or my daughter.’
‘And she is how old?’
‘Seven.’
‘And, in ten years’ time, when she is seventeen, will you give her any advice on what she should wear out of the house? How, although it is, of course, not her fault if she is attacked, she may be more likely to fall victim to a predator who notices short skirts? Or head scarves?’
‘A woman should be able to wear what she chooses,’ I say.
‘Yes, she should,’ Sean says, sharing a glance with the policeman. ‘Of course, but …’
‘But it is not a perfect world,’ the policeman finishes. ‘Sadly, it is far from it.’
A week later, after several fiery and unresolved discussions with Sean about the conversation at the police station, he, Abdhul and I are driving in Sean’s car to various Hazara families’ houses.
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