The Lines We Cross

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  “Huh?”

  “It was next to me on the kitchen bench when we were eating lunch. I caught a glimpse of it.”

  Paula raises an eyebrow at me. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  I let out a small laugh. “Yeah. Sometimes the little things are just as important.”

  Paula smiles, but it’s a charitable gesture. “She works all the time. So does Dad. You know my favorite Wilde quote? To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. Isn’t that brilliant?”

  She goes on before I can answer. “See, he has a point,” she says breathlessly. “Maybe I’m just not enough for them.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second.”

  She smiles at me again but doesn’t look convinced. My heart aches for her, but I’m confused too. I can’t imagine what it must be like to feel like you need to fight for your parents’ attention; compete with their work. But a part of me sympathizes with them. Maybe they’re passionate about what they do. Things wouldn’t change for Paula if that were taken away from them. They’d probably just start to slowly wither inside, like my mum.

  I don’t know what to tell Paula. I’ve seen a lot in my life but there’s nothing as complicated as family.

  “I still can’t believe you stood up there and laid yourself bare like that,” I say eventually.

  She suddenly breaks out into a goofy smile. “I can’t believe it either. Thanks for coming today. I’ve been dying to try it out but wasn’t brave enough to do it by myself.”

  I nudge her with my elbow, glad to see the full smile on her face. “Don’t mention it. Any time—well, let me amend that. Any time it fits within my mother’s curfew laws.”

  She chuckles.

  The driver announces the next stop: “Get excited, people, because next stop is Campsie.”

  We look at each other and the other passengers on the train and burst out laughing.

  The driver continues his cheerful commentary with each stop, making us all chuckle. “Welcome aboard, Dulwich Hill peeps, thanks for bringing along the cool breeze … Next stop Sydenham. For those of you who are leaving, I’m sad to see you go but I understand your reasons.”

  When we say good-bye it’s as though we both know we’ve crossed a threshold into that wonderful, intense, and slightly terrifying place only true friends can enter. Some things in life you have to work hard to find. But my friendship with Paula has fallen into place.

  There is no nightmare for me tonight. Only sleep hugging me like a friend.

  The promo ad for Don’t Jump the Queue starts in the last week of vacation. Mum and Dad are thrilled, shouting out at Nathan and me whenever it comes on TV.

  The shots of Dad made me cringe. Lots of arms folded across the chest, staring down the camera with an I-mean-business look on his face. He’s described as the man who wouldn’t mind a return of the White Australia Policy. My parents are unhappy about that. Andrew sends Dad a text to congratulate him.

  I ask Dad if he really wants the White Australia Policy again and he’s appalled by the suggestion.

  “Of course not, Michael. I celebrate our diversity—so long as people assimilate to our values. I don’t have a problem with different foods and festivals. That enriches our country. But people need to fit in with the majority instead of trying to mark themselves as different. That’s why multiculturalism as a policy has been such a disaster. It sends a message that all cultures and religions are equal so you don’t have to assimilate into our society. Well, I disagree. You’re welcome into this wonderful country so long as you respect Judeo-Christian values. And believe me, Michael, blending in makes life easier for migrants and their children too.”

  Mum’s stirring a pot on the stove as we speak. She interrupts. “Michael, it’s like this soup I’m cooking. The dominant flavor is asparagus. I’ve got other spices and flavors in here too because that’s what makes the soup so rich and flavorsome. But they complement the asparagus, rather than take over.”

  I lie awake in bed tonight trying to make sense of the uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not only do I not want to follow in Dad’s career footsteps, but I’m starting to think that maybe my parents have things drastically wrong.

  It makes me realize that I need to tell Dad about my university plans. But if I’m going to crush him, I’ll have to do it in stages.

  Dad’s taken Nathan to see the latest kids’ movie at the cinema. Mum’s getting ready to go out for a walk. I tell her I’m going to speak to Dad.

  She sighs. “Not yet, Michael. Wait for the right moment. It’s been very busy since he got back.”

  I’m not buying it. Pursing my lips together, I watch her pulling her shoes on.

  “It’s never going to be the right moment, Mum.”

  “Are you still …” She stalls and then meets my eye. “Are you still adamant you won’t at least consider—”

  “Mum,” I say softly. “Please don’t.”

  I retreat to my room.

  I read the latest updates on the Oculus VR Forum.

  But I can’t stop thinking about Mina.

  I finish my Design and Technology essay on the pros and cons of self-driving robotic cars.

  But I can’t stop thinking about Mina.

  I do a mind map for my Visual Arts essay on the influence of modernity on the practice of artists.

  But I can’t stop thinking about Mina.

  I spend some days at Dee Why Beach, listening to music, watching the water, sketching in my Visual Arts diary. I let Nathan tag along with me. He sits beside me quietly, reading, only occasionally saying something. The silence between us is comfortable and pure. Other days I go to the basketball court at the park around the corner from our house to shoot some hoops. Terrence joins me a couple of times but I don’t make much effort to see him or Fred.

  On the last Friday of the vacation I decide to detour to Auburn on my way back from Dee Why. Nathan, who’s with me, notices as soon as we take a different route home.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Impossible. We’re somewhere now and we’re heading somewhere else and when we get there you’ll say we’re here which is not nowhere. So where are we going?”

  “Auburn.”

  “Okay.”

  I crank up the volume on my stereo.

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Does it have anything to do with your angry music?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  “Any more questions?”

  “Yes. Can you get me a Big Mac with the pickles and lettuce in a separate bag?”

  “Sure. I always do, don’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are a lot of women wearing hijab at this McDonald’s,” Nathan says as we sit in the outdoor area. We’re at McDonald’s on Parramatta Road in Auburn.

  “Yep.”

  He looks around, a hungry, curious, we’re-not-in-Kansas-anymore expression on his face.

  “I think they look nice,” he says. “Actually, that’s not true,” he says, dissatisfied with the apparent imprecision of his statement. “Some—most—look nice. But not all of them.” He takes a bite of his burger, chews slowly, and swallows. “See that woman over there? She shouldn’t be here. She’s inviting an obesity condition.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him, but I can’t help but laugh.

  “Lower your voice, mate,” I say softly.

  When we’re done, we follow the GPS’s instructions and approach a large intersection. I see the minarets of a big white mosque nearby. When the lights change, I take a sharp left and find myself on a leafy residential street. The mosque is on the corner, in front of the railway tracks. I park in front of it.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen a mosque up close.

  “The minaret and dome isn’t a Muslim invention, you know,” Nathan says casually.

  I look at him. “What’s that?”
/>   “I watched a BBC documentary on the rise of the Ottoman Empire.”

  “Oh.”

  “Only it was on the ABC, not the BBC.”

  “Yep, that happens.”

  “I’m watching a documentary on ancient Greece now. I’m thinking I might become a historian one day. Work on plane engines on weekends.”

  I nod. “Good choice. You be what you want to be.”

  “Dad said the Ottoman documentary was verging on propaganda.”

  “Mmm.”

  There’s a stillness to the place, a tranquility I can sense even from my car. The only person around is a gardener tending to the front flower beds.

  “I need the bathroom,” Nathan suddenly says.

  “Oh, man. Why didn’t you go at McDonald’s?”

  “I didn’t need to then,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “Fine, I’ll drive us back there.”

  “I need to go now.” And then he opens the passenger door, jumps out, and enters the mosque gates. “Come on,” he yells out at me, not even bothering to look back.

  “Christ,” I mutter (probably inappropriately in hindsight). I park the car and run after him, into a quiet courtyard. We search for a toilet sign. I hope we can slip in without being noticed. Nathan is holding his crotch at this point, a look of desperation on his face.

  I run through some doors and find myself in the mosque. I’m taken aback by its simplicity. It’s just a huge expanse of carpet. Then I look up to a beautiful stained-glass dome. There are some men up front, bobbing up and down in prayer, and some women in the back rows, praying or sitting down, quietly reading. I wave to a man who’s doing neither. He hurries over to me.

  “Please take off your shoes,” he says gently but firmly.

  “Oh, sorry. Um, my little brother needs the bathroom. Where are they?”

  He shows me the way outside the mosque to the restroom and then leaves us there. Nathan soon emerges, giving me a thumbs-up.

  “Let’s take a look inside the mosque,” he says.

  “No,” I say, feeling like we’ve already intruded enough.

  But Nathan has already thrown off his shoes and walks into the mosque like he owns the place. I’m mortified and quickly follow after him, hoping to catch him before he speaks to anybody, but it’s too late. He’s gone right up to the front and is in conversation with a man wearing a suit and one brown and one black sock.

  I approach cautiously. “This man’s name is Ahmet,” Nathan says to me. “He’s going to give us a tour. I’ve explained that we have no interest in conversion.” He turns to face the man again. “Andrew says that all Muslims want to convert people, and that being friendly is just a cover.”

  I moan softly. “I’m sorry,” I quickly say to the man.

  He looks slightly bewildered. “It is no problem.”

  “We better get going.” I grab Nathan’s hand firmly. “Come on.”

  “But I want a tour,” he complains.

  “It is no problem,” the man says. “I’ll give you a tour.”

  “We really need to get going,” I insist. “Some other time. Thanks very much.”

  I drag Nathan out of the mosque. He mopes behind me to the car.

  “I don’t understand you,” he says when we are back in the car. The ignition is running but I haven’t moved yet. “Why did you want to leave?”

  I can’t explain myself. I feel like a fraud. What am I hoping to achieve, being here in Auburn? Do I really think that being in a mosque will help me understand Mina more?

  I drive to Auburn Road, hustle my way for a parking space on the main road. We get out, walk up and down. Mina’s right. There’s a different kind of life pulse here. It’s vibrant, chaotic, and run-down in places, thick with people, colors, smells. There are way more kids around too. That’s really obvious. Mums and dads walking surrounded by three, four, five kids or more. There are discount shops selling different kinds of cheap shit, next to tacky clothing stores, run-down barbershops, and all sorts of restaurants and cafés. God is available for everyone here too. We pass a Chinese church just up the road from an Islamic school. There are mixed business stores selling toilet paper, frames with hologram pictures of Jesus at the Last Supper, phone cards, and kitsch dinnerware. There are coffee shops filled with old men wearing tweed suits. Women wearing long colorful headscarves that come down to their knees walk in front of pubs displaying happy hour signs. There are travel agencies, foreign exchange kiosks, signs in different languages.

  Some of the food smells incredible. Toasting spices, roasting meat, fresh bread. It’s like every part of the world is here, dressed up in all their garb. Long white robes and black sandals, saris, turbans, tight jeans and muscle shirts, girls in headscarves and Havaiana flip-flops.

  I even see a woman all dressed up in black, only her eyes showing. It makes me uncomfortable, pisses me off a little too. There’s a man with her, holding her hand. They’re deep in conversation. He’s in a T-shirt and shorts. Yeah, that annoys me.

  We walk by a group of guys my age. They have an imposing presence about them. Their hair is shaved in different zigzag patterns. Some of them have thick, bushy beards. They wear tight muscle tops and track pants. I catch snatches of Arabic in their conversation.

  I feel myself tense up a little, unconsciously inch Nathan closer to my side. It’s not as though I actually think they’re undercover terrorist operatives or part of some gang. It’s like my body reacts before my brain. Because as soon as I realize, I feel like an idiot.

  I feel like a tourist. Which is just so stupid and inexcusable, really. But to the people I’ve known all my life, Western Sydney is tacky and unsophisticated. It’s gangland and ghetto, underclass and trouble.

  I look above at all the flats in the high-density apartment blocks that overlook us and I wonder whether Mina lived in one of them.

  That’s when it hits me that I’ve crossed the line from thinking about Mina to crushing hard. I’m in that tragic stage where I’ll take any scraps on offer: the sound of her name; a visit to a suburb she once lived in, and misses.

  Jesus. I’ve become Jane.

  The thought sobers me.

  “I’m hungry,” Nathan whines.

  “We just had McDonald’s.”

  “So?”

  We end up going to a restaurant on the main street for a mixed plate. We can eat all day long, no problem.

  I sleep restlessly, fading in and out of dreams and wakefulness. It’s past two when I hear footsteps shuffling in the kitchen. I get up and find Baba boiling a pot of tea on the stove.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask him.

  “I can’t sleep,” he says. “Tea?”

  “Sure. Here, I’ll do it. Go sit down.”

  He thanks me and walks slowly over to the couch. He’s only thirty-nine but he walks like an old man. Like a man hurting. A man trying to live with a body that has been broken and never quite healed properly.

  “Did you take medicine?” I ask when we’re sitting across from each other, drinking our sweet tea.

  “Yeah,” he says. I detect shame in his voice. He’s always been like this, exuded a sense of guilt at having been a victim, at feeling pain. “I’ll see the doctor tomorrow for something stronger.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Not tell your mother.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t want her to worry. Not with the baby.”

  It’s kind of cute, him wanting to protect Mum given all she’s been through.

  “Are you happy here, Baba?” I ask after some moments of silence.

  He continues smoking, takes a little while to answer. Eventually he speaks up: “When you don’t have what you want, you have to want what you have.”

  “What do you want that you don’t have?”

  “A peaceful Afghanistan I can return to, of course.”

  “Isn’t this home now?”

  He sucks on his cigarette. “When I die I want to be buried here,” he says suddenly
. “That surprises me but, well, look, I suppose that is something.”

  We get lost in our own thoughts. At one point I notice his face twist into a grimace. I know he is riding a wave of pain.

  “Why is it worse all of a sudden? Because of this stupid business with the media?”

  He nods slowly. “The pain’s always there,” he says matter-of-factly. “But yes, I’m worried this media business will affect the restaurant.”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” I say cheerfully. “Most people don’t take that show seriously.” Paula’s advice comes back to me and I marvel at how easily I put on an act. “It’s all over now. Attention will turn to the next bad guy and things will go back to normal.”

  “Normal? I gave up on normal many years ago, Mina.”

  We sip our tea in silence, both of us burdened by memories that continue to haunt us, no matter how much we pretend.

  Paula’s over and we’re stalking the public profiles of some of the guys and girls in school as we bake cupcakes. Mum’s sprawled on the couch, having a power nap.

  “Let’s check out Michael’s page,” I suggest as we stand in front of the laptop, polishing off the chocolate left in the mixing bowl.

  She eyes me, a mischievous smile on her face. “That’s kind of random. Missing him over vacation, are we?”

  “Why would I miss him? He’s a jerk.”

  She takes another swipe of batter out of the bowl.

  “I’m just morbidly curious,” I explain. “It’s like when people are fascinated with the lives of serial killers. You want to know more.”

  She smiles briefly. “Michael may be a racist jerk, but as far as I know, he’s not hiding dismembered bodies in his locker.”

  We look up his page. We can’t see much, but from what I can tell from our last visit to his page, it’s had a major makeover.

  His likes have been cleaned up, leaving only bands, books, and movies. No more Aussie Values; no more offensive memes. I search down the thread of public conversations too, but there’s nothing there.

  “Wow,” I say. “He went from being a white supremacist to a Hunger Games fan.”

  “Aren’t you the drama queen today?” Paula chuckles.