LXXXVII

Today I met a man called Emir*. I was in his home, I met his child, I met his wife. I know where he lives. I was trying to buy his second hand couch. And when my all-Australian husband asked no less than kindly, “Where are you guys from?” there was the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. Ryan didn’t see it. I know he didn’t. But I saw it. Because even I know a little of what it is to be asked that question and be uncertain of the reaction your answer will trigger. To be one of the ‘lucky ones’ who have the option of denial; who have a way out through falsity, if one was wanted.

Emir was a middle aged man. He lives in Sydney, Australia and his child was born here. He was tall and lean and olive-skinned. Near bald-headed – by choice or genetics I don’t know, I didn’t pay attention. His facial stubble and the hairs on his arms were a dark colour. So were his eyes. “We’re from Israel,” interjected his wife. Is that the truth?

I wonder what he’s seen that made him hesitate in the first place. Here in my country. Here in my city. What has he seen? Was it the little-longer-lingering gaze of a stranger passing in the street. Was it the hint of uncertainty in the demeanour of a potential employer. Was it the almost-imperceptible reaction of another when he gave them his name. Was it watching the news of a morning and stepping out the door with a hyper vigilance that his name, and his eyes, and his skin, and his voice put him in association with the towns he’d been watching burn, and the masked militants he’d watched torture – that we’d all watched.

And he’s one of the lucky ones. No hijab for his wife. No keffiyeh on his head. ‘Normal’ clothes on his back [read: white, Anglo, middle class male appropriate]. Just the voice. Just the eyes. Just the name. One of the lucky ones.

*Name has been changed

[Image: Pinterest]