‘He had to trust me now’: Lamisse’s fight to free her dad

Lamisse: Geelong in the ’90s was very white. My parents were grappling with a culture clash and Dad’s struggle with migration. Dad didn’t seek asylum here; he’d left something good and then had to struggle against racism. He was a fun dad, but he could be scarily strict. I was curious about who he was. When I was 12, we’d talk about politics and the Middle East.

Our relationship suffered when I became a teenager. There was this sense of loss on both sides for a while, born out of an ideological clash around religion. At 19, I moved out of home, took off my headscarf, started partying, had a boyfriend. My dad can be black-and-white when it comes to faith and I was angry. Then, in 2014, we went to Jerusalem together and reconnected.

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When he arrived in Cairo in 2018, he texted my cousin from the airport tarmac and then it was just as if he’d disappeared into this liminal black hole. I had no idea how to start the mad, Kafka-esque search. I found out he was in prison eight days later only because he got a letter smuggled out.

The first time I saw him in prison was confronting: he was in prison whites in a courtyard filled with rubbish, stray cats and the smell of piss. I just wanted to break down. He put his face into my hair. When my siblings and I were teenagers, we’d be like, “Eww, Dad, why are you smelling me?” but he’s always done that – the big inhale from the top of our heads, like we’re still babies. The second visit was the first time I ever saw him cry. Seeing how fragile he was changed my relationship with him forever: he had to trust me now and that was something I’d always struggled with growing up – feeling that I had his trust.

I had to believe I could free him to have the strength to do it. I thought, “I’ll do everything I can to get him out and I’ll die doing it.” It was so stressful, not knowing if my decisions would lead to more harm, that it became almost paralysing. I was learning on the go in an environment that’s chaotic, corrupt, opaque.

In prison, Dad had no bed, no hot water. He lost 23 kilos. He spoke about having suicidal thoughts and I was like, “Wow, he’s really suffering,” because in Islam, suicide is a big no-no. I was so scared of who he’d be after prison – that he’d be broken. It felt as if I was grieving the death of my father while he was still alive.

Even though we had the support of Peter Greste [the Australian journalist who’d also been held in Tora Prison] and pro bono representation by [London-based barrister] Jennifer Robinson, exactly why Dad was freed when he was will always be a mystery to us. I think I helped, too.

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Since the experience, he’s become a softer, more open and loving dad. He always had those traits, but he grew up in a tough, patriarchal environment where softness wasn’t nurtured and he’s finally leaning into it.

Dad hasn’t had an easy life, but he never left us, no matter how hard it was for him to be in Australia. He’s a pillar and a guide – someone I can always turn to, someone I trust completely. He’s so important to me it’s beyond words.

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