The Lines We Cross

  Paula’s too sharp and honest to let me off the hook. Like a seagull sweeping down on my big, chunky, crinkle-cut chip of a comment, she says: “Did you fall for his excuses? Or him?”

  Paula grabs her laptop. Her fingers dance across the keyboard and then she whips it around so we can both see the screen. “Okay, cyber-stalking time. I’ve found him. He’s into the same weird music you’re into—”

  “Paula, I just can’t do techno.”

  “Your loss … He roots for the Roosters, likes Heidi Klum—disappointing, Michael, I’m a Tyra Banks girl myself—and, here we go, Aussie Values.”

  I groan and put my face in my hands.

  “Okay, let’s see what Aussie Values is all about. It’s a public page and … Hello, rednecks!”

  We pore over the page. We can’t look away no matter how terrible the comments are. Abos and slit-eyes and Mozlems and curry-munchers. We grew here, you flew here. Fuck Off We’re Full. No to tabouli.

  Oddly enough it gets us giggling.

  “Tabouli?” I shake my head. “Now I’m really offended. I can’t believe he likes this,” I say.

  “Well, what does a Facebook like mean, really?” Paula asks.

  “Don’t get philosophical on me now. Facebook doesn’t do ambiguity or nuance. You click like, you freaking well better own it.”

  “I never even knew Aussie Values existed until that program,” Paula says. “I still can’t believe Michael’s dad is the president.”

  Paula does an Internet search on Aussie Values and finds their website, parts of which are under construction. She reads out their mission statement, because if you’re going to be a masochist you might as well be a perfectionist about it.

  I peer down at K4, snuggled up next to Paula, feeling envious, the quiet rhythm of his breathing telling the story of his blissful ignorance.

  Paula opens the website’s gallery page. There’s the guy from News Tonight, but in this photo he’s in a weird gladiator-type getup. He’s standing with a bunch of other people at what looks like a protest. Michael’s dad is in the middle of the shot, grinning at the camera, an Aussie flag draped around him. And there’s Michael, standing beside him. He’s grinning too.

  I feel like I know exactly who he is now.

  And it makes no sense that it should affect me this much.

  Dad returns home to a hero’s welcome. He has an uneven tan and has lost weight. He looks haggard, dark circles under his eyes. He sleeps for twenty hours straight and emerges the next day, weak-legged and dazed, like a newly born foal trying to take its first steps. But after some coffee and puttering in the garden with Nathan, he tells Mum he’s up to seeing some of their friends.

  Mum cooks up a feast. Andrew, Carolina, Li, and Kahn arrive that evening, bearing gifts of bottles of wine and dessert.

  “There are people whose grandchildren have been born in the same refugee camp they were born in,” Dad tells us over dinner. “So anything we do will merely be a drop in the ocean. If it’s not going to solve anything, it’s really a numbers game in the end. Politicians just fighting about how many we can accept. All we’re saying is that the numbers should be reasonable and we should be bringing in the right kind of people. People who will fit in with our values. Surely that will make their transition to our society easier too?”

  What he says kind of makes sense.

  But Mina’s words do too.

  “It hit me hard when we were on the plane back to Australia from Jakarta,” he continues. “How does every safety demonstration start? No matter which airline you’re on?”

  “Wear a seat belt,” Nathan says instantly.

  Dad smiles at him. “That’s right, Nathan. Then it says adults—”

  Nathan cuts him off. “The first recorded use of a seat belt in an aircraft was in 1913 by Adolphe Pégoud, a French aviator.”

  “Boy, did I miss your brain while I was away, Nathan,” Dad says.

  Nathan beams.

  “So,” Dad says, addressing us all again. “They always advise adults to put the oxygen masks on themselves first, and then small children. You have to look after yourself first before you can help others.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say.

  “It’s basic economics, Michael,” Dad says. “Refugees take jobs from Australians. They cost a lot in welfare, they compete for our resources, and then they bring over their families so the situation is exacerbated. We have an unemployment crisis in this country and accepting more refugees will make it worse.”

  “It’s simple. The country’s going to the dogs, Michael,” Li answers gruffly.

  “It’s not just about the economy,” my mum says wistfully. “Cultural compatibility is an issue too.”

  Dad nods furiously. “Here we have gender equality and yet we’re allowing people with degrading attitudes toward women into this country.”

  “Is that what you mean by cultural compatibility?” I ask, my head beginning to hurt.

  “We’re letting in people with different values, and that’s dangerous,” Carolina pipes up.

  “Because there’s a dominant culture, Michael,” Dad explains. “We’re an Anglo nation based on Judeo-Christian values. People are free to practice their culture and religion so long as it doesn’t undermine the foundational identity of this country.”

  “That’s really the heart of the issue, Michael,” Mum says. “Ultimately this is about protecting our core identity from which everything else stems.”

  There’s a persistent, nagging feeling that’s lodged inside me, like a squatter that’s suddenly taken up residence and refuses to budge.

  After dinner, I grab my iPad and make myself comfortable in the hammock on our back porch. I drink in the cool, fresh breeze as I trawl through different websites on refugees and asylum seekers. There are masses of fact files and myth busters from all sides of the debate. Words flash at me: sovereignty. Border protection. Floodgates. People smugglers. Deaths at sea.

  Things are only going to get worse. If Mina hates me now, what will she think when Don’t Jump the Queue airs? What will she think when she sees me on the screen with my parents and Nathan, one big happy Aussie Values family?

  I feel sick to my stomach, like I’m on a roller coaster that’s slowly climbing the hill but is about to drop me down a vertical fall at high speed. And no matter how loudly I scream, there will be nothing I can do to stop it.

  I allow the hammock to gently sway as I navigate through one of the pro-refugee websites. I must be there for some time because Dad comes looking for me, telling me the guests have left.

  Passing me a can of Coke, he sinks into an outdoor chair and lets out a contented sigh.

  “God, it’s good to be under an Aussie sky again.”

  I raise my drink. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” He takes a swig of his beer, and then looks at me and chuckles. “Andrew sure can chew the fat. Thought he’d never leave. So, how are things with you?”

  “Good.” We haven’t had a chance to talk one-on-one yet. “How was it, Dad?”

  “Where to start?” He smiles. “There were some truly awful moments. Terrifying. It was tougher than I expected, especially roughing it in Iraq and Indonesia.”

  “Was it as bad as they say?”

  “Worse, Michael,” he says soberly. He closes his eyes and shakes his head.

  His response takes me by surprise. “Really?”

  “Human misery on a scale I’ve never seen before.”

  “So where does that leave the organization now?”

  He looks at me, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Have things changed for you now that you’ve, you know, seen that stuff?”

  “Once you see the sheer size of the crisis you realize this isn’t a problem for us to fix, Michael.”

  I think about the things I’ve just read. “But, Dad, don’t we have to help them? Legally, I mean.”

  “It’s not that simple, Michael. Everybody’s always focusing on our legal o
bligations toward people who are coming from countries that have no respect for international law. Do you see the irony?”

  I shrug. “But isn’t that the point of law? That you can’t bow out?”

  “Sometimes laws are used as blunt instruments and become oppressive and unjust. People are suffering, Michael. No doubt about it. But it’s all relative. Like I said, we can take in some of them, provided the numbers make sense. But not the ones who come here by boat. If they’re wealthy enough to pay people smugglers then they’re not genuinely in need. The laws and conventions are there for people fleeing persecution, not those just seeking a better life.” He studies my face closely and smiles gently. “You’re not convinced?”

  “Throwing every last cent to a people smuggler and risking your life at sea seems pretty desperate and needy to me,” I say. “But what you’re saying is that if your life’s in danger, and you can afford to get out of the camp and try to reach us, then you don’t deserve to be helped. I thought we judged people as refugees based on whether their life is in danger, not their financial status?”

  “We should be taking a tough stance so that we stop the people smuggler industry. They’re the real scumbags.”

  “So we punish people desperate for our protection? Anyway, aren’t a lot of the people coming from countries where there’s war?”

  He nods. “Hmm.”

  “Like, for example, Iraq and Afghanistan and Syria?”

  “They’re killing each other. Tribal cultures, Michael. And some will try and leave because their lives are in danger. And like I said, we can take in some, but only a small number because we have our own to look after. But others exploit refugee laws. They want to escape these war zones not because their lives are in particular danger but because their countries are in a state of war and there are no jobs, no school, little food. They’re not technically fleeing persecution, but a state of war. So how do you solve that? The Middle East should stop its bloodlust and focus on peace, not conflict. That’s not our problem to fix.”

  “But all the countries these people want to go to, like ours, or America, or in Europe, haven’t they all been part of those wars?”

  Something still doesn’t sit right. I wish I’d paid more attention to what was happening in the world.

  “Yes.”

  “So …” I pause, trying to articulate my thoughts. “I don’t know. Isn’t it like starting a fire in a building, walking away, and then being surprised when people try to escape the flames?”

  Dad gives me a questioning look. Then he smiles broadly. “I’m proud of you, Michael.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve changed since I left.”

  I don’t answer.

  “I’m glad you’re taking an interest, doing your own research. Look, Michael, we didn’t start the fire. When we went into Iraq and Afghanistan we were there to help put the fire out. People twist the truth all the time, Michael. They want to paint us as the monsters. We’re not torturing and murdering people, Michael. If soldiers step out of line, we’re civilized and have inquiries. But when Muslims kill they think they’re doing God’s will!” He shakes his head angrily.

  Again, I don’t know what to think or feel. I don’t have the words or knowledge to respond, but something deep within me doesn’t feel right.

  “So you’re saying the trip hasn’t changed your mind at all?” I eventually ask.

  “No, I didn’t say that. In fact, it’s made me even more determined to make this organization a success.”

  I stay up late surfing the net. I read articles and blogs. I watch YouTube documentaries. My mind is buzzing with information overload. September 11. Bombing Iraq. No weapons of mass destruction. With us or against us. Guantánamo Bay. Abu Ghraib. Chemical weapons. Arming the rebels. Backing dictators. Overthrowing dictators. Revolutions. Arab Spring. CIA torture. Beheadings.

  I go to bed confused and overwhelmed. But I’m also angry with myself. I’ve never had a problem standing up to my parents and questioning them on trivial things. But when it comes to things that really matter, I just went along with what they told me.

  Paula texts me at five-thirty on Monday morning.

  Is she kidding? 5:30 a.m.? I’m half-dead and manage one letter.

  I switch my phone to silent and go back to sleep. When I wake up an hour later there are heaps more messages:

  “You’re not normal. Texting me before the sun’s up?”

  She flashes me a winning smile. “Sorry!”

  “Broken sleep and you’re cheerful.”

  “So we’re all good to go?!”

  “My mum’s super strict about going out at night so I’d need to be back by nine at the latest—library closing hours, obviously.”

  “Well, if you need to get back by nine that doesn’t leave us enough time.” Her face falls, and I nudge her gently.

  “Sorry.”

  She smiles. “It’s fine. I’ll keep my eye out for something on a weekend, or closer to home instead. Does it feel weird? Having a strict mum who’s so young?”

  “Trust me, she doesn’t let me forget who’s boss.”

  My solo free period? Seriously? How does he have the guts to show his face?

  I ignore him. He’s standing on the other side of the table and clears his throat.

  “I had nothing to do with what happened at your restaurant,” he says.

  I continue typing.

  “I’m really sorry you all had to go through that,” he adds hastily.

  My mouth is dry.

  “My dad was overseas,” he continues. “Even he didn’t know about it. One of the organization’s members was behind it.”

  “The organization your dad founded,” I snap.

  That shuts him up pretty quickly. I lean back in my chair, fold my arms across my chest, and stare at him. My heart’s hammering away.

  “So tell me all about Aussie Values, Michael. I’m fascinated. Is it all immigration, or just Muslim immigrants? You all seem to be pretty big on assimilation for migrants too. So help me to understand because I’m struggling. Is there some kind of scale? What about a woman who wears a sari and speaks the queen’s English, compared to, say, a guy in jeans and a T-shirt with an accent? How would you rate them?”

  I go on and on and he just stands there and takes it. It pisses me off even more.

  “Oh, so you’re too gutless to defend yourself? Happy to hide behind your dad and his stooges? Offer fake apologies?”

  “That’s not fair,” he finally manages. “It’s messy.”

  I search his face. He looks so uncomfortable, conflicted even. I refuse to make excuses for him though.

  I shake my head, tired. “Just leave me alone, please. We’ve got nothing to say to each other.”

  But he doesn’t move. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. But first I need to warn you about something.”

  I snap my head up. “What now?”

  “My dad’s part of a new series.” A pregnant pause. “Don’t Jump the Queue.” He winces. “That’s why he was overseas. The promos will start running soon. It’ll be on in about a month.”

  “Wonderful. I can’t wait.”

  He runs his fingers through his hair. “I had to go along with the family interview. You can make up your own mind about me. I just wanted you to know … it’s more complicated than you think.”

  “It was my stepfather that you saw on TV, by the way. Not my dad.”

  He doesn’t know what to make of this, and fumbles, “Oh, okay.”

  No. It’s not okay.

  “Let’s do complicated for a second, shall we? My stepfather refused to fight for a Talib warlord. He was held captive for a week and tortured. He escaped and went into hiding. Eventually he managed to leave Afghanistan and ended up in Australia after paying off some people smugglers. As for my dad, well, he’s dead. Do you want all the gory details, or are you so cold it wouldn’t even make a difference?”

  Michael stands there, staring at me, a horrified look on his
face.

  I can’t say any more. It’s just not worth it. It’s too sad to say out loud. That I was seven when some young guys trying to make a name for themselves in the Taliban knocked on our door and shot my dad point-blank in the head. A couple of months later my dad’s brother, our only male relative, was killed by some trigger-happy US troops. We had no protection, but enough savings to get us out. We left my aunt behind, who was later killed too. My mum had the guts to risk everything for the chance at a half life of freedom outside our homeland. She was just twenty-four when she fled with me and Hasan. And then to Australia, with just me.

  “I could go on,” I say, “but I wouldn’t want to complicate your already complicated world.”

  “Shit,” he says, and sinks into the chair.

  “Yeah,” I say. I shove my books into my bag and walk out.

  When I first arrived in Australia I was just a child. The nightmares visited me every night I was in detention. My mum was broken from the journey and the loss of Hasan. We were like two injured animals caught in a trap, cowering in the lights, unable to comfort each other. When we were eventually processed and released into the community, we slowly rebuilt our lives and the nightmares faded. It took longer for the bed-wetting to stop. When my stepfather came into the picture, his tenderness and devotion to us both was a soothing balm. Slowly we healed.

  Tonight is the first time in a long time that I have a nightmare about my father. I’m walking along a deserted street in Kabul. I’m alone. As I walk past each house, the front door opens, revealing the barrel of a gun pointed at me. Then the gun is withdrawn, the door slams shut, and I walk on. House after house, pointed gun after pointed gun. I don’t stop. I don’t scream. I just keep on walking. It’s only when I see my father standing at the end of the street, half submerged in a grave, that I start to scream.

  My mum comes running into my bedroom and wakes me. Eventually she calms me down. She asks me about my dream, and I make up something silly. She laughs it off, chides me for having eaten too much before I slept.