When Michael Met Mina

  A guy sitting next to Terrence turns around to look at me. His gaze lingers for a moment and then he turns to face the front.

  ‘So where are you from?’ Jane asks after the bell has rung and we’re walking to first period, English.

  ‘Auburn Grove Girls High.’

  ‘I’d hate to start a new school in year eleven. It would be awful.’

  I smile. ‘I feel so much better now.’

  She laughs guiltily. ‘Sorry. So where are you from?’

  ‘I told you. Auburn.’

  ‘I mean originally.’

  ‘Afghanistan.’

  ‘Oh yeah, Ms Ham said that. Wow, you’re Afghanistanian. That’s so cool.’

  ‘Afghani. And why cool?’ I ask, a little dumbfounded.

  ‘It’s different,’ she says with a shrug. ‘Different’s cool. Are you a refugee?’

  I never know how to answer that question. Do you ever stop being a refugee? Even if at some point in your life the place of refuge becomes home?

  She leads me through a labyrinth of corridors and stairwells. Finally we arrive at our classroom.

  ‘Come and meet my best friend Leica. She’s got Childs for home room but we have English together. You’ll hit it off.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say hesitantly, mildly curious as to the basis upon which she’s made this assessment given we’ve barely exchanged thirty words.

  ‘She’s half-Asian,’ she adds by way of explanation.

  I have no idea what to make of this so I decide silence is the best option.

  I’m introduced to Leica who takes one look at me and says, in a wry tone, ‘Excellent. We need more pepper in this place.’

  I like her instantly.

  ‘Mina’s from Afghanistan,’ Jane explains. ‘She escaped Saddam Hussein’s Taliban regime.’

  My mouth hangs open. Jane hits me playfully on the arm and bursts out laughing.

  ‘I’m messing with you.’

  At least she can do political jokes. But she thinks ‘Asian’ is an ethnic descriptor. I’m exhausted already.

  We sit in the second row waiting for the teacher, who is in an intense conversation with a student just outside the classroom.

  Terrence from home room walks in with staring guy and, as they pass our table, says, really casually: ‘Your hair looks good like that, Jane.’

  Jane stammers, ‘Thanks.’ The poor thing’s cheeks look like somebody’s marked her with red paint. Combine this with the way she’s absent-mindedly caressing her braid and I’m guessing she’s into Terrence. Bad.

  The teacher enters and starts setting up the smart board. Leica and Jane are now huddled close, lost in hushed whispers, reminding me that I’ve been their friend for all of two seconds. I take out my diary and study my timetable.

  Most year levels have one: the kid people don’t feel guilty picking on. It’s always just for a laugh, nothing to take seriously. It’s not bullying or anything. Relax, we’re just kidding. Lighten up. Paula Watson’s definitely that girl. In home room she didn’t look up from her book. I watch her in English and then, later, in Maths. I don’t think she has any friends, but she doesn’t seem to be too bothered about it. I’ve seen her speak to Jane and Leica but it was in passing. When we wait for the teacher to arrive to class she sits and reads, has no interest in trying to squeeze her way into conversations to avoid being seen as a loner. But she’s not quiet, withdrawn. Her hand’s usually one of the first up, she’s always offering her opinion, has this weird habit of quoting Oscar Wilde whenever she gets a chance. The others groan but I like her spunk. She’s smart and not afraid to show it. I want to get to know her but I’m not sure how to approach her.

  *

  Last period. Society and Culture.

  ‘What’s culture?’ Mr Morello asks.

  Silence. It’s last period on the first day of school. I admire the man’s optimism.

  ‘Anybody?’

  I see some of the class looking at Paula, gesturing for her to save the hour and answer.

  Paula proceeds to give a definition of culture that would put Hermione Granger to shame. Mr Morello is full of praise and Paula sits there and beams, ignoring some of the boys who mutter ‘nerd’ and other such intelligent comments at her.

  ‘Anybody else?’

  ‘Okay, how about this?’ Mr Morello paces the front of the room. ‘Is culture static? Does it always stay the same?’

  He looks around. Still nobody speaks up. I’m not about to volunteer. It’s my first Society and Culture class and I don’t want to make a fool of myself.

  Mr Morello snaps his fingers in front of Terrence, who’s sitting next to staring guy, who I catch stealing another glance at me – and not the kind of look that might flatter a girl. It’s almost as though he’s puzzled by my presence. What’s his problem?

  Terrence is slumped in his seat, legs out, looking down at his lap. Dead giveaway.

  ‘Terrence? Care to answer?’

  Terrence looks up quickly. ‘What’s the question?’

  Mr Morello puts his hand out. ‘Pass it here,’ he says calmly.

  ‘Pass what?’ He grins, like somebody who knows he’s been caught out but is still cocky enough to feign innocence.

  Mr Morello keeps his arm extended and waits one, two, three . . . Terrence rolls his eyes and hands over the phone.

  ‘Now, Terrence, enlighten us please. Do cultures evolve over time?’

  ‘Depends,’ Terrence shrugs.

  ‘Come on, Terrence. Try harder.’

  ‘Some cultures are, like, stuck in the Middle Ages.’

  A couple of other students speak up, and pretty soon the class is in a heated debate that veers off into stonings and beheadings. Lovely.

  ‘What do you think, Michael?’

  So that’s staring guy’s name.

  ‘I think it’s religion that’s the problem,’ he says casually. ‘Like Islam claims to be about peace but all we hear about is violence.’

  I want so badly to raise my hand. But every instinct in my first-day-at-school body is warning me not to. I sit in silent agony, fighting with myself.

  Mr Morello is looking like he’s having a this-is-why-I-became-a-teacher moment as the rest of the class goes back and forth with their arguments. Then Paula surprises me and, bristling with indignation, says to Michael, ‘I really, really hate it when people in the West take the moral high ground. Really.’

  Terrence groans. ‘Paula, is there anything you don’t have an opinion about?’

  ‘I’m sixteen, Terrence,’ she says coolly. ‘It’s a bit early to tell.’

  Michael considers her for a moment and then, his tone careful, says: ‘But, Paula, it’s on the news all the time. It’s just differences in values. My dad says it’s not a personal clash between people. It’s more a clash of civilisations.’

  Paula huffs with indignation. ‘So Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Guantanamo Bay, Abu Ghraib, bombs on Afghan weddings and parties, CIA torture, drones, white phosphorous – all wonderful examples of civilised behaviour, right?’

  ‘You can’t compare,’ Michael says. ‘It’s the war on terror.’

  I roll my eyes and doodle in the margins of my textbook.

  ‘Are you saying stonings and cutting off hands are okay?’ Terrence asks Paula.

  ‘Obviously not,’ she snaps.

  Mr Morello reads out a section from the textbook and throws questions back to the class for discussion. At one point Terrence, who I suspect has been marinating in testosterone for some years now, snorts loudly. ‘In Saudi Arabia, does downloading movies count as stealing? I mean, could you get your hands cut off for downloading the next season of Game of Thrones?’

  In terms of the Muslims-are-barbaric joke theme, I’d give Terrence points for originality. It’s the general contempt that goes with the joke that
leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

  A guy called Fred, sitting beside Terrence, high-fives him.

  ‘Oi, how do they high-five in Muslim countries?’ Terrence continues, grinning. ‘It’d be wrist to wrist!’

  That sends Fred and Terrence into another fit of giggles.

  ‘One more inappropriate comment and I’ll see you in detention at lunchtime, Terrence,’ Mr Morello says coolly.

  ‘I’m just saying,’ Michael says, ‘that people have value in the West.’

  The words escape my mouth before I even know what’s happening: ‘Try telling that to the people locked up and abused in detention because they were naive enough to think Australia would care about their lives.’

  All eyes are on me. What a way to announce myself. I think trapdoors and invisibility cloaks.

  A couple of the boys, led by Terrence, do the ‘Oooh fight’ stirring thing.

  ‘Look, it’s not ideal, what they’re going through. But Australia has the right to protect its borders,’ Michael says.

  ‘Oh, because women, children and men fleeing persecution are such a threat, hey?’

  Michael frowns. ‘I didn’t say that. I meant, if you come by boat, you’ve jumped the queue.’

  The bell rings and the din of noise rises as everybody starts packing their things and Mr Morello tells us our weekend homework.

  ‘There’s no queue,’ I tell Michael as I slam my books into my bag. ‘I would know. I came here by boat.’

  ‘Well you have nothing to complain about then, do you?’ Michael replies calmly.

  Oh no. He didn’t just go there.

  Michael

  I can’t believe that the girl from the protest – Mina is her name – has started at my school. In my year.

  She’s sitting quietly, observing everybody with those eyes that are driving me crazy. Terrence is having fun working the class up because giving people a hard time is pretty much his standard MO. The third wheel in our trio is Fred, and he’s finding our political posturing amusing. We usually save zealous for our race to see who can get the Easter egg first in COD zombie mode.

  Fred’s generally a lay low kind of guy. His real name is Minh Nguyen. It took all of twenty seconds for us to rename him Fred on his first day at school in year seven. Because, well, non-Anglo names with too many consonants and vowels can sometimes freak out my people.

  One would think, from the way I’m acting in my Society and Culture class, that I’ve inherited my parents’ passion for politics. But the thing is, I wear my politics like hand-me-down clothes: some bits feel like they don’t fit properly, but I expect I’ll grow into them, trusting that because they’re from my parents they’ve come from a good source.

  Mina takes me by surprise when she finally speaks up. I manage to insult her before I’ve even had a chance to get to know her. I wish I had my parents’ way with words. When they talk, they sound smart and convincing. I feel kind of bad that it gets personal. So when the bell rings and everybody’s making their way to the front gate, I rush to catch up with her. She’s walking alone and I come up close beside her. She throws me a sideways look and continues walking.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, trying to sound casual.

  She slows down. ‘Yeah?’ she says impatiently.

  I do what I consider is a reasonable attempt at a conciliatory smile. ‘I didn’t mean to come across so harsh.’

  Eyebrows raised, she scans my face. ‘I can handle harsh. Offensive is another matter.’

  ‘Yeah, well, sorry. I didn’t mean anything personal. It sounded personal, but it wasn’t. You know what I mean?’

  She stares at me. ‘So. Queue jumper. Nothing to complain about. Not personal?’

  ‘Well, look . . .’ I pace myself, try to find the right words. ‘I didn’t specifically mean you. It was more general facts.’

  ‘Facts?’

  ‘Yeah. My dad’s done a lot of research. I’m not judging you. I was talking more about the people who say they’re fleeing persecution when they’re really just economic refugees.’

  Her eyes widen. I soldier on.

  ‘It’s cheating. What about all the people who have been waiting in refugee camps and can’t afford to buy their way up the queue? And then there’s the fact that if you can afford to pay a people smuggler all that money, how bad a situation are you really in? That’s what I was trying to say, but it came out all wrong.’

  I shrug and give her a satisfied smile.

  ‘You can’t be serious?’ She stares at me incredulously. ‘Those arguments are getting old.’

  I look at her, puzzled. ‘Is that your idea of accepting an apology?’

  ‘Was that your idea of an apology?’

  ‘Well, yeah.’

  She raises her eyebrows.

  ‘I didn’t have to track you down and apologise,’ I say curtly. ‘I just wanted to put things right.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s really magnanimous of you.’

  I’m baffled by her hostility. ‘What’s your problem?’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘I’m not going to do the refugee myth-busting thing with you. If you’re still running those slogans, you’re the one with work to do, not me.’

  And with that she storms off.

  Mina

  ‘How was your first day?’ Mum asks on our way home.

  ‘Great. I fit right in.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  Groaning, I recline the front seat all the way back and stare up at the car ceiling. ‘You’re not doing irony today, hey?’

  She regards me with wry amusement. ‘It will get easier.’

  ‘You are the queen of pep talks, Mum,’ I say drily.

  We pass the restaurant on our way home. To the left is an alley that leads to the back car park, and to the right is a pizza shop. The sign at the front of our place says Joe’s Fish n Chips 1979 in faded black writing. The restaurant is still a mess of renovations. Baba and Irfan are inside with some workers who are knocking down a wall and the front counter. Baba sees us and his face lights up.

  ‘We’ll get there soon,’ he says cheerfully, wiping white dust off his face.

  ‘Assalamu Alaikum, Mina!’ Irfan cries out happily. ‘You look so smart in that posh uniform!’

  ‘Be careful with your uniform, Mina,’ Mum says as Baba and Irfan show us around.

  When I can no longer feign enthusiasm over floor plans and colour schemes, I ask about dinner and Baba sends me next door to get some pizza. Mum comes along too.

  We step into the Pizza Hub. There are two small families dining in, and a young guy ordering at the counter. The heat wraps around me like a friendly hug. The scent of melting cheese and rising dough makes my stomach cramp.

  Mum and I wait our turn. It takes me a minute to realise that a woman sitting down is staring at Mum, looking her up and down. I take in Mum’s floral scarf, striped harem pants and two-toned long cardigan. I wince. Without a hijab, the clash of patterns and colours would ooze hipster-chic. With a hijab, she just looks like an ‘ethnic’. I take a step closer to Mum and, in Farsi, caution her not to ask if the meat is halal.

  When it’s our turn I order a vegetarian pizza and a seafood pizza. Mum is watching the guy (Tim, according to the pizza-shaped nametag on his T-shirt) behind the counter closely. I can tell Mum is getting anxious as Tim dips into and between the toppings. The seafood is close to the ham, and my mum watches him intently.

  ‘Please, can you wear different gloves?’ she asks.

  ‘Different gloves?’

  Tim has no idea what Mum is talking about. I start to explain but Mum cuts me off. ‘We don’t eat ham. You need to please wear new gloves so that ham does not come on our pizza.’

  Tim looks confused but shrugs in agreement. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Thank you. You have a very nice shop.’

  ‘T
hanks.’

  ‘We are opening next door soon. Kabul Kitchen. Afghan food.’

  ‘Really? Next door? That’s yours?’

  Mum nods.

  Tim smiles briefly. ‘Joe’s was popular. Guess it’ll be nice to get some diversity into the place.’

  ‘You are welcome any time.’

  Tim smiles again but, thankfully, doesn’t say anything. The woman staring at Mum is packing her things to leave. She seems half puzzled, half contemptuous of Mum’s presence. It’s been a long day. I don’t want to have to deal with her saying something to Mum. We’ve only just moved to this neighbourhood and I don’t want any trouble.

  *

  The school café makes a great latte. They get the extra hot right too. It’s neither a second-degree tongue burn, nor an I-might-as-well-scull-a-cordial drinking experience.

  I’ve arrived to school early today and sit in one of the gardens (What school has gardens, plural?) to read our English text, Emma. My iPod’s on, earphones in, music on low in the background.

  ‘Hey.’

  I look up. Paula is standing over me, balancing her schoolbag, a pile of books and a coffee. I can’t help but smile. I remove my earplugs and turn off the iPod. She motions to my book and I hold up the cover for her to see.

  ‘Cool. So you’re doing extension English too?’

  I nod and she plants herself down next to me. ‘Ms Parkinson is awesome. We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. I read that this morning. Beautiful, huh?’ She pats the jacket of one of her books. I lean close to read the title. Lady Windermere’s Fan.

  ‘Read it?’ she asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oscar Wilde. My favourite writer of all time. It’s kind of pretentious to quote books in regular conversation, but he’s worth the reputation.’

  I laugh. ‘I love reading too. Quote away.’

  ‘You will regret that, my friend. I am quite illiterate, but I read a lot. Who said that?’

  ‘Holden Caulfield,’ I grin. ‘I studied Catcher in the Rye last year.’

  ‘And so our friendship begins.’ She leans back against the tree and stretches out her legs, crossing one ankle over the other. ‘Nobody writes like that now.’