to prove
his point.
‘Truck drivers use this all the time. You’ll be as beast as a Mack with one of these.’
I check the time and accept the offer. Worried how the box might look if anybody
finds it, I unpack it and stash the strips in my backpack. I hand the box back to
the driver. ‘God be with you,’ he coughs. I find a decent room. It’s way past three.
My head is a minefield. I see a trio of cockroaches near the bed shake their antennae,
perhaps over my purchase, and I fall asleep.
◆ ◆ ◆
Four hours later, I wake up and take a shower. I can’t put off telling my family
anymore.
I call Moe Greene, my tough younger bro. I ask him to round up the family and put
me on speakerphone.
I still dance around it, until Mum gets sick of me. ‘Why are you calling?’ she says.
‘My blood’s dried up. Just spit out what’s on your mind.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll make this quick. There’s no easy way to say this, but I think
you should read the Fatiha . Dad’s passed away.’
I hear a loud scream. Then the sound of my sisters crying. I can’t bear it.
‘Listen, I only have a minute here. I have to go, there’s so much to do, but I promise
you I will bring him back. I love you all.’
‘Please! Wait!’ Mum says, in deep agony. ‘Tell me he is just sick, in hospital. Tell
me he’ll be okay.’
‘No, Mum. He’s been dead for three days.’
More screams, more crying.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier. I wanted to have everything in order.’ I hang up
the phone and head out.
I don’t want to think about what my family is going through—it will just slow me
down. Luckily, my hunger is drowning out my thoughts. I find a small breakfast joint
and order.
◆ ◆ ◆
I call the Australian Embassy. I speak in English—and the lovely lady tells me I
can come in anytime.
‘Do you mean the young cleric?’ she asks. She recognises Dad from his trips back
to Iran over the years. He had come and gone to complete his PhDs, publish his books
and for pilgrimage over the years—although this trip had come after many years away.
I confirm it’s him, and tell her I can be there in an hour.
At the gates, I’m met by a guard with a machine gun.
I show him Dad’s passport. ‘This isn’t an Australian passport,’ he says. ‘And where
is yours?’
‘Dude, this is an Australian passport. I’ve called them already—’
‘They don’t give appointments here.’
‘So check with them.’
‘Show me your passport.’
‘My passport is in Mashhad.’
‘Why is it in Mashhad? You don’t have a Mashhadi accent at all. Are you lying?’
A black car with tinted windows pulls up. An Iranian man opens the door; two Westerners
exit. They look 100 per cent Australian: pale white men in suits. Best of all, they’re
speaking with my accent.
‘Mate!’ I yell. They look over, but just nod and walk in.
The guard taunts me. ‘You are nothing to them.’
I must admit, I don’t look my best. My clothes haven’t been changed in days. My facial
hair’s out of control. Maybe I’m insane in thinking people might see me as anything
other than a street rat.
I beg the guard to just call in and check if I am lying. I offer him 100,000 in Iranian
money—about a week’s wage. I place a large banknote in his hands. He checks to see
if the note is fake. When he realises it’s real, he almost drools. He buzzes in:
‘There is an Arab to see the ambassador.’ I want to strangle him. I call over his
shoulder, in English, that I’m an Australian citizen, seeking help for an emergency.
The gate buzzes open.
It’s a quick affair inside. Dad’s passport is taken. The first page is cut with scissors
and handed back to me. I’m given instruction on what form the cargo needs to take,
instruction on the embalmment process. I’m told to translate important papers using
the official services and given a number to call if I need help, even after hours.
I take a taxi to a translator’s office, where I’m
his point.
‘Truck drivers use this all the time. You’ll be as beast as a Mack with one of these.’
I check the time and accept the offer. Worried how the box might look if anybody
finds it, I unpack it and stash the strips in my backpack. I hand the box back to
the driver. ‘God be with you,’ he coughs. I find a decent room. It’s way past three.
My head is a minefield. I see a trio of cockroaches near the bed shake their antennae,
perhaps over my purchase, and I fall asleep.
◆ ◆ ◆
Four hours later, I wake up and take a shower. I can’t put off telling my family
anymore.
I call Moe Greene, my tough younger bro. I ask him to round up the family and put
me on speakerphone.
I still dance around it, until Mum gets sick of me. ‘Why are you calling?’ she says.
‘My blood’s dried up. Just spit out what’s on your mind.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll make this quick. There’s no easy way to say this, but I think
you should read the Fatiha . Dad’s passed away.’
I hear a loud scream. Then the sound of my sisters crying. I can’t bear it.
‘Listen, I only have a minute here. I have to go, there’s so much to do, but I promise
you I will bring him back. I love you all.’
‘Please! Wait!’ Mum says, in deep agony. ‘Tell me he is just sick, in hospital. Tell
me he’ll be okay.’
‘No, Mum. He’s been dead for three days.’
More screams, more crying.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier. I wanted to have everything in order.’ I hang up
the phone and head out.
I don’t want to think about what my family is going through—it will just slow me
down. Luckily, my hunger is drowning out my thoughts. I find a small breakfast joint
and order.
◆ ◆ ◆
I call the Australian Embassy. I speak in English—and the lovely lady tells me I
can come in anytime.
‘Do you mean the young cleric?’ she asks. She recognises Dad from his trips back
to Iran over the years. He had come and gone to complete his PhDs, publish his books
and for pilgrimage over the years—although this trip had come after many years away.
I confirm it’s him, and tell her I can be there in an hour.
At the gates, I’m met by a guard with a machine gun.
I show him Dad’s passport. ‘This isn’t an Australian passport,’ he says. ‘And where
is yours?’
‘Dude, this is an Australian passport. I’ve called them already—’
‘They don’t give appointments here.’
‘So check with them.’
‘Show me your passport.’
‘My passport is in Mashhad.’
‘Why is it in Mashhad? You don’t have a Mashhadi accent at all. Are you lying?’
A black car with tinted windows pulls up. An Iranian man opens the door; two Westerners
exit. They look 100 per cent Australian: pale white men in suits. Best of all, they’re
speaking with my accent.
‘Mate!’ I yell. They look over, but just nod and walk in.
The guard taunts me. ‘You are nothing to them.’
I must admit, I don’t look my best. My clothes haven’t been changed in days. My facial
hair’s out of control. Maybe I’m insane in thinking people might see me as anything
other than a street rat.
I beg the guard to just call in and check if I am lying. I offer him 100,000 in Iranian
money—about a week’s wage. I place a large banknote in his hands. He checks to see
if the note is fake. When he realises it’s real, he almost drools. He buzzes in:
‘There is an Arab to see the ambassador.’ I want to strangle him. I call over his
shoulder, in English, that I’m an Australian citizen, seeking help for an emergency.
The gate buzzes open.
It’s a quick affair inside. Dad’s passport is taken. The first page is cut with scissors
and handed back to me. I’m given instruction on what form the cargo needs to take,
instruction on the embalmment process. I’m told to translate important papers using
the official services and given a number to call if I need help, even after hours.
I take a taxi to a translator’s office, where I’m
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