Sara El Sayed - Muddy People: A Memoir

PRAISE FOR MUDDY PEOPLE

It takes courage to write a memoir, but more than that it takes heart, and Sara El Sayeds heart is generous and expansive. I gasped in recognition, I teared up in solidarity and I exhaled in relief finally, a personal story that reflects so much that is familiar but is rarely found on bookshelves Sara El Sayed has written a book both confident and delicate that will leave you eagerly awaiting her next. Read this! Mona Eltahawy, author of The Seven Necessary Sins for Women and Girls

A nuanced, engaging and lyrical account of what it means to be Other in Australia, with impeccably drawn characters. Sara El Sayed is an enchanting and refreshing new voice in the Australian literary landscape. Maxine Beneba Clarke, author of The Hate Race

A beautifully told story of parents and children, pain and loss, and the love that binds people together. Told with real heart and charm, it will keep you riveted from the first page. Rohan Wilson, author of The Roving Party

Fresh, vibrant and dynamic. This is the kind of mud that will dirty your hands and cleanse your spirit. Michael Mohammed Ahmad, author of The Lebs

Both cosmopolitan and Australian at the same time, Muddy People is like the best kind of cake: warm, sweet, a bit nutty and made with so much love. Alice Pung, author of Unpolished Gem

Written with elegant lyricism, compelling urgency and a dark sense of humour, Muddy People is an impressive debut [that] reflects El Sayeds journey of self-realisation, of understanding what it means to be a migrant millennial. Books+Publishing

Published by Black Inc.,

an imprint of Schwartz Books Pty Ltd

Level 1, 221 Drummond Street

Carlton VIC 3053, Australia

www.blackincbooks.com

Copyright Sara El Sayed 2021

Sara El Sayed asserts her right to be known as the author of this work.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior consent of the publishers.

9781760642464 (paperback)

9781743821862 (ebook)

Cover design by Alissa Dinallo

Text design and typesetting by Typography Studio

Author photo by Bec Blooms Photography

This project has been assisted by the Australian Government through the Australia Council for the Arts, its arts funding and advisory body.

The girl in this picture is me, just after publishing my first piece of writing, in Growing Up African in Australia. I am doing a radio interview and have been asked to provide a headshot. My hair is straightened because I attended a friends wedding a few days earlier. In this picture my hair is severely damaged. When loose, it sits at approximately six different lengths, and falls out every time I touch it. The state of my hair is due to a combination of harsh chemicals, the wrong hair oil mixed with a too-hot iron, tying it up when its wet (upon drying, it expands and snaps against the hair tie) and general negligence. I put on a clean white t-shirt and stand in front of my mothers brick house. I think I look okay.

In a few months time this picture is used again, to accompany an excerpt of a different work of mine, in a magazine. I send the same headshot for everything because I cannot afford to hire a photographer to take a better one. I also cannot afford to straighten my hair again.

When my story runs, I notice that my photo looks a little different. The colour of my skin is lighter. I look again, and I check with friends to make sure that I am not seeing things that the corners of my mouth have in fact been erased, the size of my lips reduced. I am now pale-faced and pursed-lipped.

At first, I am embarrassed. I hadnt anticipated that the shade of my skin and the size of my lips would be a problem. My hair was the issue, and Id fixed that. Then I am angry. The kids in school called me muzzie, mud skin, slave, sand n*gger. Muzzie, short for Muslim, sounds like mozzie the Aussie word for the parasite that sucks blood. The insect that you swat. I am light-skinned, but back then, it didnt matter. I wasnt white, and that was enough.

Some shout about muddy skin because they think its funny. Others try to clean you up.

In a shed my mother and I repurposed as a writing space, Gina is curled up on my lap as I sit at my desk. The rain is hammering the roof. Gina is a male cat, but the word for cat in Arabic is feminine, so to us she is Gina.

Im in Queensland, but in the middle of winter it is cold even in the sunshine state. The small flame of the candle, which I light every day, helps a little. In the winter my hair is drier, my skin paler. I used to relish these months when I felt just a little whiter. But not anymore. When I visit my father on the weekends, he tells me I look ill.

I talk to my father almost every day. The contact is concentrated right now because theres a white boy in the picture, and my father is on guard. He wants me to know the rules. We are Egyptian, after all. We are Muslim, after all. We are not white.

My parents advice has always been a crucial part of my life. When I say their advice, I mean them telling me to do things and me doing them. Their rules govern how I live. Our culture governs how I live. The fact that I am an adult does not change this. There have been many rules over the years, some logical, some not. Sometimes they contradict one another. It means that sometimes things get a little messy. A little muddy.

Writing about my family is not easy, because we are not perfect. I would say we are doing our best, but sometimes we are acting our worst.

On my desk is a stack of books. Its crowned by a wax-spattered copy of The Family Law by Benjamin Law a library copy, so Im scared to take it back. I borrowed it because I am struggling to write about my family.

I know what people expect when they pick up this book. Stories about racism, about Islamophobia. The name-calling, the ostracising, the bullying. Some of that is in here. But thats not all this book is about. Its about my family, and what we are on the inside too. Its hard to write about family because, as I have explained to my parents, one persons perspective is not the same as anothers. My father might say the sky is blue and my mother will say to take an umbrella. The stories we tell dont always match up. Thats something that Ive had to accept in writing all of this down.

I want my parents to know that this book is told through my eyes: those of a girl growing up and trying to understand. I still have a lot of growing to do. These are versions of my family that have existed to me throughout periods of my life.

I love my parents. They are both good people. They were just not good together.

THESE ARE THE RULES

Mama learned early on that her daughter was different from her son. Mohamed threw tantrums; Soos stayed quiet if you gave her something sweet. In Arabic, a soos, a cavity, is what you get after eating too much sugar. My parents gave me the nickname when I was four. By that time, I had two gold crowns and twice as many holes in my teeth.