Free Good Muslim Boy by Osamah Sami

Kangaroo Continent, impossibly
distant from the rest of the known world.
    And Dad had gone to this strange, impractical land to lecture its people on Islamic
History and Arabic Literature.
    He called international every day to see how we were doing, and to check that I was
taking care of the house. He was also making real money, and promised that when he
got home, we’d finally get to move into a house with actual bedrooms.
    He told us about the place he was staying in, which was called Sydney. He didn’t
mention the Opera House or the beaches. Instead, he was entranced by the abundant
aisles of the supermarkets. He understood his audience: we, too, were amazed.
    ‘A thousand different types of cheese?’ I asked, flabbergasted.
    ‘A whole aisle dedicated to cheese! They have everything.’
    ‘What about butter?’
    ‘A thousand types of butter, too. And you don’t even have to have cheese and butter
for breakfast, because they have cereals for breakfast, a thousand types!’
    This was clearly ridiculous. During and after the war, we’d been on rations. Each
family had received a coupon, entitling them to the basics: vegetable oil, sugar,
flour and rice. You could always buy more commodities on the black market, but that
was for wealthy families. Prices had been severely jacked up.
    In Iran, there are six or seven different types of bread, each unique and ‘baked
on the spot’ at its own special bakery. But the problem of a small town like Qom’s
being flooded with a population more often found in a capital city was that bread
ran out before even half of us got a turn. As such, it was essential to line up as
early as 4 am, well before the dawn prayer. Unfortunately, the same situation applied
to buying milk, and it was my job to secure both necessities.
    It was a daily catch-22. Did I line up for milk for an hour, or did I risk the milk
and go for the bread first? The stress had been immense back when I was six or seven.
I’d got used to it by now. Practice makes perfect.
    My head was spinning as Dad went through his absurd list of products. There was:
    LOW-FAT MILK
    NO-FAT MILK
    FAT-BOOSTED MILK
    SOY MILK
    GRASS MILK
    VEGAN MILK
    SMART MILK
    INTELLIGENT MILK
    STUPID-PEOPLE MILK
    LACTOSE-FREE MILK
    LACTOSE-ENHANCED MILK
    CELEBRITY MILK
    WOMEN-ONLY MILK.
    We didn’t believe him, but he promised photographs.
    I wanted to go there. Not really to flee persecution; the truth is, I didn’t know
any better, it was just our everyday reality. And while I knew about the beaches,
I couldn’t even imagine them. I didn’t dare imagine them—surely such a beautiful
location, filled with equally gorgeous women, existed but in heaven. I could barely
picture what women looked like without their headscarves. Combine that with the descriptions
of Australia I’d read in the library, and you can see why bread and milk were so
alluring. Dad also assured us there were no midnight raids by naked tribesmen.
    From the questionable reading I’d been doing in the library, plus Dad’s stories—he
always talked until his credit ran out—I had more than enough ammunition to start
bragging. I spent my days telling total strangers how Dad was guiding Christian convicts
to Islam, and hunting his breakfast via boomerang.
    Many years later, I came to appreciate the absurdity of my impressions. Then again,
I was recently asked by a sincere young Australian whether we’d discovered cars yet
in Iran or if we still rode on camels, so maybe every teenage boy is short on wisdom.

SIPPING TEA WITH SUGAR
    Mashhad, Iran, 2013: five days until visa expires
    I’ve been in the court for three and a half hours, clutching a number in my hand.
It’s close to 10 am, but nothing is close to happening. I go through a long mental
checklist called What I Could Have Achieved in Three Hours. Two soccer games. A few
overs of cricket. Disco dancing. A prayer marathon. Queueing up at Centrelink.
    Finally, they call my number. I approach the desk. I brief a