Maria and Sadeem, The Kebab Shop

I order my meal for dine-in in an empty Turkish diner with tablecloths of gold. I am starving. I had come from rock climbing at Tunnel Beach, a rugged sandy beach with giant boulders that’s accessed by a long limestone tunnel with steep steps and I told the Turkish man behind the counter this. 

“Ah yes, I know this beach. I live there. Yes, it is beautiful place.”

At first, it is hard to understand him because of his thick Turkish accent, but like all accents, I get more used to it the more I hear it. The same goes for his Cambodian friend and business partner who closed her Turkish restaurant across the street early that night to come help in his. I didn’t realize how late it was and the Turkish man starts to close up shop. I rise.

“Are you closing? I can take my meal to go.”

The Turkish man waves this suggestion away firmly. “No,” he tells me, “you stay here. Finish your food. We wash dishes, we cook our food. You stay” 

“Okay. If you’d like to come eat with me when you’ve finished cooking your food, I’d like that.” 

The Turkish man’s name, I find out, is Sadeem. He tells me that he has been in New Zealand for 25 years. He owns a van and he has been around New Zealand many times. His business partner’s name is Maria and she is nervous about Covid so we sit on opposite ends of the longest table in the dining room. Maria tells me that her family lives in America and she names off cities: Philadelphia, Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles. This is common; almost everyone I meet says a version of this and they are disappointed when I say I have never been to these bustling meccas where the sky is choked out by towering skyscrapers. Maria, however, doesn’t mind. She asks whether I like Jersey Shore and then announces that she’s been to Philadelphia. At first, I can only follow half of what she’s saying through her accent and direct grammar but I calibrate in time to understand her when she asks how old I am. I reply that I am 22 and just like that, she has found her favorite topic of the night: her twin sons who are also 22. At first I am confused because Sadeem also chimes in to say that he has twin sons my age. I ask if the two of them are married and they say no. I think they’re messing with me but no, they are just good friends who both have twins. They have known each other for 20 years and been in business together for almost as long. The twins have grown up together and they are all best buds. They attend the University of Otago in Dunedin and flat together. Grinning, I ask Maria if they are cute. 

“Bah! Of course my sons cute! They smart too, got scholarships and they study masters. Finish this year!” she crows proudly. She shows me a picture, and woo boy they are cute. “So tall,” she says, “so handsome. But you know, they never come see me. They go school, just five minutes away. But always busy. I call, they say can’t talk now mummy.”

She is infuriated when Sadeem chimes in to say they are busy partying.

“My boys don’t party! You think you know my sons better than me? No, I know my sons! They no party, I tell them I want them to focus on study and they tell me yes mummy. So I know my boys no party!” 

Sadeem is outright laughing and a smile tugs my lips. Her boys are definitely partying. 

Maria continues, pain lurking bitterly behind her earnest and plaintive musings: “Why they too busy for me? Why they never bring girlfriend to see me? They do everything by themself.”

I clear my throat. “I think I understand. They are not kids—they don’t need you anymore, so how do you remake the relationship with them now so they want to be there too? 

I see the relief in her eyes, the bingo moment of connection and being understood, of having the struggle recognized. “Yes! Exactly!” 

“Have you asked them why they are distant?” 

I suspect it might have something to do with how she expresses her love for them. She is an immigrant and she knows what hard work and poverty look like. She wants better for her sons and she tells them “You need good job, not work so hard like mummy.” I suspect both that she reaches out to her sons often in her anxiety of missing them and also that her phone calls with her sons revolve around her worries for them. And like an avoidant boyfriend, with every desperate attempt from her at connection, they drift further away. I reassure her that if they are studying for a masters then they are smart boys and they will be motivated to work. I tell her that sometimes it takes time as a young person to see the importance of reaching out to your parents. “They are becoming people”, I tell her. “Let them have their space to do that and see if they will let you in more. At least they are here and didn’t move to America like I moved to New Zealand.” 

She sits for a while taking that in and then asks when my birthday is. She is pleased when I say August. “My sons older than you! July!” I think if I weren’t just passing through she would sincerely try to set me up with one of them.

Therapists have a trick where they ask questions phrased just so to make you think about your problem in a whole different light. I am still figuring out how to use this trick for myself, how to choose the question that turns the problem on its head. I’m not sure that I’ve gotten it entirely correct with Maria but she is pleased anyway. She calls me her angel and gives me an apple and a slice of baklava as I am leaving.