Good Muslim Boy (21 page)

‘Hello.’

‘Dad?’

‘Where are you?’

I gave him the address, all in one breath, and hung up the phone. I spent the day
sweaty and restless and tense. I was prepared for the worst confrontation.

But when he knocked on the door, there was a box of sweets in his hand.

‘How are you, son?’ said my dad.

He looked around the room for somewhere to sit, and finally perched on the mattress.
I stood awkwardly by the door for a second, then gingerly sat down beside him.

‘I’m okay. How’s Mum?’ I asked. Since Mum had been the one who’d chosen Yomna for
me, I knew she’d have copped it the worst.

‘She just wants to see you,’ Dad said simply. ‘Your mother will always love you.
She is upset and maybe a touch angry, but you are her son. Her first. You must come
home.’

This was, I realised, what I’d wanted him to say. But I hadn’t allowed myself to
hope for it. I wanted to get back to work, and my studies. Possibly even real studies.
I missed everyone. I missed my brothers and sisters, my mates. I missed the mosque.
I missed Mum and Dad most of all. But I’d been certain that all of these treasured
belongings were things I’d have to leave behind.

‘I feel like you will never have the son you deserve,’ I said.

Where had that come from? I felt a huge wave of endorphins relax me, like some kind
of cosmic floodgate had just opened.
After all the lying and posturing and trying
to please other people, it was startling to put my cards on the table.

‘Then I have been a very bad father,’ replied my father. ‘If I have not communicated
to you how much you are loved then I am the failure. I am the bad Muslim. Because
you are loved without conditions. You and your insane brother Moe and the calm one
Ali and your brilliant sisters. Oh, and the baby. What do you want to do with your
studies?’

‘I don’t
know
,’ I blurted. ‘With our family, you’re either a doctor or a cabbie.
There is no middle ground. And Dad, I don’t want to be either. I just want to make
you proud.’

‘Then be proud of yourself,’ he said firmly. ‘There are a million ways to serve God.
I wish I’d made that clearer to you.’

I looked at the ground, then back at Dad. Outside, the neighbours were shouting
and the sun was baking the hot little room.

I mustered some courage.

‘How is Yomna?’ I asked.

Dad looked me in the eye. ‘Sad,’ he said. ‘What do you wish to do about her?’

I didn’t know what I wished to do about her. ‘I knew she wouldn’t have a proper life
with me,’ I said, in lieu of an answer.

‘Is there someone else?’ Dad asked.

I stared back at him. The unsent letter to Sisi was still on the writing table. I
nodded.

Dad didn’t let out a sigh, or a scream, or get up and leave. He nodded back at me.
‘How long have you been with her?’

I didn’t answer.

‘Before the engagement?’

I didn’t contest it.

‘
Long
before the engagement?’

‘Yeah,’ I mumbled.

‘Osamah, why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because it was hard,’ I said. ‘It happened too fast. And nobody would have approved
of her.’ He looked about to protest. ‘Believe me, you wouldn’t have. She’s Muslim,
but not like us. She doesn’t wear the scarf. She was born here.’

I’d once tried raising the subject of marrying a local with Mum, but she’d said girls
brought up in Australia were different. When I’d argued that God said all of us
were the children of one earth, she said that was before they discovered Australia.
Girls born here were like our dishwasher: when we bought it, we thought it was brand
new, and later discovered it was a floor model.

‘Have you contacted her?’ Dad asked.

‘No.’

‘Maybe you should.’

I just stared at Dad.

‘That is, if you’re serious about her. Otherwise, what you’ve just told me is a story
about lust, nothing more.’

‘I think she’s married, Dad. In Lebanon.’

‘You think you know a lot of things,’ he said. ‘And maybe you’re right. But if it
is love, who knows? Maybe she’s in exactly the same position as you. Although hopefully
not hiding out in a building filled with the smell of marijuana.’

The thought of Sisi in a building like this made me laugh, despite myself.

‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘assuming she
isn’t
married, then I’ll have to put on my
mantle and turban and take you to her parents’ house and ask for her hand.’

My eyes widened. ‘Wait, what?’

‘You heard me.’

I processed everything, but none of the maths added up in my head—unless one thing
had happened without my realising it, while I was holed up in this cheap flat. ‘Dad,
am I divorced?’

Dad nodded sadly. ‘Already, at age nineteen. But to protect Yomna’s dignity, Abu
Ghazi came up with a useful excuse for the annulment. Everyone at the mosque thinks
you’re impotent now. There’s always a price.’

Dad did his best to suppress a smile, but just couldn’t.

◆ ◆ ◆

Sisi lived in a simple house in Lilydale, tucked behind a milk bar. She had a neat
room, except for the basketball trophies—you couldn’t keep that many basketball trophies
tidy. I didn’t know why we couldn’t do this in the lounge room, but whatever the
case, here we were. I wore a black jacket, black pants and no tie; Sisi a simple
but beautiful red dress.

Mum was chatting away happily to Sisi’s mother, and that was good news. ‘But the
thing about Lebanese food,’ she said, with a big smile on her face, ‘compared to
Iraq’s—’

Before she could finish, Dad walked in, thank God.

He’d gone downstairs to ablute and collect the Holy Koran. He returned in full attire.
We all stood up. He looked around at all of us crammed into the room: me, Sisi, her
parents, my mother, her younger sisters, her two brothers too.

‘I once presided over a wedding in a war bunker. This isn’t too dissimilar,’ he said.

He laughed, breaking the tension. We followed. We had to. We were family now.

‘Before we commence with the vows, I want to thank Sisi’s family for being great
hosts. Who said you need a big reception to please the soul? Of course, we all would
have liked something less low-key, but given the circumstances…’ The entire community
had witnessed my daring flight from the 7-Eleven, and while
they would’ve shown up
to any wedding I had, they were all still somewhat traumatised.

‘I also want to share with you a story that is very close to me and quite meaningful
in this scenario,’ said my dad. ‘It is about a father, his son and their donkey.’

In other words, it was parable time.

‘But I know the lovebirds are eager to read the vows,’ he said. ‘So let’s get started,
shall we? We can come back later to this tale over some cake.’

Mashhad, Iran, 2013

There is only one check-in counter open for my flight out of Iran, and between me
and this counter is an incredibly long queue. There’s a massive hold-up at the front,
as a Saudi man in white
dishdasha
is arguing with the airport staff about his excess
baggage. He is speaking Arabic; the ground staff speak back in Farsi. This is not
getting them anywhere, and it happens all the time.

I look at his luggage—my goodness. You could use those suitcases to hold down enemy
lines. Then I notice the Saudi man is accompanied by four wives, all in full black
hijab, faces covered by the niqab. ‘It’s not my fault,’ the man’s complaining in
Arabic. ‘My wives went out and bought the whole city of Mashhad.’

He pleads with the Qatar rep to discount his fee. The Qatar rep shows him a calculator:
it’s 500 kilograms.

The man raises both arms skyward and begins to complain to God: ‘Why, God? Why did
you bestow upon me these women who can’t do simple math!’ He strikes his head with
his own two palms.

Then he turns to one of the accused.

‘YOU! It’s you! It’s all your fault!’ he screams. ‘What did you buy, a washing machine?
YOUUUUU!’

As he drags out the final you, the angry finger still pointing, the woman under the
niqab casually lifts her veil. Realising he’s got the wrong wife, the man turns to
the one beside her.

‘It was YOUUUUU!’ he fumes.

He has the right one this time, but she shoots back at him. ‘Why did you marry me
if you couldn’t handle me?’ she says. ‘You should have stuck with the three bitches
you’ve got.’

To the Iranians it’s just a crazy Saudi fighting with his wives. But since I can
understand it, it’s much-needed pre-flight relief. I do have a connecting flight
in Doha to worry about, but I’ve also started thinking things might work out for
the best.

The women have begun to call each other names, leaving the hapless husband to do
his best to intervene. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘When we get to Saudi, you are not allowed
in each other’s rooms.’ One of the quieter wives slowly raises her middle finger.
Another simply sits on the floor.

‘I’m not moving,’ she says.

Only one of them moves to comfort the man. I’m assuming it’s his first.

While I wait yet again, I start to ponder the odds of me leaving the country: what
price would the bookies back home put on me, say, to leave Iran—$5? Leaving with
Dad in tow, more like $7? And how about leaving Iran without starting a fight? Given
how short my fuse is by now, they’d be up to $50 for that one.

Finally, the Saudi whips out his gold credit card. He pays millions in Iranian, the
wife ends her sit-in, and the queue moves.

I check in everything except Dad’s walking stick, and a small carry bag, to keep
his white turban from getting crushed.

At the customs desk, the officer looks at my passport photo, then me, then back again.
Finally, his gaze rests on me.

‘Is this you?’ he says.

I know I’ve lost weight, lost spirit, barely showered, grown a beard. ‘Yes, sir,’
I say.

‘You have to get this updated.’

‘As soon as I get home,’ I promise.

He studies me again. ‘We look at the ears, you know. That’s how we know it’s you.’

Thank God I haven’t lost my ears. He stamps the book and moves me through.

◆ ◆ ◆

I sit in the assigned seat with my seatbelt duly buckled.

We’re twenty minutes past departure time, and the plane hasn’t moved.

Again, the culprit is the inept Saudi man.

I’m being uncharitable. His mother is wheelchair-bound, and Qatar can’t find a wheelchair
that will fit in the aisle.

That’s not anyone’s fault, least of all his. I feel some compassion. It isn’t easy
travelling with your parents—believe me, after this week, I know. They’re enough
of a handful to stress the calmest person out.

Just when I’m feeling a kind of brotherhood with this man, an Iranian couple informs
him he’s sitting in their seats. Thanks to the language barrier, this is a real problem.
The Iranians are simply waving their boarding passes at him; but he just starts ignoring
them after his initial ‘no’. They speak to him in English; he refuses to reply.

The baggage issue was sort of funny; this situation, less so. I only have a one-hour
buffer in Doha, so we’re burning precious time.

One attendant—a beautiful, voluptuous Lebanese woman—speaks Arabic. She kneels at
his side and asks him gently to move, and allow the Persian couple to take their
assigned seats.

He turns to look at her. His eyeline crashes into her bulging breasts. He pauses,
then casts his eyes down, asking her gently to move her ‘self ’ a little to the left
so they can ‘converse’. Once she adjusts, the Saudi man tells her that he will not
move; he wants his wives and mother sitting in the same row.

She tries again, friendly and professional and informative. ‘The flight will be delayed
if you can’t cooperate,’ she says.

The man puts on his headphones and stares at the seatback LCD screen, which is currently
screening a stationary map of Iran.

I can hear the Iranians humming profanities in Farsi, some of them at the stubborn
man, some just at Arabs in general.

And just like that, a troop of soldiers rushes into the cabin and demands the Saudi
man move to his allocated seat.

He shoos away the soldiers
. He really doesn’t want to budge.

I get up, tap the Saudi man on his shoulder and let him have it. ‘You are a Saudi
man,’ I say sternly. ‘You come from the land of the Prophet. Are you telling me this
is how the Prophet taught you to behave?’

He is livid at the insinuation that he hasn’t been raised well. ‘Would you leave
your wives next to strangers?’ he yells.

‘Wives?’ I yell. ‘Why would I want wives? So I can start behaving like a dickhead
on a plane?’

‘I will teach you manners,’ he growls, gets up from the seat, and lunges. As he barrels
towards me, I grab his collar hard. I hold him stiff and close—in a locked, upright
position—until a soldier yells for me to let go.

I stare at the Saudi man. He looks pathetic, and out of sorts. As soon as I release
him, though, he can’t help but deliver a thick,
juicy slap directly to my face. My
ears go
wang
and I can’t hear anyone or anything. My instincts say to punch him back,
but the soldiers are already edgy, and I know this would land me someplace very far
from home.

The Iranian couple are muttering about this ‘poor Arab display’. I turn around and
surprise them by switching to Farsi, telling them they can both go to hell.

The couple look at me in surprise, then at the Saudi. ‘Let’s just use his seats,
then,’ they say, and move to the back of the plane.

The soldiers leave. The Saudi sits. He doesn’t look back at me.

A couple of minutes later, the Lebanese attendant returns.

‘Sorry, sir,’ she whispers to the Saudi, at a kneel. ‘We haven’t been able to find
a wheelchair thin enough. Is she able to walk in by an aide’s side, by any chance?’

The Saudi man peers to the front of the flight; my eyes follow his. An old woman
in a wheelchair is trapped near the door. ‘She can walk,’ he says, ‘but she’ll need
two people and a frame to lean on.’ The Lebanese attendant is anxious and upset.
She apologises sincerely for the lack of correct facilities. The Saudi man ignores
her. ‘No male can touch my mother, apart from me,’ he says. He recruits one of his
sturdier wives to help.

And just then, I get up and tap him on the shoulder once more. He turns, hostile
but uncertain. I extend my arm. He regards it. Then he seizes my dad’s walking stick,
gracious and somewhat startled.

My holiday in Iran has been somewhat devoid of beauty. A late exception is getting
to watch an old, frail Saudi woman being led down the cabin by a man who has just
slapped me, leaning on my father’s cane.

◆ ◆ ◆

When the plane lands in Doha, many women take off their scarves. Some have been drinking
alcohol since the plane crossed the border.

I can’t believe Dad’s stowed away, in the cargo hold below us.

I can’t believe we’ve landed.

I can’t believe this is all real.

I remember my first flight—from Iran to Australia. That day, Dad sat beside me, filling
out his arrival card, creating strange letters in a foreign alphabet. As he embellished
the card, I was gaping, and he was patiently explaining why the women were taking
off their scarves, what all the bubbly drinks were. He probably noticed I was staring
at the blonde, cherry-lipped flight attendant. He was the man of a thousand senses.
But he’d let me watch.

The Saudi man is still in his seat, waiting for everyone to go.

As I’m fetching my small carry-on, I feel him tap my shoulder.

I turn around, thinking he wants to return my father’s cane.

But his fists just fly towards me. He cups my face in both palms, pulling me towards
him, and kissing me on the brow.

‘You are like a son to me, and I’m sorry I lost it.’

‘I’m the one who should be sorry. I should’ve been more diplomatic.’

He shrugs. ‘I guess we were both on our last nerves. Never marry more than one wife,
son. It’s not as glamorous as it looks.’

I thank him for the sage advice and leave the cane with him.