‘Have it all!’ I cry. ‘Fuck it, just have it all! I’ll give you my eight million
now, then that whole five hundred dollars. That’s three hundred dollars, a million,
more than your asking price. Just get me out of here, and get my father home.’
He thinks about it for a moment. ‘Okay, that works,’ he shrugs.
I make the call to Emirates; they’re accommodating as all get-out. As I do, the man
places each and every bill under the scanner and subjects them to the blue-light
test. Thumbs-up. The notes are good. They’re all good.
They are
all
good.
They are all good.
I stand there, in a dream. Could it be that I will be out of here with Dad tomorrow?
I made it.
The man hands me my tickets. Or, my ticket. Dad’s ticket in my name, and then a separate
itinerary for my cargo.
‘I will meet you in the airport tomorrow,’ he says. ‘Your flight is at 8.30 pm. Check-in
closes at six-thirty. Don’t be late.’
‘I’ll be there in the morning.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ he says. ‘The cemetery will transport the coffin directly to
the freight terminal and, believe me, you don’t want your dad out of cold storage
for long.’
As I grab the tickets, it occurs to me that paper has a smell. Freedom is what it
smells like. It looks like paper, but smells like freedom.
It is an algedonic moment. Bittersweet with a capital B. I spring up and out the
door. I could fly, I am so light. Actually, screw the ‘could’. I
will
fly. Tomorrow,
I will.
Melbourne, Australia, 2003
When the planes hit the towers on 11 September 2001, things changed for our community.
I must admit, with a name like Osamah, it would have been folly to think I’d get
away without being searched ‘extra randomly’ at airports. However, I didn’t bank
on those extra checks seeping out into everyday life. At train stations. Shops. Even
the local baker. These ‘checks’ weren’t necessarily physical, but more psychological
taunts and words similar to the ones I had heard as a young Arab boy in Iran. It
was funny (in a totally not funny way) that here I was in Australia, where people
were so advanced, yet ‘go back, you desert monkey’ and ‘blow yourself up at home
and leave me the virgins’ were as common as the common Aussie fly. It seemed that
no matter where you went on this planet, any global event could turn otherwise decent
humans into creative phrase-makers slash mouth-frothing taunters.
More than ever, then, our community converged on the mosque—which suited my own conscience.
Between Sisi and the
Amazing Medical Degree That Never Was, I liked being in a place
where I got to be a good Muslim boy again.
Each night, Dad took our neighbours’ social and religious questions after prayer.
After September 11, these Q&A sessions could last a good three hours. I was there
for all of them, approaching my tasks as the cleric’s son with renewed levels of
diligence.
It was past midnight, and we were all in need of some decent shut-eye, when a zealous
Sayyed shouted: ‘Your Excellency! Can you write a play about the Prophet’s second
war on the infidels? It will be a smash hit!’
Dad always wrote a play meant for performance in the mosque, which doubled as a makeshift
theatre while the season ran its course. His scripts were populated mostly by the
local husbands, and by yours truly, every year since 1995. What can I say? Bored
Muslim mothers got obsessed with Aussie Rules. The dads turned into amateur thespians.
‘Sayyed. I am going to write a different play this season. A musical.’
‘About the Prophet’s war! Please! It will be funny.’
‘No.’ Every year, another period piece; Dad had had enough. ‘I’m going to write a
contemporary show.’
A true director, he knew when to pause for effect.
‘I’m going to write
Saddam: The Musical
.’
Curtains open.
We see: a lavish hall in Saddam’s palace.
A number of Saddam’s elite bodyguards stand, unlit.
Also present (standing on designer sofas) are Saddam’s henchmen: Chemical Ali, Izzat
Ibrahim, Taha Yassin, Muhammad Al-Sahhaf and Saddam’s son, Qusay.
Cue music: ‘Stayin’ Alive’, by the Bee Gees.
Lights on Saddam Hussein, in uniform and beret, sporting his trademark moustache
and aviators.
He stands in the middle of the hall, eerily charismatic. A Cuban cigar in hand.
The henchmen start to do their dance, also in full uniform.
Saddam, with stiff movements, belts out the opening number in his scratchy voice:
SADDAM
Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk
I’m the nation’s man, no time to talk.
The bombs are loud and America warm.
I’ve been kicked around since I was born.
And now it’s alright, it’s okay
The UN may look the other way.
We can try to understand
The New York attack’s effect on man.
Whether you’re a brother
Or whether you’re a mother
You’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.
Feel Baghdad breakin’
And Iraq shakin’
And we’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.
HENCHMEN
Ah, ha, ha, ha —
Stayin’ alive.
Stayin’ alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha —
Stayin’ aliiiiiiiiiive.
SADDAM
Well now, I get low and I get high
And if I can’t get either I really try.
Got a block by the US on our booze
I’m a people’s man and I just can’t lose.
You know it’s alright, it’s okay.
I’ll live to see another day.
We can try to understand
The New York attack’s effect on man.
Whether you’re a brother
Or whether you’re a mother
You’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.
Feel our city breakin’
And my nation shakin’
And we’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha —
Stayin’ alive.
Stayin’ alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha —
Stayin’ alive.
Life goin’ nowhere.
Somebody help me.
Somebody help me, yeah.
Life goin’ nowhere.
Somebody help me, yeah.
Except Iran
I don’t want their help.
But Iraq’s burning
Somebody help us.
Somebody help us, yeah.
Get rid of the sanctions
Bring back the friendship
C’mon Bush
Do it now!
Stayin’ alive
Stayin’ alive
Stayin’ aliiiiiiiiiiiiiive.
The music stops, but the henchmen keep dancing.
Saddam looks at them with menace; they freeze.
Saddam laughs. They laugh. He laughs louder.
They laugh louder. He stops. One of them continues laughing. He just signed his death contract.
◆ ◆ ◆
Saddam: The Musical
was a roaring success.
After a sold-out season in Melbourne, we took it on the road—as far afield as Sydney,
Shepparton and Cobram. Not all of this went smoothly. I had a shoe hurled at me in
Shepparton. I guess you have to expect a mixed response when you’re playing Saddam
Hussein. In that scene, I was dancing over the corpse of a beloved Iraqi Sayyed.
In the end, more than 3000 Arabic speakers came out to see the show.
Dad was chuffed. Who wouldn’t be? Two-time escapee, noted cleric—and now regular
off-Broadway wunderkind, discovered late in life. There was an honest-to-God media
frenzy in the Arabic papers—the first time in forever I’d had to polish my formal
Arabic.
We were all chuffed, our little drama troupe from Fawkner-by-way-of-humanitarian-visa.
Of course, we started to set our sights on bigger theatres, brighter lights.
It’s possible that the world was not quite ready for us.
The plan was to dispatch me to the Middle East to meet with the local theatre companies.
Kuwait, the United Arab Emirates, Bahrain and Oman: Saddam’s tyranny had reached
all these lands over the decades, so we figured each would have a hungry, built-in
audience. Best of all, we’d be playing to the masses, giving them some much-needed
release from real historical atrocities. Nothing really lets you know that the past
is over like watching Saddam Hussein dancing to a Bee Gees song.
But we got stalled on Kuwait. I spent three months there, cajoling Kuwaitis to accept
our company. The Ministry of Information’s censorship board kept us waiting for
six months, before rejecting the play on undisclosed grounds.
No matter. The world was bigger than the Middle East—and the Middle East was all
over the world. We were living proof of that. Detroit had a large Iraqi expat population,
and through discussion with a number of local artists there, we managed to book a
season at a large community centre. It wasn’t Broadway, but it was closer than Shepparton,
at least.
Soon enough, eight of us were touching down in San Francisco, with full hearts and
crushed costumes crammed into our luggage. America: the land of the free.
◆ ◆ ◆
When Hernandez the Homeland Security officer led me into the interrogation room,
he assured me this was all standard procedure.
Twelve hours in a drab room flooded by fluorescent light is a long standard procedure,
if you ask me.
I was exhausted, jetlagged and starving—one pack of noodles this whole time.
Hernandez the Homeland Security Officer got to leave the room; I didn’t. Now, he
wandered back in and sat opposite me.
HERNANDEZ
One more time. What is the purpose of your visit to the United States?
OSAMAH
(boldly)
I’m here to do a musical.
HERNANDEZ
You, OSAMAH, are doing a musical, about Saddam.
Is that what I’m hearing?
OSAMAH
How many times do I have to tell you?
HERNANDEZ
(nonchalant)
So tell me again. I like your accent.
OSAMAH
Christ, mate.
HERNANDEZ
Don’t blaspheme.
OSAMAH
Muslims believe in Jesus too.
HERNANDEZ
You’re not doing yourself or your friends out there any favours by being a smartass.
OSAMAH
Do you want me to say Muhammad instead of Jesus? Okay. Muhammad, Muhammad! Doesn’t
have the same ring to it. We have a show to do.
HERNANDEZ
So you say.
OSAMAH
So I know.
HERNANDEZ
And you rehearsed this play at a mosque.
OSAMAH
How many times do I have to repeat it? Yes. Yes. Yes.
HERNANDEZ
At a mosque? You want me to believe you were rehearsing a musical at a mosque? And
the author of this play is what—a shake?
OSAMAH
He’s a sheikh, not a banana smoothie. What is your problem, mate?
HERNANDEZ
I want to make sure you’re here for the reasons you’re saying you are.
OSAMAH
I told you, me, Mohammad, Mustafa, Ali, Hassan, Hussain, Jaber and Mahmoud are here
to do a musical.
(OSAMAH and HERNANDEZ look at each other across the table. They are both thinking
the exact same thing about what all those strange names sound like.)
OSAMAH
Goddammit, man. I mean, Muhammad-dammit, man. We’re here to do a funny show. Want
a ticket? You’d love it.
HERNANDEZ
We tend not to laugh at terrorism here.
OSAMAH
Oh, lighten up. The play is anti-terrorism.
HERNANDEZ
We’ll see about that. The play is being translated as we speak. We
will
decipher
this.
OSAMAH
Decipher
this? Like it’s in code?
(HERNANDEZ looks at him: you tell me.)
OSAMAH
We’re all about peace, you know. There are over one billion of us in the world.
HERNANDEZ
More than three times the population of the States.
OSAMAH
What does that have to do with anything?
(pause)
Oh, I know what you’re doing! Trying to get me to incriminate myself.
HERNANDEZ
(reasonably)
But you could take us down. It’s simple math. Right?
OSAMAH
Wait, what? I mean, yes, we outnumber you but—hey! Don’t type that! What did you
type there?
(OSAMAH leans across the table to scrutinise the computer. HERNANDEZ swivels the
screen away.)
OSAMAH
Just because my name’s OSAMAH doesn’t make me a terrorist. It might make me a dick,
a prick, a fish stick, but not a terrorist. OSAMAH’s actually a popular name. It
means lion. There’s a fun fact for ya: OSAMAH equals lion.
HERNANDEZ
We are writing everything down, OSAMAH. You better pick your words wisely.
OSAMAH
You
better pick your words wisely. I’m an Australian citizen.
HERNANDEZ
The London Bombers were British, weren’t they?
(OSAMAH throws up his hands. What can he say?)
HERNANDEZ
(grinning amicably)
Silence is a sign of defeat.
OSAMAH
Yeah, good on ya. We’re gonna miss our connecting flight to Detroit —
HERNANDEZ
Believe me, that’s the last of your worries.
(There’s a large map of the United States on the wall. OSAMAH glances at it idly.)
HERNANDEZ
Why are you looking at the map?
OSAMAH
I felt like it. You’ve never done something you felt like? Ever itch your balls under
your desk at work? I. Felt. Like. It.
HERNANDEZ
You have a lot of anger, OSAMAH. How would you feel if we bombed your country?
OSAMAH
You planning to bomb Australia?
HERNANDEZ
Don’t be a wise-ass. I meant Iran.
OSAMAH
Australia’s my country, and unless you’re planning to attack it I have nothing to
say to you.
HERNANDEZ
I meant I-
ran
. What is your connection to I-
ran
, OSAMAH?
OSAMAH
I used to milk goats there. That’s my connection.
(seeing Hernandez is typing this)
Don’t type the goats bit, can’t you tell my tone?
(a deep, frustrated breath)
I was born there.
HERNANDEZ
(dead serious)
So you didn’t milk goats?
(OSAMAH just stares.)
HERNANDEZ
What is your connection to I-rak?
OSAMAH
My parents were born there. Why are you asking questions you already know the answers
to? Modern-day technology not reached you yet?
HERNANDEZ
You seem to know a lot about modern-day technology. A lot for an actor, no?
OSAMAH
(insulted on behalf of his fellow actors)
I can build a computer from the ground up.
HERNANDEZ
Yeah?
OSAMAH
That’s hard for you to believe too? Muslims can ‘do’ things.
HERNANDEZ
Oh, I know what Muslims can do. Do you know how to hack into a computer, OSAMAH?
OSAMAH
What a dumb question, no offence. If I was a hacker you think I’d just get on my
knees and tell you?
(realising)
That might have come out wrong.
(HERNANDEZ raises his eyebrows, leaves the room. Time passes. He comes back with
a folder.)
HERNANDEZ
We’ve made some calls back to Australia. Your police aren’t too happy with you.
OSAMAH
I got some unpaid fines.
HERNANDEZ
Some?
OSAMAH
Okay, ten, fifteen thousand dollars’ worth.
HERNANDEZ
You’re a real lawbreaker, aren’t you?
OSAMAH
I was a dick as a driver. Always driving without my P-plates displayed, driving unregistered
cars, couldn’t afford it. So the fines kept piling up. That doesn’t make me a terrorist.
HERNANDEZ
But you’re angry with the system.
OSAMAH
I’m angry with myself.
HERNANDEZ
If I were someone like you, OSAMAH, I’d be angry with myself too. You have a history
of lying.
OSAMAH
When you’re young, you can’t think. We’ve all told lies, haven’t we?
HERNANDEZ
Not about a whole college degree.
OSAMAH
There was a lot of community pressure.
HERNANDEZ
You even said it yourself, ‘OSAMAH’ means lyin’.
OSAMAH
(pause)
Lion. Not lying...Why would anyone’s name mean ‘lying’?
HERNANDEZ
OSAMAH. OSAMAH. OSAMAH. Don’t suppose you know where the other OSAMA is?
(HERNANDEZ laughs at his own joke.)
OSAMAH
I thought you didn’t find terrorism funny.
(Enter stage left a tall, white man. He is the HUMAN LIE DETECTOR.)
HERNANDEZ
Well, now you’re in trouble.
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
Are you comfortable there, sir?
OSAMAH
Five-star luxury.
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
You guys seem far too organised to be a theatre company.
(OSAMAH is again insulted on behalf of all artists.)
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
The game is over, OSAMAH. Who are the whores?
OSAMAH
I’m sorry, who are the whats?
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
Name the whores. We translated the script.
There’s mention of whores —
(OSAMAH bursts out laughing. There is a scene in the musical in which Saddam’s whores
come to console their president; all these roles are played by men, comically dressed
as harlots.)
OSAMAH
Yeah man, I’ll name the whores: Mustafa, Mohammed and Mahmoud. You won’t find tramps like those three.
C’mon, mate, what do you want from us? We’re low on resources. People have to play
multiple roles.
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
Your mosque’s resources seem to be pretty darn good.
OSAMAH
We rehearsed at the mosque because we
didn’t
have resources — we couldn’t afford
anywhere else. Plus Dad okayed it.
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
The sheikh. Of course he okayed it.
(His tone changes to a game attempt
at sympathy.)
You had nothing to do with it. We’re not blaming you. We just want to know who planned
it. You say your father was the one who wrote this?
OSAMAH
Yes.
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
So he’s the architect behind this. Tell me what the whores stand for. Are they some
kind of code?
OSAMAH
You’re like a cartoon character, fair dinkum.
HERNANDEZ
That’s just Aussie lingo, sir.
(The HUMAN LIE DETECTOR stares daggers at HERNANDEZ.)
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
And you’ll be in the country a handful of days.
That’s kind of a quick trip, wouldn’t you say?
OSAMAH
We are here to do three shows, and then we go back. If it’s a success, we might come
back later. Hey, I just realised — that means the three of us might get to hang out
again!
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
Very efficient responses, OSAMAH. Can you name five New York landmarks?
OSAMAH
Anyone can.
(HERNANDEZ and the HUMAN LIE DETECTOR are at the edge of their seats.)
OSAMAH
Times Square. Statue of Liberty. Central Park. The Towers.
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
Ground Zero, OSAMAH.
OSAMAH
Ground Zero...David Letterman.
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
That was rather fast.
OSAMAH
Shall I do it slurred?
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
I’ll be sure to pass on your regards to Mr Letterman. He’ll be thrilled to have a
Muslim fan.
(The HUMAN LIE DETECTOR takes a long, meaningful pause. HERNANDEZ pants with anticipation.)
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
You know, the thing is you claimed even if you
were
a terrorist, you wouldn’t admit
to it, so we’re in a bit of a knot here.
OSAMAH
I said if I was a hacker I wouldn’t admit it and it came out wrong. Please. I stink.
I haven’t had food, I’ve been here for fourteen hours.
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
Name the bombers, OSAMAH.
OSAMAH
What bombers? What are you trying to pin on me?
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
(holds up OSAMAH’s mobile phone)
Is this your phone?
OSAMAH
Shit. What have you planted on my phone?
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
Nothing planted. Just your own messages:
‘Let’s watch them get killed from front-row seats.’
‘I want our boys to destroy them.’
‘They will eat our dust.’
Are these not yours?
(OSAMAH looks at the messages of ‘terror’ and they
are
his messages. Then, it all
registers. He begins to laugh uncontrollably.)
OSAMAH
Yes! I am a proud Bomber! And yes, those are my messages!
(The HUMAN LIE DETECTOR and HERNANDEZ look at OSAMAH, surprised but victorious.)
OSAMAH
I’ll name the Bombers: Kevin Sheedy, he’s the top dig, James Hird and Matthew Lloyd,
they’re definitely hardcore Bombers.
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
(after a long pause)
Wow. One’s gotta admire your tenacity. You sell out to a thousand zealots. Rehearse
every answer. Hide your sicko messages behind a football team and come to this country
prepared.
OSAMAH
What do you mean?
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
It means you won’t be dining with your seventy-two virgins on our soil. We’re deporting
you out.
OSAMAH
(desperately)
I’ll sing you a song from the play...
(OSAMAH begins to belt out ‘Stayin’ Alive’, complete with the scratchy voice of Saddam.
The HUMAN LIE DETECTOR throws up his hands in disgust.)
HUMAN LIE DETECTOR
Deported!
OSAMAH
(hysterical)
No! God has cleared a path for me! I must enter the country and carry this out! It’s
God’s plan!
(realising this all sounds pretty terrible)
Should I sing you the closing number?