Another time – this was a couple of years later – a man and woman overtook me as I walked alone along a Frankston footpath. The man had bleached hair and a lot of tattoos which gave him a threatening appearance. He turned and looked at me as he passed, and I caught his eye. We held each other’s gaze for a few seconds, and all of a sudden he started swearing at me. Every expletive you can imagine washed over me as if from a fire hose. ‘Fucking scumbag c..t . . . bitch . . . stupid wog . . .’. It went on and on. The woman with him said nothing but her glare said it all. I slowed, open mouthed, saying nothing and trying to put space between myself and the couple. But he would stop every few minutes, turn, see me looking at him, and swear some more. Again and again.
When they reached the pedestrian crossing he turned around and swore at me yet again, asking why I was looking at him (which was because he was in front of me). For some reason it didn’t occur to me to cross the road or change direction – I think I was fearful that he would chase me and possibly hit me. I was so humiliated I wanted to die. Out of fear and anger I finally moved away and went to the nearest police station where I burst into tears trying to explain what had happened. The female police officer was very cool, showing no emotion, and looked down on me as if I was dirt. She said there was nothing that could be done.
Even more hurtful was when my children were targeted. Ali and Shirin would both have some tough times at school in their primary years, often being picked on or outright bullied because they were a little bit different simply by being olive skinned, dark haired and saying some words differently.
One day when Ali was in grade 3, the four children and I were in the centre of a sports reserve after school. Ali was flying his kite, Shirin was running around and the twins were crawling on the grass. A group of teenagers, boys and girls probably about 15 years old, started yelling racist abuse at us from the road at one end of the ground. Then the boys started throwing golf balls at us. Being in the centre of the oval we had nowhere to hide and I was terrified that a ball would hit one of the children. I grabbed the twins and put them into their pusher while shouting at Shirin and Ali to come and also yelling at these kids to stop throwing the balls. Shirin was confused and so I screamed at Ali to bring her with him, but he wasn’t yet old enough to understand what I was asking. He just stood there. I raced with the pusher to the far side of the reserve and up the steep bank on the side, out of the teenagers’ range. Then I ran back and led the other two to safety. Ali was crying by now, Shirin was shouting and I was screaming at everyone. Bored now, the teenagers moved on, their laughter at what they had done and at our reaction to it tearing at my soul. Mansoor came to visit us that night and it took some hours before he could console me.
Two weeks later, three children from one family surrounded Ali after school when he was only 70 metres from home. The eldest of these children was a girl in year 7 at the secondary school. They pushed Ali, just eight years old, to the ground a number of times, taunting him with comments about where he ‘came from’ and saying that he wouldn’t be able to keep up at school. All of a sudden the girl took a knife from her bag. ‘I can kill you with this,’ she said to Ali.
Ali ran home and came in the door shouting, ‘Mummy, Mummy.’ We went out and found the trio not far from where they had assaulted him, but on seeing us they ran away before we reached them.
The next day, I reported this incident to the school. When the staff investigated they discovered the knife in the girl’s possession. I was subsequently encouraged when I took a petition from door to door in the local area demanding action and received a very positive response. We weren’t the only ones who were scared. Others in our neighbourhood had had golf balls thrown through windows. As a result of my petition the council called a community meeting to discuss violence in the neighbourhood.
Every time one of these situations arose – and there were various others – I felt low, humiliated and belittled. Each of them was only a small thing, but they happened often enough to make me fearful of the society I was living in. I felt we had low status here: I had black hair and olive skin, was single with four children and living on a pension, and wore plain, sometimes mismatched clothes. I would curse myself after each incident for being so stupid that I had no response to these people. It was just as I had often allowed Reza’s verbal abuse to go unanswered, and as my mother had often failed to respond to the cursing of my father when I was young. I was damagh sokbteh, as the Persian saying goes: I was ‘allowing my nose to be burned’. I was allowing myself to feel embarrassed and guilty for no reason, in fact taking on the guilt that others should rightfully be feeling.
Eventually I took to memorising quick responses that I saw on television: ‘Low enough to say anything’ was one; ‘Don’t you have anything better to think about?’ was another. These didn’t really achieve anything but they did make me feel a little better.
Of course, not everyone was like this. Deirdre was a friend I made who lived near us while we were living in Joy Street. She was of Irish descent and also had a young family. She had often noticed me going out with two or three kids in the pusher and Ali by my side. But rather than looking down on me she had admired the way I was coping. After she introduced herself one day a strong friendship developed and over the coming years she would become an enormous support.
~
Soon after my mother returned to Iran I became determined to educate myself: to improve my English and improve my standing in this society.
At the end of 1988 I applied for a place in the Women’s Studies graduate diploma course at Victoria College (later part of Deakin University). My acceptance into this course would be a turning point in my life. Classes took place on one evening per week which made babysitting manageable with the help of Fariba, when she was in Melbourne, and Deirdre.
I also started taking driving lessons; while still fearful after my bad accident in Tehran, I could see that being able to drive would give me much more independence while also, in this country, lifting my status.
Of course my college course only added to the load at home and the first few months of 1989 were a blur of more sickness in the twins, court dates, house hunting and assignments. But I would not be suppressed by this. It was more than a year since I had left Reza and I was not going to give up the freedom I had gained by succumbing to domestic pressures.
Early in the year I had a breakthrough in my quest to find somewhere to live.
I was traipsing around Frankston again, going from agent to agent. One day, while waiting to cross an intersection, a lady introduced herself to me. She said her name was Monica and told me that she had seen me a number of times pushing the twins, with the other two kids, past her office near Ali’s primary school. She was involved in a cooperative housing organisation in Frankston, which provided a government-funded alternative to the Housing Commission. She recognised how hard it would be for me, in my circumstances, to find a private rental and encouraged me to register with the co-op.
At the time I was already very busy with everything I was doing, to which I had also added trying to secure a visa for my youngest sister Frooshad, and I didn’t get around to going to the cooperative office. When I crossed paths with Monica again a few weeks later, she urged me to come and see her. She stressed that I would need to make an application, but if I did I would almost certainly be given a house to live in after a six-month waiting period.
She was right.
The whole process took a little longer than six months, but in November 1989 we moved out of Joy Street and into a three-bedroom grey brick AV Jennings home in Hartwell Court in Frankston. The house had a good yard, with a plum tree in one corner. Best of all, it backed onto the grounds of the local primary school and secondary college. My kids would be able to get themselves to and from school. What a saviour this would be for me in the coming years. (The next year, when my parents visited again, my father made a gate in the fence, giving the kids direct access to the school grounds, and from that t
ime on they were nearly always late!) There was parkland and a sporting oval nearby as well and, because the house belonged to the cooperative, it was among ordinary suburban houses rather than being grouped with other Housing Commission units.
This was one of about 30 houses owned by the co-op, and the main condition of occupying a house was that I had to attend two cooperative meetings each month where we would discuss maintenance needed in any of the houses, vacancies, budgets and so on. My family had only the most basic belongings, gathered together from donations and opportunity shops: a circular, glossy timber dining table with four chairs, a no-frills refrigerator and television, a few beds. There was nothing precious or expensive, but this made us relaxed – no one had to worry about breaking anything.
~
The move to Hartwell Court marked the beginning of one of the happiest periods of my life as my family and I settled into life there over the coming years.
Early in 1990 both my parents returned to Australia for another visit. Over the next few years they would come and go a few times, officially as temporary visitors, sometimes staying over a year at a time. They would eventually become permanent residents on the family reunion program and then, on Australia Day in 1999, permanent citizens. (Oh how proud they were standing next to Frankston’s mayor on that day!) From the time they became residents they were able to draw the pension; they were always very appreciative of the support they received in Australia – especially the medical care. However they kept their house in Tehran and continued to travel to and from Iran from time to time, sometimes together and sometimes separately, for some years. My father made more of these trips as he became uncomfortable staying in either country – or any place, for that matter – for very long at a time. One of his most repeated phrases was ‘berim . . . berim’, meaning ‘let’s go . . . let’s go’. By 2000 the journey had become so routine to him that one day a taxi pulled up outside our house and out he stepped, completely unannounced, freshly arrived from Tehran! He could just as well have travelled from central Melbourne.
Asghar and Shahin’s relationship mellowed as they aged, but despite my father being happier in Australia than I had ever seen him, there remained a distance between them just as there had been for over 50 years of marriage. They continued to converse only rarely beyond the routinely domestic.
Also early in 1990 – and after many visits to the immigration department by me on her behalf – my youngest sister Frooshad succeeded in gaining entry to Australia on the grounds of family reunion and being able to assist me with the four children. Later that year my younger brother, Hossein, came to Australia on a skilled migration visa as a qualified engineer. Both were motivated by what they now knew Australia had to offer compared with Iran, where life was becoming steadily more difficult. (Unlike with myself, Fariba and Mansoor, it was more difficult by 1990 for people to enter Australia on temporary visas and then change those to permanent residency. Of course, these days, it is much more difficult again.) By early 1992 all my brothers and sisters would be Australian citizens, each choosing to be nationalised as soon as they were eligible to be so.
I now had my parents living with us whenever they were in Australia and my four siblings living permanently in Australia. Things improved between me and Mansoor once he was no longer my landlord, and a level of harmony developed between all of us that had never existed during my childhood – my siblings used to comment on how relaxed it felt. Everyone came and went as they pleased, sometimes staying over. Everyone helped, everyone got on with one another. My dad was kind and caring – not only with his grandchildren but also with his children. There was no swearing. No shame. No fear. No running and hiding when he came home, as we had done throughout our childhoods. Rather, there was welcoming with open arms. There was joy. My mother was endlessly generous as well. At every birthday or Christmas celebration she would walk around the room and give $100 to every person – whether family or friend – drawing from money they had brought from Iran or from her pension. She continued this ‘tradition’ for years. Her spirit was always ‘to give and give more’ as much as she possibly could.
There was often laughter as Ali, Shirin, Sima and Mina acted and sang and danced. Some summer nights I would just soak up the scene from the kitchen window that looked over the garden. Ali would be picking plums from the roof of the shed, Shirin sitting reading on a chair in her red pants and a blouse. Mina in a pink dress, and Sima in a purple one, would be running around, perhaps playing with our kitten.
Over time we came to know all the people in Hartwell Court. There were so many nationalities: Scottish, Italian, Australian and Irish, as well as us Iranians. It was reminiscent of Takht-e Tavoos, in which Iranians of many different religions and ethnicities had lived comfortably side by side. We were so happy when my good friend Deirdre and her family moved into the street just a couple of doors down. There were always extra children around, either school friends or from the neighbouring houses. We took to leaving a key in the front door as it was easier than constantly answering the bell. When one of the kids had a birthday I would spread out a large sofreh on the carpet and put a cake in the centre. As many as 15 children would surround the cake, waiting for it to be cut. And again, among all this, would often be my father. Though he had very little English, he greeted everyone. They all called him Babaei, or grandpa. Sometimes he would make kabob and my mother would cook rice and the meal would be shared with all our neighbours.
We would stay in this house for 13 years, not leaving until 2002 when I bought my own house in the nearby suburb of Mount Eliza. The strength of our little community and careful management of my small income helped me give my children fairly typical Australian childhoods despite their lack of a father. Ali was always skateboarding, playing basketball or soccer or otherwise doing something that involved action, as well as oil painting and drawing. The girls all started ballet at an early age and the twins took any chance they could to perform: singing, dancing or acting. Ali, Sima and Mina all played the clarinet and Shirin the violin. Like her brother, Shirin enjoyed drawing while the twins preferred maths to art. There were many times, especially when they were younger, that the 15 children who lived in Hartwell Court all played a game together. Hide-and-seek and variations of it were favourites.
It was a very sad day when we moved away from Hartwell Court, with many tears shed. We had developed such extraordinary bonds with our neighbours – bonds which continue to this day.
~
Around the time that we’d moved into the Frankston co-op house I also passed my driving test. I bought an old orange-red Mazda for $2000 which we called Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Oh, what freedom this gave me! After relying on friends or unreliable buses or taxis for picking up my children from child care or school, doing the shopping or going to the doctor or hospital, finally I had my own wheels and a lot more independence.
That car would take us to many places. I took my four children to see all the sights of Melbourne: Puffing Billy, Gumbuya Park, Melbourne Zoo, the Botanical Gardens, Ashcombe Maze, Luna Park and St Kilda beach. We had holidays in Lorne. And of course there was the driving to and from ballet classes, basketball, swimming, football, Scouts and Brownies, among others. Having a car made tackling my college studies a lot easier too. I had struggled at college in the first six months, just scraping through with support from Deirdre and Fariba mostly, but also with help from Mansoor, Frooshad and Hossein. But I was motivated by what I was learning about the history of women fighting for their rights. It was a huge lesson for me to see that Iranian women were not alone in this struggle.
After finishing the Women’s Studies course at the end of 1990, I wanted to find a job. But it was still difficult. Ali was at school but Shirin would not be for another year, and the twins were still toddlers.
I found a government booklet at the social security office and browsed through that, trying to discover what I might do. By now my computer skills were out of date – the industry had moved on rapidly –
so that was not a realistic option. When I found the section about the legal industry, my eyes widened. I found myself staring blankly at the page for some moments. So much of my suffering at the hands of Reza had resulted from my not being aware of my rights – not knowing that things were different in Australia. Thinking for so long that, as my husband, he would have automatic custody of my children – as was the case in Iran – was the main reason it had never crossed my mind to leave him. Perhaps, if I studied law, I would be able to help others in my position.
When I left the office that day, my decision had been made. I was going to become a lawyer.
14
A profession of my own
There have been times in my life when I have bitten off more than I should have been able to chew, though nearly every time I have somehow managed to swallow what was coming at me.
My decision to study law was made at the end of 1990. I was 35 years old and, apart from my just-completed graduate diploma, my only other qualifications were Iranian and virtually unrecognised in Australia. It did not take long to establish that I could not simply walk up to the Monash University School of Law and expect to be admitted. In fact, I found that without having completed the VCE – the state’s high school certificate – I would not be able to get into any university course at all. Eventually I was advised that I could take the equivalent of year 12 and get my VCE at the Frankston TAFE, a college of further education, and from there apply to gain admittance to the Bachelor of Arts program at Monash. If my marks in that course were good enough, I would be able to get into law where, after four years of full time study, including taking the summer programs, I could get my degree. Altogether, I had at least six years of study in front of me. But by now I had no choice.
I enrolled at Frankston TAFE in 1991 and, with the continuing help of family and neighbours, got myself and my family working like a Swiss watch. We would have breakfast early, then I would drop Ali at school and Shirin at kindergarten on the way to college. The TAFE had a child care centre where I was able to leave the twins. In the evening, this routine would be reversed. My VCE studies were a challenge – especially English, as my reading and writing were not at a high level. On Sundays we would have some time off. I would put on some music and the three girls would dance in the centre of the room while Ali played with Lego or his toy cars. When the end of the year came I applied for a place in arts at Monash. I then had to wait until early the next year for the lists to go up. When they did I was almost too nervous to look – but there, right at the bottom, were the words I was looking for: Zanjani, Sohila. Step one completed – I had my foot in the door of the university.
Scattered Pearls Page 23