by Osamah Sami
I rubbed a thick layer of zinc on my face and went out to check the mail. I got there just as the mailman did, perfect timing.
‘Hasit guwin, cobber?’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’
He was about to make a hasty scoot, but he paused to repeat. ‘How is it going?’ he said slowly.
‘Oh, how I am going?’ I said. ‘Well, today I am not going, because I have a Centrelink appointment with my mum. But yes, usually I am going to language school, Monday to Friday. I am going by bus. I buy zone-two ticket and go to school—’
But I was speaking to the air. After staring at me in utter stupefaction for a moment, the postie had just shaken his head and scooted up the street.
I collected the envelope, and spotted a brochure underneath. At first, I assumed it was just another Pizza Madness Special from Joe’s, since his leaflets were red and black like this one. But instead of pizza, this one showed a fighter jet dropping bombs over a large caption: JOIN THE BOMBERS, it said.
I freaked my feathers out and rushed back in to consult with Moe Greene.
‘Have you shown this to Dad?’ Moe whispered. ‘I think it’s a test. The Australians want to see if we really want to join or not. Then they can catch Dad.’
We were certain they had secret services everywhere, that every postman and neighbour was a potential spy.
The pamphlet had a number, but I was too afraid to call. They also had a price list, which made me want to get in touch: would they pay us actual money for joining? Suddenly, the Australian summer didn’t feel so welcoming; I felt the sun starting to slap me hard across my face and neck. If ever there was a time to use the first swear word I’d learned, it was now. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ I said out loud.
Later in the afternoon, we sat around our ‘dining table’—actually, in a circle on the floor, the newspapers our ersatz tablecloth. The barbecue was delicious, but it wasn’t enough to distract me from the pamphlet. My face was red and flustered, a quality which did not escape the notice of my dad, man of a thousand senses.
‘What’s with your face?’
‘First Aussie sunburn,’ I mumbled.
‘But you slapped a kilo of that white stuff on your face,’ he laughed. ‘I know, because you finished the whole tube. If you don’t tell me what the story is, I’m afraid you’ll miss out tonight.’ Dad was in the middle of reading us 1001 Nights, a nightly practice which I loved.
I looked over at Moe, whose face was poker-magnificent. Had he told our father? No, he wouldn’t do that.
I guiltily withdrew the pamphlet from its hiding spot—my socks.
‘They think you’re a terrorist, Dad.’
To my dismay, he started to laugh.
‘Yes, I think we should join and become Bombers, indeed!’
‘DAD, NOT SO LOUD—’
Dad raised his hand to shut us up.
‘Since we’re in Victoria, we must choose a team. And why not the Bombers? We’re Muslims, so naturally.’ He kept laughing to himself, while we watched him, mouth agape. ‘Okay, never, ever repeat that. I’m a cleric, so bad enough. But I say we all start barracking for the Bombers. The other names are boring. The Kangaroos, the Bears, the Lions, the Magpies, the Hawks and Ducks and Geese. God forbid, the Demons!’
He placed the turban on his head, ready for the mosque, where he conducted the nightly prayers. ‘Anyway, you lot decide. People are waiting for me.’ And he left the house, cool as a cleric with footy fever.
Keeping up with the Joneses
Dad’s duties included acting as a marriage celebrant, and that summer he did so for the ecstatic Mr Karimi, whose new wife, an Australian, was now the very weird Mrs Karimi Jones.
They’d invited us to their Pagosha (‘paa-goshayee’), a party thrown shortly after the wedding, in honour of the newlyweds. The term literally meant ‘the spreading of the legs’, though the sense behind the phrase lay more in the couple’s stepping towards a new venture. The idea was to celebrate their newfound status, as a family.
Mr Karimi was Iranian, but his new family was Aussie—meaning there would be alcohol on offer. Dad felt it would be inappropriate for a cleric to attend, but he asked me, Mum and Moe Greene to go and extend our respects.
The party was unlike anything I had ever seen: suggestive music, suggestive dancing and, of course, the drinks—no Mr X required.
‘My mother-in-law is a bank manager,’ boasted Mr Karimi, ‘and has helped approve a small business loan for me. I am going to set up a small Persian kebab shop in a city corner.’
His mother-in-law was an elegant woman in her fifties. When she greeted Mr Karimi, he made a point of hugging her and kissing her on the cheeks, calling her ‘my second mother’. She passed him a bottle of wine, and he grabbed it gratefully. Then he burst into his thank-you speech.
‘Mrs Jones,’ he said, effusively. ‘Thank you for coming to spread your legs open for me. I hope tonight is not the only time we do this. I hope we’re able to do this for many years to come!’
I knew enough English by this time that the wine became the most interesting thing in the room for me—and it was very difficult to keep from laughing.
SLEEPING ROUGH
Mashhad, Iran, 2013: three days until visa expires
The bus pulls into the Mashhad terminal at 2 pm. I can’t move my limbs; I’ve been on that bus for over fourteen hours, in the weird, fitful non-sleep you get on long-haul rides. The driver touches my arm as I descend the steps.
‘See? We arrived, without a glitch. And here you were, with all your worries.’
I gape at him, but I guess he has a point: the Kurds, Cleric Job, the soldiers, they all managed to help me, some by active intervention, some by leaving me alone.
The driver, too, in his own way. He winks at me now. ‘You hid your headache tablets in that backpack? Spare me.’
I put a finger to my lips and wink back. It’s time to find some internet and get back in touch with home.
There’s a hot spot here at the terminal; I fire off an email to Ali. I use underlining and all caps: YOU NEED TO CHASE THE FUNERAL DIRECTOR ASAP and The embassy needs the director’s NAME, ADDRESS AND TELEPHONE NUMBER to issue the QUARANTINE PASS. I pray that he understands the urgency.
And then, just in case I’m coming on too strong: But there is ABSOLUTELY no need to panic. All is under control.
I hop in a cab and head straight to the Department of Foreign Affairs. It’s dog-eat-dog here, people scrambling. I shove my way to the appropriate window.
I’m face to face with a female soldier, in full black hijab. Thick glasses. I notice her rank stitched on her chador and address her accordingly; I then hand her the dossier, and get her up to speed.
‘Your father was an Afghan?’ she asks, nonchalantly.
‘His passport is Australian.’
‘Are you being smart with me?’
‘No, ma’am. He’s Australian.’
‘Of what origin?’
‘Why does that matter? He is an Australian citizen, full stop.’
She looks at me squarely. ‘Do you want to
take his body back? If so, you answer my questions.’
‘Ma’am, please. Can you just go by my documents, not the colour of my skin?’
‘Oof. Nelson Mandela, are you?’
‘What do you want to hear? Okay, yes, I am an Arab.’
‘Then you will need to go to building H on the East Wing and fill out a pink form.’
‘But I am Australian.’
‘That’s what your paper says. Your origin will always be Iraq. You are not special, so don’t parade here telling us what to do. Do as I tell you and you won’t have any problems.’
Dejected, I pull out from the window. Two people fight to replace me. I look at the time—3.40 pm. It’s almost closing time again. But there’s nothing to do but follow the signs until I reach a booth marked Aliens.
‘Sir, I would like a pink form please,’ I say.
‘They’re only for foreigners,’ the soldier replies.
‘That I am.’
‘Pretty fluent for an Arab.’
‘Do I take this pink form back to the main hall?’
‘Yes, and it costs five thousand.’
I pay the fee and fill out the form. Most questions clearly don’t apply to me; it’s only relevant to Iraqis without an identity. But I do my best, and use my football training to hip-and-shoulder-bump my way back through the crowd to the female soldier. I place the pink form in front of her.
The lady studies it.
‘This isn’t filled,’ she concludes, unmoved.
‘Some questions don’t apply to me. Like that one that says why have you left Iraq. I was born here.’
She continues studying the form, then picks up a red pen. She draws a long, thick line across the form to render it void and throws it in the bin.
I want to gape at her, but she won’t meet my eyes. Instead, she finds a new paper, stamps it twice and signs it. She then stamps it again, seals it in an envelope and stamps it one more time. Each thud of the stamp makes my eye twitch. I focus on my breathing.
‘Go to the Department of Births and Deaths and register your father as deceased,’ she says. ‘They will issue a death certificate. You bring that back here.’
‘And that’s it?’ I say.
‘Have you booked your tickets?’
‘I can’t, without an exit paper.’
‘Then you’d better get a move on. Friday and Saturday are public holidays, you know.’
Believe me, I know. ‘Thank you,’ I tell her. I leave the rest unsaid.
◆ ◆ ◆
I cab it back to the airport to pick up my luggage. The manager with the unfashionable hat is drinking tea again.
‘You are back.’ He smiles.
‘Thank you for looking after my luggage,’ I say, and mean it.
‘The least I can do for a guest of my country.’
I reach for my pocket, but he grabs my hand, like my father did, before I can withdraw the gratuity notes.
‘Don’t you dare. You are a guest,’ he says.
At first, I think he’s just doing taarof, so I offer him cash again. I offer again and again. But the man is deadly serious.
‘Your father has passed away in a sacred land,’ he says, ‘and you are clearly fatigued. Keeping your luggage here isn’t worth a thank you. It was my duty. I hope someday if I am in your country and in need, then you will be there for me. If not for me, then someone else. Go, and God be with you.’
I lug the bags away, stunned.
◆ ◆ ◆
The cheap hotels are all booked out, I know that from the other night, so I walk into a five-star option, about $400 a night. I have no idea how I will afford the room, but the temperature is still on zero, so I really have no choice.
The concierge barely looks at me. ‘We are full,’ he blurts out.
I stare him down and march up to reception.
‘And this hotel might not be the right choice for you,’ he calls after me.
I address the clerks in English, which makes them look up. But the concierge wasn’t lying. They’re as full as anywhere.
I swallow my pride and ask if I can rest four or five hours in the lobby, taking out $100 worth and begging with my eyes. The receptionists don’t answer me; instead, they look behind me. I follow their eyes. The lavish lobby wants nothing more than to chew me up and spit me out. Well-dressed people bustling, even at midnight: kings and queens stay here. I get the message and haul my father’s bags into the night.
◆ ◆ ◆
I stagger through a dark alley, running on my last fumes. I stumble across a woman and three children spread across a hessian sack. She cradles two of the children on her lap like kittens; the other rests against her shoulder. My knees go weak. The five-star hotel is just metres from here.
I place my luggage, guitar and Dad’s cane to one side and sit beside the woman, not quite on the hessian sack, but not too far away either.
‘Aren’t you cold?’ I ask.
‘No, son, are you?’ The woman shivers.
I don’t know what to say to her. I just gaze at the ground.
‘Are you here for the pilgrimage?’ she asks. Her voice is hoarse, but loving.
‘I was,’ I say. ‘But my father passed away first, so I’m taking him back home.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she says. ‘I’m sure God will not only find him a place in paradise, but host him well.’
I keep my eyes cast down, still unsure what to do. ‘Mother, why are you here?’ I ask.
‘Do you really want to hear it, son?’ she says. ‘Don’t you have somewhere to be?’
‘Even if I did, I want to hear it. But no pressure, please, I’m just a curious boy.’
‘No,’ she says, ‘I can tell you are a good boy, too. The reason I am here is that my husband was a drug addict. He was also a hard worker. But he saw bad things in the war. Sometimes people just fall apart through no fault of their own. Eventually, the police took him. His boss was a good man too. He gave me some money but it ran out fast. His relatives didn’t want to help. They said I enabled him. And my own family—well.’
I don’t have to ask: the war.
She nods at the child on her shoulder. ‘This one is my sister’s. The other two are mine. I came and sat here last week, thinking the rich people might help. They didn’t. But I can’t walk anywhere else anymore. No energy.’ She shrugged. ‘So I stayed here.’
‘When does your husband come back?’ I ask.
‘Never,’ she replies simply. ‘A creditor ordered a hit on him. He was killed in jail.’
At the mouth of the alley, the five-star hotel is still bustling. Behind it shines the golden dome of the holy shrine.
‘Do you mind if I rest here tonight?’
‘You’ll get sick from the cold,’ she replies.
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But I think I was meant to meet you.’
She closes her eyes. ‘I’m not special, son. There are thousands just like me. But God is great.’
I’m using Dad’s garb to keep warm, but the winter has no mercy. I get up quietly, trying not to wake the woman or the children. The woman wakes.
‘Be safe, son,’ she says.
I dig into my pocket and drop the contents on the ground. I don’t look at it, but I decide that whatever comes out is hers; whatever it is, I know it’s at least a month’s worth of food.
She doesn’t look at it either, but she knows too. ‘That’s too much, son,’ she says.
She starts crying. I don’t want to make a big deal of it, and I don’t know what to do. So I let her kiss me on the cheek, then grab my things and leave.
LESSONS TO LEARN
Melbourne, Australia, 1995–97
Nailed it
In school, I was placed in a class with other kids like me: losers who couldn’t speak the language. English was taught by Ms Hunter, a woman in her early forties who had a way of making sure every student listened to her with absorbed rapture. It had to do with her choices of clothing, which made her look a decade younger, a decade feistier and a decade spicier.
Ninos was the dirtiest and naughtiest of us all—a horny, acne-prone nineteen-year-old Christian Iraqi. He had failed this class twice before, which he insisted was nowhere near a deliberate attempt to clock more hours in the presence of Ms Hunter’s ‘saucy wagon’.
That saucy wagon had some interesting ideas. Ms Hunter was a three-time divorcee, and liked to engage us in debates over why Arab men were permitted to marry four wives, while their wives were distinctly not afforded that luxury.