Mum opened the door and winced. My first instinct was to check my hair, but no, it was fine.

"What's up?" she hadn't even noticed the bunch of Jonquils at my side. She hugged me tightly, then withdrew suddenly and stomped back to the kitchen. I shut the front door and followed.

In the kitchen she went back to fussing with her pots, clearly distracted. Sitting around the small kitchen bench was uncle Malik, his wife Leyla and my little brother Hakim. I had been the instigator of this rare family get-together, but everyone was here early. The realisation was slowly dawning on me that my coming-out dinner had been hijacked...

I slapped the Jonquils on the bench and folded my arms while aunty Leyla went through all the inane catch-up talk. As she spoke and I offered empty replies about my work, apartment and other details, Malik just stared out the window. Mum kept working on the food with her back to us, her labour punctuated by occasional sniffs.

"Alright," I said when the minimum of polite conversation was over, "what happened?"

Mum turned around with wet eyes.

Malik reluctantly came to life. "Go to your room Hakim." Hakim wasn't used to taking orders from his uncle and looked ready to protest, but he could smell the oddness in the room too and slunk obediently away. Leyla followed.

"You watch the news?" Malik said, fingering his grey beard. He was talking about that far off world of dust and turbans, the neverending shitfight that is the Middle East.

"I try not to," I say, my eyes on Mum, "none of it's good news."

"The Mujahadeen have reached Rabiah," he said with gravity. For these old bastards who spend their days chain-smoking and swapping political gossip, I'm sure this was a fascinating development. If I had cared to listen to the whole story I'm sure it would be full of bloodshed and appeals to Allah, but I didn't give a shit which bunch of fanatics controlled which patch of cursed desert.

Malik wasn't a fanatic himself, but he had real ties to the homeland and probably knew people who were affected by all this. He noted my blank expression, and became suddenly animated.

"Rabiah," he whispered, "is your home!"

I smirked. "I was born in Fairfield."

Mum exploded then, a mix of guilt and exasperation. "My little sister is there Ali! Your aunt Sabeen!"

I'd never met the woman. A phone had been thrust at me at various family functions and I had tried to be polite to the timid voice on the other end, but Sabeen couldn't speak a word of English. She was part of the imaginary world my family conjured up when reminiscing about their old life, but still they expected me to care about this hypothetical aunt.

"Why didn't she ever come to live with us here anyway?" I found myself saying. In truth I couldn't understand why anyone would stay in Iraq, especially after the Americans pulled out.

"Not so easy," Malik said darkly, "fucking White Australia Policy."

Mum started sobbing. I went to her. "Let's just call her OK? I'm sure it looks worse than it is on TV."

"No phone! No internet! They cut everything," she wailed.

"The fighters won't allow communication," said Malik, "they try to set up Caliphate. Real old-school guys."

An urgent bubbling from one of the pots caught Mum's attention and she whirled back into cooking mode, family drama forgotten for the moment. There was a shit-load of food on the stove.

"How much food have you got going?" I said, happy for once to have something banal to talk about. "We're not going to eat all that..."

There was a thumping at the door.

"Your cousins," said Malik getting up, "they want to talk this through with you and your brother. Go and get him."

I slumped into a chair. This was going great. Coming out in front of my cousins was likely going to end up with me being stoned to death before dessert.

~

Zaid and Jamail turned out to be the ultimate conversation killers. The table was silent as we scoffed down Mum's delicious food, everyone too afraid to say the wrong thing in front of them. The newcomers saying nothing because, I assume, there were women in the room. I couldn't finish my meal but Jamail, the fat fuck, scooped my plate up with a wink and kept shovelling.

Finally he finished and Zaid thanked my mother for the food. He then announced that Hakim and me were to join them in the back yard and were not to be disturbed. "However," he added as he left the room, "a pot of tea would be lovely Nawal Ali Nasser."

Jamail and Hakim follow him out, and I shake my head. "I'll never get used to that," I say. "Do you want me to get rid of them?" I ask my Mum. She stares back at me, eyes trembling.

"Go," she says finally, "listen to him."

This was a new development! My mother, Nawal, was religious inasmuch as she prayed and probably even believed, but she never had time for the hard-heads like Zaid. In fact she had gone out of her way to keep Hakim and me out of those circles, which is why I don't complain about her, even when she is being a conservative hag.

"I don't need to listen-" I say, but Malik cuts me off.

"You talk too much, Ali. Time to listen now," he says. Ordinarily I'd have a vicious comeback to this, but the look on my mother's face stops the words in my throat.

"What the hell has gotten into you Mum?"

Malik stands up, furious, but she calms him with a touch on his arm, then looks at me. "First you listen to your cousin Zaid. Be respectful. Then you speak to me, and I will tell you what has... gotten into me."

The que shuffles forward again, a conga line of exaughsted passengers sigh and lift their bags only to shift another disappointing few inches. Someone bumps me from behind and before I can stop myself I'm darting an agitated look back at her, the veiled woman whose two children have kept the economy section awake for the last twenty hours. My eyes are dark and caffine-rimmed. She smiles apologetically, a dark curl springing from under her hijab. I look away.

What am I doing here? Back in the air it was a passive experience, as I watched the clouds float past my window all doubts had seemed irrelevant. I was committed to my course, and was now watching the consequences unfold like a movie.

Now my aching feet had to follow through on the mad scheme. I could sense the enormity of every action I took now, my paranoia ballooning each step into fantastic dangers. Did that guard's eyes just linger on me? Are those Saudi businessmen following me right now?

Fuck it, I'm going home. As soon as I get through customs I will find the airline desk and buy a ticket straight back to Sydney. This simple idea floods my body with relief, like when school sports day was cancelled due to wet weather. I'm so pleased with the notion of giving up, so instantly devoted to the idea that I pull out my phone and call Dave.

"What?" he sounds annoyed.

"I love you too," I'm trying to be jovial but the strain in my voice kills any humour. "What time is it there?"

"I dunno, I'm just going to the gym. So you decided not to be an idiot, that's good."

I want him to comfort me, to be my reason to return. My eyes tear up against my will but I keep the neediness out of my voice. "I was stupid, I bought a ticket, I got on the plane."

Silence.

"I want to come home."

He doesn't say anything for a while. Neither do I, I got plenty of time. "Maybe it will be good for you there. Maybe... you have some discovering to do?"

I can feel my guts dropping. Just when I thought I had gone as far up shit creek as I was ever going to get..

"Ali," he pleads "I don't understand you anymore..."

TAP. My fingers just hung up on him. I didn't mean to do it. I just stare for a few minutes and listen to the reverberating announcements of imminent departures, final calls, warnings in languages I cant understand. I snap out of it and redial Dave, but he's turned his phone off. I don't leave a message.

Our last embrace was tender, but that was before I went mad and wound up here. I'd been proud, prematurely triumphant. I don't think he believed I would go through with it.

"I've heard this before," he'd laughed. "Your birthday last year, you were going to tell everyone!"

It was true, I was the worst fag I knew. I'd been in the closet so long my mates had resigned themselves to my staying in it forever.

"Look, coming out to a Muslim family is different," I'd said. He'd laughed at me and we'd kissed. I promised it would be for real this time, I was sick of living with the lie.

The que moves again. There aren't many westerners in this throng, most are families or business men who'd gotten on the last leg of the flight at Abu Dahbi. The air is sour with old sweat.

My phone vibrates obnoxiously in my hand. It isn't Dave.

"Brother, are you landed?" the voice is unfamiliar, but I know who it is.

"I'm waiting in line, its taking forever." My answer is automatic, passive.

"Your cousin has arranged everything, we are waiting outside the gates with transport. In a few hours you will be eating with your new family, God Willing."

And he hangs up. The crowd shuffles forward. I feel the weight of consequence radiating from every footstep again, vertigo paralysing my mind.

I jolt back into awareness at the sight of two male security guards walking past, laughing and holding hands, AK-47's bumping on their thighs. I've never walked with Dave that way, at least not in public. Weird.

A space has opened up before me, the customs officer is gesturing. I step forward.

He is young, a soft beard and blank, disney-princess eyes. Those eyes linger on my Australian passport, then slowly raise to meet my own. My smile is not returned.

"What is the purpose of your visit to Turkey?"

"Holiday," I say cheerfully, overselling it.

The customs officer with the pretty eyes yawns, looks at me one last time, stamps and hands my passport back. Success makes me realise I had been dreading the next bit, wading out into the family reunions and chauffers holding placards. Would my welcoming party have a sign?

I tell myself to calm down, these people have never seen me before. I can act like a tourist, bumble my way past them and buy a ticket home.

I drag my wheely-bag down the lino ramp and into the public space. The ceiling is high and the layout is confusing, but through the slow-moving crowd I can see the taxis and buses lined up outside. I also spot a Malaysian Airlines desk and it all suddenly seems plausible after all. I will buy the first ticket back to KL and wing it from there, be back in Sydney for the weekend. Broke, but back in the real world at least.

But then I see him, and he sees me, a gigantic grin spreading across his hairy face. He's taller than everyone else by a foot and dressed in a long dusty Thobe which clashes with the staunchly modern dress of the young Istanbul natives around him. They must have sent these guys a picture of me, because the closer I get the more he looks like he's going to explode with joy.

Shit. I glance around for an escape but the path is barricaded on both sides and he's standing right in the middle of the way out. Would it be weird of me to turn around and walk back into customs like I'd forgotten my phone?

I decide to play along and find a way to give him the slip before its too late. I've had plenty of practice ditching my mates in clubs back home, this chubby freedom fighter shouldn't be too much trouble.

"Peace be in you," he stammers.

"What?"

"Peace be on you!" he says, slapping his own forehead and laughing. I can tell from his grasp of English this is not the guy from the phone. He lays one enormous hand on me and starts pushing me through the crowd like an ice-breaker. "Hungry? Tired?" he says.

"Um no, I need toilet a first," I say feeling like an infant next to him. He gives me a politely puzzled expression but doesn't stop moving us toward the exit. "I have a lot of shit in me," I say, illustrating the idea with my hands. He chuckles and nods, doesn't break his stride.

We are almost at the doors when I spin out of his grasp and finally put my mastery of charades to practical use. "You: wait here. Me: go do big shit. Maybe ten minute shit." The act is working, I can see understanding land on his features in slow motion.

He nods and winks. "I, wait here."

As I turn and walk away I realise I've been holding my breath and sweat is running down my cheeks. Happily, the Malaysian Airlines desk is blocked from the big guy's view by a plastic tree. I drag my wheely-bag over there.

"How can I help you, Sir?" says the girl behind the desk. The words are like a flood of sanity, the familiarity of this customer/client relationship banishes the chaotic forces which have dictated my life for the last day, and I feel in control at last.

Turns out there is a flight back to KL in five hours. Perfect. Once I'm in the departure lounge they can't touch me, all I have to do is wait it out.

While the desk girl processes my booking I peek over at the door where the big jihadi should be waiting, but he's gone. Was it that easy? Have they just left me alone? But no, there he is just outside the doorway, smoking.

Once I'm back in Sydney my cousins will be a problem, but an entirely manageable one compared to my situation here. My mother? I wasn't sure what she would think to see me again to be honest, but I had to hope she would at least be glad I'm alive.

"...and how would you like to pay for that?"

I hand her my card.