Not only that, but they had guinea pigs! Hafsa’s guinea pigs inspired my brother and me and, using Hafsa’s example, we eventually convinced our parents that they were clean animals and that we should get some of our own.
Hafsa and I were nerds; there was no two ways about it. Even though I wasn’t sure what that really meant, I wore the label with pride. Our nerd status was cemented in grade five when we picked up knitting and crocheting as our favourite pastimes. I’ve stopped knitting regularly, but it’s something I’ll occasionally take up for its soothing, rhythmic repetition. I don’t quite know why we decided to start but it became a lightning rod for ridicule, although that never bothered me. My mum and dad would often say, ‘Don’t worry about what the other people do; we’re not like everyone else’, and by introducing that concept early they inculcated a belief that social norms shouldn’t have power over your individual choices. ‘We’re not like everyone else’ didn’t come from a place of superiority; it was often used when they weren’t allowing me to do something all the other kids were doing – a sleepover, school camp and so on. It was about making a conscious choice about what we want to do and not being controlled and directed by peer pressure.
The first time I owned being a nerd was after being teased by a group of the boys. I was a blustering mess in my defence. My bestie had capitulated and retreated into the classroom and I had followed her. As I walked away I heard their words biting behind us, so – pushed to my limits – I went back out to the door and yelled at them: ‘So what if we’re nerds! I like being a nerd!’
Guffaws ensued, but it was never brought up again.
Part of being a nerd was being keen to learn things that were slightly uncool at school, like trigonometry, financial literacy and public speaking. Funnily enough, my nerdier skills became incredibly useful only after I graduated.
Mama would always tell me that Allah gives us all individual gifts, and one day we will be asked what good we did with those gifts. I love sharing stories on a stage, and I have found that people want to listen. Is it not then my responsibility to use that for good?
I didn’t do very much formal public speaking until grade seven, when I was entered into an interschool speaking competition. For some strange reason, I chose to talk about obesity. I scratched my speech in the back of a notebook, practising it with my mother and English teacher, who had nominated me for the competition.
It came and went without fanfare. I stood in front of the class, shaking with nerves and anticipation. I talked too quickly, my hand movements were jerky and I didn’t make it past the first cut. But the judge came up to my mother and me after the competition to give us some feedback, which she hadn’t done for anyone else. She was an Anglo woman in her twenties with straight dark brown hair cut in a bob. As she leaned over the desk to talk to me, her hair swished down perfectly, framing her face in a way I knew my hair never could. ‘You seemed a little nervous,’ she said. ‘But you know what? You have something special. When you speak, people listen. You have the ability to make people listen. You can use that!’ She looked at my mother and me with this kind of earnest hope, and in that moment I believed her. My mother thanked her and she went on her way, never knowing her words would always be remembered by this eleven-year-old Muslim girl with hopes of changing the world.
My next chance to speak in public came a few weeks later, when I was selected to give the speech at the grade seven graduation ceremony. My parents filmed it and it’s hilarious; the kind of video we pull out whenever we want a laugh. In the clip I’m standing behind an enormous lectern, so all that’s visible is the top half of my face. I had taken the judge’s advice and gone for confidence, but it hadn’t manifested in a way that made any sense: I had decided to punctuate every possible moment with a facial expression and a movement of my eyebrows. So throughout the speech, all that is visible over the lectern is the top of a hijab, brown eyes and a couple of thick black eyebrows going up, down, left, right and every which way, in an attempt to make my speech more engaging. It made for classic Abdel-Magied family home entertainment, and for years to come, whenever I made a big speech Dad would pull the video out and remind me where I came from. At some stage my father decided that if I wanted to play a role in society, I was going to have to improve my game, and so when I moved to high school I enrolled in the debating club, my training ground for the next five years.
But even though speaking has become a big part of my life, reading has always been my ticket to ride. It was my love of reading that helped label me with the flattering title of ‘nerd’, and it has been a permanent and prominent facet of my life ever since the night my father introduced me to Enid Blyton.
‘Ah, Khalas, Yassmina! You’re a big girl now! Isn’t it time you read big books, novels?’
I was seven, in grade three, and my dad walked into the bedroom; I was sitting on the edge of the wooden bed, legs swinging off the side, flipping through the pages of some picture books I’d just borrowed from the library.
Dad sat down next to me, placing his lunch-box-turned-briefcase on the floor beside his feet. It was one of those A4 plastic zip-up lunch boxes, but he would also use it to carry the morning paper and, on rare occasions, any extra work he brought home. As a result, it was always bulging.
My father respected the divide between family life and work life, and it wasn’t until I started working that I understood this wasn’t true of everyone. Occasionally, Dad would take a training course that meant he was late home once a week, but throughout my childhood, both my parents were almost always there. It was about priorities for my father, and he’s often said, ‘Islam first, then family, then career. That is how I make my decisions.’ He says it without resentment. For my father, it is a simple fact of life that when he moved to Australia he put his family before his career: ‘I could have become anything but I chose to sacrifice it all for family and I would never change that.’ That was his chosen reality and, as such, all of his decisions since have been made according to these priorities.
I do wonder whether or not I will mirror my father’s family time ethics; whether I will be selfless enough to sacrifice for family or whether I will choose to make my career and my work a foundational pillar of my life. It is one of the aspects of the difficulties faced in ‘Eastern v Western’ thinking: family does not carry the same value in Australia as in Sudan, and so giving up career opportunities for family is often not valued as highly as sacrificing family for career. For all that we talk about work-life balance, it is never to balance life with work, it is always to balance work with life.
Back at the house, Baba said, ‘Next time you go to the library, ask the librarian for books by an author named Enid. Enid, okay? Enid’s books are quite good.’
My father had read Enid Blyton’s books himself as a child. Having gone to a school in Sudan that was run by one of the churches, his early education was quite influenced by the British and their tastes in literature.
Oh, what a world! I couldn’t get enough of the Secret Seven and the Famous Five; I devoured the adventures hungrily, constantly wanting more. The Famous Five held an edge over the Secret Seven for me, but that was possibly because of George, the first strong female character I felt a true connection with – she was the kind of girl I wanted to be.
George was short for Georgina, and she had a short haircut and an attitude that took no prisoners. I was drawn to the fact that she was just as tough as the boys, if not tougher. She went out of her way to prove herself, constantly trying to do what people said she couldn’t, being a little rude at times, but always being a boss. ‘The best son anyone could ask for,’ someone once said of George. I found myself relating to a ‘masculine’ personality in a female role. Whether this is problematic or not I am unsure; it is interesting to see that it is a theme that repeats itself in a variety of situations. I was, and to some extent continue to be, drawn to the concept of being strong, independent and adventurous, and often lived those adventures through characters who w
ere making things happen, who were defying the norm, and doing what they wanted.
As children, we tend not to pay attention to the nuances that adults understand as problematic. However, we do absorb the behaviours around us and implicitly understand what is considered right and wrong, what is ‘okay’. That is why it’s so important to ensure that young girls aren’t only given gendered toys like dolls to play with, and aren’t only congratulated on their looks. When we are growing up, these behaviours influence our self-worth and what we understand as valuable, so I make a point of always purchasing microscopes or Lego for young nieces, or the daughters of my friends, just in case there is a budding engineer or scientist among them.
My mother’s experience of Enid Blyton’s book is entirely different again, because she read the Egyptian version modelled on Blyton’s books, which are set in Al-Makhadi, the affluent part of Egypt’s capital. ‘Al-Mughamirun Al-khamsa’, or ‘The Five Adventurers’, was a series penned by Mahmoud Salem in the 1940s to 1960s.
One of the main differences, though, is the characters and their stereotypes. Takhtakh (full name Towfeeq khaleel Towfeeq kharbotali) was the leader of the group, and is characterised as being ‘chubby with superior intellect’, a marked difference to the tall and handsome Julian, the leader of the Famous Five. Anne’s character was re-imagined as Loza, and she was also extremely intelligent and often solved difficult puzzles, although she wasn’t beset by the same confidence issues as her English counterpart. There was no Egyptian tomboy, however; George’s character became Nousa and is a more typical female character, although she’s also smart and collected all the information that the team needed and used. Dick was known as 3atef and the dog went from being Tim to being Zenger. If I had grown up in Sudan reading stories with these characters, my world view may have been shaped differently. I would not have had the same character role model in George and may not have realised that it was okay for a girl to possess adventurous, perhaps even masculine, qualities.
It is possible to read anything into the reinterpretations but I find it fascinating that the female characters in the Egyptian version were not made fun of because of their femininity, or thought of as lesser for having female traits. On the contrary, women were seen as strong, although their strength was limited to certain spheres. This is an interesting nuance and one that sits underneath the conversations that culturally and linguistically diverse communities have about the power and strength of women. Having been exposed to more than one manifestation of the strength of women from an early age meant I believed that women had a place in society and were powerful in their own right. What that looked like, however, differed between communities and that was something I was just beginning to discover.
Chapter 3:
The Day It All Changed
‘Okay, so do you know what a paradigm shift is?’ I asked. The young Pakistani boy looked up at me with a blank face. It was 2009 and I was a poor second-year university student trying to make a little cash on the side tutoring students in the community. I would take over the dining-room-turned-study at my parents’ place, searching for ways to illustrate the terms required for grade ten critical-literacy studies.
‘It’s kind of like …’ I struggled to find a way to explain. ‘Ah! Do you remember September 11?’
His eyes flickered from side to side as he seemingly searched his memory before finally shaking his head.
‘Yeah, okay that – wait. What? You don’t remember? The planes that flew into the building? That changed everything …?’
‘Ah, yeah, I don’t remember it but I think my mum told me something about that. I was pretty young when it happened I think …’
My mind was blown.
The events on the morning of September 11 shaped my early history more so than for most, because, as a Muslim, my world was permanently altered and intimately affected. The tragedy was used as the justification for many a breach of justice in the name of the ‘War on Terror’. Yet I had the privilege of knowing a world before 9/11 – a freedom that Muslims growing up today might not have. Realising this was a paradigm shift in itself.
Everybody remembers where they were when they heard the news. I was ten years old and although turning double digits had felt like a pretty big deal, I was still a child, one that was going to have to grow up quickly to deal with the dark whirlpool that society was about to become.
The morning started as normal; I ate yoghurt for breakfast as Wednesday was yoghurt day in our family.
My father had a strict breakfast schedule for us, although my mother was exempt due to her preference for only having tea, white with no sugar, in the mornings. But for the rest of us, Mondays and Thursdays were for toast (peanut butter, marmalade or honey), Tuesdays we had cereals (Weet-Bix or Cornflakes), Wednesday was yoghurt (natural) and Friday was our free choice of either toast, cereal or yoghurt.
I usually ate cereal on Fridays; I could down nine Weetbix with my eyes closed, three bowls of three Weetbix, for the perfect milk to wheat ratio. I would sprinkle raw sugar on top, savouring the crunch, the release of sweetness. Wednesday was always a struggle, as I really couldn’t stand the taste, smell or texture of natural yoghurt. Greek yoghurt with lots of honey was the compromise. I never questioned my father on his strict breakfast schedule until I had moved out and was no longer beholden to the plan. ‘Oh, that was to balance your diet. That way, you wouldn’t fall into bad habits and would have a healthy eating plan without even thinking about it.’ Pretty good, huh?
The usual morning bustle of uniforms and lunches ensured I didn’t guess that anything was up on that particular Wednesday until my mother made an offhand comment on her way out the door: ‘If anything bad happens at school today, let me know. Call me at work.’
‘Why would anything bad happen at school?’
‘Haven’t you heard yet, Yassmina? America has been attacked. Read the paper.’
I still distinctively remember my ten-year-old fingers fumbling with the newspaper, the black ink smearing the tips of my fingers.
As I unfolded the pages I stared at the now infamous imagery of smoke billowing out of the two towers. Whoa …
I rode the bus to the ICB that morning without incident but the playground was abuzz. Only one girl had yet to hear about it, and I duly informed her with aplomb.
A few days later, my best friend was the first to mention that name.
‘They think Osama did it.’
‘Who is Osama?’
‘Osama bin Laden. He is in Pakistan or Afghanistan or something, my mum said.’
‘That’s weird. Why would he do something like that if he was Muslim?’
With hindsight our innocence is startling. Little did we know what that name would begin to mean, what that broader discussion would portend. It was the first of many conversations we would have over the next few years, asking why someone, if they were really Muslim, would do such a thing?
It would not be audacious to say that every Muslim living in the Anglosphere has a pre- and post-9/11 life. In Brisbane, we were thrust from being a relatively obscure religious minority to the visible embodiment of ‘the enemy’. My understanding of the situation at the time was only rudimentary, but it would have been impossible not to notice that some things had changed. At least I have a recollection of what it was like beforehand. My brother, who was seven years old at the time, says that he doesn’t really remember much. ‘All I can remember from back then was an urge to always be playing soccer,’ he’s told me.
It’s likely that because I was in an Islamic environment I did not feel the changes abruptly, unlike friends who have shared their experiences of being in non-Muslim environments at the time and who were less shielded from the vitriol. The process for me was like being the proverbial boiled frog: the frog doesn’t realise the water is getting hotter and hotter until it looks around and realises the water around it is bubbling …
It started with the small things.
My parents used to send my bro
ther and me to vacation care during the school holidays, where we would spend our days playing backyard cricket and Nintendo and doing crafts. The care centre, which was associated with Griffith University, was nestled in among the bushland, right next to the gym where, years later, I would return to begin a short-lived boxing career. The front gate led straight onto a large astroturfed front yard with an enormous eucalyptus tree in the middle, and we would usually interrupt a slightly skewed cricket game happening around the tree as we walked in. On the left-hand side of the lawn was a playground with wood chips, swings and the usual climbing paraphernalia, and on the right-hand side was the centre itself.
My time at vacation care was full of fun and lots of learning. I remember the first time I met another African-born child, even though I didn’t believe it at the time. He was a new kid I had a crush on – I liked his light brown hair and his easy smile; he laughed at my jokes and I thought he was funny. We liked the same sports, and he was as white as a lily and cute as a button.
In the afternoon, while we were waiting for our parents to pick us up, I asked where he was from. I told him that I was African, because I was born in Sudan.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I’m from Africa too!’
I burst out laughing. ‘How can you be from Africa? You’re white!’ I thought it was absolutely hilarious that this kid thought he was from my brown continent.
‘No, seriously! I’m from South Africa! I was born there; we only just came to Australia.’
‘No, I don’t believe you – you can’t be African …’
We continued arguing until his parents arrived and I bid him farewell. When my mother came to pick up my brother and me, I decided to share this ludicrous story: ‘Mama, there was this white boy who thought he was from Africa! How funny is that?’
‘Why is that funny, Yassmina?’
‘There’s no such thing as a white African! All the Africans are black!’
Yassmin’s Story Page 6