“Wait here.”
I run to the theater restroom. I pick a basin. I tip my head over into the sink. I glance over at the soap dispenser to my right, take a deep sigh and do what I know I have to.
I start to wash my hair with the soap from a theater-bathroom soap dispenser.
It is as disgusting and moronic as it sounds. I scrub and scrub, and when I’m satisfied that I’ve worked up a decent enough lather, I reach out to turn the tap on.
Except there’s no water. Just a faucet.
I look up at half an angle, my hair dripping with soapsuds; my eyes squinting through the water and soap that’s dribbling down my face. I realize that Hoyts has decided to go high tech on its patrons. The faucet operates with a sensor so I have to position my head at a certain angle to get the water to run. It was already going to be tough work to rinse my hair with my head upside down in a tiny sink. Try adding a stupid sensor to the equation and you have a recipe for disaster.
I’m in a panic now. I’m rinsing as much as I can, frantically twisting my head into different angles every three seconds as the water keeps on stopping.
I eventually throw my head back, stretch my neck muscles, which have gone into a spasm, and tie my hair into a bun. I look shocking. My eye makeup has run down my face, my hair looks greasy with soap, and the front of my top is drenched. It will have to do. I rush out of the bathroom, ignoring people’s stares.
Bilal gives me a pitiful look.
“Was it worth it?” he asks.
“I don’t know what is anymore,” I say, and burst into tears.
DAD AND BILAL
are having a fight. I’ve never seen them at each other like this. It’s past three on Saturday morning when I hear shouting. I’ve been on tenterhooks ever since the movie, but Dad doesn’t seem to suspect anything and this fight doesn’t sound as though it’s about me. I get out of bed and peek out from my door. Bilal is in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and drinking a glass of water. He has obviously just arrived home. My dad is screaming at him: “How dare you walk into our home at this hour smelling of alcohol and smoke!”
I think Bilal is drunk because he slams the glass of water down onto the counter and yells back: “You drove me to it, Dad! I come home this afternoon and tell you that my friend’s boss thinks I’ve got a real talent for fixing cars and you frigging have a go at me about getting a real job! And then you wonder why I don’t talk to you.”
My dad’s face suddenly turns shades of purple and red. He
looks like he’s about to combust. I wonder whether our supply of soap is going to be big enough for this fight.
“Is this how you talk to your father?” he shrieks in Arabic. “Where is your respect? You speak to me like I am some person off the street! I am your father! Do you hear me? You come to my home drunk? With two sisters in the house, you dare to disrespect them?”
Usually Bilal would calm down after being told off like that. He would realize that he’s overstepped the mark. But he must have really had too much to drink because he actually sneers at my dad and says: “You don’t listen to what I want. Well, it’s my life, not yours.”
My nervous system just about collapses when I see him challenge Dad like that. Shereen then hurricanes out of her bedroom and throws herself in the middle of Dad and Bilal.
“Shut up, Bilal! Go to your room!”
“Stay out of this, Shereen,” Bilal yells back.
“I said go!” she orders him.
“This is between Bilal and me, Shereen,” Dad cries.
“Dad, just calm down. It’s the middle of the night. The neighbors are going to call the cops on us with all this yelling. Bilal will go to bed and it can be sorted out in the morning.”
Dad starts muttering under his breath and Bilal looks at Shereen, shakes his head, and storms out of the room, banging the kitchen door shut on his way out. He passes me in the hallway and gives me a brief look. His eyes are bloodshot and I shrink back in fright. He doesn’t address or acknowledge me but
goes into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. I bite down on my quivering lip to stop myself from crying. I stand in the doorway for four or five minutes, scared to even raise an eyelid in case Dad hears and realizes I’ve been watching. I start to feel pins and needles attack my toes and feet and I finally muster up the courage to turn around and climb back into bed.
It must be two hours later when I wake up. Shereen is snuggled up beside me, clusters of tissues around her pillow. I sink my head into my pillow and hug her close, wondering, not for the first time, if things would have been different if our mother was around.
When I wake up later that morning I find a note from Shereen on the pillow beside me:
Jam, I’ll be in the city today, at the rally against the war in Iraq. Tell Dad you guys should go ahead and have dinner without me. I doubt I’ll make it back in time. Love you—and try to keep the peace this morning between them.
Tree-hugger xxoo
I try to detect any noises that might indicate that either Dad or Bilal are awake. Soon enough I hear Dad’s smoker’s cough, the sound of his heavy slippers against the kitchen floorboards, and the whistle of the kettle.
I jump out of bed, take a shower, and get dressed. I tap on Bilal’s door but there’s no response, only the faint sound of his snores. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m not in the mood for adopting the role of United Nations peacemaker at breakfast.
“Morning,” I say, entering the kitchen and kissing my dad on the forehead.
“Morning,” he answers, smiling wearily at me.
He doesn’t look like he’s had a lot of sleep and it occurs to me that he doesn’t have anybody to hug him in bed. That when he goes to bed angry or upset with us, he has nobody to complain to or confide in. That in between the bickering and the working and the paying of the bills and the juggling of three personalities, there must also be loneliness. It hits me so suddenly that for a moment I want to reach out to my dad and hug him. But something holds me back and I know what it is: my lack of courage. I always seem to lack the courage to translate my conscience into action, to go from thinking good to doing good. As I stare at my dad moving quietly about the kitchen preparing his ritual morning cup of coffee, I feel an intense sadness. For the first time I see him for what he is—a lonely man. But there’s such a gulf of misunderstanding between us that I don’t know how to make up for it.
Take away human noises from a house and you’re left with a humming refrigerator, the ticking of wall clocks, and the creaking sounds of wood expanding in the roof.
Bilal leaves as soon as he wakes up. He wants to “chill out” somewhere in the city.
My father has another madrasa meeting with Miss Sajda and the other staff members. He leaves the house smelling of musk and cigarettes, muttering about Bilal and insolent behavior.
I walk around the house. I picture Amy in the living room, relaxed on the couch with a bag of chips and good conversation. My mother is in the kitchen cooking up a feast, smiling down on us as she soaks crushed wheat and chops up parsley.
I try to picture another woman in her place. But then I push the thought to the part of my brain that deals with such things in the shadows of the night.
Computer time, and the sound of the keyboard competes with music I’ve downloaded from the net. I send an e-mail to John. Just for kicks. Just to know if he’s still a candidate for a missing persons ad.
My e-mail is still blocked.
But wait. I look closely. There is a sign of life.
My intermail messenger indicates that
Rage_Against_The_Machine
is online.
I’m about to send a message when my cell rings.
The call changes everything.
Shereen is on the other end. She’s been arrested with five of her friends and is in custody at a nearby police station.
I lose my grip on the phone and it drops onto the floor. I sweep down to get it, practically dropping it again, my hands are shaking so much.
“Are you there?” I ask in a panic.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“What do you mean
arrested?”
I whisper.
“I don’t have a long time to talk, Jam. They arrested us at the protest. Don’t stress. They haven’t charged me yet. But can you try to look up a legal aid lawyer? I don’t want Dad involved. I’ll tell him myself. Is Bilal around?”
“I’ve been trying to get in contact with him all day. He took off this morning and his phone is off.”
She gives me instructions as to which station she is at and what I’m to do. I’m to search the Yellow Pages for a local legal aid lawyer.
I flop down miserably on my bed and start biting my nails, racking my brains for a solution. I don’t know who to turn to. I try Bilal’s cell again but the woman on the other end is relentless in her advice to me to “please try again later.” I angrily throw my phone down.
I find the number for the local branch of legal aid. I’m greeted with a recorded message telling me that opening hours are Monday to Friday, nine to five. What do people do in these situations? The cops don’t suspend their arresting powers on the weekend.
I want to scream out in frustration and then it dawns on me
so clearly that I want to jump up and down: John’s mother is a lawyer! It might be worth a shot to send John a message.
From: [email protected]
URGENT URGENT URGENT URGENT JOHN, I URGENTLY NEED YOU TO REPLY TO THIS MSG. I KNOW YOU’RE THERE SO DON’T IGNORE ME. PLEASE. MY SISTER HAS BEEN ARRESTED. SHE’S AT PARRAMATTA POLICE STATION. SHE NEEDS A LAWYER AND SYDNEY DOESN’T BELIEVE IN WEEKEND JUSTICE. PLEASE REPLY. I NEED YOUR MOM’S HELP. YOU CAN CALL ME AT 042135654.
I comb through the numbers in the Yellow Pages, trying to find a lawyer who is available on the weekend. Only recorded messages.
Bilal’s phone is still switched off too.
Finally there is movement on my computer screen. A flashing icon indicating that John has sent a reply. I open the message, my heart playing Ping-Pong against my stomach.
From: [email protected]
Meet me at Parramatta police station in
1
/
2
hr.
I GRAB THE
stash of money I keep in my makeup box and call a taxi. Bilal’s phone is still switched off and I resolve to give him a black eye when I see him next.
It takes an eternity for the taxi to arrive (well, fifteen minutes, but I feel like I’ve aged enough to qualify for a pension by the time I hear the beep of the horn). I instruct the driver to take me to Parramatta police station immediately. He gives me a suspicious look, which I ignore. Of course, because I’m in a hurry, he decides to creep along the roads, slowing down before each traffic light just in case it turns yellow. I crack my knuckles nervously. I try to withstand the powerful temptation to throw myself forward and press down on the accelerator.
We finally crawl onto the right street. My hands are all clamped and sweaty, and a heavy feeling descends on me as I walk up to the doors of the police station.
John should be here soon but I can’t bear another minute without seeing Shereen. I approach the front desk nervously and, in a timid voice, ask to see my sister.
“What’s her name?” a Sergeant Kris Doleson asks, giving me a patronizing look. Well, who can blame her? How many people have “sister” under “given name” on their police reports?
“Shereen Towfeek.”
“Wait one moment, please.”
She returns after several minutes. “You can’t see her. She’s in custody. She gets one visitor and has requested a lawyer.”
I take a seat in the reception area. It’s chaotic and noisy, police officers rushing in and out, people milling around, some talking loudly, others huddled together, engrossed in hushed discussions. I try to figure out if anybody looks like a lawyer. But the only exposure I’ve had to legal person alities has been through shows like
Law & Order
and the lawyers there are usually dressed in dark suits. The only person in business attire here is an old man dressed in a bottle-green tweed suit and hat, holding on to a string of worry beads as he speaks to a young man who is clearly related to him.
I lean my head back against the corkboard behind me and close my eyes for a moment, absorbing the noises around me. When I open them I decide to wait for John outside, hoping that it might make it easier for us to recognize each other away from the crowd of people.
I find a ledge and hop up onto it, leaning my elbow against my thigh and cupping my chin in my hand. I stare at two ants
doing circles on the concrete and wonder if they’re in a relationship.
Ten minutes later I hear a voice from behind me: “Hi, Jamie.”
I turn around and to my bewilderment Timothy is standing there, his hands clamped down in his pockets, his face etched with nervous tension. I give him a long, searching look, not comprehending his presence.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice strained and confused.
“Mom’s a legal aid lawyer…She’s just parking the car.”
I’m still confused and blunder on. “But what are you doing here?”
He raises his eyebrows slowly and hunches his shoulders up, seemingly waiting for me to understand. And in a second it dawns on me. The truth hits me so hard that I almost lose my balance on the ledge. I suck in a deep breath to stop my insides from disintegrating like sand dunes washed into nothingness by a violent wave.
My eyes widen in shock. “No…” I whisper in horror.
He nods slowly, painfully, never once turning his gaze from me. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to deceive you…”
I raise my hand, cutting him off midway through his sentence. “You’re
John?
You’ve been
John
all along?”
He nods and I wince, as though defending myself from the cuts of a knife.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I wanted to but I chickened out.”
I’m too numb to yell and shout. Anyway, there isn’t a chance because a woman walks up to us from the curb, a folder wedged under her arm. She’s tall like Timothy and dressed in slacks and a shirt. Her hair is tied back into a low ponytail and her face is bare except for a touch of lipstick.
She stands before me and smiles warmly. “Hi, Jamie, I’m Sandra. Timothy’s told me a lot about you. I’m sorry to hear about your sister. Shall we go in and see what the story is?”
The words have been sucked right out of me. I open my mouth. Nothing.
So I nod slowly and hop off the ledge. As we walk to the doors, I remember my manners. I force myself to speak and turn to Sandra and thank her for coming.
“Not a problem,” she says. “I used to be an avid protestor myself in my university days.”
I give her a half-smile and turn my head away, averting my face from Timothy’s gaze.
Sandra instructs Timothy and me to wait in the lobby while she sees her “client.” The word hits me hard. It affirms Shereen’s induction into that group of Australians who have been arrested. I’d always joked about this and it was always my father’s deepest anxiety. For once his paranoia wasn’t misguided.
I take a seat and Timothy has the sense to choose a seat across from me, rather than fill the empty one next to me. He leans forward, then seems to think twice and leans back. Then
he leans forward again, running his fingers through his hair, and says nervously: “Let me explain, Jamie.”
“I don’t want to talk about it now,” I say coldly.
“But—”
“No,” I cut him off.
He doesn’t continue and leans back.
I reach into my pocket and take out my phone, trying Bilal’s number again. It’s finally ringing and Bilal eventually answers.
“Where have you been?” I yell.
“I was helping a friend fix his car, why?”
“Shereen’s been arrested—”
“What?”
“I don’t know why, something about a protest. We’re at Parramatta police station. Can you please come now?”
“I’m in the car as we speak. I should be there in twenty. Does Dad know?”
“No! Of course not!”
“All right. I’ll see you soon. Stop stressing, OK, Jam?”
My chin starts to quiver but I force myself, with every brain cell and inch of willpower, to stop myself from crying. “Yeah, OK.”
I hang up and Timothy looks at me with concern. I ignore him and fumble with the zipper on my bag. Up and down, down and up. I’m sure the rest of the people in the reception area are ready to pounce on me in annoyance.
Several minutes of silence pass when Timothy suddenly says: “I wonder if there’s a phobia of police stations.”
I ignore his conciliatory smile and respond with my filthiest, most obnoxious look. “Very funny. You’re a natural.”
“I had no idea to begin with. I’m sorry.”
“You completely betrayed me. I wouldn’t even know where to start! I opened up to
John
about everything—”
“I never told any—”
“That’s beside the point! What right did you have? You knew that I was revealing my deepest secrets to somebody I thought was a stranger! And you didn’t even tell me!”
“If you hadn’t been so self-centered, you would have figured it out! It was there for you to see. And when you didn’t figure it out, I blocked your e-mail.”
“Seriously, shut up. Just shut up. There is nothing you can say to make this better.” I stand up and storm out of the reception area.
“Where are you going?” he calls out.
“I’m going to wait outside for my brother, Bilal. Oh, but you know his name is Bilal, don’t you? You know all about him!”
I turn on my heel and walk out, resuming my position on the ledge. When Bilal arrives, I answer his barrage of questions and then we go inside and wait.
I’m tempted to ask Bilal to beat up Timothy, the way it happens in the movies. Protect my honor, stick up for me, that kind of thing.
This is the kind of totally stupid and violent fantasy I’m entertaining as I wait to know if my sister is going to forever be known as a convicted felon. I suppose, technically, an arrest
over a peace rally won’t amount to that, but that’s what people like Uncle Joseph will say if they find out.
We’re sitting in the reception area and I’m ignoring Timothy, despite the fact that his mother is here helping Shereen. That presents a dilemma. I should probably introduce him to Bilal.
“Bilal, this is Timothy,” I half grunt. “His mom is a lawyer and she’s inside helping Shereen.”
“Hey, man,” Bilal says, leaning over and shaking Timothy’s hand. “Thanks for your help.”
“No problem.” Timothy glances at me but I ignore him.
“School friend?” Bilal asks me in Arabic.
“Not a friend, just an acquaintance,” I reply in Arabic. Timothy looks at us inquisitively and I raise my eyebrows at him as if to say,
you-don’t-understand-us-na-na-na-na-na.
Completely childish, I know.
Bilal looks at me suspiciously. “Are you sure? He keeps staring at you.”
“He’s mentally deranged.”
“Then what hope is there with his mom?”
“She seems fine. Besides, we need whoever we can get.”
“He looks like he does pot.
Does he smoke pot?”
“No, he gets high on tropical fish.”
“Is that a new drug?” Bilal asks, confused.
It’s been two hours and forty-five minutes since I first arrived at the police station. My butt is numb from sitting on the plastic chair. I look over at Timothy, who is sitting with his legs
stretched out, his head leaning back against the wall as he listens to his iPod. It occurs to me that he doesn’t have to be here. That he could have left a long time ago. But I quickly light a match to that thought. I’m in no mood for feeling an ounce of appreciation or gratitude toward him. The shock and humiliation are still too raw.
Sandra finally emerges. Walking behind her is Shereen. I’m expecting to see her in handcuffs and zebra-striped jumpsuit. I wonder if they’d make her wear a zebra- striped hijab. I’ve watched way too many movies.
Shereen looks as normal as ever. White Yin-Yang-patched hijab, a scarf in the colors of the Iraqi flag wrapped around her shoulders, long-sleeved T-shirt with
SILENCE IS CONSENT
written over it, jeans, and brown boots. She grins at Bilal and me and rushes over. It’s group hug time.
I remember Timothy and Sandra. I turn around and thank Sandra.
“No problem. They didn’t press charges so everything’s fine from here. We can all go home now.”
“What do we owe you?” Bilal asks.
“Nothing!” she cries, dismissing his question with a wave of her hand.
“No, seriously,” Shereen says, stepping in. “I owe you something. I’ve taken up your whole afternoon.”
Sandra smiles. “I did this because Timothy asked me as a special favor. He said it was for a close friend. So please, don’t
spoil it with talk of money. Consider it my contribution to civil rights.” She chuckles and Shereen gives her a warm hug.
Timothy is standing awkwardly beside his mother.
“Thanks…” I mutter uncomfortably.
“Don’t worry about it,” he mutters back.
We leave the police station. Shereen is gushing praise and thanks over Timothy’s valor in coming to her aid. I want to take her aside and quietly inform her that he is an e-mail imposter who tricked me into telling him all about our lives.
I jump into the backseat of Bilal’s car and we drive off to Parramatta for a quick coffee and debriefing session before we return home.
It’s now five o’clock and I suddenly remember that I’ve been out of the house for an entire day without Dad knowing or having even called. So I send him a text message and tell him that I’m with Shereen and Bilal in Parramatta.
He sends one back: Nex tim you ask befre you lev the hose.
I don’t have much in the way of a rebuttal argument so I reply: OK.
We choose a table outside a café on Church Street. Shereen proceeds to tell us what happened.
“We were trying to make a bit of noise as a procession of government officials and MPs were arriving at the entrance of Parliament House. It got out of hand. Some idiot started to burn the flag. I rushed over with Cam and Tisha to try and get him to stop. Of course the cameras started rolling at that point.
Then he started throwing stuff at the cops. Bottles and cans. The cops came in hard and we got caught up in it all.”
“So was it worth it?” I ask.
Shereen stares at the table, fiddling with a packet of Sweet’N Low. A moment’s pause. Cars drive past. The traffic light turns red. A yellow Porsche revs its engine for our benefit. The steady hum of conversation and laughter surrounds us.
She looks up and our eyes connect. “I still think silence is consent. But I realized something while sitting in the holding cell, wondering whether I’d end up in jail. Despite the fact that I’ve been screaming and shouting and venting, I think my voice got lost. There are only so many causes you can champion. I was all rhetoric.” She pauses, tapping her fingers on the table. “I need a focus.”
“So what now?” Bilal asks.
“This will probably sound really sanctimonious—”
“Ahem!” Bilal says. “English, please!”
Shereen smiles. “Stuck up.”
“So say
stuck up
instead of using a word that has every letter of the alphabet.”
Shereen and I groan.
“Anyway,” Shereen continues, “I want to try and make an impact at the grassroots level of society. You know, reach out to communities who feel isolated and alienated. I want to help them feel connected. And besides, we need more diversity in the police force.”
Bilal slams his hands down on the table and bursts out laughing. “A cop? That’s awesome!”
Shereen grins. “Of course, I could never do any undercover assignments. Unless it’s investigating the beef content in a kebab at Lakemba.”
“I wonder what Dad will say.”
“He’ll probably think it’s too dangerous for a girl,” Bilal says, rolling his eyes.
“Actually I’m pretty optimistic that he’ll be OK with my decision. I think he’ll be happy that I’ve finally worked out what I want to do with my life.”
“I’m not so optimistic,” Bilal says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I got a job.”
Shereen and I squeal with excitement.
“Really?”
“An apprenticeship with a top mechanic. Not exactly Dad’s ideal job description for me.”
“It’s fantastic!” Shereen cries.