Dear Pakistan Page 9

  I didn’t hear the hope or desperation then, I was too angry. ‘Yes, he is. Well, sort of.’ I don’t think Danny was listening.

  ‘If it was another guy here, I’d know what to do, but this is no challenge. There’s nothing left to fight with. I can’t compete with your mind—some myth of your imagination.’

  ‘What are you talking about? What’s it got to do with you anyway? This is my English assignment. It’s an allegory, some way to write how I feel.’

  ‘Jaime, you don’t need this crap. Have you ever met this guy?’ He didn’t wait for me to answer. ‘Even if you had he’d be married off to a Himalayan princess by now.’ Danny moved closer. He had a look on his face like I once saw on a Pakistani’s when he was about to beat his wife for talking to a guy.

  Did I actually shrink against the wall? I can’t remember. Then his whole attitude suddenly changed. Talk about Continental volatility.

  His voice was softer. ‘Jaime, you’re holding onto too much. Don’t you see? You’re not letting yourself see what’s here. Sure, there’s a lot of bad stuff, but there’s good too. Don’t throw away today. Let yourself feel for where you are now.’

  I wondered what might have happened next if Andrew hadn’t come in then with two mugs of coffee. Would things have turned out differently? But I didn’t hang around. My anger had changed into something that was threatening to spill down the front of me and I didn’t want anyone to see. Let Mum think up some excuse why I went to bed early without saying goodnight.

  Later, as I cooled down and stopped crying, I felt sorry for Danny. It would be devastating to find a story written by a girl you cared for and discover you weren’t in it yourself. I guessed that was where ‘the rubber hit the road’, as Dad used to say. Danny must have been hanging out for me to be ready to be more than a friend. Otherwise would a platonic friend get so upset over something like that?

  And that bit about ‘feeling’ for here. Was I dead? I didn’t stop myself seeing and feeling things, did I? Maybe I had been too critical about the Australian way of doing things. But how do you stop thinking things that you know are true?

  Yet however much I tried to give Danny the benefit of the doubt, it still stung that he’d called my story crap. That bit I took very personally.

  14

  Fortunately I didn’t run into Danny on Monday. I wouldn’t have known how to handle it. Sara knew there was something wrong. I would usually tell her everything, though not about Suneel, of course. So I told her I’d had a fight with Danny. She was big on forgiveness and having a talk with him. She liked Danny, although she confided she wouldn’t be allowed to go out with him. I just stared at her when she told me that, like ‘now you tell me’.

  I wanted to be friends with Danny again, but it still didn’t take away that ‘totally misunderstood’ feeling. It hurt because I thought he had understood. I guess it’s when expectations are too high that we get the most disappointed. Maybe that goes for countries as well as for guys. Maybe Danny too; perhaps he’d expected too much from me, wanted what I couldn’t give. Even though I didn’t believe everything Kate said, I was beginning to realise that being a girlfriend to Danny would involve more than a few kisses in his car at night.

  I was toying with the idea of having a talk with Mr Bolden and taking a later bus home when Elly raced up breathless to ride home with me. The talk would keep, Elly couldn’t, so amid her chattering we headed for the bus. It’s funny how things work out, for in making that one simple decision, I changed so much, even though I didn’t sense it until ages after.

  Elly saw the police car first. I usually looked the other way when I saw police. I guess that came from living in Pakistan. When we were stopped for a breathalyser test when we’d only been in Australia a month, I was certain the test would turn up positive even though Dad hardly ever drank. I’d learnt police couldn’t always be trusted.

  ‘Hey, Jaime. They’ve got a little kid.’ In Elly’s megaphone whisper it sounded as though the police had abducted the poor little guy. I risked a look. The kid was crying and shaking his head every time the policeman tried to lift him up, obviously to put him in the car, and the kid didn’t want to cooperate.

  It was Elly who saved the day. ‘Doesn’t he look like someone we know from Pakistan?’ I took a good look. He wasn’t, but she wasn’t far off the mark. He was an Afghan. I could tell; you get used to picking which areas people come from when you’ve lived in a place like Pakistan. He had the fairer features and dark curly hair that we saw so often on the Afghan refugees that poured into Islamabad, seeking political asylum.

  I hardly missed a heartbeat; Dad would be so proud of me. Approaching the policeman, I said, ‘Excuse me, but I might be able to help.’

  He may never know what courage it took for me to talk to him. I’d never spoken to a policeman before. He looked annoyed at first, like ‘get lost kid can’t you see I’m busy’ but the little guy suddenly stopped crying. He was looking at me as if I were the Queen of Sheba. Maybe it was the plaits I was wearing that day; Afghan girls wore them too, or maybe he’d been told a fairy with a white face would grant him a wish one day (they do get told the most interesting fibs to keep them quiet). Whatever it was, it sure worked. I didn’t know any Dari or Pushtu though, like Dad, so I tried Urdu.

  ‘What is your name?’ I asked, sitting on my haunches.

  It took him a while to answer as if he wasn’t expecting me to be able to say anything he understood.

  ‘Ali.’

  ‘Where do you live, Ali?’

  He only looked about four and he spoke the Urdu lispingly, making it hard to understand. When he answered, I thought he said ‘Peshawar’. He sure was a long way from home. Five months ago I would have said, ‘Hey, tell me about it.’

  ‘Did you live in Peshawar, Ali?’

  He nodded. He was better at understanding than speaking.

  ‘Do you live in Australia now?’

  He nodded again. ‘Is your family here?’

  His eyes filled with tears as he nodded again.

  ‘Do you live here in Salisbury?’ Blank. ‘Salisbury’ wasn’t part of his vocabulary yet. I turned to the policeman.

  ‘He’s an Afghan refugee. They must have only just moved into the area.’ I could tell the police officer was impressed. ‘I think if you take him to the Migrant Resource Centre, they’ll know where he lives. My father works there.’

  Men can be so helpless sometimes. ‘But I can’t get him into the car.’

  I suddenly saw the policeman as an ordinary guy. I grinned and turned around to Ali. I held out my arms and he walked straight in as I picked him up.

  ‘Ali, this policeman will take you home.’ The little kid stiffened as he pulled away and I knew what was wrong. I set him down again.

  ‘Ali, in Australia the policemen are good men. Not like

  Pakistan.’ What was I saying? I felt like a traitor, but it was true. Some of the police in Pakistan were merciless to the Afghans and to others as well, asking for bribes to supplement their meagre income and often framing innocent people for the same reason.

  ‘This man will not beat you, nor will he ask your father for money. It is different here. You are in Australia now.’

  The boy smiled tentatively and I hugged him close as I swallowed down a lump in my throat. Here he was, still afraid of the very things that his parents would have brought him here to save him from: police corruption, war, political unrest and the threat of prison or death.

  ‘You are safe in Australia, Ali.’ I hoped I was telling the truth.

  The boy smiled widely and nodded as though he’d been told that before and I’d just confirmed it.

  The poor policeman hadn’t understood a word, only that I’d managed to bring a terrified boy to the brink of smiling at him. ‘What was wrong?’

  I shrugged, a little embarrassed. ‘The police in Pakistan somet
imes ill-treat the refugees. He was frightened of you, your uniform, the car, everything. They’re often told the police will carry them away if they’re naughty or go too close. At times it’s a good-behaviour trick, but sometimes it’s true. Either that or he’s been in a detention centre and thinks you’re one of the guards.’

  The policeman shook his head in frustration. ‘But how can people live like that? Under so much fear? Here kids are taught from kindergarten to get on with the police. They come to the station. Hear the siren. I even go to schools to tell them stories about what we do.’

  It was my turn to be surprised. ‘You do?’

  ‘How else do you get the respect necessary for law and order?’

  How indeed. He didn’t know the rigid set of rules that everyone knew about in Pakistan, where in some areas a man could still get his hand cut off for stealing and a woman stoned for adultery. Dad had come in one day, shaking, from the bazaar. He’d just seen a man publicly whipped for rape. There were no more rapes in the village that year. I didn’t think the policeman would understand all that so I picked up Ali again.

  ‘Would you mind coming too, miss? You’re doing such a good job.’

  Elly was impressed; I could tell by the way she pushed me towards the car before I could even think.

  ‘Do you think he’ll put the siren on?’ Elly’s whispers always sounded staged and I saw the police officer smile.

  ‘They only do that for emergencies,’ I whispered back. Ali tightened his grasp around my neck as he stared out of the window. I wondered what was going on in his little head. I was around his age when I first went to Pakistan. I can’t remember much but Mum said I became very shy (a source of concern apparently) and had nightmares. After six months I was fine, playing with the kids next door, totally accepting of my environment. I hugged Ali tighter.

  I wanted him to have a good impression of Australia; I hoped I was helping. Most probably his family had lost relatives in the war in Afghanistan. Ali may have even seen a bomb or a mine go off, seen people killed—all that before they had made it across the border to Pakistan where they may have been looked down upon and mistreated.

  Yes, Australia would be truly the Land of the Free to families like this, the Great Southern Land of new beginnings where they could be safe, if the government let them stay. Ali’s eyes were large and round; there was a scar above his left eye. He looked so innocent but I knew he would’ve seen more than I had, suffered more than me. I hoped he didn’t remember it and this would be a happy new world for him.

  Dad took over once we arrived at the Migrant Centre. It was difficult prising Ali off me but Dad’s fluent Dari helped. Elly wanted to stay to meet his parents but I couldn’t get home quickly enough. And once I’d thrown myself on the bed, I couldn’t stop crying. This time it was just like Elly in the Teddy Bear Shop. I never cry like that but I couldn’t control the sobs from bursting out like the electric shocks that start someone’s heart again.

  I guess I was crying for Ali at first, for all he must have gone through, his family and how sad they must be to leave Afghanistan in the state it’s in, yet so full of hope in coming to Australia, hope in the new life they’d make for their kids.

  It wasn’t long before I was crying for myself. Mum and Dad had done that too: come back for us so we could have choices in life, live the life we wanted. Everyone seemed to think that could be done in Australia. Suddenly I realised it was true, but only true if you made it so. It would become true for Ali’s family; they’d work, they’d enrich Australia and make it a better place. Couldn’t I too? Sure, there was a lot wrong, but no place was perfect. It would certainly be less perfect if we kept pulling it down like I was. I could choose to make it home.

  Ali’s family had chosen and they couldn’t go back. They would make Australia their home even though they would feel strange at first. Could I do any less when I was born here? When I was an Australian?

  I awoke early the next morning to the sounds of the men stirring on the verandah and in the room next door. If I put a single foot out of the bed, I knew Rushda would wake, so I turned over carefully and glanced across to Suneel’s mother.

  ‘You are awake, little one?’ Wasn’t that what Suneel had called me or was that a dream? His mother was smiling at me. She must have known all along; they must have decided between them that I would be the one. But why? While everyone was quiet and I had her to myself I thought I’d never find a better time to find out.

  ‘Rushda told me last night that I am like Suneel’s mother. What did she mean?’

  There was a silence from the older woman as if she were weighing up exactly what to say. I wouldn’t be offended. I knew we didn’t look alike. How could we? Maybe something in our personalities? I was totally unprepared for her answer when she finally did give it.

  ‘I am not the true mother of Suneel.’

  I sat up straighter on the bed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It is an old story.’ She sounded weary. ‘I have been Suneel’s mother ever since his birth but I did not birth him.’

  ‘He’s adopted?’ I must admit the thought had crossed my mind when I first saw those green eyes of his.

  ‘Nay, child. His mother died in childbirth here in the village. The khan, my husband, is his true father. Soon after, I became his wife and I became Suneel’s mother.’

  Did I dare ask? I barely whispered, ‘What was she like, his mother?’

  There was a sigh. I wasn’t sure whether it was in resignation or of missing someone she once loved. ‘She was like you. She was full of dreams and aspirations. She was going to help the world. One day she came here on her own, exploring, at one with herself and the world and her God. Yes, she was just like you. She was English too.’

  I sank back on the bed, shocked, but my curiosity was aroused.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The khan chose her, of course. What did you expect? She was a jewel. They were very happy.’

  I was quiet awhile but Suneel’s mother continued. ‘When Suneel comes today there will be dancing and he will publicly choose you. Later, privately, he will ask you to marry him. You should accept.’

  ‘What about my faith?’

  ‘You will find Suneel very tolerant of your beliefs. We Kalasha are not Muslim.’

  ‘What about my parents?’ Why was I suddenly thinking up objections? So they’d be swept away and I’d know my heart decision was right?

  ‘It will all be arranged. They will come and give their blessing also.’

  I suppose my parents couldn’t forcibly take me with them if I wanted to stay, but I couldn’t imagine they’d be overjoyed that I wouldn’t finish high school.

  ‘Could I still study if I stayed? I mean, go to university?’

  ‘Anything is possible,’ was the enigmatic reply.

  Then she added softly, ‘Choose wisely, child. Risk happiness.’

  15

  On the weekend I went to see Yasmeen. I needed some warm fuzzies and she was excellent at handing them out. I still hadn’t spoken to Danny and I knew if he didn’t initiate a meeting, I would soon. But I didn’t feel like thinking about him just then, so I put on a shalwar qameez, enjoying the satisfying swish of the material against my legs.

  Dressing like that made me feel beautiful, well-dressed. I guess there was more to it that I wouldn’t have been able to explain, but the clothes, the Urdu language and knowing Yasmeen’s family customs made me feel accepted in their circle. I guess it was like the girls at school dressing alike in the same label jeans and shoes and speaking the same slang to be part of the ‘in’ group.

  Yasmeen was getting ready to go out later on. She always began early, but as usual had time for me. I sat on her bed, watching her put on layer upon layer of mascara and Pakistani black kohl, pulling down her bottom eyelid as she ran the steel kohl stick across the inside white ridge. I flinched as
if it were my eyelid feeling the cold steel, but she was obviously used to it; mothers even put it on their newborns in Pakistan. I grinned, thinking what Australian nurses would have to say about that.

  ‘Yasmeen?’

  She screwed the filigree steel stopper into the kohl bottle and turned to face me.

  ‘Ji?’ I loved her little Pakistani ‘yes’. It always made her eyes dance, her face shine and me feel wanted. Her full attention was on me now but for once I was nervous. I had to find out how far her acceptance of me went; how long I would remain her friend if I didn’t keep all her rules?

  ‘Would you ever wear a short skirt, Yasmeen?’

  ‘Of course not.’ I don’t know why I’d started asking the questions; I knew the answers. I couldn’t back out either for, judging by the interested look on her face, she could tell I had something on my mind. I just blurted it out the way Basil gets rid of surplus chicken skin at dinnertime.

  ‘What if you saw me with a boy? What would you think?’

  ‘Jameela, you are not Pakistani. It is your custom to fall in love before you marry, to marry whom you choose. If you find a nice boy, that is good. Although I do think many people here go too far.’

  ‘You mean single mothers, our high abortion rate?’ Suddenly I could think of numerous issues in our culture that Yasmeen would see as problems and I thought she would readily add to them, but she didn’t. Instead she came to sit beside me on the bed.

  ‘Jameela, no culture has the only correct way. We have many rules to safeguard ours, for we know that a society that is morally weak will quickly be swallowed up by another, but there are things in ours I don’t like also.’ She surprised me into silence.

  ‘Take circumcision for girls—I wouldn’t want that to happen to me. And because of our strict rule system there are many occasions when those rules are forced on others. I have friends in Pakistan who are married to men they never saw beforehand. Some never had a chance to say “no”. At least, my father will ask me if I desire the match.’