Multicultural Misfits

Chapter One

"Se-laa-mat Da-taang," Yusuf says, reading the billboard above us as we wait at Immigration.

"Well done honey, you'll be fluent in no time!" Mum cheers, in an attempt to lighten up the mood.

I cross my arms, directing a frown at the lady behind the booth speaking to Dad. We have been waiting for longer than we expected, and judging by the way his eyebrows are drawing in by the minute, Dad is getting as frustrated as I am. Even the two Indonesian families queuing behind us had already passed through fifteen minutes ago.

Dad turns back to us with a frown, motioning Mum forward.

"Is everything okay?" I ask, stepping up behind her.

"Yes, don't worry. Keep an eye on Yusuf for me, the lady just needs to speak to your Ummi for a moment," He replies, referring to the formal word we call Mum.

I should have known Dad would say that. At the ripe age of eighteen, I may officially be an adult, but not to my parents.

"What's taking so long?" Yusuf moans, nudging my shoulder.

I glance back at the lady, who is in deep conversation with my parents, a stern look on her face. A man dressed in the same uniform joins them, exchanging a few words before my father takes a step back with a frustrated sigh. I pull Yusuf with me towards them.

"Ahmad, it's fine. I'll take the kids with me and we'll be able to get past," I hear Mum say.

"What's going on?"

"We have to get our stamps at another booth, whilst your father does his alone," Mum explains. "This lovely man will guide us there,"

"This is ridiculous, don't tell me it's because we have Swedish Passports?" I huff, giving the woman over the counter another glare.

"That's just how it is," Mum shrugs, giving us all a reassuring smile before ushering us to follow the man. She is always an optimist.

He takes us to the other side of an empty booth that has the words foreign nationals written above it.

"Apologies for the delay ma'am," he says, his English heavily accented as he takes our passports.

He asks us routine questions about our purpose of stay, before evaluating our faces and dropping the stamps.

"Selamat Datang, welcome to Indonesia," he smiles as we finally pass by the gates.

"Terima Kasi," Mum responds with a smile; Thank you in Bahasa, and honestly, I don't know how she does it. Despite my attempts to be as subtle as my parents, my face is an open window into my emotions.

Dad is already waiting on the other side at baggage claims, his feet tapping anxiously until he spots us. Yusuf runs up to him and we head towards the conveyor belt with our luggage.

"You alright, sweetie?" Mum asks, looping her arm in mine.

"I think you know the answer to that," I mutter, my eyes leaky with tears. "How does he have this much energy?"

Mum turns to Yusuf, who is by the luggage carts, trying to tug one out from the line. His futile attempt is amusing to watch, making us both laugh at the sight.

"You might have been a little younger than him, but you had the same energy when we landed in Doha," she chuckles.

"What about you, Ummi? Are you not afraid of moving here? "I inquire, secretly wishing she is hating it as much as I am.

"When you've moved as many times as me and your Abi have," using the formal word we call Dad. "Everywhere feels like home. Plus, this is not the first time; I've been to Indonesia on plenty of occasions and I fall in love with the country every single time,"