This is an extract from Racism: Stories of fear, hate and bigotry, edited by Winnie Dunn, Stephen Pham and Phoebe Grainer.
A big pig spins on a rotisserie, putting on a show for the insurance brokers, claims managers and actuaries my law firm is entertaining at the annual client Christmas party. It’s the first thing I see as I step out of the elevator into the loud room. There are palm fronds on the wallpaper and art deco light fittings give off a warm glow. I can’t stop staring at the pig. I don’t like the look of it. Not because it’s haram but because of the way it turns on the silver rod. It rolls in the air like it once rolled in a paddock. I feel bad for the pig even though it has been petrified and golden for some time.
People stand in small circles near the black marble bar or lounge on yellow chairs in dim corners of the room. After dark, the venue is a nightclub, somewhere I’d never go other than for a work function. We solicitors are expected to attend. This is before my hijab days. I straighten my hair. I wear Ted Baker and pearls and shoes that harass my toes into neat triangles. The client Christmas party is always fancy because the clients gossip among themselves afterwards about which firm celebrated best.
I greet a man, Sean, from one of the client’s offices. I’ve been working with him over the past few months. His cheeks are pink and round and his beard is white. He looks like a man-sized lawn gnome. We’re making small talk about a four-car pileup. The poor piggy has been shredded and it comes around in a tray of sliders. I raise a palm and say, ‘No, thank you.’
How many other Muslims are in this room keeping hunger at bay with kid drinks?
Sean looks at me with wide eyes and says, ‘Well, I’m going to have some!’ He takes two sliders from the tray and eats them in three bites each. I try to go back to the four-car pileup but the client leans in too close when he talks and I find myself stepping backwards every so often to create a buffer between my eyes and his mouth.
I’m hungry but the other meal option is oysters. Waiters shuck them over a table of ice at the back of the room. Short wide knives gleam as they pry the wet shells open. I ask Sean about another case I know he’s been working on but he is chewing. I wait for him to finish, taking a sip from my glass of cranberry juice. Sean finishes his last bite of food but instead of answering my question he sucks the salt and oil from each of his fingers - pop pop pop pop pop. He maintains eye contact, wanting me to know how good the pig tastes. Sean’s fingers glisten as he grunts, ‘Mmm.’
A man with brown skin and a dense moustache enters our conversation. He’s wearing a badge with the name ‘Mohamad’ on it next to the sharp red-lettered logo of the company he’s from. I haven’t met Mohamad previously but Sean seems to know him. Sean nods, offering no introduction. I say hello and state my name while clutching my glass to avoid shaking hands. He is holding an orange juice.
How many other Muslims are in this room keeping hunger at bay with kid drinks? I wonder whether I should provide feedback to our human resources department about this. I don’t really mind my dietary preferences being ignored but it’s embarrassing not to feed the clients.
—
The following August coincides with Ramadan and a case I’m working on is being heard in the Supreme Court of NSW. It’s a matter about a farm that grows more cotton than I can visualise. One evening, another solicitor and I are in conference with the barrister representing our client. We refer to him as Counsel. Counsel is a tall man with shaggy grey hair. An ex-politician. He owns the building we’re meeting in — a heritage-listed federation-style building on Macquarie Street. Counsel’s back and legs fill the square room we’re in as he paces back and forth, reading from a textbook. Black robes and a curly wig are draped over a coat stand in the corner. We had court today and the hearing continues tomorrow. My colleague shuffles through papers while I take notes. I’ve been fasting all day but I don’t take any breaks because I don’t want anyone to think that my religion makes me lazy.
I watch the sky turn orange then darken through the window over Counsel’s shoulder. He switches on a tall lamp and reads a section of legislation out loud for the third time. I say bismillah in my heart and lift my water bottle to my lips. I extract three dates from a Ziploc pack in my handbag. I place them in my lap on top of my binder. They’re like garnets in the lamplight. I eat them one by one, silently, so as not to disrupt the conversation. Counsel stops reading, drops into a chair and crosses his legs so that his big brown shoe hovers in the middle of the room. He smiles and asks, ‘Are you still doing that thing, Amani?’
I lower my half-eaten date with the pit poking out and brush a stray strand of hair from my eyes. ‘Yes, I’ve been fasting for Ramadan,’ I reply.
‘Ah!’ he exclaims, beaming. ‘I have a case about some of your group who want to build their church somewhere and we’re arguing section 116 — it’s unconstitutional!’
Counsel’s chair creaks as he uncrosses his legs and leans forward. None of what he has just said makes any sense to me. I nod, ‘That sounds interesting.’
Counsel lifts a hand to his belly. ‘But I wish I subscribed to Ramadan,’ he says, rubbing his tummy and chuckling. ‘Maybe I’d lose a little weight.’
—
On the train platform at Granville, I stand as far back from the edge as I can. I am pregnant with my second child and the smell of barbeque chicken, which usually makes my mouth water, today makes my head spin. I’m on my way to hear a friend’s presentation about women’s health in the city. I haven’t caught the train since I took leave during my first pregnancy a year ago. My train arrives puffing warm smoky air into the folds of my hijab. I step carefully over the gap onto the train and, remembering that hot air rises, I waddle towards a seat on the bottom level.
The event goes well. I meet lots of women who are involved in interesting things: Tamil women who wear pink saris to raise awareness about breast cancer, Afghan women who run informative seminars for women refugees. The time passes quickly as I listen to them talk about their work. I leave with a lady who wears glasses at the tip of her nose and has her pale grey hair up in a neat bun.
She works at one of the big charities. We’re walking through the Devonshire Street tunnel when she asks me what I do.
‘I’m a commercial lawyer but I’ve been on mat leave for a while,’ I say, waving a hand at my belly.
Her eyebrows fling up to the top of her face and she asks, ‘Where did you work?’
I reply, ‘At a firm, here in the city.’
‘Well, you’d have done a lot of good for the women in your community just by turning up,’ she says, nodding at my hijab.
My throat stiffens at her words. ‘I was a lawyer, not an activist,’ I mumble in response.
My throat stiffens at her words. ‘I was a lawyer, not an activist,’ I mumble in response. ‘It was before my hijab days.’ I’m about to elaborate when a busker wearing a poncho and a nose ring drowns me out with a strum of her guitar. Drops of sweat swell at my temple as the tunnel stretches on. We pass a man who flings out his arm and places a flyer in my hand. It reads: Stop Sharia Law. I fold the paper into a small square as I walk. The ink cracks and smudges along the creases.
A wave of nausea strikes as we pass the takeaway shop that sells chips and gravy, hot dogs and strips of pork crackling. When we arrive at the barriers, my companion suddenly pats me on the shoulder.
‘Keep up the good work!’ she says with a smile.
As my train takes off, I wonder what’s become of my files since I left the firm and if I’ll ever go back.
This is an extract from Racism: Stories of fear, hate and bigotry, edited by Winnie Dunn, Stephen Pham and Phoebe Grainer.
Sweatshop is a literacy movement dedicated to empowering culturally and linguistically diverse writers through reading, writing and critical thinking. The book is available .
