Five pm on a Monday night, my pay enters my account.
Seven am on Tuesday morning, I wake up, sipping black coffee.
I grab my wallet, enter my car and drive to Western Union.
It has just opened, yet the line is long, full of people chattering, mainly in Arabic.
Their bags full of cash, their heads full of grief, their eyes on the door.
Waiting for the door to open, these phrases I hear.
“See what happened.”
“All the money gone.”
“No petrol.”
“My niece needs medication.”
Once the door opens, only a few of us can walk in. The store is small, definitely not built to fit a village, so our line continues out the door.
When it’s my turn to deposit, the teller (who has obviously been working here for too long) asks, “You’re sending to Beirut, right?” as she quickly places my cash into the currency-counting machine.
“Yes, to Beirut.”
Seven hours behind, on Monday night, the money enters my aunty’s account.
Seven am on Tuesday morning, she wakes up, sipping on water and prayer.
She grabs her wallet, enters her car and drives to Western Union, Beirut. It has just opened, yet the line is long, full of people. All clutching onto what is left of their dignity.
My aunty then messages me, “Thank you, thank you! We have received it, thank you!”
I didn’t always care. I didn’t always recognise that I look like them, sound like them and share DNA with them
Today, I am told I care too much. But I didn’t always care. I didn’t always recognise that I look like them, sound like them and share DNA with them.
I suppressed it. I was ashamed. I dared not recognise the “truth” of who I was and where I came from. My idea of the truth was sculpted by news outlets, words thrown at me and circumstances placed in front of me, all creating internalised racism and hatred within me.
At age seven, I stand in front of the mirror and recite phrases. Practising how I would introduce myself as Australian, if a cute, fair boy were to ask. Imagining myself with lighter eyes, slimmer and not so “ethnic looking”.
Charnel (aged 6) with her mother and sister, in their backyard, 2006. Source: Supplied
“Yeah, I’m Australian.”
“I am Aussie.”
“My dad wasn’t born here, but I was!”
“Aus-tra-li-an.”
My family and I live in a small yellow fibro house. Inside, our house smells like Lebanon, with black coffee and oregano, olive oil and garlic. Outside, our backyard looks like Australia, with our footballs and trampoline, footy boots and cricket bats.
This yellow house has a doorless bedroom that I share with my sister, she on the left and me on the right. This yellow house has water which runs on a timer, so I learn to shower with a timer. Position the taps just right to get the low-pressure water.
The saying: when it rains, it pours – trust me – is true. This yellow house is proof. Winter is welcomed with droplets swimming through the roof. Drip-drop.
Eventually it turns into flooding doorless bedrooms with yellow walls.
This house teaches me patience, gratitude and adaptability.
I notice blood-red paint. “GO BACK TO WHERE YOU CAME FROM” is graffitied across our fence
At age eight, I am in the back seat of my family’s Ford Falcon, arriving home from a New Year’s Eve party. I am full of red jelly and chocolate cake, exhausted from bouncing on a jumping castle. I am ready for bed, until I notice blood-red paint.
“GO BACK TO WHERE YOU CAME FROM” is graffitied across our fence.
My parents spend the Sunday trying to clean it off. I am full of fear: fear that someone would come back to leave another message, fear that someone might barge in and begin attacking my family. I am exhausted, but I know how to adapt.
At age 10, I watch as officials barge into our yellow house and drag my uncle out of his doorless bedroom and into a van to take him to Villawood detention centre.
I visit continually, as part of my after-school routine. I learn how to adapt. I adapt to the security routine: remove jewellery, place bags on tray, walk through security scanners, get patted down by weird guards. I adapt to the odd smell and the walls that aren’t yellow, but beige.
At age fourteen, I am working my first job. I am young and the only person of colour. I remove my “ethnic” gold jewellery before every shift. I watch how I speak, use my manners and pride myself in the labour I offer them. I find comfort in our customers who are from similar backgrounds to mine. Most of them look like me, sound like me and may even share the same DNA as me.
Charnel (aged 7) with her father and sister, in their yellow house, 2007. Source: Supplied
In one meeting, my managers discuss payroll, updating the system and the “idiot Arab customers”. I have never heard that phrase before.
I enter my bedroom. The anger builds within me and I allow myself to mourn, traditionally.
I mourn for my unspoken words, for the children who look like me, for my mother whose hospitality could feed a village, for my father whose tongue speaks as Khalil Gibran’s did, for my uncle defeated by the system, for my sister who resembles me, for my grandparents who travelled oceans for freedom, for my aunties dressed in gold jewellery, for my cousins who enjoy park football.
I stand in front of the same mirror, analysing every inch of my face, staring deep into my brown eyes. Watching, as my gold jewellery shines.
My complexion tells stories of my grandparents and their grandparents. My complexion reflects the hours I spent playing park football. My complexion is rooted in the Middle Eastern sun and kissed by the Australian sun.
Here, I rehearse.
“I am Lebanese.”
“I am Australian.”
“I am Lebanese-Australian.”
I am.
Charnel Rizk is a Lebanese-Australian actress, singer, songwriter and writer. She is a dedicated storyteller who draws upon life experiences to shape her craft. Charnel also works in the community as a speech pathologist. Follow her on Instagram and Facebook @Charnel Rizk.
