by Amra Pajalic
‘When you were bashed.’
‘Why?’ I put my Maths textbook in my backpack.
‘Next time, come to me for protection,’ he hissed.
‘Get real,’ I said. ‘You’ve never cared about protecting me.’
He gripped my arm. ‘You embarrassed me today,’ he muttered. ‘I shouldn’t have to find out what happened from Brian.’
I wrenched my arm away. ‘You embarrassed yourself jerk-off.’ I pushed him and walked off.
At lunchtime we went to the oval, but I adopted Jesse’s trick and read J. C. Burke’s Starfish Sisters. Adnan tried to talk to me, tapping me on the leg to get my attention. I moved away. At the end of school, as I walked towards the front gates, three figures stood immobile.
‘Do you want us to walk you home tonight?’ Brian asked.
Adnan held my arm and squeezed. ‘I’m visiting my grandfather.’
‘I can walk by myself.’ I was getting sick of being special-needs.
‘I’m going that way,’ Adnan said.
‘You haven’t seen Dido since the zabava,’ I shot back. Dido and Aunt Zehra were going through another stand-off after the family reunion night.
Adnan put on a pained expression. ‘We don’t know how long he’ll be around.’
‘Puh—lease,’ I muttered under my breath so only he could hear.
‘We’ll see you tomorrow.’ Brian slapped Adnan’s hand and kissed me on the cheek.
‘See ya,’ I waved. Jesse lifted his hand and waved clumsily as he left. What a dork. ‘Quite a performance,’ I said.
Adnan smiled. ‘I have a gift.’
‘The gift of being a bullshit artist.’
He laughed. That was the thing about Adnan: he was impervious to insults. He gestured at Safeway. ‘Let’s go inside.’
‘What for?’ I followed him in through the electronic doors, grumpy that he thought I was his lackey.
‘Research.’ In the cereal aisle he took out a notebook and listed various items. After ten minutes or so, when I was about to scream with frustration, he closed his notebook.
‘What was that about?’
‘It’s how I’m making my fortune,’ he said mysteriously.
‘You’re going to be a homemaker.’
‘I’ve got a much better plan,’ he retorted.
‘And?’
‘Not telling.’
‘Wanker,’ I muttered under my breath. He smiled slyly.
We walked the rest of the way home in silence.
‘Little one, make us coffee,’ Dido barked as we entered the living room. He was playing chess with Edin, his right hand poised above the chessboard.
‘Is that how you greet your only grandson?’ Adnan smiled beside me.
Dido hugged him. ‘Ado.’ He caressed Adnan’s head, his eyes glassy as if he was about to cry. ‘Did Zehra come?’ He looked at the doorway for my aunt.
Adnan shook his head.
My grandfather hugged him. ‘You’re Dido’s brave one.’
Disgusted at Adnan’s performance, I went to the kitchen to make a sandwich. ‘Can I have one?’ he called out.
I took my plate and sat at the table. I waved at the bread and condiments on the kitchen counter. ‘Help yourself.’
Adnan made a pitiful face. ‘After I walked all this way to protect you. You should show me some respect.’
‘You—I—’ I was so pissed off I couldn’t speak. His only motivation was his macho pride. I slapped my sandwich on the plate and passed it to him. ‘Your Mum will go off at you for coming here.’ Auntie Zehra’s temper was legendary.
‘Probably.’
‘Aren’t you scared?’ I asked.
‘I’ve got a plan.’
‘And?’
‘Watch and learn.’ He leaned back and picked his teeth with a toothpick.
‘Sabiha, coffee!’ Dido shouted from the living room.
I opened my mouth to shout back, but Adnan put his hand on my arm. ‘I’ll help,’ he said.
I squinted. ‘What are you up to?’ He never helped around the house.
He did his usual inscrutable smirk. He carried the tray back to the old men. ‘I’ll pour.’ He sat on the ottoman and poured coffee in the three fildjani. Dido raised his eyebrows in surprise, before he smiled. I left them to their mutual appreciation club.
I was in my room writing about my day, well actually about signs that Brian liked me, when Adnan walked in. He wasn’t big on respecting other people’s privacy. I put the diary in my desk drawer.
He sat on the bed. ‘I’ll teach you self-defence.’
I frowned. ‘What for?’
‘So you don’t do your punching-bag imitation for every bully.’
I stuck my middle finger up.
‘Come on. It’ll help.’ He tugged my arm.
Reluctantly I followed him into the backyard. ‘This is stupid,’ I moaned.
‘The first thing to learn is to deal with movement.’ He shadow-boxed at my head. I flinched. ‘You need to stop closing your eyes.’ He imitated me, screwing up his face.
‘You look like a toothless hag.’
‘Come on. Let’s get serious.’ He punched again.
I flinched.
He stopped and put his hands on his hips. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’
I gave him a dirty look.
‘Okay, one more time.’
He aimed for my face, giving me time to see him coming. I clenched my muscles, determined to stand my ground. As the fist approached my face, I squeezed my eyes shut and hunched like a turtle hiding in its shell.
He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m doing this for you.’
With my eyes on his face I didn’t see his fist pull back. It wasn’t until my guts pushed into my spine that I knew he’d punched me. I dropped to my knees, holding onto Adnan’s arm as I heaved for breath.
st albans fight club
‘Embrace the pain,’ he urged, his eyes glittering with joy.
Bile rose in my throat and I gagged. Adnan pulled away and I fell on the ground. After a few minutes my breath came back, but my stomach throbbed. I sat up.
Adnan crouched beside me. ‘That wasn’t so bad.’
‘Arsehole.’ I aimed a punch at his stomach.
‘Not bad.’ He caught my fist in mid-air and pulled my thumb out of my fist. ‘Try again.’
I lifted my foot and hit him in the stomach.
He fell on his arse with a grunt.
I scrambled to my feet and walked off.
‘We’ve just started,’ he called.
The flyscreen burst open and Dido stood in the doorway. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Adnan punched me.’
‘I’m teaching her how to fight,’ Adnan said.
‘Good,’ Dido said. ‘She will stop being a cry-baby.’ He went back into the house.
Adnan grabbed the flyscreen before it closed. ‘Any time you want more fight lessons, let me know.’ He closed the door in my face.
When I went back into the living room Adnan was watching TV. Dido was scowling, but didn’t shout at him to turn if off. ‘Turn off the TV,’ I said. ‘It’s ruining Dido’s concentration.’
‘Is it okay if I have it on softly?’ Adnan lowered the volume with the remote control. Dido grunted without looking up from the chessboard.
I sat on the floor next to Adnan. I was in a bad mood. Cheesy game-show music played. The camera panned to a cheering audience. ‘George Georgiou. Come on down,’ the voiceover proclaimed. A man ran down the aisle waving his arms. Another three people were called down. They jumped as if they were in a mosh-pit, smacking kisses on each other’s faces and hugging like they were at a wedding. ‘You are our first contestants on “The Price is Right”. And now your host, Larry Emdur,’ the voiceover proclaimed, while the host made tacky small-talk with the contestants.
I leaned closer to Adnan. ‘This is your big plan?’ I laughed.
‘Quiet!’ Dido shouted.
Adnan
grinned.
I shifted and ‘accidentally’ hit him with my elbow.
He nudged me back and shushed me.
The camera focused on a stereo and the contestants were asked to estimate the price. After they each locked in a price the host slid a card out of an envelope and read the correct price. The contestant who estimated the closest, without going above, had the chance to play for another, much more expensive prize and ultimately the opportunity to play for the showcase. At each stage of the game Adnan guessed the price of the prizes and was uncannily correct. By now Dido and Edin were watching too, cheering with glee when someone won.
Adnan handed Dido the remote when the show finished. ‘That’s the only TV show for wogs,’ he said in Bosnian. ‘Every other show is whitewashed with Anglo-Australia. Look at “Home and Away”, “Neighbours”, “McLeod’s Daughters”.’
‘What about other game shows?’ I asked.
‘On “Temptation” you have to be a rocket scientist on stupid local trivia.’
‘What about “Wheel of Fortune”? All you have to do is spin the wheel.’
Adnan was scornful. ‘And then you have to guess the phrase.’
‘The phrase is pretty obvious.’
‘For someone born in an English-speaking country. All these shows are made for people born here. This,’ he pointed to the TV where the credits on ‘The Price is Right’ were rolling, ‘this is the only show for us wogs. It’s the one thing we’re good at. Prices and bargaining.’
What Adnan said made me feel odd, like I was seeing my country for the first time. I was in no-man’s-land. To the Aussies I was Bosnian, to the Bosnians I was Aussie. In the inner city I’d been Sammie Omerovic, second-generation Aussie. Now I had all this Bosnian baggage to drag around and I didn’t know how to carry it.
Edin left. Dido and Adnan sat across from each other on the sofa while I stayed on the floor, pretending to watch TV.
‘Does your mum know you’re here?’ Dido asked.
I glanced over my shoulder; Adnan was shaking his head.
‘Will you tell her?’
‘You know Mum,’ Adnan said. Dido coughed his usual smoker’s cough that sounded like he was about to lose a lung. ‘You’re sick.’ Adnan held Dido’s hand.
‘I’m fine.’ Dido cleared his throat and spat his phlegm into a tissue.
Adnan became thoughtful. ‘If you were sick Mum would be here like a shot.’
Dido lay on the sofa, adjusting the cushion under his head. ‘Can you hand me my blanket?’ Adnan reached for the blanket and covered Dido from head to toe, tucking him in like a child.
‘Where are his pills?’ Adnan asked. I pointed to the pillbox on the TV cabinet. Dido opened one eye and watched as Adnan put his pills on the coffee table. Dido smiled and within a few breaths he was snoring.
Adnan smiled as he picked up the phone. ‘Mum?’ His voice quavered. ‘Dido’s not feeling well.’
Auntie Zehra arrived within ten minutes. She must have driven with squealing tyres and burnouts. She cried when she saw Dido lying on the sofa.
Adnan touched her arm. ‘He had a bad turn.’
Dido opened his eyes and held out his hand. ‘Zehra.’
She dropped to her knees beside the sofa. ‘Babo, how are you?’
Dido kissed her hand. ‘I’m glad I saw you again before I died.’
‘He’s not that sick,’ I told her.
‘He needs to sleep,’ Adnan jumped in, glaring at me.
Dido patted her hand. ‘Come and visit me tomorrow.’
Auntie Zehra was torn. Adnan helped her up. ‘Come on, Mum.’
She nodded and kissed Dido on the cheek. I walked them to the door. ‘Where’s your mother?’ she asked.
‘She’s at Safet’s.’ I’d hardly seen her the past week, which wouldn’t have been that bad, except that I copped being Dido’s servant.
‘She should be at home taking care of the two of you,’ Auntie said.
‘She’ll be home soon,’ I replied, scowling She shook her head. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’ She kissed me on the cheek.
On Saturday morning, my mood worsened as I remembered what was awaiting me.
‘Sabiha, get up!’ Mum burst into my room and flung open the curtains.
‘I think I’m sick.’ I crumpled into the foetal position and clutched my stomach.
‘No way.’ Mum ripped the doona off me.
‘Ohhhh,’ I groaned, burrowing my head under the pillow.
‘I’ll have breakfast ready by the time you’ve showered,’ Mum said as she walked out, leaving my bedroom door open.
I pushed the pillow off my head and looked at the empty doorway. Who was this woman and what had she done with my real mother? She’d never woken me up and made me breakfast before I went to school, but today she was Mrs Homemaker because it was my debut as a Born-Again-Muslim at mejtef.
It took me a while to get dressed because I had to dig out my daggy clothes—the ankle-length loose skirt I hid at the back of the wardrobe.
I gasped as I walked into the kitchen. ‘Strawberry pancakes!’ They were my favourite: spread with strawberry jam, sprinkled with crushed walnuts and pecans, filled with strawberries, and then rolled into a burrito shape. I took a bite. So far the mejtef experience wasn’t all bad.
‘Sabiha, it’s important you make a good impression,’ Mum lectured while I ate. ‘The hodja is making an exception for you.’
Mejtef was organised like school: children progressed through different levels with their age group. Despite not having been to mejtef before I had been placed in my grade level, with the expectation that Dina would help me keep up.
I nodded absently, the tart taste of strawberries taking me to a happy place.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Mum asked as she pulled up in the mosque car park.
‘I’ll be okay.’ I reached for the doorhandle, puffing myself up with false bravado. She drove off and I turned to the mosque.
It was a square white building with the familiar dome roof and minaret that was traditionally used to broadcast the call to prayer. I’d only been to the mosque once before with Mum and everything had been a blur.
I entered through the front glass doors into a hallway with shoe shelves against each wall, where prayer-goers left their shoes before entering the prayer room that was covered with a colourful red carpet. Muslims prayed on the ground so there were no pews or seats in the prayer room.
There was a kitchen where an informal café operated, selling Turkish coffee, pita and chevapi. I walked past rooms fitted with taps and sinks for the prayer-goers to take their ablutions before performing their prayers, and then I entered the classroom where mejtef was held.
I slid into the empty seat beside Dina. ‘So how does this work?’ I asked anxiously. I hoped it wouldn’t be like school where they made the new students stand and talk about themselves while everyone stared as if they were a zoo animal.
‘The hodja talks, we listen.’ Dina continued scribbling in her notebook.
I fought the instinct to elbow her in the ribs. She was such a prissy bitch. Students milled around, chatting to each other. A few threw curious glances my way. For once Dina’s self-involvement worked to my advantage and she didn’t perform any introductions.
The hodja walked in, wearing his traditional black robe. Everyone sat. ‘We have a new student, Sabiha,’ he announced in Bosnian, nodding at me.
My fists clenched as I waited for him to call on me.
‘Last week we were talking about the correct conduct for a Muslim man and woman and we’re continuing this discussion. In the Kuran it states modesty is a priority for both men and women. Men are to cover their torsos and to be covered from waist to knees. Women are to be covered from their neck to wrist, and waist to ankle. When they pray women also cover their hair.’
‘Great, we’re being sent back to the dark ages,’ I muttered.
‘The general perception by non-Muslim society is that the requirement for
modesty in Islam is a way of subjugating women. But we know that if women are covered, they are judged by their intellect and not purely on their physical appearance.’
I stared down at my notepad and drew hearts while the hodja continued talking about what it meant to be a good Muslim. This was the first time I’d heard about both men and women having to practise modesty. People only talked about how Muslim women were treated unfairly by having to cover up, but nobody mentioned that men were supposed to be doing the same.
I recalled the way some men looked at me when I wore skimpy clothes. If I didn’t wear revealing clothes, would they pay attention to me properly? Mum tried to convince me that you could be both modest and fashionable. I wasn’t buying it. Why should I have to compromise myself for other people? Most of the time I dressed to feel good for myself, not for anyone else. And what was the big deal about modesty? Shouldn’t women be respected, regardless of how they looked? I wished I had the guts to ask the hodja that question; instead I tuned out while the lecture continued.
After talking for fifteen minutes, the hodja taught us a new prayer. He recited a few words in Arabic and then the students repeated them. We had to enunciate the Arabic words, over and over. Then the hodja intoned the Bosnian translation.
‘Your homework for next week is to learn this prayer and be able to recite it when I call on you.’
I stopped myself from swearing. I had enough real homework without this.
‘Sabiha, see me before you leave,’ the hodja said while students headed for the doors.
Shit, he’d heard my smartarse comment about the dark ages.
‘This will also be your homework for next week.’ He handed me a sheet of paper with the heading ‘Five Pillars of Islam’. ‘Because you haven’t had the chance to learn the basics you have to work harder to catch up.’
‘So I have to learn both these things?’ I held up the other handout with the new prayer.
He nodded and handed me a book. ‘And this is what we use for the junior mejtef classes. You should read it, too.’
‘When am I supposed to do my school work?’ I demanded. ‘I mean, that’s a lot of stuff to learn.’ I stopped when I realised how harsh my voice sounded.
‘Just learn the Five Pillars,’ he said. ‘It’s most important you know the basics.’