No Sex in the City

  ‘The pharmacy out in Burwood Road called,’ he says, stretching his hands up and crossing them behind his head. ‘They’re really happy with the pharmacist you placed there. She’s flown through probation. Well done.’

  I’m relieved. It was a difficult placement. I wasn’t confident that the girl I recommended would last, as she had to travel for about two hours to get there.

  ‘We’re having Kristy’s farewell drinks at the Ivy on Friday night,’ Danny says. ‘You got my email, didn’t you? Because I didn’t get your RSVP.’

  ‘Er, yeah, sorry, I forgot to reply.’

  Bars really aren’t my thing. I have never touched alcohol and, according to Danny, I’m a ‘nerd’ and a ‘prude’. Danny, of course, can’t remember enlightening me with this piece of information as he said it when he was completely tanked at last year’s Christmas party, of which he has no memory after the lucky door prize.

  I rarely go to bars and I’ve come up with a zillion excuses every time we have a work function at one. Why Danny thinks I’d be interested in a night at the Ivy (especially considering I’ve already shouted Kristy to a farewell lunch) is beyond me.

  ‘Marco will be there.’

  Ah, so that’s why.

  I lean back in my chair and tap my pen against my desk. ‘Danny,’ I say in a low growl, ‘would you please quit the Marco and Esma campaign? It’s not going to happen. Find yourself another project.’

  He laughs. ‘Look, if you want to continue with this ancient arranged-marriage stuff, it’s your life.’

  ‘Really? It’s my life. What a revelation.’

  ‘I’m just trying to help out.’

  ‘By arranging a set-up with a guy who I have absolutely no interest in?’

  He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Okay, forget Marco. I’ll let him know he’s off limits to you. He’s not Muslim, therefore he’s out of the question.’

  ‘Would you please just drop the subject?’ I say, turning back to face the computer as a signal that the conversation is over.

  ‘Fine,’ he says, standing up. He switches to the tone he uses when he decides to ditch the nice-guy act and play the part of boss. ‘I’d appreciate it if you tried to make an appearance on Friday. You’re one of my senior staff. It says a lot to have you there.’

  Oh boy.

  ‘Yeah, okay, I’ll make an appearance,’ I mumble. Needless to say, contrary to Danny’s reassurances all week, Friday night is most definitely all about setting me up with Marco. It makes my skin crawl to think of Danny trying to hook me up with his friend. Marco’s thirty-five and works in IT. He doesn’t even work with us. His ‘What brings you here?’ is about as plausible as the toupee on the old guy standing to my right, who is quite clearly suffering a late midlife crisis judging by the barely pubescent girl hanging off his arm.

  I’ve been here half an hour and I’m sitting at a table with Danny; needs-to-go-easy-on-the-gel Marco; Kristy (in la-la land given it’s her last day and she’s leaving to backpack across America for six months); Veronica, our care of the elderly recruiter (oozes coolness); Kylie, another pharmacy recruiter (also cool); Dora, our accounts payable (torturous silences in the lifts); and Simon, our IT guy (the office gossip). The rest of the team is at the bar.

  We’re all having a laugh with Kristy, making fun of her plan to find herself an American boyfriend and settle down in the US.

  ‘So will any American male do?’ Danny asks.

  ‘Well,’ she replies, ‘he can’t have a criminal conviction, he can’t be a bum and he can’t be a Republican.’

  ‘So you’re not picky then?’ Veronica says.

  Kristy smiles. ‘As an illegal immigrant I’ve got fat chance of hooking up with a Republican, don’t I? I’ll take my chances with a Democrat. But for what it’s worth, I’m a donkey voter anyway, so ideology has nothing to do with it.’

  ‘You’re a donkey voter too!’ cries Simon and they give each other a high five.

  ‘Marco’s been to the States, haven’t you, Marco?’ Danny says.

  ‘Yeah, I travelled there in my gap year and I go there for work every now and then.’ Marco smiles at me. ‘It’s a great place.’

  ‘Marco’s been to Turkey too, haven’t you?’ Danny adds as he takes a handful of peanuts and shoves them into his mouth.

  I want to burst out laughing. Even the busybody matchmaking aunties I know are more suave than this.

  ‘Yeah, I have,’ Marco answers enthusiastically. ‘Turkey’s probably my all-time favourite country. The people are so friendly and the food was awesome!’

  I actually feel sorry for him. It isn’t his fault. Danny probably told him I have the hots for him. Why else would he consent to torturing himself by coming along to the farewell drinks of his friend’s employee?

  Danny and Marco are looking at me. There’s an obvious expectation I’ll respond with something like, ‘Oh wow, you’ve been to Turkey! What a coincidence. My parents were born in Turkey! That means we have so much in common and the foundation for a lasting relationship! That you found the people there friendly only serves to reinforce that we were made for each other, seeing as a) I’m of Turkish origin and b) I’m friendly! And to make things even more serendipitous, you loved the food! Well, guess what? I can cook! So, will you have my babies?’

  It’s tempting. But I don’t. Instead, I say, ‘I got gastro when I was in Turkey.’

  Veronica squeezes my thigh under the table, fighting back laughter. Danny coughs but I get a short, unsure laugh out of Marco.

  ‘You know something, Kristy,’ Danny says, turning to face her, ‘I reckon you probably will find your perfect American match. And you know why?’

  Veronica whispers in my ear, ‘Here we go. Danny’s feeling philosophical and oh so Oprah again.’

  ‘It’s because Kristy’s flexible,’ Danny says, winking at Kristy and then taking a swig of his beer. ‘She’s open to meeting anybody. She doesn’t set herself up for failure by putting up a wall of restrictions.’

  Enter Danny in one of his ‘let’s focus on Esma’ moods.

  I sit up tall in my chair and cross my arms. ‘Oh, come on, Danny. Just get it out before you burst.’

  ‘Everybody, I’ve been unfair on our Esma here,’ he says. ‘I’ve been on her back to open herself up to life, loosen the shackles of her stone-age faith. But that’s only because I feel she’s missing out. And as an equal opportunity employer, it pains me to see Esma missing out on all the opportunities for fun and excitement that people like us enjoy.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Hang on, don’t say another word. I just want to remember this moment in my life, 7p.m., Friday 12 March. Danny is pitying me.’

  Danny wags his finger at me. ‘Well, Esma, someone as gorgeous and fun-loving as you shouldn’t be dragged down by archaic rules.’

  ‘Lay off her,’ Dora says, hitting Danny on the arm.

  Although it’s always been obvious that I’m uncomfortable with Danny giving me a hard time about my faith, I’ve never actually engaged with him on the subject. I’ve tried to shut it down as soon as he raises it. But I figure now is probably a good time to put an end to the subject once and for all.

  ‘Thanks, Dora,’ I say, ‘but I’d like to have this out.’

  ‘Ooh,’ Simon teases. ‘This should be good.’

  Danny looks amused and leans back in his chair, waiting for me to speak.

  ‘Danny,’ I start, ‘you think my lifestyle choices are backward and that you’re liberated and I’m repressed.’

  ‘Those are your words, not mine.’

  ‘Okay, let’s examine your theory. First, what am I missing out on?’

  ‘A relationship with no strings attached. Just for the fun of it. You don’t have to be a genius to know what kind of fun I mean. Having a drink at the end of a long day at work and loosening up and unwinding.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Simon says. ‘No offence, Esma,’ he says with a wink.

  Danny continues, on a roll now. ‘Flirting with a stran
ger – anybody, not just somebody who matches your religious and cultural stats – wondering if there’s something between you. And other stuff that’s R-rated for you given you’re a vir ... given your moral code.’

  I flinch but I’m not going to let him get away with it. ‘Okay, forget the drinking thing,’ I say. ‘Lots of people who aren’t Muslim don’t drink. But let’s look at the fact that I won’t have a relationship outside of marriage.’

  ‘Thank God for those relationships,’ Simon shouts with a laugh.

  ‘Okay,’ I continue, ‘so let’s put aside the fact that I want to marry a Muslim, that my faith is important to me and I want to be able to share it with my partner. Let’s say that’s negotiable and I meet somebody at a work function, or party, or maybe through a mutual friend.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Danny says.

  ‘Well, I have no idea if he’s in it for the long-term. I don’t know his intentions. The majority of people eventually want to get married.’

  ‘Not really,’ Danny says.

  ‘Oh, come on, Danny,’ I argue. ‘Don’t pretend marriage isn’t the norm and that those who want it are weird. Are you telling me being in a de facto relationship is the aspiration of most people? There are zillions of wedding magazines. I still haven’t seen any editions of De Facto.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with being in a de facto relationship, though,’ Kylie says.

  ‘You couldn’t have The Farmer Wants a De Facto,’ Dora contemplates aloud. ‘It wouldn’t work.’

  ‘I never said there was anything wrong with it,’ I say. ‘If that’s what you want, go for it! But I’m upfront about the fact that I’m interested in marriage – not cohabitation, not a boyfriend, marriage. I put it out there from the beginning and it just takes out the complication. You cut out the uncertainty, the relentless interpreting of every text message, every conversation.’

  Marco, at this point, looks like he’s about to puke. Really, I feel sorry for him. He would have had no idea what he was in for when Danny asked him along.

  ‘But—’ Danny tries to interrupt but I cut him off.

  ‘Wait! Let me finish first,’ I say.

  ‘Fine, on with the speech!’ he cries boisterously.

  ‘Just ignore the religious stuff, yeah?’ He shrugs and I continue. ‘You have to admit that the way I approach relationships has a good chance of getting certainty and clarification. That’s what people want. Aren’t the endless D&Ms with your circle of friends about whether he’s ready to commit all about trying to obtain clarity? About trying to align your understanding of the rules of the game of love with his? Well, if you come to the relationship with the same understanding of the rules of the game, then the only thing that’s left is applying those rules.’

  At this point Veronica’s nodding her head, Simon is trying to spoon a floating peanut out of his beer, Dora’s focusing intently on me, Marco’s struggling not to pass out and Danny’s giving me a cocky and totally unconvinced grin. I ignore them because I’m having my rant once and for all, whether they like it or not.

  ‘But if you’re playing the game with the rules of soccer and he’s playing with the rules of league, then that’s a lot of mess to clean up before you even start to work out if you’re both going to end up on the same team. I’m not saying that knowing the rules means both people are going to stick to them, but it sure cuts out a lot of bullshit.’

  Veronica lets out a whopping cheer. Dora nods slowly but looks like she’s trying to process what I’ve said. She’s not into sport, so I’m guessing my metaphor flew straight over her head.

  Marco stands up, rubs his hands together, gives us all a quick smile and says goodbye, rushing out of the bar as quickly as it takes for Danny to down the last of his beer.

  ‘And that’s how it’s done,’ I whisper to Veronica, who bursts out laughing.

  Six

  Every month I volunteer at the Sydney Refugee Centre in Surry Hills in a programme called Teenzone. Some of the teenagers I work with are in community detention, waiting for a decision about their refugee status. Others have already been granted refugee status. When I first started volunteering (Lisa helped me get the position), I was helping out with ESL classes for teenagers and adults.

  I know it’s a stereotype but most of the refugees who attended ESL classes were motivated and focused on learning English. At the same time they were struggling with accessing housing, social services and health care. Some of the students were under eighteen. A couple of them had sought asylum alone, leaving their family behind. And while the adults in my class got on with the business of trying to find housing and work, the teenagers were just boys and girls trapped in a cage of adult problems.

  So I approached a digital arts and cultural organisation to run workshops and seminars with the teenagers. The change in the kids has been amazing. We’ve had volunteers come into the centre to offer training in hip-hop music. We’ve had student actors run acting classes. The Refugee Council received a donation of computers and we’ve had some IT training too.

  I try to mix up the classes. Sometimes it’s just help with homework; other times we’ve written plays, songs, speeches and blogs. I’m trying to get a digital storytelling workshop happening, but I basically need to find someone who will do it for nothing because our resources are so limited.

  I feel energised as soon as I walk through the doors, and today I can see Lisa through the large windows in the interview room sitting at a table across from a young man and woman, deep in conversation.

  My class is waiting for me in one of the rooms. We’re a small group of six. There’s Sonny, a seventeen-year-old refugee from Sri Lanka, who was moved from Christmas Island to community detention several months ago. He arrived in Australia by boat, leaving his parents and the rest of his family in a camp in the north of Sri Lanka as they couldn’t afford to pay the people smugglers the money needed for them all to come at once. There’s Christina, also seventeen, who’s from Iraq and has been granted refugee status. Faraj, also from Iraq, is the youngest in the group, at fourteen. His family arrived by plane two years ago and are still waiting for a decision on their refugee status. Then there’s Miriam and Ahmed, sixteen-year-old twins who arrived by boat from Afghanistan and have since been granted refugee status.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, clapping my hands together. ‘Today we’re going to continue our five-minute stories. I’m still trying to organise the digital movie-making workshops.’ A collective sigh of disappointment. ‘It’s okay,’ I say, ‘we’ll get there eventually. We can still work on our scripts and storyboards.’

  Miriam raises her hand. ‘I have started mine.’

  ‘That’s great! Are you comfortable sharing it with the class?’

  She laughs, her large brown eyes holding my gaze. ‘Yes, of course.’ She takes out a piece of paper from her bag, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and clears her throat. I remember the first time I met Miriam. She was fourteen years old, but she looked older then, her face lined with anxiety and fear. She barely knew any English. And now she’s trying so hard to write poems and short stories.

  ‘My story in five minutes,’ she reads, her voice strong and confident. ‘I come to Australia from Afghanistan with my brother, Ahmed, and my mother and father. We left behind my grandparents and much family. We know my uncle was killed by the Taliban and another uncle is hiding in Pakistan. In Australia we are un-un—’ She pauses, smiles self-consciously at the class, then ploughs on. ‘We are unlearning how to live in war. We must learn how to live in a peaceful country. When we walk in the street, we must unlearn being scared. We must unlearn looking over our shoulder. We must unlearn being quiet. We must unlearn not trusting the police officer.’ She stops and looks up at me. ‘That is all I have done. Still more.’

  ‘That was brilliant, Miriam,’ I say and she beams at me. I turn to the others. ‘Anybody else?’

  For the next hour I help the others work on their scripts. It’s mainly about helping them find the right words; wor
ds that mean something to them, rather than me speaking for them.

  When we’re done we hang out for a bit, drinking tea and eating some biscuits. As usual, Sonny is making us all laugh. He lives in a small flat in Auburn with five other refugees and always has a story to share.

  ‘There is one man in the flat who loves the farting!’ he says gleefully, his sharp eyes bright and alive. ‘He is loving to fart.’ We burst into hysterics. ‘Yesterday I am screaming at him that the smoke alarm will be complaining soon.’

  When it’s time to go home, I hover in the main office area, waiting for Lisa, who’s still in the interview room. She notices me and quickly ducks her head out the door. ‘Hiya,’ she says breezily. ‘I need another hour. Don’t wait for me. Call me tomorrow, yeah?’

  ‘Okay, sure.’

  I drive home exhilarated, humbled and overwhelmed by a sense that it’s here, at the centre, that I am really starting to find my own identity and place in the world. My parents have always told me how lucky I am to have grown up in Australia, but it wasn’t until I started working at the centre that I really understood my blessings. Not in any material sense, but simply because I enjoy the freedom and dignities living in peace brings. I never appreciated that properly until I met people like Sonny and Faraj and Miriam and Ahmed and Christina, who have had the most basic human rights denied them. And so, each time I meet them, they refocus the lens through which I view my life.

  Seven

  I’m not one of those girls who needs a man to complete her. If that was the case I would have settled for the first, fifth or tenth guy I’ve met or been set up with.

  I want to settle down. But I don’t want to settle. Ha! I should get that made up into a bumper sticker. That way, at every family event, when the aunties and uncles interrogate me about why I’m not married yet, I won’t have to squirm in my seat any more. I’ll just say, ‘Let’s take this discussion to the garage. Meet my bumper bar.’