Yassmin’s Story

by Yassmin Abdel-Magied

  The third type just liked to be called up on the day and told to be hands-on; they are the kind who enjoy a working bee. All of these were well catered for by a YWB barbecue.

  It was often hard to focus on study when so much else was going on!

  I remember at times thinking the workload was the worst thing. All my friends who did degrees like arts, law, psychology or science had at least one day off from lectures; they always seemed to be chilling, enjoying the weather on the Great Court, while the engineering students were in labs, working on computer modelling that wouldn’t function, problems that couldn’t be solved and group assignments that people didn’t contribute to. Well, that’s what it felt like at the time.

  It could also be fun. Yes, it was hard, but it wasn’t impossible. In fact, studying engineering is quite different to actually working in engineering in that they train you in the principles first, then show you the easy way to do it afterwards. It was like studying fashion design by first learning how to make cotton; then you get to a fashion house and realise you can just buy cotton!

  During my initial lecture for a basic first-year subject, the teacher displayed Schrödinger’s equation, which, according to wiki, is a ‘partial differential equation that describes how the quantum state of a quantum system changes with time’. WTF, right?

  I remember looking at the projector screen and thinking, Oh, my lord, I am going to fail this course. There is no way I can do this.

  Fortunately, it was just one of those tactics lecturers use to scare people off, like the massive workload we were given in first year that saw a lot of people drop out. By the time you get to second and eventually third year, all who are left are the few students who actually want to do engineering.

  Perhaps because of its intensity, studying engineering was like adopting a family; comradery and banter kept us tight. After five days of classes a week together, pretty much everyone had reputations and nicknames; there were the ethnic kids, the race car crew, the rugby shorts boys, the grammar school boys.

  Everyone also drank a lot. I’ve never drunk alcohol and never will because of my religion, so the heavy drinking culture could have been excluding. I was fortunate because I didn’t need alcohol to socialise; having a loud, outgoing personality helped. But generally at university, if you want to engage with any of the big organisations, like the student societies, it seems you have to be able to drink – and drink hard. Your ‘piss fitness’ is a sign of your masculinity, an indicator of your worth. I remember the organiser in engineering camp saying to us, ‘If you don’t drink beer, you can’t be an engineer!’

  I don’t judge others for drinking; as almost the entire Western engineering world drinks, it would be pointless to criticise. I would be curious to see what engineers in majority Muslim countries do to socialise and whether I would have thrived in those groups.

  Maybe that’s partly why I loved YWB and the UQ race team – neither group was formed around alcohol, so the environments never made me feel uncomfortable. When I first started engineering my father warned me there would be many spaces that weren’t suitable for me: ‘Find your own space, create your own clubs and environments that fit for you. People who share the same viewpoint will come to it.’ Without thinking, that’s what happened with YWB and, eventually, the racing team.

  I ran the UQ race team at university – and by race I mean race car – competing in the Australasian Formula of Society of Automotive Engineering Annual (F-SAE) Competition. The F-SAE is the local chapter of an international competition where all the universities around Australia and the Asia-Pacific region build a car and then participate in something called a ‘comp’.

  Comp was a combination of static and dynamic events. The static event involved various presentations about the design, cost and marketability of the car. The dynamic element was a series of challenges including acceleration and endurance, among others. The year before I became the leader was the first time UQ had competed in three years, and we came last in a field of twenty-seven. Our plan in 2011 was to better that – our stretch target was to come in the top ten, but we knew that was optimistic. Either way, our aim was to get the car to comp and to finish every single event without breaking down and being disqualified. The previous year they’d been close to completing all of the events, but didn’t quite make it. We wanted to change it up.

  I got involved in the team in the first year of uni, left for the second year to try out other things but was drawn back to contributing in the role of marketing lead in the third year. By fourth year, I was the boss, although I hadn’t planned to be. I was handed the position of Team Principal when the outgoing one asked me to take over the reins. I wasn’t ready to demand the right to lead in that technical space, so I don’t think I would have put my hand up for it, but I relished the opportunity when it was given to me. In the race team, leadership and respect had to be earned. Positions of authority usually came if you were technically brilliant and the smartest car person in the room (which I openly admit I wasn’t), or by being selected by the predecessors. It was a unique chance to lead a technical project with a rowdy bunch of lads and the occasional rowdy lady.

  It was not my technical prowess that landed me the job but more my ability to bring people together around a common cause. I was focused on building a legacy for the team rather than simply winning in my year, and that was recognised by my seniors. It was a chance for us to set the team up for years of success to come, and the success of recent years is testament to that work.

  The cool thing about being the leader was that I could shape the team the way I saw fit because I was the boss – and I wanted it to be an inclusive space. The year I ran UQ racing we didn’t have huge piss-ups like they did every other year – and sure, some of the guys might have found that boring and didn’t like the fact they didn’t have crazy stories to tell, but I have no doubt there were some folk who didn’t mind the simple pleasures of just hanging and working on the car.

  They called me Mum.

  I didn’t mind it; it was better than ‘bitch’, ‘oi’, or a bunch of other names that I could have potentially been called (some unprintable). In a way, ‘Mum’ was endearing. The team wasn’t used to being led by a woman and the last female leader in their lives could very well have been their own mum! They associated me with a motherly figure and I guess the only shame is that they didn’t have in mind a female leader other than their mother to draw on. I chose to take it as a compliment. They showed me respect, which I needed in order to lead the group well.

  My acceptance of the term could also be linked to my recognition that mothers in Sudan hold a lot of power in the household and in the private sphere. You’re often not considered a real woman until you are a mother (which is problematic but that’s another conversation), so there’s leadership potential in embracing the role of a mother figure. It becomes an issue when women are only allowed to access a leadership position through this motherhood lens, reinforcing traditional gender roles.

  I got so used to the nickname that a few weeks after the competition when I was in a shopping centre and heard someone yell out ‘Mum!’, I looked around.

  Women were accepted in the race team, but often joked about. Occasionally, if you weren’t paying attention, one of the guys would flip his testicles out of his fly and continue to walk around casually until someone clued onto it: ‘Oh, man – put it away!’

  Everyone would spin around and get an eyeful then instantly turn back, groaning loudly. Weird, right?

  I was never a fan of the old ‘flipping out the balls’ look, usually swearing at the offender and walking away. Fortunately, my teammates kept their balls to themselves most of the time, which I like to think was out of respect for the girls in the team. They were boys learning to become men, refining their attitudes towards women, but taking their guidance from their peers, pop culture and porn. They were good guys, and they continue to be some of my best friends, but it was an environment where jokes about women were pre
tty common. I’d often use the same jokes to make a point or to register my outrage with humour. ‘I ain’t making you a goddamn sandwich, boy, get it yourself!’ is what I would often say when asked to do something associated with traditional gender roles, like cook or clean. It was a technique that would always get a laugh while subtly pointing out the disparity.

  I’m not sure if joining in was the optimum way to deal with this masculine world, but I did the best I could at the time. My parents had grown up in a different culture and so I couldn’t apply their advice directly. There were no female mechanical engineering lecturers or professors I could ask for guidance. I learnt to survive and thrive in the environment in the only way I knew how and figured it out along the way. I did my best to lead like a woman, creating an inclusive environment, ironing out arguments before they became fights and generally treating the boys like my big extended family. I was the matriarch, and kept everyone in line. It wasn’t about being overbearing; it was about ensuring every person enjoyed their experience and felt valued. If you weren’t on board, you would have to deal with Mama Yassmin.

  I took no prisoners. Sure, I was happy to joke around and banter, even if that sometimes strayed into objectification, but I wasn’t afraid to shut it down and have a difficult conversation, usually about work (or lack thereof). Around the engineering boys, if I wanted respect I had to keep my language logical, systematic and rational. I also had respect from the university for my community work and decent grades, which helped give me more authority. It was common knowledge that if you joined the race team you would probably fail a few subjects, but that wasn’t an option for me so I ran the team and still got top marks. Just because they said it hadn’t been done before doesn’t mean it couldn’t be done! Like with anything else, it was about having priorities.

  I had a limited social life, meaning I didn’t go out every night and partayyy; not only would my parents have killed me (I am still a Muslim, after all), but there was just no time for it. I let myself have Friday night off from uni work, and usually Saturday as well, which meant that I could have some social life, and it gave my mind a rest.

  The other breakthrough was realising that to get high distinctions I only needed 85 per cent. My father pointed this out to me in first year after I spent ten minutes venting about not being able to get something perfect.

  ‘No matter how perfect it is, no one will care whether you got 85 per cent or 100 per cent. Either will get you a high distinction, so you only need to learn up to 85 per cent and then move on. You don’t have the time to learn everything to 100 per cent.’

  It was a revelation! Yes, I could work super hard and try to consistently get 90s, but then I wouldn’t have enough time to do everything else I wanted to do. So I studied enough to get me up to 85 per cent, which may sound unethical to some people but it worked for me!

  I also made good use of my time. Don’t get me wrong – I binge-watch TV shows, love chatting to people, and can waste time with the best of them. I used to joke that I only ever went to uni to socialise because I did almost no work when I entered a lab; I’m sure I pissed off quite a few people that way. Actually, I know I did, because I was once referred to as a ‘loud-mouthed-bitch’ by someone who I had obviously annoyed with my laughter and terrible jokes. Luckily, I had friends who quickly corrected that individual’s language. The offending lad was in the lab looking at a computer I had been using and left logged in. It gave him the opportunity to start venting about me, until a couple of friends sitting nearby took it upon themselves to tell him to stop, because ‘Yassmin’s got more mates in here than you realise’. They relayed the story to me with pride; the same guys who would spend all day ‘hanging shit’ on me, now had my back. That’s how engineering worked. How good is it having mates who stick up for you?

  People must have thought I did no work, but I had a secret studying technique that I used way before it was cool. I would break time down into half-hour blocks and during that half an hour, no distractions were allowed – no Facebook, no phone, no walking around, nothing. At first, it was hard to concentrate for more than fifteen minutes in a row, as we’re all so used to being distracted and multi-tasking. Eventually you start making the most of the time, and when your time is used efficiently it leaves more space in your life for whatever else you want to do.

  Part of the respect from the team also came from how I presented myself to the guys. At no point did I doubt in my mind I had the right to be there, and I also never involved myself romantically with any guys in the team or in my grade. I wasn’t going to mix business with pleasure, and being a Muslim was definitely a helpful factor in that equation. Perhaps because I was off the table as a sexual conquest, they were able to see me as their peer. I asked a few of them recently why they thought I was able to lead the team and be given respect and, after a couple of conversations, some themes emerged.

  One was my commitment to the actual team and the work. It seemed, rightly or wrongly, that some of the guys felt like girls would come in, ‘window shop’ and leave. I came in obviously wanting to get involved, putting my hands up to do things; I didn’t complain and I seemed interested. I wasn’t shy, and I immediately started asking questions. I jostled for my position in the pecking order. Because I was willing to be engaged and get amongst it, I soon became known by the others in the team and started being part of the family rather than that strange cousin who just rocks up to occasional family get-togethers. As one of the boys said, ‘You acted like a newbie guy.’

  I also worked hard, and people could see that. I designed the chassis, and also organised a specialised TAFE course that was just for the F-SAE students that included the basics of hand tools, TIG welding and all sorts of skills. I convinced the university to provide us improved levels of access, I worked on increasing the team’s professionalism, and I kept the guys in line. The guys could see that I cared about the team and they respected that – and they also respected that I could do things that they didn’t even know were possible.

  Another bloke told me I seemed like a career woman, which actually made the guys feel more comfortable in my presence because having a relationship with me was off the table.

  When it came to balancing my uni work with YWB and the race team, it made an enormous difference that I didn’t drink and was living with parents who expected me to be home at a reasonable hour every night. Not drinking meant that my Saturdays and Sundays were actually useful. I would wake up relatively (relatively – 10 am!) early on a Saturday, do my part of the weekly house cleaning and then chill out with the family on Saturday afternoons. I would usually begin uni homework on Saturday night, attend a YWB meeting Sunday morning, then come home to do the rest of my university study and YWB work. I had a fairly solid routine, and it made my time pretty effective. I loved it and knew no different.

  I write this chapter not to criticise the environment of the race team or engineering; politically incorrect, occasionally casually racist and only slightly misogynistic, but because I was there and at the time, enabled and legitimised it – even perhaps had fun with it. This is simply a reflection and record of what that culture was like. Perhaps it is changing, or perhaps I was able to get a real insight into what life is like in a boy’s world.

  My reflections don’t give the boys the credit they deserve. There was a reason that my brother says that I had no life apart from the race team in my last couple of years at uni. These were the guys I could call at any time of the night to help tow a car, who would offer to beat up a guy if he hurt my feelings, who would give me a place to crash if I needed somewhere to sleep. They would never pay attention to my accolades, but would respect my ability to design a chassis. These were the type of guys who would probably bail me out from jail if I ever needed it, but then mercilessly take the piss for years to come.

  Some of the best laughs and adventures I had at uni were with the race team. We learnt to weld together; they taught me how to rip skids, tie-wire bolts in place, and take a corner per
fectly. We’d hit the mountains together in the dead of night; convoys of souped-up and not-so-souped-up cars and bikes snaking their way up Mount Coot-tha, Mount Nebo and, once in a while, all the way to Maleny.

  They may have taken the piss, but I somehow earned my place. They made me feel like I belonged, no questions asked.

  Chapter 19:

  For the Love of Speed …

  It was a Rotary Club badge that gave me my next big break.

  I was in my third year of university when the Head of the Institute of Mechanical Engineers from the UK came to visit the University of Queensland. He was an older man, exactly how I imagined an English engineer – distinguished and proper.

  This guy was motorsport gold. He had contacts with all the cool companies in the UK and I knew he would be my ticket to a job in F1, if I could somehow try to approach him. I’d been invited to a lunch panel with him along with a few other students, my prime chance to make an impression, but I just couldn’t seem to find a way in. I was starting to lose hope by the time the session was winding up, until he stood up to leave and I realised he was wearing a large familiar badge.

  ‘Oh, are you with Rotary?’ I asked.

  His demeanour changed almost instantly. ‘Oh yes, I love Rotary!’

  The nearby Rotary Club had sponsored me to attend a conference in Sydney and I said I’d be happy to connect him when he was next in town. I then mentioned I was interested in coming to the UK to work in the automotive sector, and he gave me my golden ticket: ‘Here’s my card, get in touch and we’ll see what we can do.’

  Oh, did I get in touch: I emailed his team, on and off, for almost nine months, trying to secure some work experience until my polite harassment worked, and I was placed in a paying vacation job in February 2011 with a company called Ricardo in the south of England. It was the perfect gig and I visited their website almost daily, unbelievably joyful that I was going there. I saved up my tutoring and scholarship money, flew to the UK at the end of January and got ready for the best experience of my life.