As the Mujahedeen moved through my neighbourhood in Termiz, my mother loaded the family donkey with pots and pans. My father, Hussein, stood on the roof of the house, calling out to Aziz, my brother, and to his own brother, Ali. He had enough gold to fill a large bladder. He carried it in a hollowed Koran. I wondered if that was a sacrilege.
My father was righteously querulous. “Quickly, hurry. I can see them coming. Fatima, you are a lazy wife. Must I beat you, to make you pack more quickly? We must be gone before Mustafa’s men find us. They will hand us over to the Taliban. Zeina, where is your burqa? Pity the man who has daughters!”

I could hear the sound of flogging. The voice of Miriam carried above the sound of chickens and goats in the distance. I was not surprised. Miriam was the worst strumpet in the village. But she was also an explosive personality. In the middle of her beating, she must have pulled the fuse on one of the grenades she carried beneath her gown. I had often said to her, “Miriam, you could easily dislodge a pin and cause an accident.”
But she would only look at me and reply, rather querulously, “ Do I look like a deliberate remover of pins, Zeina? Can you really sit drinking tea with me stroking my favourite goat and ask me if I am likely to unpin?” So of course I lapsed into silence, stroking Miriam’s goat. I was sure she would go to Paradise one day, and become a virgin for eternity, satisfying the desires of martyrs.

But when I heard her blow up, I wondered if she would still be a virgin after blowing up Mustafa’s Taliban who was beating her. Theological conundrums continue to elude me. At this time, elusion was uppermost in our minds.

I pulled my burqa on, so that I looked indistinguishable from my mother. The family hurried away into the hills, heading towards Uzbekistan. “In Uzbekistan, we will find the brother of my wife who lives in Tashkent.” Uncle Ali said, “He will take us through Kazakhstan, and across the Caspian Sea. Once we are in Derbent, in Russia, we can make our way to Turkey; trust me, we will have no trouble reaching Australia. Many Turks live in Australia. As well as Afghanis. It’s more multicultural than Afghanistan.”

My brother Aziz asked, “This multiculturalism, is it a good thing?”
Uncle Ali returned, “Can you complain about the multiculturalism in Afghanistan?”

It was strange hearing such talk of such far away places. But my Uncle Ali had been to Tajikistan, and even through the Khyber Pass to India. He knew the world. So of course I was sad when the Mujahedeen shot him as we passed through the hills leading into Uzbekistan. Though the rest of the family was unharmed, Uncle Ali had wounds that would not allow him to travel far beyond the borders of Afghanistan. We had no choice but to leave him behind with relatives in the area who would take care of his wounds.

After our encounter with the Mujahedeen, we reached Uzbekistan with relative ease, except that we were trapped in the mountains during a blizzard. Our donkey, Alibaba, died; so we were able to have donkey shish kebabs along the way. My mother said, “I had never thought I would be so sad eating a shish kebab.” My father, Hussein, was able to remove the bladder from Alibaba and use it as a pouch for the gold he had taken from Uncle Ali’s corpse. He kept some shish kebabs on top of the gold to disguise it. He said no devout Muslim would touch the meat from a donkey, a cleft-footed animal.

I ventured, “But father, we ate Alibaba. Is such consumption allowed us for some reason I cannot understand?”

He answered me with a clip to my ear, observing, “You have become an impudent child!” So I had another shish kebab. It seemed like an acceptable thing to do.

But my father told her, “Quiet, foolish woman. The death of Alibaba is the will of Allah.” However, an evident silence fell over us as we travelled, as we remembered Uncle Ali back in Afghanistan.

Our family arrived one afternoon in Tashkent, and a friendly man awaiting our arrival greeted us with delight. He was Jafar, the brother of Uncle Ali’s wife, and was responsible for leading us over the Caspian Sea, to Turkey. He was disappointed that Uncle Ali was not with us, but did not let this bother him. We were welcomed into a house filled with a delightful aroma; we were invited to have a wonderful traditional meal of Qorma and Palao, with many other magnificent side dishes. Jafar’s wife was certainly a talented cook. She was also very fat. But she was devout. She would have been twice as fat if she ate with her left hand as well as her right. But she knew which hand to use for eating, so she showed holy restraint. I still think of her and admire her culinary piety.

At dawn on the following day, we embarked on a journey that would eventually lead us towards an unknown, distant land. We ensured that our donkey was packed with all our belongings, and left Uzbekistan. Time passed so quickly after that, and before we knew it, we reached the port of Burynshyk, a dusty market town, where rusty, discoloured freighters and weary, wooden ferries jostled against each other along the crowded quays.
We boarded a crowded ship, handing the captain a wad of greasy Kazahkstani Tenges, no doubt the value of a dozen goats. It looked like we weren’t the only ones wanting to get away form this war-torn country. People were shouting and pushing, fighting for a place to sit on the crowded deck.

It seemed hours before the ferry pushed its way out of the harbour into the deep sea of the Caspian. Aziz was so excited by the sight of water, which he had never seen before, except for a few tiny rivulets and streams. He leant over the side, looking for fish and seaweed. After a moment, we heard a splash, and my mother shrieked, “Aziz, my only son, are you drowning!”

“Yes, my mother. I am drowning,” gurgled Aziz. He stretched out his arms, so I threw him a donkey shish kebab. He spluttered as he chewed on it, then went under the water.

“Why must you ask such a stupid question,” demanded my father. “Of course he’s drowning. Now I am alone in a household of women!” He scowled as Aziz disappeared beneath the sea, and the ferry sailed onto the shore of Azerbaijan, at a wharf with a road leading to Baku. My father took out a piece of gold he had hidden in the bladder of Ali Baba, disguised as a water-bag, and bought a camel. “We must make our way to Turkey, to Istanbul, and from there to Australia. There the Rudd government will give us visas and government housing.”

My father was so pleased telling us of the future that he did not notice a large Iranian tank rolling along the street by the wharf. He was run over and flattened dead, leaving my mother and I alone. One of the bystanders remarked, “These Iranian tanks are a curse. They say they must protect us from the Russian Orthodox infidels. But I thought the Russians were communists. It is so confusing. You would think the Iranians would drive their tanks more slowly, or at least toot their horns.”

I was sure he had a point. Luckily, Alibaba’s bladder was intact; the gold was still there, though the shish kebab didn’t look so good as it had. I wondered if its discoloration had anything to do with Alibaba’s cleft feet. Anyway, I collected his bladder before a crowd came over to inspect the dead body of my revered father.

My mother and I joined a caravan on our camel. My mother sold me to a camel merchant. His name was Akhmed. He paid a good dowry for me, and we consummated our wedding in a tent. I ululated with vigour, over and over; I found Akhmed’s attentions flattering and pleasing. But after three nights, he became wearisome. I told my mother that I thought he was an Uzbek. She scowled, hissing, “This is a dishonour. To wed a Pashtun he should have paid double. He has tricked us.” Of course, I had lied, but still I was relieved when my mother entered the tent on the fourth night, and beheaded Akhmed as he was taken his pleasure of me. However, I had to move quickly to avoid his head collapsing on me. Blood splattered all over the tent, and stained my burqa. The other members of the caravan thought I was intensely virginal.

In the morning, we buried Akhmed and sold his camels. We kept only the one dromedary for ourselves. The journey was proving profitable. My mother wondered if we would qualify for income support when we reached Australia.
It wasn’t long after my becoming a widow that we reached the outskirts of Istanbul. My mother sold the dromedary and then we found the house of Kemal, whose address was in Alibaba’s bladder. He said, “Give me 200 gold dinar, and I will secure your passages to Australia. I will send you by dhow to the Suez Canal, where you will meet an Indonesian people smuggler.” Before he could say anymore, my mother uttered an invocation coupled with an imprecation. The archangel Gabriel appeared, just as he did to Mohammed, and struck down Kemal. It was clear my mother was very devout.

The archangel made an annunciation to my mother, “Fatima, take your daughter and sit together upon this carpet. It will fly, carrying you and Zeina to Australia. Remember to be surly whenever you speak to Christians. God bless you.”

“Quickly, Zeina. Don’t forget the bladder,” urged my pious mother.
But as if by a miracle, my mother and I found we were transported to Sydney, where we were greeted by the Minister for Multicultural Affairs, and a mullah from Lakemba mosque. The minister greeted us, saying, “Fatima and Zeina, welcome to Australia. Your journey has been watched, and the people of Australia welcome you. Band, play the Afghani national anthem.”
My mother began to weep as a band made up of forty different nationalities, with all their different instruments, balalaikas, mandolins, sitars, zithers, flugelhorns, castanets, tambourines, bagpipes and Japanese musical bladders, that could be beaten and piped simultaneously, played the Afghani anthem. My mother sobbed so hard she had a cardiac arrest. But an ambulance took her to hospital, where she was cured for free. We were then taken to our public housing estate, where the mullah organized a street party. Some Lebanese boys blew up some cars in the middle of the estate, so it was just like Kabul.

My mother had another heart attack after the third explosion: it was a double bomb; that’s what Malik told me. I am sure I will marry him. Anyway, once I learned how to use the telephone, I called for help more or less immediately. But the ambulance was too late. It was my destiny to be an orphan, but at least I had the bladder of Alibaba to sustain me. I must claim compensation from the Australian government for not saving my mother from death. That is as the archangel Gabriel had admonished me.

So now I have a spacious housing commission home to myself, and Mahmoud, a handsome Iraqi from Auburn is courting me. Perhaps I will marry Mahmoud if Malik dies. His sister has moved in with me, and I am also collecting rent from six Pakistanis who live in the small bedroom at the back. They supplement my Centrelink income support nicely. They realize they are fortunate to share the roof of a Pashtun, but I do wish they would not be so noisy when they pray, or snore.

I am so happy to be in Australia; it is so multicultural and tolerant. I have lost a few relatives and Ali Baba. But here there is opportunity for a new chance at happiness.

1.) People often make the mistake of calling it a religion, it is not it is indeed a totalitarian fascist political ideology. It requires its followers to submit to Islam and Allah. The Koran has demands which control just about every part of the followers life, how the dress what they eat when they are supposed to pray their views towards others ( Jews, Christians, Hindus etc ) In the Koran it actually says that Jews and Christians are apes and pigs.

2.) A lot of the time Islam is spread by forced conversion, in an Islamic country they tax non Islamic people so that they ( Muslims will be tolerant and allow them to keep practicing their religion. Most of these people soon convert so that they will not be shamed by being third class citizens.

3.) Sharia or Islamic Law is and always has been abusive towards women. Sharia law favors men over women and therefor goes against everything Democracy stands for, equality for men, women and children of all races, colors and faiths.

4.) Not to mention that in our countries only one set of laws should apply. In the UK – UK law, Australia – Australian law and so on.

5.) Halal food or non sinful food is basically animals killed without pain relief they are just killed with a slit to the throat which contravenes animal rights laws.

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Think of when 'democracy' was new. Obviously, anyone powerful is likely to be against the idea. Naturally they will tend to adjust the meaning – e.g. giving the vote only to property-owners over 40, or something. You can see the same sort of thing all over the place, which is why there's so much confusion.

'Liberal' should mean something like free, or tolerant. But in Britain, when a few factory owners were powerful, 'liberal' changed to mean something like 'freedom for the rich to make more money'. The 'Liberal Party' supported the 'Manchester school' of economics, which for example wouldn't permit trade unions. This is why the Liberal Party in Britain faded out and 'Labour' took over from them.

'International' and 'world government' – if you read up e.g. H G Wells or Bertrand Russell – meant something very honourable, in intent – with world control of weapons and some sort of democratic control over the world. The League of Nations, and, later, the UN, were both set up under the influence of this kind of feeling. But of course it failed – it did nothing useful about things like the Vietnam War, Biafra and so on. As, now, it has oddly metamorphosed into an oddity doing the bidding of secret string-pullers behind the scenes.

'Socialism' at the time of H G Wells and Wiliam Morris was also an honourable thing. This was the era when mechanisation was primitive by today's standards. You could easily tell who was a farm labourer, or factory worker, or sailor, or miner. The idea was to get what seemed like reasonably fair pay. What happened here was a bit different – Jewish immigrants accepted the idea of more pay, but not the idea of democracy which went with it. When there was a Jewish coup in Russia (a 'Revolution' as it is mis-called) they described their system as socialist, or social democrat when in fact of course it was the opposite. To this day 'Reds' admire Stalin, despite there being nothing traditionally socialist about the USSR at all. 'Communism' meant originally something to do with communes – Italian towns have their 'comune' which just means something like a town council. The way it was used in the 'USSR' ('Socialist Republics'?) of course was intended to take advantage of the attractive and noble feelings connected with the original meaning.

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