Choices
In memory of Fatima Sidaoui
12 November 1936–15 October 2017
Author: Maha Sidaoui
When I was twenty-one I had to make a choice between living the life my parents wanted me to have, or living my life. I picked the fun and torturous one.
My parents had a lot of seemingly inconsistent rules, but we always adhered to them. That’s what they thought anyway. For example, we could travel the world and visit other Australian cities, but we couldn’t sleep over at a friend’s house or move out of home. We could go out at night, as long as it was for coffee with girlfriends. Boys were out of the question, and definitely not boyfriends. We could go out to a nightclub, but only if we were escorted by our brother and his friends. My sisters and I were lucky. We had an awesome older brother who covered for us when he could. All these rules only served to make us better liars and expert negotiators.
I knew I would survive if I lived under my parents’ roof until I was married, however, deep down I knew I wouldn’t thrive. I wanted the same experiences my friends were having. It wasn’t just about the alcohol and drugs, although there was plenty of them around and they were mostly good fun. It was about first times, first partners, first shared house, first cooked meal at home, first electricity bill, first bitching session about our flatmate who left the kitchen a mess.
One carefully planned day, I told my parents that I was visiting a friend in Sydney for the week. I packed my bag, a large suitcase filled to the brim with as many clothes and belongings as I could fit in. I had a friend pick me up, but instead of going to the airport we drove to 6 Council Street, Clifton Hill. My flatmates, Andy Mast and Jeremy Goldberg, were eagerly waiting for me. Even though I was only forty minutes from the home I grew up in, I felt like I had just shifted into a whole other world.
This two-storey, run down Victorian house had minimal light and a chill that could be felt as soon as you opened the front door. When you walked along the hallway, the smell of the damp brown carpets quickly hit you. My bedroom was the largest and closest to the front door and was the furthest from the one bathroom upstairs. There was no heating anywhere and the warmest part of our home was the small kitchen. It only took a yellow retro laminate table and four vinyl mismatched chrome chairs to make this space feel cramped. The heat came from a wall to ceiling glass door that opened out to a small, square, moss-covered tiled courtyard. For a few hours a day the sun would find its way through the one palm tree growing in the back. We would drag the heavy kitchen chairs and line them up along the back door, stretch out our feet and absorb the rays streaming through the glass. When we were all home together, this time was considered the official cocktail hour.
We played Uno and drank vodka and cranberry (because it was healthy for you). By day we became bargain hunters and toured the local op shops for furniture and ornaments we thought were cool. At night, we continued with our housewarming celebrations, my friends in disbelief at the secret I was keeping from my parents.
The week passed quickly. When Sunday came, I knew I had to go home and tell my parents that I had moved out. I borrowed a car and drove as constant tears flowed. My eyes were bloodshot by the time I arrived. In my mind, once they knew that I had moved out they would never speak to me again. I braced myself — my mum would cry and my dad would shout. My mum would repeat the same thing over and over again, ‘What will I tell everyone?’
My father would rant and lecture me about how I was shaming the family. However, it wasn’t just the words I had to face. It was also the acknowledgement of the pain and hurt they would feel, just because of a desperate choice I felt I had to make. They didn’t understand the world I wanted to live in. Why would I want to pay rent? Live in an old house? Hadn’t they worked all their lives to give me what they thought I needed? All they wanted was to spare me any ordeals and troubles they had gone through when they came to Australia.
I parked the car in the driveway behind my dad’s lime green LTD. It was six in the evening and there were still a few weeks of daylight saving left. I watched the sun dip behind our garage, checked myself in the mirror and waited for the redness of the whites of my eyes to fade. I tried to figure out what scared me most. It wasn’t just being kicked out of home — it was more. It was about seeing the fear that I could sometimes spot in their eyes when they didn’t understand something. I hated watching their confusion as they searched for ways of comprehending the lives of their children.
I thought the best thing I could do was to just take it — to not fight back and just wait until the inevitable moment where they couldn’t shout or scream anymore and they would kick me out of the house.
I got out of the car and walked up a couple of steps. I could see my parents through the screen door; dad was in his white singlet and long shorts and mum was wearing her light blue silk dress. My parents were sitting next to each other at the dinner table looking out to the garden. I went over and kissed them and they both greeted me with quick hellos. My mum whispered something to my dad. I sat down at the table and my younger sister, Jamal, came out of the lounge room and shuffled over to me, half asleep. She wrapped her skinny arms around my neck, yawned and went back to watch TV. At thirteen, her best friend was still sleep.
Empty plates and bowls were still sitting out on the plastic table cloth, my mum’s packet of Peter Stuyvesant almost empty, the ashtray full. My dad had his glass filled with ice and my mother stood to pour him a drink; he only drank Johnny Walker Black. Still standing and poised, she kept my dad waiting for the punchline, put the bottle down and took a drag of her cigarette. Staring ahead out the window she turned to my dad and in Arabic said, ‘It must be the cobblestones.’
Then she sat down, slammed her palm on the table and let the smoke drift from her mouth as she laughed. My dad took a sip of his whiskey, looked at my mum, shook his head and, despite himself, began to chuckle. Mum looked at me and waved at the table. Her way of saying, ‘Help yourself’. Her laughter faded and when she got her breath back she came over and kissed me twice on the cheek and sat back down next to dad.
My mum turned to say something to me and then took another quick puff of her cigarette. I thought she was going to ask about my trip and I sat up, ready to tell the truth. I took a deep breath and inhaled some of the smoky air.
My mum said, ‘I have a joke. Two nuns ride their bikes, the first one says, “I’ve never come this way” and the other one says…’
My dad quickly stood up and got between us in an attempt to shield me from my mum. ‘You can’t tell her that joke.’
There was no stopping my mum and she jumped up too and gently tried to push my dad aside to tell me the punchline. ‘She’s old enough Saeed, out of the way.’ My dad turned to me, laughing and shaking his head. I’m not sure if I detected a little embarrassment.
‘You can relax Dad. I’ve heard all of Mum’s dirty jokes — ten times over.’ I picked at the bowl of left over tabbouleh, while my mum repeated the punchline and they both sat down and laughed again at the same joke.
When there was a second of silence I blurted out, ‘Mum, Dad, I’ve moved out of home. I have a place in Clifton Hill, with two other girls from uni. You don’t know them, but they’re Italian and Greek.’ I thought if I could embellish the story by making out that other ethnic families didn’t have a problem with their daughters moving out, then maybe they shouldn’t either. I had my head down staring at the table and was saying all this to a discarded triangle of Lebanese bread. I didn’t dare look at them.
There was silence. Finally, I looked up.
‘Sure. Do what you have to do.’ My mum started to clear the table. Dad polished off his drink.
I was bemused. ‘Did you hear what I said? I’ve moved out.’ I didn’t know what had happened when I was away. Had my parents read a reverse psychology book?
They said it again. ‘Do what you have to do.’
No arguments. No explosions. A simple and strange, but dignified, farewell.
I drove home with a mix of feelings. I was elated, confused and euphoric with relief. I didn’t think it would be the end of the discussion, but I knew I wasn’t going to lose my parents. I had put myself through unnecessary pain and torment playing out the scenes where they would tell me that I would be disowned.
My friends at the time had their own struggles that ranged from coming out to their parents, to choosing unapproved career paths. What we all wanted, desperately, was to move out of home. To be free and to explore being an adult. I know things have changed and often wonder about the choices young adults have to make these days. I wonder what it is they are willing to fight for. What decisions will they make that will define them as adults?
In order to move forward in life, we must make choices and stand up for what we believe in. We do this mostly when we are young, growing and developing into the human beings that we hope to be. Today, the only adults I know who have regrets are those who stayed away from making the big decisions in the first place.
MAHA SIDAOUI is currently working on her manuscript ‘One Arabian girl’, genre fiction that delivers a strong message to a young adult audience. In 2016, the first chapter was shortlisted for the Deborah Cass Prize.
