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Fashionable for school

SocietyOctober 17, 2017

‘They speak English and have good lamb’: a Kiwi immigrant’s story

Fashionable for school

Thirty years ago this weekend, writer and filmmaker Ghazaleh Golbakhsh arrived in New Zealand with her family, immigrants from war torn Iran. Inspired by Duncan Garner’s recent outburst, she reflects on life so far as an immigrant New Zealander.

I was not surprised by Duncan Garner’s hideous column about immigrants at K-Mart. He comes from a long line of scared white men in the media who consistently try to wrap their racist drivel around actual issues such as population rise, infrastructure problems and packaged undies. I mean, just look at the example set by the OG dog-whistler, Paul Henry. Their obsession with using immigration as a scapegoat for everything is not only skewed, it’s obviously racist.

Why? Because their concerns are never about white immigrants, but people who don’t look like them. Mr Garner, is it because you don’t have any brown/Asian friends? I hope not. In fact, I hope you and those who support your outlandish views start learning more about these immigrants you feel so strongly about. So here’s my attempt at introducing you to one. Me.

My parents moved here from Iran for simple but horrid reasons. They had just lived through a massive revolution, which brought in a new autocratic regime which implemented archaic laws oppressing the masses and completely overturning the nation. On top of that, there was a bloody war where the city they lived in was bombed on a daily basis by Saddam Hussein’s forces.

Interestingly enough, the straw that broke the (culturally appropriate) camel’s back was being arrested one night after a party where the sexes were mingling (not allowed) and some hipster had brought their homemade vodka for all to enjoy (definitely not allowed). I know this because I was there and so became the youngest in my family to be arrested. As a four year old. To be honest though, I was lucky. Some of the other partygoers got public lashings as punishment. I just developed mild claustrophobia for the rest of my life.

Me (on the right) and Gladys

We left in 1987. The airport was chaotic and full of families being torn apart by those also seeking refuge elsewhere. I remember being excited to be going on a plane for the first time with my doll Gladys (I don’t actually remember her real name, but Gladys seems like an appropriate name). The rest of my extended family were sobbing uncontrollably. Unlike me, they knew it could be years, decades before they might see us again.

You see, when a country becomes volatile and hostile, borders suddenly close up to even the most innocent of folks. We were denied visas to the US, Canada, Australia and pretty much every country in Europe. Only one bastion of hope allowed us in – a tiny island nation in the South Pacific, literally at the end of the world. New Zealand. And no, no one had ever heard of it. “But they speak English and have good lamb”, said my dad, and that’s why it was chosen.

1987 in New Zealand was an odd time. It was an old time. It was a time when everything shut on a Sunday and ‘immigration’ was some strange term that seemed straight from colonial days. Except as modern immigrants, you were expected to assimilate. And fast. It was the first time in my life that I learned the power of language. When I arrived I only knew three words in English: “One, two, three”. Ironically, maths has never been my strong point.

At primary school I had the ghastly Mrs. M as my teacher. She resented me because I couldn’t understand English. One time, I drew her a darling picture of she and me and a tree – standard kid drawing stuff. She yelled and yelled at me until I cried. This wasn’t the homework we were meant to do. One of the cool boys felt sorry for me so helped me instead. His name was Ben. If you are reading this Ben, know that I love you and hope to swipe right on you on Tinder some day.

Vowing never to be that embarrassed again, I set about reading as much as I could. I read anything I could find – to myself, to my parents, to anyone who would listen. And so I suddenly began to learn the language. My reading and writing comprehension went up so much that I got put up a year. Take that Mrs. M, you dream crusher.

Fashionable for school

Most children of immigrants can relate to what happened next. You just want to fit in, so badly that anything that sets you apart – your name, your physicality, your religion, your food, the way you don’t wear shoes inside – is an immediate embarrassment. Holy shit, my parents have accents! Cringe. Crap, why can’t I have an easy name like Stacey, I bet no Stacey ever has been made fun for their name.

Why I can’t trace my lineage to Scotland/Ireland/England like everyone else in my class? “We’re just Persian,” my mum tried to explain. “But that can’t be it!” I replied desperately. “Yes – it’s one of the oldest civilisations in the world.” Not good enough, I thought. It wasn’t until my late teens when I threw myself into writing and drama that I learned to accept my differences. It helped that I hung out with other marginalised friends who got it. They were immigrants too, or in the arts, or redheads who couldn’t sit in the sun for too long either. Or just accepting.

Then 9/11 happened and everything changed. It not only altered or destroyed the lives of those people whose lives were directly affected, but it changed the way the world looked at so many of us. Weirdly, it also provided a crash course in Middle Eastern geography for some. Suddenly everyone knew Iran was an actual country and not a misspelling of Iraq. Friends who could barely pronounce my full name were discussing places like Kandahar province, Mosul and Sulaymaniyah.

I was also treated to heavy-handed racist diatribes whenever some mentally unstable gunman with a beard terrorised innocent victims in the West. “We need to bomb them all. Fuck the Middle East.” It’s disheartening to hear this from people who have never even seen a bomb, let alone lived through a war. I’m sure military veterans and other victims of war would agree when I say – no, you have no idea, you fucking sadist. War should not be the answer. Ever. My response to this was part anger, part cathartic. These days, I put it all into my work. I create characters that respond to this in their stories, as I would like to in real life. I give them life and in turn hope that a different viewpoint is represented.

Discovering journalism and new technologies at high school

One of my favourite incidents was in my twenties. I got accosted by a man in a Hugo Boss suit on the bus who kept yelling at me about how there are too many of “us” in NZ. “There should be a bomb to get rid of all you immigrants, a nuclear bomb to get rid of all this rubbish like you!” Everyone on the bus just stared at me and I refused to engage. Instead, I wrote about it and won an award. I put it into my work. I used that anger and hatred as fuel for something better. If you are reading this Mr. Suit Man, know that you are being immortalised in a film soon. I hope you see your monstrous self reflected back and think about it.

I know I am speaking from a privileged position. Even as an immigrant there is an obvious pyramid of hierarchy. I am privileged in that coming here as a child allowed me to develop a typical Kiwi accent. I am privileged that my parents had skills to allow them decently paid work. I am privileged that I am not usually subject to the racist vitriol directed so often at my fellow immigrants from the Asian continent.

I am privileged that I can still visit the US (as long as I complete a form detailing my military experience and religious affiliations, of course). I am also privileged because throughout it all I have made friends and learned from people who are accepting. I have surrounded myself with people who are not threatened by my presence. I have developed a way to explore it all within my work. I have also learned to never read the comments.

So Mr Garner, perhaps next time you find yourself in line at another low priced American import shop, surrounded by faces that don’t look like yours, embrace it. Not literally, I mean, don’t scare people. But be curious, say hi, maybe even strike up a conversation. You’ll learn more about people and possibly hear some interesting stories. You are a journalist after all. In fact, I’ll make it even easier for you. This Labour Weekend will mark my 30th year of being here and I’ll be celebrating and drinking cheap Prosecco with friends. Perhaps you’d like to join us? I can make a mean hummus.


The Society section is sponsored by AUT. As a contemporary university we’re focused on providing exceptional learning experiences, developing impactful research and forging strong industry partnerships. Start your university journey with us today. 

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Photo: Getty Images
Photo: Getty Images

SocietyOctober 17, 2017

What did you just yell at me?

Photo: Getty Images
Photo: Getty Images

Every day, women with the temerity to go out onto our streets are subject to catcalling, harassment and abuse – and women who run have it especially bad, writes Megan Hunt.

The worst case of catcalling I’ve experienced was more of a chase. I was out for a run in Ōhope, a small coastal community in the Eastern Bay of Plenty. There’s a main road from Whakatāne to Ōpōtiki which dissects the town. The route is always busy with commuters but over summer it becomes a highway of holiday makers.

That Sunday afternoon I was completing my usual circuit along the road when a carload of guys drove past. The group, all in their early twenties, cheered at me. Up ahead I saw the boxy old Corolla turn and circle back towards me. I stopped, a lump beginning to rise in my throat as they came closer. I was scared. I didn’t know who they were or what they wanted.

The car pulled over and one boy jumped out from the back seat. He jogged towards me with a goofy grin on his face and asked for my number.

When I said no his expression changed. He sulked back to the car, hurling insults as he went; I was a slut and a bitch who didn’t know what she was missing.

It’s pretty rare for me to go for a hassle free run. This is not because I’m supremely attractive or even run that fast; I’m pretty average in every way, plus a bit on the short side with fair skin that turns pink with exercise. But I’ve been videoed by men driving past, had my photo taken, been whistled and cheered at.

Before I began travelling earlier this year I mentally prepared myself for street harassment, assuming my progressive home nation had shielded me from the worst.

Turns out New Zealand was worse than I realised.

Recently I was in Moscow, Russia. If New York is the city that never sleeps Moscow is the city that’s never finished. There are construction sites everywhere; walking down some streets can be a minefield of men in hi-vis gear laying paving stones and painting buildings.

I’ve found building sites some of the worst back home and would brace myself for the dirty feeling that came along with unwanted stares, but in Moscow, nothing. I watched to see how people reacted to particularly stunning woman. No one even looked up.

There was a point when I considered ending my regular runs. Around a year ago a number of women out exercising alone near my home in Hawke’s Bay were grabbed or followed by men. Police issued statements which occupied the uncomfortable space between fulfilling a duty to inform and victim blaming.

Personally I don’t like to run with others, but I was considering joining a group and changing my behaviour due to the behaviour of men.

When I think back I had already made changes. I would avoid certain routes or times of day when I knew the chances of hassle were higher. When it was really hot I would run in a sports bra, but always tuck a shirt into the waistband of my shorts. I would often pull it on despite the heat because it was better than feeling stray eyes burning their invisible holes into my skin.

Men didn’t seem to understand I was not trying to impress anyone or garner attention, I was just a woman exercising.

Photo: Getty Images

If my experiences are any guide, India might be one of the world’s catcalling capitals. When I visited, men were constantly yelling and running after me.

While I was there, I posted a number of pictures on Instagram. Within two weeks I received 15 message requests from local men asking to meet. In all my five years of using Instagram I had never received one of these messages.

I met an Indian woman at a hostel who described downloading Tinder for a short time. Men she did not match with would often find her on social media and try to establish contact that way, despite her turning them down in the dating app. She received 60 friend requests through Facebook before deleting Tinder.

To me this unwanted cyber attention is something that would rarely happen in New Zealand. My male friends would consider this behaviour weird and creepy, but some of these men are the same ones who would toot or yell unwanted remarks at women from passing cars.

Is there any difference between these two kinds of unwanted attention? Just because one is digital and another is on the street does it make either better?

I asked around some female friends and all had stories of street harassment. New Zealand streets didn’t compare to the catcalling in big urban centres like New York, but everyone had experienced it regularly at home.

One friend based in Christchurch said the most yelling she received was walking down the city’s main streets in the early evening. “I don’t like it,” she said firmly.

She described feeling caught off guard and uncomfortable; she would look around to see if she knew the person, but it was always a stranger.

The men who tooted or yelled were the same ones who would never approach her in person, she noted. She didn’t know if they were scared, but for some reason they thought yelling sexually aggressive comments from a moving vehicle was a better option.

What I don’t understand is why. Women don’t like it and what do men expect to gain?

In all my 26 years I am yet to met a happy couple who attribute their meeting to a story like, “he yelled ‘suck my dick bitch’ from a passing car and I just HAD to wave him down for a chat”.

When I asked male friends the saddest and most common driver of their catcalling was “just a bit of fun”. This bit of fun is at the expense of women like me who are made to feel vulnerable and uncomfortable.

We are made to question what we wear, where we go and our right to use public spaces as we choose because of creepy, sexually aggressive behaviour from men.

Come on boys. Just let us run in peace.


The Society section is sponsored by AUT. As a contemporary university we’re focused on providing exceptional learning experiences, developing impactful research and forging strong industry partnerships. Start your university journey with us today.

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