Muddy People

by Sara El Sayed

  ‘After three months, halfway through my six-cycle treatment, they looked inside me again to see if anything had changed. The node that was in my guts had gone from 58 millimetres to eight. The one near my spine was very small too. Only a couple of millimetres. And the one behind my heart had completely disappeared, like it was never there. And at the end of the six cycles, they say, “Congratulations. There is no evidence for enlarged lymph nodes. You are in remission.” This is what the oncologist said to me.

  ‘This word, remission, I ask if it means something. I know it means you are getting better, but I want to know if it means something else too. He said sometimes cancer can come back. Maybe after a year, or twenty years. Sometimes never. But he said to me, “In your case, I can tell you, you will not die from cancer, you will die from something else.”

  ‘That’s when I come to the good bit. The maintenance. Six times a year, one day in the chair. And I chose to do this with you, Soos. Close to you, at Gold Coast Hospital. So, every couple of months, I fly down, and we can have something to do together.’

  RULE #23

  PAY YOUR RENT

  I never thought I would get married in this country. Since that moment in my bedroom when my father told me I would have to marry a Muslim man, I thought it would never be practical.

  This is what I want: someone I love who won’t upset my father. Who understands that I do what I do because I want to make my father happy. Who understands that he does what he does because he wants to do the right thing. I think about the loss that has come with my grandfather’s death. He lost out, not Mama. He died alone. Mama has us. All this time I have been afraid to disappoint my father, because I don’t want him to hate me. I don’t want him to cut me out of his life. I don’t want to remove myself, like my mother did. But I think he feels the same. He doesn’t want to be alone. He wants me to do the right thing, yet it’s not always clear what that means. Especially here.

  I am moving out of home. I am only moving out because I am getting married. I have stuck to this rule: no living on your own until you are married. The real estate agent is rude and doesn’t talk to us at the inspection. He just unlocks the door and pulls out his phone. Aaron whispers to me that he can see him on Sportsbet.

  Aaron. Xbox-or-PlayStation Aaron. Long-sleeves-at-the-gym Aaron. The boy I interviewed for school captain seven years ago. Aaron and I have been orbiting around each other since we were ten years old. We went to the same primary school, the same high school. We had friends in the same circles. But for the longest time I didn’t speak to him – we always seemed one step removed. But now we’re coming together. Becoming parts of each other.

  There are four other couples inspecting the same house. None of them take off their shoes when they enter. It is a wet day, and they track mud onto the carpet. The carpet hasn’t been cleaned, I can see that, but I wonder, why make it worse?

  We are often made to feel like visitors in this country. One slip and we’re done. We are careful not to track in mud. We take our shoes off before we go inside. That’s part of what we believe in. That’s part of Sharia. When you’re in a country, you obey the laws of that country. Just like when you’re in a rental, you don’t mark the walls. But people still see us as muddy. They keep us out. If they don’t, you feel they want to.

  I am from no one place, like my mother. As I get older, I am realising that maybe that’s the easiest way. I am not from there, and I am not from here. Maybe it’s easier to come with no history, with no story, no set of rules to follow. I am my own person, I tell myself, I can pick and choose my own rules. But it’s hard without a blueprint.

  I am in a borrowed body, my father says, one that will be returned to Allah. I have to keep it proper. But right now, as I see it, it belongs to me. I am in control. Maybe I won’t get my bond back, but I want to be happy. That counts, doesn’t it? That I am happy here and now. We can think about the after when it comes.

  We take our shoes off before we step into a house. Aaron knows this, and he copies me. He walks behind me, in my steps.

  Aaron didn’t become a school captain, but he went on to be an English mentor. He is unassuming and he is kind. He is the most reliable person I have met in my life. He has always been there. He listens to me, and he understands. Or at least, he tries to understand. There are things he will never grasp, and I think we both accept that. He proposed to me on my birthday, when no one was around. Only then did he meet my father. Baba says this was not the right way to do things, the correct sequence, but there was no other way for us. Baba says Aaron’s Arabic name is Haroon. Haroon was Moses’s younger brother. It’s a holy name. He likes that.

  My father is excited for me, and I know the rules. I have to marry a Muslim. I think of the girl I saw in the mosque that day. It seems like that is the only way for us.

  Mohamed and Emma have been together for almost a decade and are not married. But that doesn’t bother my father right now, because he’s concerned with us, me and Aaron. I can’t imagine my life without Aaron.

  It is raining outside and the puddles are forming on the front lawn. Sometimes a sunny day makes it easier to sell a house. But we are not buying. We are only here to borrow.

  When Aaron officially became Haroon, he accepted what came with that. Part of me wishes he didn’t have to, but he did it anyway. We haven’t had a wedding yet, not a big white Australian one, but we are married in the eyes of God.

  On the day we move in, the house smells of paint, and the sun streams in through the back window. A kid next door is practising tuba. Maybe this is my karma – my trade with Allah for putting my parents through all that pain for all those years. I will never allow my children to play the baritone, legacy be damned.

  We do not have a salon in this house. We do not have furniture trimmed in gold. We do not have a lot of things. But we have peace. And we have a picture of us. We cannot hang it on the wall, because we are not allowed to make holes. But we place it on a shelf, where it gets some light.

  I look outside and say, ‘It’s a little muddy out there.’

  Aaron doesn’t see the ground from where he is standing. ‘It looks sunny to me,’ he says.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Muddy People: A Memoir is based on memories of my childhood. These are often fragmentary and fallible, as memories tend to be. This is a work of creative non-fiction – not a factual or verbatim recount of events and conversations. In some instances, I have streamlined the narrative to avoid unloading too much information on readers, as well as to protect the identities of the people involved. I have changed the names of several people and places mentioned. I have chosen to construct Carly, Tamara, Jason and the teachers mentioned in the story as composite characters; the actions of these characters cannot be attributed to one person alone.

  Thank you endlessly to my family, for your good humour and willingness to share parts of yourselves in these pages. To my parents, for creating and being my world. This book, and everything I do, is for you. To Nana, for all you’ve taught me. To Aisha, for being my first and favourite reader. To Mohamed, I will give you fifty bucks if you’ve read this far. To Aaron, for bearing the brunt of my book-writing mood swings. Bless you.

  This book was written as part of my Master of Fine Arts project. Thanks goes to my thesis supervisor, Rohan Wilson, for his steadfast support, and for being a helpful ear to my chatter. To my dear friends Alex Philp, Tess Brooks and Bizzi Lavelle, for your eyes, minds and hearts as you read an early version of this book. To Maxine Beneba Clarke, Randa Abdel-Fattah and Sara Saleh for being champions and inspirations, and for seeing something in me and my work in those early days. To Michael Mohammed Ahmad, Mona Eltahawy and Alice Pung for embracing this book. I am warmed by your support. I cannot thank you all enough.

  I owe a lot to my editor, Julia Carlomagno, for her kindness, understanding, diligence and heart. Julia, you are a legend. I am so proud of what we have created together. Thank you to Sophy Williams, for our chat that fateful day at
Byron Writers Festival, and to Sallie Butler and Jess McMillan, for all of your hard work in sharing this book with the world.

  In writing this memoir I am able to share my story; I am able to speak and be heard. In a world where voices of Arabs are often relegated, censored and silenced, this is sadly a privilege. As I write these final words, in 2021, the stories of Arabs continue to be erased. Lives are being lost. Memories and legacies are being destroyed. I extend my solidarity – now and forever – to the people of Palestine, who are fighting every day for their survival, their land and their freedom. Their stories need to be heard. Royalties I receive from the sale of this book will be donated to Palestinian causes.