Good Muslim Boy (6 page)

It was a daily catch-22. Did I line up for milk for an hour, or did I risk the milk
and go for the bread first? The stress had been immense back when I was six or seven.
I’d got used to it by now. Practice makes perfect.

My head was spinning as Dad went through his absurd list of products. There was:

LOW-FAT MILK

NO-FAT MILK

FAT-BOOSTED MILK

SOY MILK

GRASS MILK

VEGAN MILK

SMART MILK

INTELLIGENT MILK

STUPID-PEOPLE MILK

LACTOSE-FREE MILK

LACTOSE-ENHANCED MILK

CELEBRITY MILK

WOMEN-ONLY MILK.

We didn’t believe him, but he promised photographs.

I wanted to go there. Not really to flee persecution; the truth is, I didn’t know
any better, it was just our everyday reality. And while I knew about the beaches,
I couldn’t even imagine them. I didn’t dare imagine them—surely such a beautiful
location, filled with equally gorgeous women, existed but in heaven. I could barely
picture what women looked like without their headscarves. Combine that with the descriptions
of Australia I’d read in the library, and you can see why bread and milk were so
alluring. Dad also assured us there were no midnight raids by naked tribesmen.

From the questionable reading I’d been doing in the library, plus Dad’s stories—he
always talked until his credit ran out—I had more than enough ammunition to start
bragging. I spent my days telling total strangers how Dad was guiding Christian convicts
to Islam, and hunting his breakfast via boomerang.

Many years later, I came to appreciate the absurdity of my impressions. Then again,
I was recently asked by a sincere young Australian whether we’d discovered cars yet
in Iran or if we still rode on camels, so maybe every teenage boy is short on wisdom.

Mashhad, Iran, 2013: five days until visa expires

I’ve been in the court for three and a half hours, clutching a number in my hand.
It’s close to 10 am, but nothing is close to happening. I go through a long mental
checklist called What I Could Have Achieved in Three Hours. Two soccer games. A few
overs of cricket. Disco dancing. A prayer marathon. Queueing up at Centrelink.

Finally, they call my number. I approach the desk. I brief a skinny man with a bushy
moustache about my situation. He takes the letter from the police and, without a
single word, stamps it.

Back to the coroner’s—where I barge my way to the front of the queue. I head straight
for the man who dealt with me yesterday, twice.

He looks at me. ‘Back in line.’

‘Sir, I am under an enormous time constraint,’ I plead. I wave the court papers.
He remembers me.

‘It’s close to midday,’ he says. ‘I told you to go to the courts early. Where have
you been all morning? Sleeping in, I bet.’

‘Sir, please.’

‘Line up like everyone else! You don’t get a free pass just because you’re
Australian
.’

So I line up, at the end of my nerve. And another two hours pass, just like that.
It’s not like there’s a thousand people here. It’s just a bad time of day. Midday
in Iran is a triple-threat: it’s close to the lunchbreak and the afternoon prayer
and
the afternoon siesta. Not strictly in that order. The man I’ve been dealing
with disappeared a good ninety minutes ago. At 2.40 pm, he returns and calls me.
He takes away my papers and promptly issues one more.

‘Body’s yours,’ he says.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You can take it wherever. I would suggest you bury him here, in holy ground. But
it’s up to you.’

I’m floored, but still confused. What am I meant to do with the body? ‘Sir, what’s
the process?’ I ask him. ‘How do I get him to Australia?’

‘They didn’t tell you that in court?’

‘No.’

‘If you weren’t so slack this morning, you would’ve been able to do this earlier.
In any case—go to the registrar, pay the fee, and ask to have the body transported.
To the Paradise of Reza.’

‘What’s the Paradise of Reza?’

‘It’s a cemetery.’

‘But I want to take him to Australia.’

‘Just wait! Stop interrupting! Is this how they culture you over there? It’s also
a morgue. You can keep the body there until the Department of Foreign Affairs gives
you an exit.’

I think about this. ‘So Paradise of Reza, then I go to Foreign Affairs?’

I keep finding new ways to disappoint this person, I can see it on his face. ‘You
need to contact your embassy. Have you done that?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Then what have you done? You are very slack, I have to tell you. Get a letter from
your embassy to say they’re happy to accept the corpse back in Australia. Then go
to the Department of Deaths and Births and submit your papers from the morgue. They’ll
issue you a paper.’

‘What paper?’

‘To take to Foreign Affairs.’

Right. ‘Would this be all?’

‘I think so,’ he says. ‘Although, then there’s the airline ticket.’ It takes me a
minute: he means for my dad. ‘But you can’t buy a ticket until you sort out all your
paperwork.’

I thank him. He doesn’t reply. Like all the Iranian officials I’ve met, he takes
a sugar cube, dunks it in his tea and gets on with sipping it. I walk away, going
over everything I’ve yet to deal with. As I do, the man calls after me.

‘May he rest in peace, son.’

◆ ◆ ◆

The hearse driver, a portly, kind-eyed man wearing thick glasses, tells me not to
worry, as the Paradise of Reza doesn’t close till 7 pm. I check the time: four-thirty.
We’ve been on the road a good half-hour and the cemetery is still another forty minutes
out. The driver tries to make chitchat about Australia. He asks me how much the West
hates Iran, and why. I answer in short statements but he is keen to learn more about
the ‘white folk’, and he keeps his questions coming at a steady pace.

Reza’s Paradise is enormous. It goes on for miles and miles. The driver instructs
me to follow the ‘yellow line’; if the situation
had left me with any sense of humour,
I’d mention something now about the Wizard of Oz.

The body is unloaded and the driver goes, thanking me for all I’ve told him about
employment rates back home (though I was fuzzy on the specifics for the hearse-driver
industry, so I couldn’t help but disappoint him).

If there is such a thing as the smell of death, then this is it, right here. Dozens
of corpses, laid on trays, zipped up in black bags. Dad’s is zipped imperfectly,
and his hair is visible. Somehow, the hair looks alive. I can’t believe he’s gone.

I stand there, lost, a few minutes before somebody informs me to register my entry,
and to follow a green line. It takes me to a small office where a number of young
men are warming themselves over a fire. The main office is far, they say; a bus
comes every half-hour. I pay the entry fee, and some extra ‘thank-you’ money just
in case I’ll need their help later on.

Back in the room of bodies, wailing women mourn the deaths of their husbands, sons
or fathers. They gather to one side as the men of the family lift the bodies off
the trays and take them away for the washing ritual.

I help some men lift their loved one and carry him away, chanting prayers with them
as we go. When the body is lowered I kneel with everyone, place my right arm over
the body and read the
Fatiha
—the first
sura
, or chapter, in the Koran.

The
Fatiha
is the Koran’s utility; it performs many roles. It forms a fundamental
part of the daily prayers, read a total of ten times a day. But it’s also read in
the event of death, to ‘brighten the souls’ of the departed, and funeral rituals
are in fact called the
Fatiha
, so when someone passes away a
Fatiha
is organised.
Last but not least, it’s also used in engagements—when a couple is engaged, people
all around them will read the
Fatiha
.

I read it for a few bodies—one youngster, just twenty-two. His face is visible, but
unrecognisable, just ash black. The uncle tells me he was secretly engaged to a lover,
a city girl from Tehran; the boy was from Mashhad. His parents found out and banished
him. He got a job in Kish—an island in the Persian Gulf—so they decided to elope.
He took a friend’s car, drove to Tehran, close to twelve hours’ driving, and picked
up his beloved. While he was there he decided to come back to Mashhad, to say goodbye
to his parents, and called them from the highway. An hour later, both sets of parents
were informed the car had flipped, 200 kilometres from Mashhad. The bride’s body
was over by the women’s section.

I tell the uncle why I’m here, and that I’m alone in Mashhad. Immediately he yells
for a group of men to help. They all respond at once, taking Dad’s body to the wash
hall. They all kneel down and pray for his soul as well. As a group of strangers
read the
Fatiha
for Dad, I look at my watch yet again. I wonder about each and every
one of my friends and family, again. Where are they now? Are they laughing? Having
a good time? Crying? Sleeping? Having sex?

I miss the bus, and ask someone how far the office is. A few minutes by car—so maybe
six, seven kilometres. I hit the yellow line on foot. It’s a thirty-minute run; the
next bus passes me just as I cross the finish line. Deep down, I know I needed the
movement for my sanity. Waiting for the bus would’ve damaged me much more.

The office has sludge-green walls. As usual, photographs of the Ayatollahs salute
the visitors.

A woman listens to my story with a rude look in her eye. She mutters they will store
my father’s body for a fee until I have the Foreign Affairs papers. She asks for
my passport, as it’s
policy to keep government-issued ID. But it’s the only identification
I have in Iran, and I’ll need it if I’m to fly to Tehran. Maybe they can photocopy
it, I suggest, so they know it’s not a fake.

‘Policy is policy,’ she says.

I take a deep breath, and explain again, as best I can. I’m all too aware they close
in an hour’s time, and I don’t know what will happen to my father’s body if I can’t
deposit it here. ‘It’s unreasonable, what you’re asking. I need my ID to do all
these things. But I also don’t want my dad to be tossed out in the cold all night.’

‘It’s not like he feels anything,’ she says.

‘Ma’am. What if this was your dad?’

She looks at me levelly. ‘I would leave my ID.’

‘Miss, if you came to Australia and had this exact same problem, I promise you with
all my heart they would look after you very differently.’

‘Is this the Australia that is making videos about how their government turns away
poor people who arrive on boats from Iran?’

I have nothing to say to her. I try to practise my Zen. I wonder if this woman’s
always had it in for me, if the minute she saw my Australian passport it was all
over. My mouth is cotton-dry, but there’s more talking to do. I ask if I can talk
to the manager.

He is more sympathetic, but offers little help.

‘I want to speak to
your
manager,’ I say.

It’s too late to call anyone higher. ‘Also, there’s no one higher than me.’ But I
think he knows I mean the lawmakers. Suddenly, an idea occurs to me. I do have a
card, with my photo on it, back at the hotel.

But going there and back will take three hours.

The manager convinces me to leave my passport here, and to come back and swap the
IDs in the morning.

It’s not ideal but, then again, I’m running out of options. I take the bus out to
Mashhad.

◆ ◆ ◆

I arrive at the hotel at 9.30 pm. I can feel I am no longer welcome.

I ask to use the hotel’s phone—a local call, I assure them. I ask the airline when
the next flight out to Tehran might be.

‘Sir, it’s a meat market on every airline right through to next week.’

I take a deep breath. ‘Next week?’ I say.

‘Sir, there are millions of pilgrims who’ve booked way in advance. Your best bet
will be the bus.’

The bus will take twelve hours—meaning I’ll lose all tomorrow, spend Wednesday in
Tehran, spend Thursday bussing back, and since Friday is the ‘weekend’ here—it’s
nothing but catastrophe. I still have three departments left to satisfy.

And I really have to call my mother.

Before I can hang up, the operator saves my life. ‘Would you fly chartered?’ she
says. ‘It’s very expensive, and if you don’t mind the turbulence…’

‘Yes, yes, yes!’ I cry.

‘Okay. Can you get to the airport by ten-thirty tonight? Flight leaves at eleven-fifteen,
and if you don’t have anything to check in…’

‘Fuck it. Let’s do it.’

‘Excuse me?’ she says.

I realise I’ve said this in English. Thank God. I check the time. I always do. It’s
9.42 pm.

‘I said let’s do it,’ I say in Farsi. ‘Thank you very much.’

‘Alright, so you can pay by credit card. It’s four hundred US dollars.’

I want to laugh. Dad and I flew here for about $30, but as I read out the credit
card numbers, I pause to kiss the phone. Then I remember that I don’t have a passport.

Again, fuck it. We’ll deal with it there. I take a taxi to the airport, telling the
driver I’ll pay him extra if he hurries. He takes the invite like a gentleman and
floors it.

At 10.25 pm, I’m handing him a wad of cash. I head straight to the private airline’s
booth, yelling like a madman that I’m a customer on the eleven-fifteen flight.

I’m met with a beautiful smile—the perks the rich enjoy. I’m so used to being told
off after the past few days that I almost double-take when the lady says, ‘How can
I help you?’ She calms me, reassuring me there are still a few minutes left before
check-in closes. I take a dozen deep breaths.

She regrets to inform me that my luggage is too much for carry-on, and I’ll need
to pay a heavy premium. I ask if there’s a locker service. No. She directs me to
airport management, and asks for my ID. Smoothly, I hand her my card, with photograph.

‘What is this, sir?’

‘Madam,’ I say, ‘I fly with this all the time. It’s my Australian ID and it’s accepted
worldwide. Shall I speak to your manager?’

She scrutinises it. Lucky for me, her English is weaker than a decaf latte: the card
is my swim pass, valid for twelve sessions. She doesn’t dare do anything but issue
me a boarding pass. Again, the perks of the rich.

I run to airport management and nutshell the events. The manager, an old man, glass
of tea in hand—of course—points me to a corner of his office. ‘Drop the bags there,’
he whispers. ‘Go.’

I shake his hand. I feel like I should hug him.