Good Muslim Boy

by Osamah Sami

  ‘I feel like you will never have the son you deserve,’ I said.

  Where had that come from? I felt a huge wave of endorphins relax me, like some kind of cosmic floodgate had just opened. After all the lying and posturing and trying to please other people, it was startling to put my cards on the table.

  ‘Then I have been a very bad father,’ replied my father. ‘If I have not communicated to you how much you are loved then I am the failure. I am the bad Muslim. Because you are loved without conditions. You and your insane brother Moe and the calm one Ali and your brilliant sisters. Oh, and the baby. What do you want to do with your studies?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I blurted. ‘With our family, you’re either a doctor or a cabbie. There is no middle ground. And Dad, I don’t want to be either. I just want to make you proud.’

  ‘Then be proud of yourself,’ he said firmly. ‘There are a million ways to serve God. I wish I’d made that clearer to you.’

  I looked at the ground, then back at Dad. Outside, the neighbours were shouting and the sun was baking the hot little room.

  I mustered some courage.

  ‘How is Yomna?’ I asked.

  Dad looked me in the eye. ‘Sad,’ he said. ‘What do you wish to do about her?’

  I didn’t know what I wished to do about her. ‘I knew she wouldn’t have a proper life with me,’ I said, in lieu of an answer.

  ‘Is there someone else?’ Dad asked.

  I stared back at him. The unsent letter to Sisi was still on the writing table. I nodded.

  Dad didn’t let out a sigh, or a scream, or get up and leave. He nodded back at me. ‘How long have you been with her?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Before the engagement?’

  I didn’t contest it.

  ‘Long before the engagement?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Osamah, why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because it was hard,’ I said. ‘It happened too fast. And nobody would have approved of her.’ He looked about to protest. ‘Believe me, you wouldn’t have. She’s Muslim, but not like us. She doesn’t wear the scarf. She was born here.’

  I’d once tried raising the subject of marrying a local with Mum, but she’d said girls brought up in Australia were different. When I’d argued that God said all of us were the children of one earth, she said that was before they discovered Australia. Girls born here were like our dishwasher: when we bought it, we thought it was brand new, and later discovered it was a floor model.

  ‘Have you contacted her?’ Dad asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe you should.’

  I just stared at Dad.

  ‘That is, if you’re serious about her. Otherwise, what you’ve just told me is a story about lust, nothing more.’

  ‘I think she’s married, Dad. In Lebanon.’

  ‘You think you know a lot of things,’ he said. ‘And maybe you’re right. But if it is love, who knows? Maybe she’s in exactly the same position as you. Although hopefully not hiding out in a building filled with the smell of marijuana.’

  The thought of Sisi in a building like this made me laugh, despite myself.

  ‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘assuming she isn’t married, then I’ll have to put on my mantle and turban and take you to her parents’ house and ask for her hand.’

  My eyes widened. ‘Wait, what?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  I processed everything, but none of the maths added up in my head—unless one thing had happened without my realising it, while I was holed up in this cheap flat. ‘Dad, am I divorced?’

  Dad nodded sadly. ‘Already, at age nineteen. But to protect Yomna’s dignity, Abu Ghazi came up with a useful excuse for the annulment. Everyone at the mosque thinks you’re impotent now. There’s always a price.’

  Dad did his best to suppress a smile, but just couldn’t.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Sunday, 10 March 2002, 04.18 pm

  Subject: Marriage

  Hi Osamah aka Da Kool Guy,

  How are you?

  First of all, thank you for your lovely ten-page email. The bit about your impotence was funny.

  You said, ‘If I’m crazy enough to go to fake school for a year, then believe me when I say I’ll go to the airport every day in the hope that you’ll come home from Lebanon.’ That was cute. You must have been going for a few days now, right? How is life at the airport? Do you get bored? Do you make the guards suspicious? Please say hi to them for me.

  So, to business. Sadly, my engagement went ahead. My wedding was scheduled for the 14th of January. But the other thing I want to tell you is that I DIDN’T GO THROUGH WITH IT EITHER. Your dad was right; maybe he’s Da Kool Guy in your family. Although I didn’t do your stupid thing of getting married and divorced on the same night. I called it off a week earlier.

  NOW I AM BACK IN AUSTRALIAAAAAAA!

  So IFFFFF you are interested, bring your father the cleric to our house and come convince my dad of you-know-what. He’s a big Essendon supporter so maybe if you guys can get him a Bombers membership that might sweeten the deal.

  Okay, get your ass over here ASAP, otherwise I’ll be shipped away somewhere else. I’m in demand, baby;)

  MzLebanon

  P.S. I know it’s your birthday. Happy birthday. Nineteen is so old.

  The time I got married again

  Sisi lived in a simple house in Lilydale, tucked behind a milk bar. She had a neat room, except for the basketball trophies—you couldn’t keep that many basketball trophies tidy. I didn’t know why we couldn’t do this in the lounge room, but whatever the case, here we were. I wore a black jacket, black pants and no tie; Sisi a simple but beautiful red dress.

  Mum was chatting away happily to Sisi’s mother, and that was good news. ‘But the thing about Lebanese food,’ she said, with a big smile on her face, ‘compared to Iraq’s—’

  Before she could finish, Dad walked in, thank God.

  He’d gone downstairs to ablute and collect the Holy Koran. He returned in full attire. We all stood up. He looked around at all of us crammed into the room: me, Sisi, her parents, my mother, her younger sisters, her two brothers too.

  ‘I once presided over a wedding in a war bunker. This isn’t too dissimilar,’ he said.

  He laughed, breaking the tension. We followed. We had to. We were family now.

  ‘Before we commence with the vows, I want to thank Sisi’s family for being great hosts. Who said you need a big reception to please the soul? Of course, we all would have liked something less low-key, but given the circumstances…’ The entire community had witnessed my daring flight from the 7-Eleven, and while they would’ve shown up to any wedding I had, they were all still somewhat traumatised.

  ‘I also want to share with you a story that is very close to me and quite meaningful in this scenario,’ said my dad. ‘It is about a father, his son and their donkey.’

  In ot
her words, it was parable time.

  ‘But I know the lovebirds are eager to read the vows,’ he said. ‘So let’s get started, shall we? We can come back later to this tale over some cake.’

  MAN OF A THOUSAND SENSES

  Mashhad, Iran, 2013

  There is only one check-in counter open for my flight out of Iran, and between me and this counter is an incredibly long queue. There’s a massive hold-up at the front, as a Saudi man in white dishdasha is arguing with the airport staff about his excess baggage. He is speaking Arabic; the ground staff speak back in Farsi. This is not getting them anywhere, and it happens all the time.

  I look at his luggage—my goodness. You could use those suitcases to hold down enemy lines. Then I notice the Saudi man is accompanied by four wives, all in full black hijab, faces covered by the niqab. ‘It’s not my fault,’ the man’s complaining in Arabic. ‘My wives went out and bought the whole city of Mashhad.’

  He pleads with the Qatar rep to discount his fee. The Qatar rep shows him a calculator: it’s 500 kilograms.

  The man raises both arms skyward and begins to complain to God: ‘Why, God? Why did you bestow upon me these women who can’t do simple math!’ He strikes his head with his own two palms.

  Then he turns to one of the accused.

  ‘YOU! It’s you! It’s all your fault!’ he screams. ‘What did you buy, a washing machine? YOUUUUU!’

  As he drags out the final you, the angry finger still pointing, the woman under the niqab casually lifts her veil. Realising he’s got the wrong wife, the man turns to the one beside her.

  ‘It was YOUUUUU!’ he fumes.

  He has the right one this time, but she shoots back at him. ‘Why did you marry me if you couldn’t handle me?’ she says. ‘You should have stuck with the three bitches you’ve got.’

  To the Iranians it’s just a crazy Saudi fighting with his wives. But since I can understand it, it’s much-needed pre-flight relief. I do have a connecting flight in Doha to worry about, but I’ve also started thinking things might work out for the best.

  The women have begun to call each other names, leaving the hapless husband to do his best to intervene. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘When we get to Saudi, you are not allowed in each other’s rooms.’ One of the quieter wives slowly raises her middle finger. Another simply sits on the floor.

  ‘I’m not moving,’ she says.

  Only one of them moves to comfort the man. I’m assuming it’s his first.

  While I wait yet again, I start to ponder the odds of me leaving the country: what price would the bookies back home put on me, say, to leave Iran—$5? Leaving with Dad in tow, more like $7? And how about leaving Iran without starting a fight? Given how short my fuse is by now, they’d be up to $50 for that one.

  Finally, the Saudi whips out his gold credit card. He pays millions in Iranian, the wife ends her sit-in, and the queue moves.

  I check in everything except Dad’s walking stick, and a small carry bag, to keep his white turban from getting crushed.

  At the customs desk, the officer looks at my passport photo, then me, then back again. Finally, his gaze rests on me.

  ‘Is this you?’ he says.

  I know I’ve lost weight, lost spirit, barely showered, grown a beard. ‘Yes, sir,’ I say.

  ‘You have to get this updated.’

  ‘As soon as I get home,’ I promise.

  He studies me again. ‘We look at the ears, you know. That’s how we know it’s you.’

  Thank God I haven’t lost my ears. He stamps the book and moves me through.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  I sit in the assigned seat with my seatbelt duly buckled.

  We’re twenty minutes past departure time, and the plane hasn’t moved.

  Again, the culprit is the inept Saudi man.

  I’m being uncharitable. His mother is wheelchair-bound, and Qatar can’t find a wheelchair that will fit in the aisle.

  That’s not anyone’s fault, least of all his. I feel some compassion. It isn’t easy travelling with your parents—believe me, after this week, I know. They’re enough of a handful to stress the calmest person out.

  Just when I’m feeling a kind of brotherhood with this man, an Iranian couple informs him he’s sitting in their seats. Thanks to the language barrier, this is a real problem. The Iranians are simply waving their boarding passes at him; but he just starts ignoring them after his initial ‘no’. They speak to him in English; he refuses to reply.

  The baggage issue was sort of funny; this situation, less so. I only have a one-hour buffer in Doha, so we’re burning precious time.

  One attendant—a beautiful, voluptuous Lebanese woman—speaks Arabic. She kneels at his side and asks him gently to move, and allow the Persian couple to take their assigned seats.

  He turns to look at her. His eyeline crashes into her bulging breasts. He pauses, then casts his eyes down, asking her gently to move her ‘self ’ a little to the left so they can ‘converse’. Once she adjusts, the Saudi man tells her that he will not move; he wants his wives and mother sitting in the same row.

  She tries again, friendly and professional and informative. ‘The flight will be delayed if you can’t cooperate,’ she says.

  The man puts on his headphones and stares at the seatback LCD screen, which is currently screening a stationary map of Iran.

  I can hear the Iranians humming profanities in Farsi, some of them at the stubborn man, some just at Arabs in general.

  And just like that, a troop of soldiers rushes into the cabin and demands the Saudi man move to his allocated seat.

  He shoos away the soldiers. He really doesn’t want to budge.

  I get up, tap the Saudi man on his shoulder and let him have it. ‘You are a Saudi man,’ I say sternly. ‘You come from the land of the Prophet. Are you telling me this is how the Prophet taught you to behave?’

  He is livid at the insinuation that he hasn’t been raised well. ‘Would you leave your wives next to strangers?’ he yells.

  ‘Wives?’ I yell. ‘Why would I want wives? So I can start behaving like a dickhead on a plane?’

  ‘I will teach you manners,’ he growls, gets up from the seat, and lunges. As he barrels towards me, I grab his collar hard. I hold him stiff and close—in a locked, upright position—until a soldier yells for me to let go.

  I stare at the Saudi man. He looks pathetic, and out of sorts. As soon as I release him, though, he can’t help but deliver a thick, juicy slap directly to my face. My ears go wang and I can’t hear anyone or anything. My instincts say to punch him back, but the soldiers are already edgy, and I know this would land me someplace very far from home.

  The Iranian couple are muttering about this ‘poor Arab display’. I turn around and surprise them by switching to Farsi, telling them they can both go to hell.

  The couple look at me in surprise, then at the Saudi. ‘Let’s just use his seats, then,’ they say, and move to the back of the plane.

  The soldiers leave. The Saudi sits. He doesn’t look back at me.

  A couple of minutes later, the Lebanese
attendant returns.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ she whispers to the Saudi, at a kneel. ‘We haven’t been able to find a wheelchair thin enough. Is she able to walk in by an aide’s side, by any chance?’

  The Saudi man peers to the front of the flight; my eyes follow his. An old woman in a wheelchair is trapped near the door. ‘She can walk,’ he says, ‘but she’ll need two people and a frame to lean on.’ The Lebanese attendant is anxious and upset. She apologises sincerely for the lack of correct facilities. The Saudi man ignores her. ‘No male can touch my mother, apart from me,’ he says. He recruits one of his sturdier wives to help.

  And just then, I get up and tap him on the shoulder once more. He turns, hostile but uncertain. I extend my arm. He regards it. Then he seizes my dad’s walking stick, gracious and somewhat startled.

  My holiday in Iran has been somewhat devoid of beauty. A late exception is getting to watch an old, frail Saudi woman being led down the cabin by a man who has just slapped me, leaning on my father’s cane.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  When the plane lands in Doha, many women take off their scarves. Some have been drinking alcohol since the plane crossed the border.

  I can’t believe Dad’s stowed away, in the cargo hold below us.

  I can’t believe we’ve landed.

  I can’t believe this is all real.

  I remember my first flight—from Iran to Australia. That day, Dad sat beside me, filling out his arrival card, creating strange letters in a foreign alphabet. As he embellished the card, I was gaping, and he was patiently explaining why the women were taking off their scarves, what all the bubbly drinks were. He probably noticed I was staring at the blonde, cherry-lipped flight attendant. He was the man of a thousand senses. But he’d let me watch.