Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6 — BOOK I

 

What Embong Sang

 

(First Semester, 1999)

 

Every week the War Memorial Chapel drew the boys in, pipes still echoing in the distance. Hymns filled the arched space, sunlight slanting through stained glass.

 

The chapel did not resemble the sandstone Gothic churches that dotted older parts of Sydney. It stood in red brick—solid, rectangular, restrained. Narrow vertical windows, dark with leaded glass, punctuated the long walls. A square tower rose without ornament, practical rather than romantic. Brick steps climbed in clean lines from the sloping lawn, bordered by low garden beds and broad-leafed shrubs that softened the geometry. It looked less medieval than memorial—something built after loss, steady and unembellished, meant to endure rather than impress.

 

Geoffrey noticed it before he understood it.

 

The War Memorial Chapel at Scots followed a reliable pattern: polished pews, hymn books softened at the corners, voices rising and settling into something practiced and communal. Most boys sang without thinking. It was part of the week—like assembly or sport—something done properly and then left behind.

 

Soon, the congregation was called to stand, and the first hymn began.

 

Stand up and bless the Lord
All people of His choice
Stand up and bless the Lord, your God
With heart and soul and voice

 

Geoffrey sang softly, half-hearted.

 

Embong sang carefully. The reverend watched the rows and seemed to expect every voice to join.

 

At first, Geoffrey assumed it was unfamiliarity. Embong had arrived later than most, after all. But the pattern repeated itself with a precision that did not belong to chance. Embong sang the opening lines, steady and clear. He sang the verses that praised God, the ones that spoke of the Almighty.

 

Praise God from Whom all blessings flow
Praise Him all creatures here below
Praise Him above, you heavenly host

 

Then, at certain moments, his voice fell away—particularly at the line:

 

Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

 

Not abruptly. Not awkwardly. Just absent.

 

Embong moved his mouth as if singing, careful not to offend the watchful reverend.

 

Geoffrey followed the hymn book with his finger and realised what Embong was skipping. The lines that named the Trinity. The declarations that went beyond praise.

 

There was one exception.

 

On mornings when the opening hymn was Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, Embong sang without hesitation. The words moved cleanly from beginning to end—praise without partition, reverence without complication. No declarations he needed to step around. No lines that required silence.

 

Praise to the Lord! O let all that is in me adore him!
All that has life and breath, come now with praises before him.
Let the Amen sound from his people again;
gladly forever adore him.

 

The congregation remained standing.

 

Together, they prayed:

 

Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name,
your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as in heaven.
Give us today our daily bread.
Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.
Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.
For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours now and for ever.

Amen.

 

“The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all,” said the Reverend McKenzie.  “The service is concluded.”

Following that was the singing of the Threefold Amen:

Amen.

Amen.

Amen.

 

Nothing more followed.

Geoffrey noticed the difference immediately.

 

Embong’s voice was steadier then, less measured. He did not scan ahead in the hymn book, did not prepare himself for the moment he would have to stop. He simply sang.

 

After chapel one morning, as the boys filed out into the light, Geoffrey fell into step beside him.

 

“You don’t sing everything,” Geoffrey said—not accusing, just curious.

 

Embong hesitated for the briefest moment, as if deciding how much to say. Then he answered simply.

 

“I’m Muslim.”

 

Geoffrey nodded. “That makes sense.”

 

Embong blinked. “It does?”

 

“Yeah,” Geoffrey said. “You sing the God parts.”

 

Embong laughed softly. “That’s one way of putting it.”

 

They walked on together, shoes echoing against stone.

 

“I don’t believe in the Trinity,” Embong said after a moment. “So I don’t sing those lines. But chapel is part of the school. I agreed to it when I enrolled. The teachers have been good to me. Most of the teachers have been good to me.”

 

“So you stay,” Geoffrey said.

 

“So I stay,” Embong replied. “And I sing what I can.”

 

There was no bitterness in his voice. No defensiveness. Just fact.

 

Later, Geoffrey asked about the hymn he sang all the way through.

 

“That one,” Embong said, “is only about praising God. Nothing else.”

 

“So that one’s easy,” Geoffrey said.

 

“Yes,” Embong replied. “That one is easy.”

 

On Fridays, Embong left campus during lunch.

 

One Friday, Geoffrey waited outside the gates, scanning for Embong. Boys streamed past in clusters, already talking about the weekend. There was no sign of him. He checked his watch. Then the gates again.

 

Just as irritation began to creep in, Embong appeared, walking quickly toward him with another boy at his side—lean, dark-haired, hazel-eyed, carrying himself with the quiet ease of someone who knew exactly where he was meant to be.

 

“Geoffrey!” Embong called, lifting a hand. “Sorry. I was at prayers. This is Imran.”

 

Imran Khan offered a polite nod. “Hi. Mum’s Aussie. Dad’s Pakistani. We go to Friday prayers together.”

 

Geoffrey paused, processing the information, then nodded. “Right. Good to meet you.”

 

Embong clapped him on the shoulder, a familiar, grounding gesture. “Relax, California. I wasn’t ditching you. Imran’s cool—you’ll like him.”

 

Imran grinned. “He talks about you enough, mate. Hard not to.”

 

Geoffrey snorted. “That’s concerning.”

 

“You love it,” Embong said.

 

Geoffrey shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Next time, warn me. I thought you’d been abducted.”

 

“If I ever am,” Embong laughed, “you’ll be the first I send a torch signal to.”

 

They headed back through the gates together.

 

They were back on campus before afternoon lessons began.

 

Always on time. Never hurried.

 

Later, Geoffrey asked, as if confirming something he already knew.

 

“Mosque,” Embong said. “Friday prayers.”

 

Geoffrey nodded. “Cool.”

 

That was the end of the conversation.

 

The prayer hall in Surry Hills was already full when they arrived.

 

Men stood shoulder to shoulder, shoes lined neatly along the walls, the low murmur of greeting fading as the imam stepped forward. The room settled without instruction, bodies aligning as if drawn into place by habit rather than command.

 

Embong stood beside Imran in the second row.

 

When the imam raised his hands to his shoulders and said, clearly, Allahu Akbar, the sound carried through the hall. Behind him, the congregation followed—not loudly, not in unison, but softly, each voice contained, the takbir repeated under breath. Embong lifted his hands and lowered them again, placing his left hand over his right, already resting against his chest.

 

They stood still.

 

The imam began to recite, his voice steady and unadorned.

 

Bismillāhir-Raḥmānir-Raḥīm.
In the name of God, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful.

 

Al-ḥamdu lillāhi Rabbil-‘ālamīn.
Praise be to God, Lord of all worlds.

 

Ar-Raḥmānir-Raḥīm.
The Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful.

 

Māliki Yawmid-Dīn.
Master of the Day of Judgment.

 

Iyyāka na‘budu wa iyyāka nasta‘īn.
You alone we worship, and You alone we ask for help.

 

Ihdinaṣ-Ṣirāṭal-Mustaqīm.
Guide us on the straight path—

 

Ṣirāṭal-ladhīna an‘amta ‘alayhim,
ghayril-maghḍūbi ‘alayhim walāḍ-ḍāllīn.
the path of those You have favoured,
not of those who have earned Your anger,
nor of those who have gone astray.

 

The final word settled into silence.

 

Then the hall answered together.

 

“Amin.”

 

The sound rose full and resonant, filling the space before easing back into quiet. Embong bowed when the imam bowed, knelt when he knelt, movements precise without being hurried. There was no searching, no hesitation. Only following.

 

When the prayer ended, the room loosened gradually. Soft greetings resumed. A hand touched a shoulder. Someone smiled. Nothing lingered longer than it needed to.

 

Outside, the street was unchanged—cars passing, a shopkeeper lifting a shutter, the afternoon moving on without ceremony. Embong slipped his shoes back on and straightened, something in his posture newly settled.

 

They walked back toward campus without rushing.

 

Always on time. Never hurried.

 

Once, late in the evening, Geoffrey heard Embong reciting softly under his breath as he worked at his desk. The words were unfamiliar—measured, rhythmic, carried more by cadence than sound.

 

Embong did not look up, did not acknowledge the presence of anyone else. He recited as if alone.

 

After a moment, he turned a page and read quietly from a worn English translation, his voice lower now, almost private.

 

To you be your religion, and to me mine.

 

Geoffrey did not ask what it was from. He did not need to.

 

The sentence settled in him with the same calm he had felt in chapel—voices rising, one voice withdrawing when it must, joining again when it could.

 

It sounded less like division than understanding. Less like refusal than respect.

 

Someone asked him once, casually, without malice.

 

“But you don’t look Muslim.”

 

Embong paused, just long enough to register the question.

 

“What does a Muslim look like?” he asked.

 

The boy hesitated, then shrugged.

 

Embong nodded and went back to what he was doing.

 

Only later did Geoffrey realise how unusual this was—not the faith itself, but the way it was treated. Embong did not announce it. He did not defend it. He did not ask permission to exist within it. He simply practiced it, alongside school rules, homework, and the unspoken agreements that made daily life run smoothly.

 

It was faith as routine, not performance.

 

There were boys at school who liked to argue. Boys who collected opinions the way others collected trainers, swapping them loudly and often. Geoffrey had learned, in Los Angeles, how quickly belief could become a weapon when it was shouted instead of lived.

 

Embong did neither.

 

He folded belief into his life the same way he folded his clothes—neatly, consistently, without drawing attention to the act itself.

 

Once, during chapel, Geoffrey caught himself watching Embong instead of the hymn book. Embong’s voice rose and fell with the room, joining when it could, withdrawing when it must. It struck Geoffrey then that restraint took a particular kind of confidence.

 

Afterward, as they walked back toward class, Geoffrey said, “You know you don’t have to explain any of that to me.”

 

Embong looked at him. “I know.”

 

There was something grounding in that exchange—an understanding reached without negotiation. Geoffrey did not feel like he was being trusted with a secret. He felt like he was being included in something ordinary.

 

Weeks later, when someone made an offhand remark about religion in class—careless rather than cruel—Geoffrey responded before he had time to consider whether he should.

 

“That’s not how it works,” he said, voice even.

 

The boy shrugged. “Whatever.”

 

Embong said nothing. He did not need to.

 

As they packed up their bags, Geoffrey glanced at him. “You okay?”

 

Embong nodded. “I am.”

 

Geoffrey realised then that what mattered was not agreement, but recognition. Not sharing belief, but sharing respect. Embong had shown him that without ever asking for it.

 

Comedy had made them visible together.
Faith—quiet, practiced, and unassuming—made them steady.

 

And Geoffrey, without naming it, felt something settle into place: a sense that belonging did not require sameness, only the discipline to let another person stand fully where they were.

 

It was a lesson he would carry forward—long after the hymns stopped echoing, long after the calm of that year gave way to a world that would demand answers from people who had never been taught how to listen.

 

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