by S. L. Lim
The ambulance arrived about twenty minutes later. The paramedics were spectacularly unhelpful. They stood there grinning openly, while Lisa began once again to quiver and jerk. They were loath to even touch their supposed patient’s body. The junior one, with much prompting from the uncle, was eventually convinced to listen to her heart through his stethoscope.
Straightening up, he pushed the instrument back into his pocket. ‘There is nothing wrong,’ he said, smiling at them maddeningly. ‘These girls always do this – you see, it happens all the time.’
Andie’s uncle insisted that they take her in the ambulance. The paramedics hauled her body onto the stretcher, grumbling all the while about the unnecessary exertion. Once Lisa was gone, the family sat in the lounge room, observing each other at an uncomfortable middle distance. Andie’s aunt peeled some fruit. Val returned to her computer. Andie told herself that it would have to be all right. It was impossible for something irreparably bad to have happened on such an ordinary afternoon.
At three o’clock, they got the call from the hospital. There was nothing wrong with Lisa - it had just been a panic attack. She was back within the hour, wilting with humiliation, hiding in her room to avoid their gawping. Andie chose not to participate in the conversation between her aunt and uncle: ‘What does this mean? Why would she panic? Her work is easy. She’s not under any stress – we don’t even scold her!’ How incomprehensible to them that a healthy young woman could be harbouring such misery. Food, oxygen, water – what else does a human need?
It was Andie’s final night in Indonesia. She slept fitfully and woke up with a sadness she was unable to dislodge.
The flight back to Australia stopped over at Changi airport. There were a few hours before her connection, so she visited the food court. An elderly Chinese lady came to clear away her dirty plates, which Andie stacked on the plastic tray and loaded onto the trolley. The cleaning lady smiled broadly and said something in Mandarin. Noting Andie’s blank look, she added, ‘Very nice girl! Very kind.’ She seemed to mean it. Andie flushed with shame. How demeaning it was, that such a small act could be met with such disproportionate gratitude. And yet how could you help being flattered, in the face of such genuine warmth and praise?
Later, when she was back in Sydney, her cousin Val sent her an email. Lisa was doing well, she wrote, although she was embarrassed about causing trouble for no reason. Andie wrote back that there was nothing for Lisa to be ashamed of. Rage, panic, heart-stopping anguish: these were no more or less than the situation needed. You do not have a body, you are a body, and the tumult of a mind cannot be so easily housed within. No wonder the respiratory system, the cardiovascular processes, the frontal cortex begin to rebel. The brute facts of economic life are enough to make anybody panic, if you look at them too closely.
CHAPTER NINE
Tony and Can became instant companions, the way only nineteen-year-olds can. Their relationship was less like an after-class friendship than a romance. The two of them texted five or six times a day; Tony couldn’t get through a magazine article without striking on a thought which he had to immediately share with Can. They met every day for lunch, barely able to contain their affection for each other. They experimented with different ways of showing this in public: double fist bumps, clasping hands, high-fiving each other in ever more complex configurations. Tony would never have thought to behave like this at high school, where to show that you cared too much was a dangerous confession of vulnerability. They established their own set of physical norms: Can would grasp Tony’s elbow while they walked, which Tony found so endearing he didn’t even mind that he sometimes had to maintain an uncomfortable angle of the shoulder. Homosexuality disgusted them, of course – but as Can said, they had nothing to fear since it was a secular and Western invention, not applicable to the two of them at all. ‘The kufr are so degraded, everything to them is about sex. They can’t even demonstrate natural friendship between two men. They’re afraid that they’ll release the currents of their own perversion.’
Tony listened to him admiringly. Can had a way with words – although Tony was an ex-debater, his use of language was depressingly concrete and functional. A phrase like ‘the currents of their perversion’ would never have occurred to him independently.
Shyly, tentatively, they offered up their life stories to each other. Can’s parents were Muslims from Turkey. They saw themselves as modern, secular and liberal, far superior to their superstitious peasant counterparts. His father ate ham and pineapple pizza; his mother liked to drink wine and, on occasion, beer. ‘Life is too short to spend living in the Stone Age’ was her favourite phrase. She didn’t wear a headscarf. ‘I asked her about it,’ Can explained. ‘We had a giant screaming fight. I said, how can you be the authority, why do you boss me around? How can you tell me what to do when you don’t even follow your own religion?’
‘And what did she say?’ Tony asked. When he had first met Can, a natural extension of his hero-worship was to idealise his family. How beautiful it would be, Tony imagined, to have your faith supported, not constantly under assault from the people closest to you. What glorious tranquillity, to live together in the shared awareness of Allah! Now that image was gone; the story which replaced it, though, was hardly less romantic. Can was a throwback to days of Islamic purity, mysteriously sprung from corrupted stock. He was the Islamic renewal: the shining boy who would bring truth and clarity to his fallen family.
Can shrugged bitterly. ‘She said it’s what’s in here that matters most,’ he said, stabbing a finger at his heart. ‘She says that the outside isn’t important, only what you believe inside. But how can you claim that you truly follow Allah if you’re not willing to act on it? There’s no point in just saying you’re a Muslim.’ Tony nodded vigorously and Can nodded back. These conversations always seemed to end with the two of them in total agreement.
Can, Tony discovered, was the first member of the Haqq to study at this particular university. ‘I introduced them to this campus,’ Can told him proudly. ‘Before me it was just ISOC, and you know what they’re like. It was all just bureaucracy. Multicultural lunches and filling in forms to get bigger grants from the student union.’
He wanted to be helpful but didn’t know very much about anything, which was something of a handicap. He started off by proofreading Can’s draft pamphlets, the fanciest of which was titled: ‘KHALIFA: YOUR MOST FREQUENT QUESTIONS ANSWERED HERE.’ The aim of the Haqq was simple: they wanted to establish a single Islamic government all across the world. First they would rouse political consciousness among the ummah by pointing out the evils of Western foreign policy and general secular life. Scores of unbelievers would be converted, since the Quran was the only document which could be proved by simple logic. The ummah would rise up in revolution, sweeping the streets in an unstoppable force, leading to the overthrow of existing forms of government. The new khalifa would be governed by a group of religious scholars who would interpret Islamic law. Those few non-believers left, discovering the peace and prosperity of life under Islamic government, would for the most part acquiesce. Soon there would be hardly anyone left who was not Muslim.
‘I’ve been trying to put the word out, but it’s pretty hard on your own. Fuck me, I’m glad you came along. I was beginning to lose hope. And Allah knows best,’ Can added hurriedly. The Haqq did not mind swearing, so long as there was proper religious zeal behind it.
As yet there were only four other members of the group on campus. Their names were Theo, Umar, Jamal and Aisha, the lone sister – who was actually Umar’s biological sister. (They had decided to waive the usual rules against mixing of the sexes, on grounds that they needed to work together prior to establishment of the khalifa). Aisha wore the full niqab, black from head to toe and with a net over the gap so you couldn’t even see her eyes. Because of this people assumed she would be demure, easy to manipulate. This was a mistake. Tony once heard her chew out a member of the student union staff who had asked her to remove
it so he could get a picture for her ID. ‘What is wrong with you, eh? This is harassment – that’s what it is. Why do you have the right to see my face?’
Can had a plan for the Haqq. He intended to infiltrate ISOC events and take over its membership. Soon, the Haqq would be the premier group on campus. Tony first experienced these tactics at an ISOC seminar. The girl handing out programs at the door eyed them with suspicion. ‘Are you planning on disrupting?’ she asked. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but you’re not supposed to. This isn’t your event. I’m going to have to ask you to leave all that outside.’
Can stared at her in mock confusion. ‘What’s that? Excuse me, sister, why are you so suspicious? I’m not coming here to disturb you – I just want to talk about my faith. It’s a question-and-answer session, isn’t it? Why can’t I ask a question?’ He pointed at a poster which read, somewhat over-optimistically: Islam and the Modern World: All of Your Questions Answered.
The ISOC girl hesitated, then drew herself up firmly. ‘No, really, I told you, it’s against the rules. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
Can’s eyes pooled with sorrow. He and Tony exchanged tragic glances. ‘This is what it’s come to. Turning away a fellow Muslim from a gathering of believers.’ They showed no sign of moving on and continued to stare at the girl, until at last she grew uncomfortable.
‘Oh, all right, I guess you can stay. But please – now that I’ve let you in, don’t cause any disturbance.’
Inside the theatre, they sat decorously in one of the middle rows. It was a very old room; each time Tony shifted position, his chair let out a horrible squeak. The speaker was a third-year student, enthusiastic and pedantic, doing some social justice-y course like international development. He went on and on about poverty, cash transfers and microcredit, trickle-down growth versus tax and redistribution, reserving particular praise for the safety net in Norway. Behind him blinked a selection of Powerpoint slides, each of which concluded with a tenuously connected quote from the Quran. Give largely in charity, and be truly among those who are righteous.
Can and Tony exchanged incredulous glances. This kind of weak-kneed, equivocating Islam was even more contemptible than outright unbelief. At last, just as the speaker had recommended joining Amnesty International, Can could bear it no longer. With an audible snort, he raised his hand.
‘Excuse me, brother, why are we talking about Norway?’
A chorus of squeaking as various bums turned round on seats. The speaker blinked nervously, his platitudes interrupted. ‘What did you say?’
‘I’m asking you, why are we talking about Norway? What does Norway have to do with us as Muslim believers and citizens?’ Can fished in his jacket for a piece of paper. ‘“Let not the believers take unbelievers for their friends or helpers. If any do that, in nothing will there be help from Allah.”’ He looked impressively round the gathering. ‘All of us are Muslims, yeah? Then surely we should be taking our advice from the Quran and the example of the Prophet. Why are you telling us to look at a country full of unbelievers? Are you saying they know better than us?’
The speaker looked flustered. A murmur began travelling around the audience. ‘Well, I’m not saying they’re perfect. I, uh, obviously don’t agree with everything that goes on in Norway. But –’
‘But that is what you’re saying,’ some girl piped up. ‘That’s the only logical conclusion from your talk.’
‘Norway gives money to the army! They are sending soldiers to fight against our brothers in Iraq!’
‘No, I –’
‘Little Palestinian children killed in the streets.’
‘Little children being killed in drone attacks – what are you going to do about it?’
The speaker looked frightened. The nudges and whispers were growing louder. The MC took the microphone. ‘Please, if you’re going to be disruptive, I will have to ask you guys to leave. I know what you’re up to. You’re not going to come into this event and start your arguments.’
Can, Umar and Tony walked out of the room with their chins held high. Dozens of heads turned in their direction as they went past. At the door, Can turned back and called: ‘If you want to learn more about what you can do practically for Islam – not just crap about Norway – come with us!’
It was the most ostentatious act Tony had ever taken part in. Once he got over being embarrassed, he realised he had enjoyed every moment of it. So far, he had experienced Islam as a crutch and a painful struggle, a deep dose of medicine and bitter water, but what he’d never realised was that it could be fun.
Soon his inhibitions had disappeared, and he regularly showed up with Can to such meetings, standing up dramatically in the middle of a speech to ask:
‘Where should true government come from, man-made rules or straight from Allah?’
‘What good do fasting and praying do, when our brothers are being slaughtered in Iraq?’
He grew adept at predicting which members of a crowd were most receptive to his argument. The older worshippers were mostly difficult to impress. They often gave him weary, patronising looks, not unlike the way Daisy used to look at him when he hadn’t done his homework. Oddly enough, it was often the younger, ostensibly Westernised ones who listened. Kids who were bored with the mosque already, who had to squint with concentration to understand what the imam was saying through his heavy accent. There was nothing like the mention of a few murdered Muslims to wake them up from their torpor.
‘What about the drones? What about the bombings?’
‘Look at this picture’ – brandishing an image of a row of bodies beneath a sheet. ‘Who will protect the victims of the Israelis now?’
He and Can were a team, equals entirely. What Tony lacked in theological experience, he more than made up for with the persuasiveness of his rhetoric. Debating, he had now discovered, was useful in the real world after all. Can was their natural leader, but because he and Tony were so close, the others in the Haqq began to defer to Tony’s opinions as well. They never bothered with arcane rules about which hand should be folded over the other during prayer. ‘All that stuff is mostly cultural baggage, anyway. It’s just a way of keeping you in line so you don’t start thinking for yourself. That’s what they’re most afraid of.’
More and more he admired the completeness of the Haqq’s vision and methodology. There was no question, spiritual or material, for which they did not have an answer prepared. How would an Islamic state cure global poverty? Using Saudi oil wealth, which at present was squandered in the hands of hypocritical imposters. What about national defence? There would be compulsory military service for all males over fifteen. Think of the khalifa’s population – one billion Muslims united. After they had invested in arms to enhance their technological capacity (Saudi oil money again), who would dare to oppose them?
He was hardly around these days, but at home he noticed his mother wasn’t sleeping. At three a. m. he would hear her pottering around, drinking Milo, when only a few years ago she had been scrupulous about her weight. She was thickening grossly around the middle, accumulating flesh, this new encasement of softness at odds with her rigid personality. One day she asked him what he had been doing that evening. When he said that he’d been out with Can, she did not acknowledge that he had spoken. But while he was walking to his bedroom, he heard her say: ‘Why am I cursed? Working so hard – what for? What did we do wrong?’
He couldn’t tell who the words had been addressed to. The primary target was probably Daisy herself, although the extra volume was for his benefit. All of his behaviour these days seemed to cause her distress, merely by virtue of being behaviour: walking, speaking, showering. He could not let this bother him. He could not always bear the burden of her intransigence.
One evening Can invited him home to meet his family. Can’s parents’ house, it turned out, was only one suburb away from Tony’s. Can’s dad said he would pick them up from uni, and a traffic jam on the way home meant the drive took longer than usual. The
y made small talk which somehow turned to the topic of inauthentic Middle Eastern cuisine.
‘They serve chicken with salad,’ Can’s father said, glaring at the middle distance as though recalling some ancient insult. ‘At home, we do not do this.’
‘Not even tabouli?’ Tony thought to ask.
Can’s father met his eyes, glowering at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘Tabouli is salad,’ he asserted, very darkly.
Can’s home was large but had a self-contained feel, as though over long use it had absorbed the personality of its owners. After all that Can had told him about his irreligious parents, Tony half expected them to have horns sprouting out of their skulls. In person, though, they were extremely kind and gracious. Can’s mother was especially was welcoming and practical. She smiled a lot and said very little, less out of shyness than because she understood that the two boys were unlikely to listen. She handed Tony sweets and a cool glass of Sprite as soon as he walked in the door. He nibbled on a piece of baklava, relieved that since Daisy wasn’t around he didn’t have to worry that it might have pork fat secreted in it. Can’s parents might be irreligious, but at least they weren’t completely psycho.
Over dinner Can grew expansive and did most of the talking. It was a lecture Tony had heard before, but he still enjoyed hearing his friend deliver it. The vast majority of those who called themselves Muslims, Can said, were entirely useless in furthering the cause of Islam. They had no real interest in spreading the word, preferring to isolate themselves in ethnic cliques while the ummah burned beneath the imperialists. They treated Islam as a lifestyle choice, a hat to be worn on Friday afternoons. ‘Really, if it walks like a kufr, talks like a kufr, smells like a kufr, then what do you think it is? They’re like unbelievers who happen not to like the taste of bacon.’ Tony laughed, although he had a sense it was a line that Can had used before.
Can’s father said little over dinner, other than making satisfied noises at his plate. But at the mention of bacon he banged his hand on the table and said: ‘For God’s sake, Can, where would you rather live?’