‘Come on, sissie.’ I finally steered her out of the store. ‘Let’s go home for supper.’ We still called dinner ‘supper’ at that point.
By the time we arrived home, Elly was more herself and was able to tell Dad about ‘all the bears’. Mum had on that crinkled forehead look of hers, which told me something was up.
‘A phone call came for you, Jaime. The principal wants to see you in her office first thing in the morning.’ Mum’s eyes flickered to my nose pin. My thoughts had led up the same track. Still, Mum and I had already talked about what we might do if too much was made of the pin.
Dear Pakistan
I can’t begin to tell you what a **** (Dad would kill me if he found me writing swear words) day it’s been so I won’t. I don’t feel like thinking about it, so I’ll think about you instead.
Right now we’d be home for holidays and it’d be snowing in Abbottabad (everyone here thinks all of Pakistan is hot—they don’t know a thing) and we’d be making snowballs and throwing them at Dad. He used to be so much fun. I can tell he misses you too, he’s so quiet, it’s weird. Then we’d be going in to sit by the wood fire and Dad’d tell jokes. Maybe Shuhilla would make us chapattis and chai—she made the best tea, all milky and sweet. Oh God, take me back. How could we have left?
Jameela
P.S. I bet they’re going to try and get my nose pin off me but they won’t. It’s the only physical part of me that I’ve got of you—the only thing to help me remember who I really am.
3
The principal didn’t seem a bad sort really. She was making conversation about her nieces and nephews who went to school in Indonesia because their parents worked there. All the time, I carefully kept the left side of my nose facing the wall. I must have looked odd sitting with my head on a slant like that, but while the conversation was relatively safe, I wasn’t taking any chances.
It wasn’t long before I realised that Mrs Whitehead’s topic wasn’t safe at all.
‘I quite understand about children being brought up in a different culture from their own. My niece writes me regularly and I’ve visited there. That’s a Muslim environment too.’ I pursed my lips, imagining what was coming next.
‘They have quite a few different customs in Indonesia.’ Mrs Whitehead fumbled for her pen on the desk. ‘The girls wear scarves on their heads to school and they’re not allowed to talk to boys.’ It sure sounded like Pakistan.
‘But,’ the principal’s tone changed slightly, ‘they do those things because they try to fit into the culture there.’ The slight emphasis on the word ‘there’ wasn’t wasted on me. ‘Wherever people find themselves they should try and fit in and respect the rules of the place where they are living.’ Her mouth widened into a smile. ‘Like, when in Rome do as the Romans do?’
I think she expected me to say something then, but I wasn’t much help. Finally, my fears were founded. ‘For example, girls here don’t wear scarves to school, so we wouldn’t expect you to, even though you’ve been brought up in a Muslim country.’
My tongue stirred into self-defence. ‘But I saw an Indonesian girl in town on the weekend and she had a scarf on. Nobody was staring.’
By the look on the principal’s face, I felt as if I’d played into her hands. ‘Yes, my dear. But she was Indonesian and a Muslim.’ I must have looked stubborn for she asked, ‘Are you a Muslim, Jaime?’ I shook my head.
‘Then you wouldn’t think of wearing a scarf here to school, would you?’
Basically, I agreed about the head coverings, but I had to hang on because I knew where it was all heading. Mrs Whitehead’s voice got sweeter like Mum’s, coaxing me to eat a spoonful of jam as a kid; we both knew it had crushed up, bitter tablets mixed in it.
‘The nose pin doesn’t bother me personally. I understand these things, but we have had complaints from certain parents.’
‘But the nose pin is different!’ I tried to follow the logic started by the scarves. ‘The pin doesn’t have a religious significance, sure, but it’s cultural. It’s about how I grew up. Every girl did it there. Why can’t I keep it here?’
‘It’s about our rules now, Jaime. We don’t wear nose pins or jewellery in this school. If you continue to wear it you may be misunderstood. Already some adults are referring to you in degrading terms because of it.’
‘But, when they got to know me …’
‘I’m sorry, Jaime. I didn’t want to bring this up until you’d been with us for a few weeks. By then you may have seen for yourself that it wouldn’t work. If I make an exception for you other students will expect special treatment also, and they may do it for the wrong reasons, not understanding yours.’
I could feel something wet making a wobbly track down my cheek. Already I sensed I’d argued too much. In Pakistan we were taught to respect authority. In national schools there, the high school students still stood whenever the teacher entered or left the room and no one would have dared to argue. No one had to; they all knew the same rules.
Mrs Whitehead watched me. To be fair, she looked kind, but she was waiting. I sensed that she wouldn’t force me to take out the pin, but I could tell it was understood what had to be done. Gone was my resolve; I didn’t feel strong enough. What if I kept it and still didn’t know who I was? Suddenly I felt like getting in first; at least that way I was still in control of what happened to me.
‘I understand your position, Mrs Whitehead. I’ll … I’ll take it out.’
It was almost worth it to see how surprised the principal looked. Then she smiled. ‘What a mature thing to say. We could do with a few more with attitudes like yours.’ She came round from behind the desk. ‘Maybe you could put it back in after school, like pierced ears, and keep the hole open.’ She truly sounded hopeful, as though she cared. I appreciated that, except it started me crying properly.
‘Thanks.’ I accepted the proffered tissue and managed to smile through my bleary eyes. It wasn’t a real smile though for I knew Mrs Whitehead didn’t know the first thing about nose pins. Noses heal up so much faster than ears; it would never work putting it in after school.
Dear Pakistan
I’ve heard about what people go through when someone dies. Well, that’s what I feel like right now. Something’s dying. I’m not sure if it’s you or me. It feels like my heart is so sick, it’s on a life support machine … one flick and it’d be gone. Why doesn’t God zap me back to you? My life was fine with you. I knew everything and what to do.
Mum isn’t the type of person to make a fuss about the pin at school and Dad’s not all here, if you know what I mean. Maybe this is what he’s been feeling like but I can’t help, can I, when I feel the same? Anyway, tomorrow I’ll take the pin out. It was so much trouble getting it in, too. Mum asked me tonight if I’d rather they’d never given me permission to have it, but I said it had been worth it, even for a few years.
I guess what hurts is that I thought there was no discrimination here, but there is. I’m so confused. I have this feeling that if I’d said I was Muslim today, or if I was brown, I might have been able to keep the nose pin. I feel brown on the inside.
Can’t anyone besides you see that?
Jameela
4
School became less depressing once I’d met Danny. He was kind. All I needed was a friend to talk to and, looking back on it, he may not have understood that, but he did get me through those first few months.
Danny was in Year 12, dark and good-looking. That might sound typical but dark good looks don’t do much for me; in Pakistan everyone is dark and reasonably good-looking. Some of the girls in my class (especially Kate Sample) said he was ‘hot’, but wouldn’t go out with him for reasons I could find out for myself.
His first comment to me sort of took my breath away.
‘Hey, why did you take your nose thing out? I thought it was cool. You looked just like an Indian prin
cess.’
I decided then that he could be my friend for life. He was totally sympathetic about it all and listened for ages. Nor did he ever seem to mind me talking about Pakistan. So far he was the only one I’d had an intelligent conversation with about my past life. It felt so good. Soon I looked forward to lunches.
‘Where will we eat this time?’ he’d say. ‘Oval or lawn?’ He had a group of friends, girls included, and I joined them. The girls in my class picked on me for sitting with Year 12s. I was amazed that they couldn’t hear how immature they sounded.
We didn’t always talk about Pakistan. I found there was a lot I still didn’t know about Australia. Mum and Dad had done their best to bring us up as Australians in a host country, but the first time Danny asked me if I wanted a pie or a pasty, I found myself wishing Mum had been more thorough. I thought it was best to come clean. ‘What’s a pasty?’
He grinned and ran off to the canteen, calling back, ‘I’ll show you.’ I think he enjoyed showing me stuff.
One weekend I went to his house for tea. I’d decided to keep our relationship platonic; I didn’t think I could cope with anything else at the time and he seemed happy enough. Besides, there was Suneel, though deep down I knew that was just a dream. Danny’s family was great. It was just like being in Pakistan (well, almost). His mum and dad were loud and happy. He had numerous brothers and sisters, and cousins that kept dropping in through the evening. Even their home was decorated like houses in Pakistan: quite bright, with a lot of ornaments like clocks and vases that were not really for use.
Even though Danny’s relatives spoke Greek among themselves I still felt at home. He apologised at one point but I assured him, ‘Don’t worry. In Pakistan there was so much I didn’t understand, people spoke their local languages at home. I’m enjoying it.’
He leaned closer. ‘It’s good to see you happy, Jaime.’ I wondered if I always looked depressed at school. I’d have to work on that.
Just then, his mother called to him from across the room. I’d noticed she was the only one he spoke Greek to the whole evening but he didn’t answer her this time. She nudged her husband and laughed.
‘What did she say?’ I noticed that Danny wasn’t smiling any more. I wondered what the joke could be if he didn’t like it. ‘Was it about me?’
His little sister came to my rescue (if you could call it that). ‘Mama said she didn’t know there were Australian girls as nice as Greek girls. She doesn’t mind Danny having an Australian girlfriend now.’
I glanced across at Danny. He still didn’t comment. Instantly I was confused again. Did that mean he wanted me for a girlfriend or any Australian girl? Did that mean he didn’t like Greek girls? Why? One thing was obvious: he wasn’t about to say anything with all his relatives watching every move we both made, so I kept my mouth shut until later.
Later came earlier than I expected, in the car outside our house when he tried to kiss me. For a start, I didn’t want to be kissed. Looking back now, there’s no way I could explain that; I just didn’t want our relationship to change, I guess. Once you make a boyfriend out of a guy, you can lose him. A friend you never lose if you don’t want to.
There was something else too, a feeling, which was beginning to rise up and almost suffocate me like a huge black rug. I was terrified of being in the car out in the street where I could be seen. Wouldn’t I get a bad name? From what the girls said at school, no one had a bad name now in Australia because nothing was wrong anymore, but deep down I didn’t believe them. In Pakistan, girls were beaten for less than I was doing now, and boys killed for sleeping with a girl, if they got caught.
What was I thinking? Danny wasn’t like that. He just wanted a kiss. The moment passed. As it was, he hadn’t been desperate for one, just thought it was the thing to do.
‘I’m sorry, Jaime. I didn’t mean to come on like that. I only wanted to show you that I thought you were cool.’ He sounded genuinely hurt. I tried to remember if I’d physically pushed him away.
‘I wasn’t upset. It’s just … where I was brought up—’ it all came flashing back ‘—we couldn’t do anything like this there.’ I giggled, knowing nothing was funny. Credit must go to Danny, though, for he didn’t say anything nasty, just gave me a hug. I still found that uncomfortable. I could imagine all the neighbours looking out their darkened rooms, peering at me through the curtains. I needn’t have worried. I’d forgotten how Australian neighbours weren’t too interested in what you do.
All of a sudden I felt sorry for Danny. A vision of Kate Sample passed through my mind. By the way she raved on at school, she wouldn’t be acting like this with a guy. I could just imagine the girls’ incredulous cackles and snide comments if ever they found out. Maybe it was to appease my conscience as well as to make it up to Danny that I invited him in for coffee. Dad had recently bought some excellent beans—it was one of the few things he’d missed from here while we were in Pakistan.
Danny was quick to accept. ‘The night’s still young,’ he said with a grin. Did I detect a note of relief as well? Mum and Dad were still up. Mum was watching TV but Dad was reading. He still couldn’t stand Australian media—too raw, he’d say.
I guided Danny through to the kitchen. I wanted him to myself to ask him a question. I settled him on the stool and came straight out with it while I got out the mugs. ‘Danny, would you say you were Greek?’
Gone was his easy smile. He looked ready to go home and for a moment I thought he wouldn’t answer. But he must have thought I needed to know.
‘No, I’m Australian.’
‘Why do you say that?’ He started to answer but I wanted him to understand my motives. ‘I’m not having a go at you, I just want to work something out, that’s all.’
‘Look, it’s simple. My parents were born in Greece. They still call themselves Greek—well, most of the time. I was born here. That makes me Australian.’
‘But why did your mum say that about Greek girls?’
‘Because she wants me to be Greek and the only way she understands to keep people in the same old ways is to marry the same old ways. She’s got a few Greek girls lined up that have been “brought up properly”.’ He grinned, finally. ‘Terribly orthodox—can’t think for themselves. I want to marry who I like—Australian or Greek. I don’t need to keep all the old ways. Maybe I will when I’m forty.’
I digested all that. He looked Greek, yet everything he did and said denied what he was. And what if he decided that I was orthodox and couldn’t think? Was that his criterion, or did it matter most not to be Greek?
‘What about you? It’s your turn. Are you Pakistani?’
‘N–No …’ Just then the kettle boiled. I spent the next few minutes with my back to him trying to sort out my thoughts. I hadn’t expected him to ask me in return.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I was brought up Australian. I was born here, my parents are Australian. Even though I did most things in the Pakistani way, I knew I wasn’t Pakistani.’
‘Then what’s your problem?’
How perceptive he was or did my confusion show so very much?
‘Now I’m here, I’m not so sure anymore. It was easy in Pakistan. Being Australian meant having a different religion, speaking with an accent, knowing about cricket, showing pictures of kangaroos and the outback. It was obvious I wasn’t Pakistani, even though I dressed like one, did things the same, had Pakistani friends and got a nose pin.’
‘And here?’
‘Now I don’t know what “Australian” is any more. I’m not the same as anyone here—I might look like the kids at school but I think differently. It’s like I came out of a round shape, got changed to an oval one, and now I’ve come back, I don’t fit. Look at you, I would have called you Greek. You look Greek, but you’re Australian. Just being born here can’t do it, surely?’
Danny didn’t answer. Maybe he
didn’t know how or hadn’t thought about it much; he’d been so busy concentrating on being like the other kids. Maybe he’d never consciously followed a plan. Perhaps it just happened. Part of me wished it would happen to me. The in-between-ness was getting to me. Yet I knew too that I didn’t want to be a duplicate of everyone else. Surely that wouldn’t be me.
Almost as though he’d followed my thoughts, Danny came in with: ‘You have to give yourself time. Why do you have to change anyway? I like you the way you are.’ He grinned before he added, ‘Sort of old-worldish Greek, but Australian all the same.’ That was the first time I wondered if it would be easy to love Danny. He certainly said the nicest things. At that time I guess it was what I needed; every hug or bit of attention made me feel like a balloon gradually being blown up again after it had been let loose.
I didn’t want those thoughts to show, not yet, so I told him to drink his coffee, but his dark eyes met mine over his mug. I didn’t meet his gaze for long—old habits are hard to break.
Dear Pakistan
Drinking coffee with Danny tonight made me wonder about Suneel. Not that there’s anything to wonder about. Mum said nothing could come of it and I know she’s right. Mr Bolden gave us a huge English assignment yesterday that’s supposed to span the semester and we’re meant to add to it continually like a journal. It sounded so boring. Day-to-day stuff always is. I’ll hand up what I write to you in this journal but I’ll also make up an adventure. About Suneel. Then it’ll be bearable to write. So what if none of it happened? I’ll pretend it did.
It could start that day I saw him in the goat field. That bit was true at least.
Once upon a time in a faraway land of hot shimmering sands and high mountain peaks (what a paradox you are, dear Pakistan) there lived a young goat herder. His name was Suneel. He looked as though he didn’t belong there, standing on the mountain slope, staring out to the snowy peaks in the distance. Even from the road, I could see there was something about him that set him apart.
Dear Pakistan Page 2