Yassmin’s Story

by Yassmin Abdel-Magied

  My youthful attitude could have been taken for either arrogance or confidence. Which label it was given may have had something to do with ‘gendered labels’ and the reality that certain behaviours are celebrated in young boys and dissuaded in young girls. The example that is often used when talking about gendered descriptions for young children is the use of different terms when referring to children who display authority over their peers: in young girls, this is referred to as bossy and in young boys it is referred to as leadership. I was often labelled with terms like bossy, but never took it to heart, accepting that it was probably true. But not every young girl has a positive experience with that description and it frames their perspective about certain behaviours from an early age.

  When I began at the ICB, it only went up to grade three. But it grew each year as the students progressed, so we were one of the first few classes to go through the school. As a result, the entire school community – teachers, parents, students – were all excited to be a part of this new initiative, part of making history. My classmates were Somali, Pakistani, Bosnian, Lebanese, Jordanian, Indian, Fijian, Algerian and Afghani, and we were all Australian. It was a multi-everything environment, but that was our norm. Everyone was working together to build a future for their children in Australia that would also fit in with their Islamic values. They were creating a safe haven for their children and shaping that world.

  Hopeful – but also filled with the drama of a Bollywood film or an Egyptian TV soap. Our religion brought us all together, but we were from diverse cultural backgrounds, with varied levels of education and societal privilege, which caused friction when parents wanted different outcomes for their children or dealt with conflict in disparate ways.

  Many of the families had come to Australia as refugees and had a different mentality to those who’d come as skilled migrants and those who’d lived in Australia for generations, of which there were a few. For most of us kids it was simple. We were born somewhere else, or brought up in a family that hailed from another land, but, ultimately, we were Aussie. Different kinds of Aussie, but Aussie all the same. Yet, if pressed on ‘where I was from’, I would probably have said I was Sudanese. The concept of being ‘Australian’ hadn’t entered my vernacular yet, and I was not expected to show allegiance to Australia above all else, as we are expected to do today. As young kids going to an Islamic school, we may have been part of different cultural communities, but at that age and at that time our identities were uncomplicated. It probably helped that there was no one to invalidate our ideas of identity: no one said ‘you can’t be Australian’, and so we just didn’t think about it.

  For some kids though, their attitudes were inherited from their parents who did not yet feel ‘Australian’ and so their country of origin was the nationality they identified with the most. For those kids, being Australian was seen as being ‘Western’ and ‘copping out’. This was mainly in response to the foreign policy of various Western nations at the time, particularly the USA. It was a sentiment that would start to show itself more as the years went on, but not one that interrupted my space in a conscious manner – not until the events of 2001.

  The ICB was a true community school, from the way it was run to the demountable buildings that housed our classrooms. The premises were hidden away in the Karawatha Forest, down a long single-lane carriageway, unlit and looming: the forest always felt like it was bearing down upon us as we drove through.

  I met the school principal when we visited the first time, a genuine, mild-mannered Fijian migrant who said they’d be happy to take me on for a one-week probation and, if I could keep up with the class, they’d allow me to attend. I was not aware of this condition, but walking into the grade one classroom a few days later, I was ready to show my chops.

  The teacher called me up to the front of the class to introduce myself and asked me to write my name on the board, if I could.

  ‘Yassmin,’ I printed carefully with the chalk, then turned to hand it back to the kind Pakistani woman.

  ‘Yassmin, how many numbers can you count for us?’

  ‘Up to whatever you want, Miss!’

  I would always remain an overenthusiastic student. Back in those first few years of school, I had a habit that would drive teachers up the wall: when I had my hand up for a question, if I wasn’t seen immediately, I began to click my two fingers while my hand waved in the air. Click, click, click. When my right arm tired, I’d prop it up with the left, supporting it at the elbow joint so I could keep my right hand up in the air while I fidgeted and waited to be picked. At the same time I’d be holding my lips tightly together to keep myself contained, thinking if I let them open, my question would burst out, entirely beyond my control. It took being admonished by the principal himself to dissuade me of that particular habit.

  I questioned everything, all the time. On reflection, intense curiosity has been one of the few constants in my life. I always wanted explanations for why things were the way they were and asked my parents ‘why’ incessantly. They entertained my curiosity; if they were ever unable to give me an answer they would help me find it. I devoured the ‘Tell Me Why’ books, rereading sections over and over and over, absorbing the faux-watercolour illustrations of tapeworms and the moon, biology and physics sitting side-by-side in thick volumes of wonderful knowledge. I would sit cross-legged on the floor after school and on weekends, flicking through pages of questions. My favourite was a section on strange diseases, which meant I learnt about typhoid and rabies, parasites and yellow fever at an early age.

  Who knows why I wanted to learn so much. Perhaps it was simply a desire to understand and make sense of the world around me. Yet it was childlike and impulsive; I didn’t stop to think before I asked a question or pressed a button, did a makeshift science experiment, or climbed a tree to see what was up there. Curious was my constant state of mind and that meant I was never, ever bored. As my mother would say, I was always on to the next thing.

  School was the hub of the growing Muslim community in Brisbane and so it hosted some major events, from the yearly school fete to the Eid prayers that Muslims partake in twice a year, the equivalent of Christmas. Eid was always a fantastic day at the ICB. There was never enough parking so the streets leading up to the school would be lined with cars. Ours would be among them, squeezed in haphazardly between a bush and an adjacent car’s side mirror, just a little too close for comfort. Getting out of the family Corolla or Camry, we’d join the masses of brightly dressed Muslims walking along the road towards the school, white Jalabeeyas (the long white tunics that Arab men traditionally wear) gleaming in the early morning sun, various cultures reflected in the national dresses worn by everyone around us. You could hear the Takbeer from hundreds of metres away, almost like a chant from a football field: ‘Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, La ilaha il Allah, Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar walillahi alhamd …’

  It was the only time we heard this sonorous chant in Australia – ‘God is great, there is no God but God’ on repeat – as it’s usually only done on Eid day. Joining the crowd as we walked closer to the prayer area was always a reminder that we were part of something bigger. We would pray in the oval area out the front of the classrooms where, on a typical day, boys and girls would be running up and down with a soccer ball, kicking up dust and claiming fouls. Large tarpaulin sheets were laid down to protect those praying from the dust and grass, but almost everyone brought a Salah mat with them to put on top of the tarp to provide a clean, soft surface for the reverence. We would stand in lines for the prayer, shoulder to shoulder, each pair of shoes placed next to their owner so as not to be intrusive.

  ‘Eid Mubarak!’ we would say to one another in excitement after the conclusion of the sermon. Eid was always a day when we saw friends, connected with families, and essentially came together in the most festive atmosphere possible, and it all happened in the school grounds.

  Most of my memories from school are mundane. My best buddy changed a number of times early on
but I settled on Hafsa as the years progressed. No matter where our classroom was, all the girls usually looped around the grade one block because it had shiny windows in which we could check our reflection. Some girls cared more about this than others.

  After walking around the grade one block, we would swing by the admin block and down the main path to the entrance of the school. It was here, nestled next to the front gate, that the cop was stationed in the years post 9/11. Walking past that cop would become the norm for us.

  ICB was just like any other school, aside from the Arabic and Islamic classes three times a week; these were a large part of the reason my parents chose to send me there, as well as the collective Dhuhr prayer before lunch. The small scale of the school was ideal for newcomers to Australia. Not only did it create a vibrant community with Islamic values, but studying Arabic and Islam there allowed me to learn about my religion in a safe space. These were taught as independent subjects, the same way other schools taught religion or French. Studying the language and faith of my family has made a huge difference to the way I connect with my Sudanese roots and moored me in my heritage. Speaking a language is an enormous part of being able to participate in a culture and I am grateful I can visit my family in Sudan and be part of the fabric. Many of my cousins who grew up outside Arab-speaking countries and don’t speak the language find it difficult to slot back into that world and are made to feel even stranger than they already do due to their cultural differences. I also have friends in various diasporas in Australia whose parents consciously decided they didn’t want their children to grow up speaking their native tongue so that they wouldn’t have an accent that was ‘unAustralian’, and very many of them lament their inability to connect with their roots now that they’re older. It can be disenfranchising to not be able to connect with your history.

  My father made it a priority to return to Sudan to visit the family. Our first trip back was due to my maternal father’s passing, while my mother was pregnant with my brother in 1994. Every two years after that, we would pack our bags and take that twenty-four-hour trip over to Khartoum during the Australian summer. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realised the privilege those regular trips were – that not every family is able to do the same. I can only imagine how hard it must have been to scratch together a sum of almost $10,000 every couple of years on a single income. But I know how important it was to my father that we made this biennial pilgrimage. Not only did it mean that we always had an appreciation for where we came from, but we also gained some understanding of how lucky we were to be living in Australia.

  Our childhood trips to Sudan feel like they occurred in a different era. They remind me of how exhilarating the airport used to be. Airports were places that signalled adventure. We’d usually visit a new country each time as well – a side trip to Qatar, Egypt or the UAE, depending on the timing and cost.

  The plane trips alone were exciting. This was before the time of individual screens and on-demand entertainment, so we would usually be seated in the bulkheads or at the exit rows, allowing my brother and me some room to play with toys or colouring books on the floor. Occasionally we’d meet other children on the flight and run up and down the aisles, playing tag. When I got a bit older and braver, I gave in to my curiosity and asked the flight attendants if I could see the cockpit. It must have been 1997 when I first had the opportunity to walk to the front of the plane and meet the pilot and first officer. I got their autographs and was in awe of the hundreds of buttons that gleamed, blinked and glowed from every corner of the cabin.

  When compared with my first memories, it is a shame to realise how the airport these days is a source of dread for so many Muslims, and, for me, is now associated with work more than anything else. Alas, the romanticism of an awaiting adventure has been forgotten.

  Our holidays in Sudan were an exercise in learning the family tree, practising the language and finding out more about our heritage. We would spend the first week or so visiting both sides of the extended family, the week in the middle on an adventure visiting a regional area in the Sudanese ‘outback’, and then a final stint visiting the extended families again, bidding farewell.

  Learning Arabic also let me engage more fully with Islam: being able to read the Qur’an in Arabic, no matter how slowly and haltingly, is unlike any other experience of it. It is almost indescribably important for me to be able to read the Qur’an myself, to have an appreciation for the language and the message. My only lament is that I still can’t fully appreciate the nuance of the Arabic language. It is said that poetry in Arabic is unlike that in any other language due to its beauty and complexity; Arabs claim that was the reason the Qur’an was released in their language. With that complexity come barriers to comprehension, however, and although I can read the Qur’an Alhamdulillah, it is more difficult for me to understand and interpret it, as the language used is to spoken Arabic what Shakespearean English is to Cockney. I continue to read the Qur’an though in an effort to unpeel its nuances, each reading allowing more insight into the beautifully complex scripture.

  Spending seven years at ICB, in a safe world where my home environment reflected what I saw at school, was vital for my confidence in my identity. Sure, the school was a bubble, but growing up in a bubble of your parents’ choice is not unusual, and this one meant that by the time I left for high school and was launched into a different and far more challenging world, I had a solid foundation in my faith, my language and a belief that my culture was worth something. It made my parents confident that I had inherited and believed in the value system they hold dear. Being around people who shared our beliefs was important for my parents, as they felt a value system steeped in faith was one of the most essential things they could pass on to my brother and me. With the right value system, they could trust we would make the ‘right’ decisions, Inshallah; their confidence in the foundation they provided was also what allowed them to give me more freedom as I grew up as they trusted in my ability to guide myself in accordance with Islamic values.

  My parents were active in the school community, working with the Parents’ and Citizens’ Committee (P&CC) for a number of years, driving fundraising events and fetes, and encouraging teachers to enrol us in tests and competitions to raise our standards. The school community provided a comfortable social network for me and my parents.

  Hafsa was my late-primary-school soulmate, my school PIC. We both loved reading, had a disdain for what we saw as superficial interests such as make-up, liked sports (Hafsa was into cricket, I liked soccer) and were both academic. We also had a healthy interest in the boys in our classes, but Hafsa was always more discerning than me. She was also quieter, and often acted as my conscience. I was loud, impulsive, brash and argumentative if pressed, which at school was often. Although I loved learning, I could be a nuisance. Hafsa was more introverted and avoided confrontation, often patiently listening to my rants and offering wisdom beyond her years. She was the yin to my yang, her influence toning me down and keeping me real.

  Our friendship was cemented in grade five, that vicious year when girls make sport of being as cruel as they can to one another. There was a core group of five or so girls at our school who made up the ‘in crowd’. One girl would always be on the outside, currying favour to get back in the good graces of the group. Every week or two it would be a different girl’s turn to be in the doghouse, and the rest of us would devise terrible ways to make her prove her loyalty.

  One week when I was on the outer, the girls had instructed Hafsa to make me do something particularly heinous – putting my hand into the toilet bowl to retrieve something – and this time, Hafsa wasn’t prepared to be the bully: ‘No! I’m not going to make her do that!’ With that line she chose me over the girls, and we became Best Friends Forever. We were the kind of BFFs who would buy things for each other and fill in little notebooks about our lives. Our mothers often volunteered together as well, which meant plenty of extra time for us to spend hanging out at Hafs
a’s house, near the Kuraby mosque. This was our second regular mosque, which my family began attending once we moved closer to the ICB. Most of my memories of the mosque are about Ramadan, although we went through periods of our lives where we would go once a week for Islamic class, or simply to pray Isha with the congregation. The mosque is like the Muslim watering hole, where we would meet our friends and catch up with people’s news.

  My mother and Hafsa’s mother were both active in the Islamic Women’s Association of Queensland, along with a couple of other ladies who became family friends, like Aunt Galila, a stalwart of the community. Mama and Hafsa’s mother were well educated and articulate and they quickly became close friends through their work, which was perfect for me as it meant more time with Hafsa!

  Aunty, as I called Hafsa’s mum, had a lovely melodic voice and always wore the Salwar Kameez, a loose-fitting tunic and pants ensemble, often with a matching scarf, which is the traditional clothing of Pakistani women.

  Her family was Pukhtun, from Peshawar, meaning they originated from a state in Pakistan to the north of the country, said to be very beautiful. Pukhtun culture is quite strict so her family was bound by social norms I didn’t always understand, mostly to do with how she spent her time and with whom. She wasn’t allowed to hang out with me unless our parents vetted the event well beforehand. Their house was the coolest, though, because her father had a green thumb and they had a large garden that produced a lot of fruits and vegetables Hafsa was very proud of – tomatoes, cucumbers, and even watermelon! The grass was lusciously verdant, and her father had built an impressive retaining wall that circumnavigated the entire backyard.