Category: Writing (page 9 of 11)

Cultural Diversity, Garlic and the Brisbane Writers Festival

By Mohammed Massoud Morsi

Both Marc Fennell, Michelle Law and Yassmin Abdel-Magied laughed loudly. I didn’t get it, neither did David Levithan, I noticed. Clearly it was an intricate Australian joke. “Do you see what I see” was the title for the talk at the BWF and here the 4 panellists gave their point of view of what they experienced differently from the majority of Australians. There was just one thing that didn’t work. To me, they were as Australian as could be.

The scene reminded me of living in Copenhagen. A panel compromising of popular cultural identities, personified. Most of them had assimilated so well into Danish culture, their own culture, norms and ways of communication had developed into a pseudo-form that worked both ways or were so washed out that it could only be identified by their points of view. They were detached from the remaining cultural landscape they assumed to represent. They were either hailed or hailed themselves as the answer to the obvious change in racial and cultural diversity the country was experiencing and their positive experiences as an example of the possibilities their groups actually had. Denmark had historically been a white country with blue eyed, blonde children, rye bread lunch boxes and no garlic. My smelly lunchbox with garlic infused Egyptian food would be spat in, hidden, thrown in the bin or overlaid with pieces of bacon and the successful stories of the personas that were being promoted publicly, didn’t add up to me. Even though I spoke as fluent Danish as Arabic or English, the chances I got were a fraction of those of the majority and depended on whether someone would accept my smelly lunchbox. Over time garlic became in and male Danish cooks showed Danes how to chop up garlic two decades later. Every kebab shop in town made a killing on cheap falafels overladen with greasy garlic sauce and somehow it had become Danish to eat falafels and kebabs with garlic.

This is not about garlic though but about diversity and how Australia’s diversity is shaping up from my point of view. Denmark still struggles with diversity on the political level but on the day to day level, things have changed. People from different ethnic groups have married and the definition of who a Dane now is, and what he or she can do, wearing something on their head or not, has shifted immensely. Even though a third of the population over the age of 70 still believes the country is at war with Islam (Independent UK 28/7/16), it’s no longer the blonde-blue-eyed-ryebread-eating version that’s being perceived as Danish. In the media, representation has slowly shifted but still has a far way to go. The independent Danish newspaper, Information, publishes stories from immigrants on a daily basis. As the only newspaper it draws the attention for the need to foster and facilitate true cultural diversity. It also deliberately uses immigrants from all levels of society in articles that revolve around topics different from immigration and the national identity crisis, which eating garlic infused kebabs and making brown babies with honey comb eyes has led to. Muslims get to talk about other things than Islam so to speak. In the Danish movie industry it’s moving a bit slower and using dark coloured people for ‘white’ roles is still not common.

After the panel had discussed intensively and laughed at their own jokes, I was left with a question I recognised years earlier. Is cultural diversity in Australia based on integration, assimilation or acceptance? In between those words I marked Marc Fennell’s shrugging of his shoulders to the fact that the country’s identity is partly formed by characters such as Pauline Hanson. Perhaps this is the case due to the complacent nature of Australians, whether it being the image the media portrays or the simple lack of courage and discipline to stand up against bigotry and thus, being viewed as for what it also is, a country, still deeply embedded in its racially discriminating past?

As an immigrant to Australia for almost 6 years, I have been taken back to the 1980’s of Denmark, where those who looked and especially acted different became the targets of an atmosphere thick with hate. I see what is happening here in Australia, the return of the hate mongering by politicians and celebrities against Muslims in particular. I hear how a terrorist attack in France makes a news anchor in Australia bassoon her fear as the need to ban Muslims from coming to Australia. I don’t hear anyone holding white Australians accountable for the domestic violence rate against women, one of the highest in the western world or for their part in killing thousands of people in state sponsored violence across the world. Yet there it is, the biased world of the corporate media, the politics of the media, where some people’s lives and values are delivered as being worth more than others. As being valued more than others.

Assimilation means that a person is supposed to adapt or absorb themselves in the majority culture of a place or a country in this case. This creates a symbolic notion that the majority culture is the right one or the valid one if you wish. It also means, implicitly, a denial of one’s own cultural identity and background. I can’t recall the number of times I have been suggested to change my name. An immigration officer at Perth airport asked me politely asked upon arrival once, if he could comment on my name: “Mate, you just need a ‘Bin Laden’ in there and it’d be perfect”. I didn’t mind the laugh, at least he was being honest. He was used to seeing my name and it is one, truly littered with the popular names of past dictators and dubious presidents, from Hussein to Morsi. Perfect for what exactly? Some change their way of clothing to fit into the mould so to speak and even adapt the habits and attitudes of the majority culture. These are just some examples of assimilation. However, where is the line drawn? How will Australia access whether someone is able to integrate or not?

It’s about rights. Integration should be a process that aspires to equality, socially and economically, between the majority and minorities. It’s about mutual adaptation between immigrants and the established population, so the majority also need to act, change and make room for a new way of defining what it means to be Australian. However I hear a weak discourse here in Australia, mostly revolving around how all the different minorities, in particular those of the Muslim faith, should be responsible and participate in the society.

Adapting is not enough though. Even when we wash out cultural differences in Australia, a both symbolic and at the same time real distance is evident. Especially when the minority group is easily identified amongst the majority. No matter how well I speak English I am subjected to categories and codes that reinforces my place amongst the ‘others’ and not ‘real’ Australians. It wouldn’t even matter if I got citizenship. Forget about the fact that I won’t swear allegiance to a Queen with so much blood on her hands, it’s the fact that the majority doesn’t find it interesting to ask me about anything else than what it’s like to be a Muslim. As if it somehow means prawns exit gleaming out of my arse. It’s an expression of the structural discrimination in society that prevents true integration of new people to the mass and it’s rooted in the historical perceptions, traditions and habits, those considered normal by the majority.

So why do I hear talk about integration when it’s really assimilation? Is it because assimilation is a hard cookie when it comes to human rights and democracy? It’s not democratic to interfere how people wish to dress, which God they wish to worship or which language they wish to speak in their own home. Do we really need other rules for societal participation just because our names aren’t John or Malcolm? And do I need to be named Hanson or Burston to be integrated well enough?

It is democratic to accept and true acceptance is integration at its best. In that way, a society builds up a majority that is truly made up of a diverse group of people. Even the ones smelling of garlic or wishing to wear dreadlocks or get on their knees to pray to their god. It is democratic to foster and facilitate these notions and that is not done by taking those, already well assimilated and setting them as an example of successful cultural diversity. It is democratic to accept that a society is comprised of immigrants and indigenous people and to foster an equal representation of those.

The desire for assimilation here in Australia reflects a deviation from democratic values. Integration of foreign people under one nation must not and can not be solved by forcing people to relinquish their faith, language or cultural kinship. And most certainly not their rights. In doing so, the democratic society ceases to exist. Australia hasn’t reconciliated with its past. The way it was established was non-democratic to say the least and celebrating its violent beginning with flags every year must be denounced. It was bigoted colonialism and perhaps once that process is taken seriously once and for all, it might move into a true democratic society where acceptance is how cultural diversity and peace is fostered. The first step to achieving that is to stand up against bigotry and hatred and not just shrug our shoulders. I’d definitely be part of and pride such a democracy.

PICTURE OF A PEANUT GALLERY

BY MOHAMMED MASSOUD MORSI

At the front of the house, an arrow, drawn on a piece of paper, pointed visitors to follow a paved path with short bushy plants on both sides. Small rice lamps in splendid colours hung all the way, past two cars under a spot lit carport. An open gate welcomed them to the back of the house, where soft music was playing. Up against a high rustic brick wall, a grand barbecue with a steel lid was surrounded by a big group of people in tiny circles, most of them with a drink in their hand. The woman and the foreigner with her, made their way there. Other smaller groups were scattered under deliberately dimmed lights in the cavernous garden. The foreigner took the drinks they had brought along and put them in a tub where they floated in ice alongside the drinks of other people.

“What would you like to drink?” The foreigner asked.

“I’ll have an apple cider, ta. Find me a cold one please.” The woman said.

The foreigner moved his hand around the icy water, touching bottles of cider until he felt a cold one and handed it to the woman.

Everyone was talking. A continuous mooing, only broken by occasional squeals like “Jesus!” and “Oh my God!” The foreigner extended his hand and said his name to those who interrupted their conversations briefly, and looked at him. He stood there for a while, smelling the fat of the bacon wrapped sausages burning, as it dripped onto the flames.

The woman walked over to a couple standing on their own and hugged them, almost without touching. She turned around and signalled the foreigner to join them. As soon as he had greeted the couple, the women turned to each other and started talking. The foreigner and the man glanced at each other.

“So… Are you a Muslim?” Asked the man. “I mean, you’re not drinking.”

“I am driving.” Said the foreigner and faced the big group of people.

They were shoulder to shoulder, in small flocks, moving in a leg-cuffed pace around each other. Men took turns attending to the food, with a hiss slithering out, each time they opened and closed the steel lid.

“Doesn’t that look like a peanut gallery?” Asked the foreigner. Being an avid photographer, he always had his camera ready. Using only his right hand, he placed it in front of his right eye and took a picture.

“What’s a peanut gallery?” Asked the man. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that.”

“Probably not.” Said the foreigner, still looking through the viewfinder.

“Why do you say that?” Asked the man.

The foreigner removed the camera from his eye and kept looking at the people.

“Never mind, maybe it doesn’t really look like a peanut gallery.” He said. “There’s a lot of people over there and they just made me think of one.”

“Do you want a drink, mate?” Asked the man.

“I’m driving.” Said the foreigner.

“You just told me! Sorry mate!” The man said.

The foreigner smiled at the man, to let him know it was fine.

“So… I’ve heard things aren’t that great back home.” Said the man.

The foreigner watched the big group of people. What were they all doing? Standing and talking, sitting and talking, talking and talking. There was no dancing, no playing, no cards being shuffled, nothing. Just the drooping, dawdling and drinking of daftly named niche brewery drinks. Something needed to happen.

“Yes, something needs to happen.” Said the foreigner.

“Do you think there will be another revolution?” Asked the man.

“Maybe, I don’t know.” Said the foreigner.

“It’ll explode if another guy like Morsi, no offense mate, comes to power again.” Said the man.

“None taken.” Said the foreigner. “Why is that?”

“It’ll just throw the country back to the stone age.” Said the man.

“What makes you think so?” Asked the foreigner.

“Well… Just look at what they are doing in Syria. They’re crazy!” Said the man.

“Who is crazy?” Asked the foreigner. “I am not sure I understand.”

“Religious people mate, especially the Muslims! It ain’t pretty mate!” The man said.

The foreigner looked at the big group of people once more. Something definitely needed to happen. The overthrowing of someone, a minister, a president, a king. We should be demonstrating, starting revolutions and we should all get naked! We’d look in each other’s eyes, and we’d be dancing and playing. It would make sense, it would justify everything.

“It looks like the food is ready.” Said the foreigner.

“I think you’re right mate.” Said the man. “Follow me!”

The foreigner followed him and right behind him, the two women. The man grabbed a beer from the icy tub, which he opened with a twist that seemed to appease him. After he’d taken a substantial gulp, he looked at the bottle with a smile and sighed “Ahh…”

“What can I get you?” The foreigner asked the woman.

“I’ll have one of those wrapped ones, babe, ta!” She said in a brief intermission from talking to the other woman.

The foreigner took a paper plate and dressed it up with the sausage, a vivid salad and reasonably fat, gleaming prawns.

“Not bad for a good Muslim!” Said the man, as he saw the plate.

“Thank you.” Said the foreigner and wielded a short pulling of his lips.

“Mate, I knew you were all right…” Said the man and sent the foreigner a wink.

The foreigner handed the woman the plate, who returned him a small kiss on his lips.

“Are you all right love?” She asked.

“I’m fine.” He said. “I’m just hungry.”

The foreigner looked around himself. How dare we gather like this? How dare I stand here without starting a revolution, without getting naked? I will not waste this. I should start, in fact, I will start. Right here. Right now.

THE END.

It was around eight in the morning and I had gone down to my local breakfast joint in Jakarta. I usually had the same dish, hot noodles mixed with whatever the woman of the house would put in it. As long as it was spicy, as long as I would sweat. It was the way for me in the tropics. Every morning ‘Lana’s’ would join me. I did not know her real name, only her ‘working name’. She would wipe my forehead and give me a kiss on the cheek. I would begin my day delighted in our conversation. Two worlds at opposite ends in a safe place. At ‘Lala’s’ she could, along with the other sweet girls from the area, have a quiet breakfast. Lala was a large and smiling Muslim woman, who judged no one and whom no one argued with. She had set upon herself the mission of being kind to the women whom had ‘lost their purpose’ as she put it.

What will happen

When he is gone

Nothing can happen that is not supposed to happen

I can’t take it

And then I am on it again

And what wasn’t supposed to happen

Happens

Lana was 22 and she would make about a 10 dollars a day, sometimes more. She always looked after herself she said and she was good at what she did. She offered me to try for myself and each time I thought about it until the next morning where I would take her word for it. She wanted to study medicine and live in Europe or Australia. That was her dream. And to find a man that she could love. She told me that every morning.

You are My Morning Love.

I was invited to a 5 course fancy dinner. Two sets of everything, had never seen anything like it. It was extravagant; a company treat. The waiter was acting very quaint with a hand behind his back, served us an in-between snack of some sort of melted exquisite cheese, sprinkled with ash. He didn’t mention where the ash came from. I hadn’t even tasted it and I remembered this moment, across the world, in Cambodia, looking down at Boupha sucking her finger; covered in a fine layer of ash coming from the chimney of the brick making factory. Burning hard wood. We were all covered in ash, it got in our ears, nose, eyes and any surface it could attach itself to. By the end of the day it had deafened my taste buds and my breathing was affected. I was documenting the lives of the people, not just working but also living with them. It was slavery, a short life. In reality not worthy of any life. The taste was delicious, but somehow I couldn’t really sink the combination properly. I was served the ash.

In the north west quarter of Copenhagen, three people are out for a walk. It’s the end of January and it’s so damned dark for the most part of the day that the snow is a welcomed light bulb, reflecting which ever light the universe lets through. It crunches slightly as our feet pack the perfectly shaped flakes with the weight of our human bodies. The air smells like it’s been dry cleaned in Asia, where a bit of fragrance is added before the fabric is folded neatly. For the three companions, the comfort of the falling snow is like being wrapped by a sea of warm goose feathers. There is a silence that cannot be described, only experienced, walking through a white night.