Questions of Mass identity - a short story

This is the story of two Adam's, one from Iraq and one from Great Britain and how despite our different 'identities' the two are drawn together by a common humanity.

This is the first part, I will post the second when there is a demand for it!



Adaam Ali-lives in Shepherds Bush-with his mother and two little brothers.

As I was walkin’ home two things crossed my mind, number one that the old lollypop lady across commercial lane had lost a lot of weight, and number two that I needed the toilet so bad I had to think of such a useless and irrelevant topic just to keep my mind of it, well I guess I didn’t do a great job seeing as im now thinking about how weak my bladder is and if I don’t go now I might do the unthinkable!

Things weren’t so bad after year 11, im slap, bang in the middle of summer with 6 gcse’s to ma’ name a bad grasp of English grammer (as you can see, infact I think I jus’ spelt grammur wrong isit grammar or grammer? SEE, that kind’ a useless thinking is the reason why I’m doing so badly in life. Hey but things are getting better, I have an interview with the carphone warehouse tomorrow, yes I know it’s amazing! To have someone’s dream fulfilled so early, to work at the glamorous carphone warehouse (and my sarcastic rants don’t do me any favours either, once I once described the local policeman’s drug talk as a platform to become an officer myself and stop and search other brown people in search of a policeman’s utopia just opposite a BNP convention in Burnley. My teacher wasn’t exactly amused, neither was the officer infact.)

I walked in with a bit of a swagger sitting next to my competitors- middle aged man in a mid-life crisis who kept talking to himself, with sudden twitching, a goofy 17 year old student with a goatee of acne, which he badly covered up with an array of bum fluff. Then finally ageless man, could be forty or twenty you couldn’t tell and his face as stern as the hard iron railings that covered the periphery of the store, this guy I thought was my main competitor for the job. He looked motionless, whilst the goofy teen was taking a quick pick up his nose thinking no one was looking. Then suddenly, ‘Adaam Ali’ my name was called out, I don’t usually get nervous but today something was different, my legs were shaking so much. I sat down on the standard plastic chair, with my butt making a sort of, farting sound as it placed itself on the leather cover of the chair. ‘So Mr Ali, interesting name, where are you from?’ Asked the quizzing bald man
‘Well I’m originally from Iraq, from Samarra, north of Baghdad, but I was raised in London.’ I answered sharply.
‘Hmm, what do you think you can bring to this company, you seem too young, too inexperienced to do a job like this?’ Asked the ragged salesmen with such a patronising tone it filled me with unexpected anger.
‘Well, Dave (reading his name tag, smart eh) I have got fire in my belly and I can assure you I act much older then my name suggests im hard working, gritty and determined.’ (All those nights of watching the apprentice finally paid off!)
‘Fire in your belly, I like that, I can tell you after working here for 43, is it, (he spends five minutes thinking) no 44, no wait umm (again another 5 minutes) yes 44 years working here and have….. (I cringed waiting for some lecture from a 60 something man, I screwed this interview up alright,)…never seen someone so DETERMINED in my life!’
Wow, is he serious, and he seemed to be cos’ I got the job within a month.

I know it seems weird being happy over a job like that, but after the luck I had this was great, my Dad was still in war-torn Iraq, my mum struggling to support us and my two little brothers so my mum was naturally overjoyed at the news of me getting the job, I had to be the breadwinner (why do they use bread why not cheesewinner, or any other dairy or non dairy products) well at least until my dad’s papers came through for asylum here, and I’m not making excuses but being thrown into doing your gcse’s in a different country with a different language aint easy, trust me I know. After years of coming to England things were finally coming together.

Monday mornings equals tiredness, laziness and can’t be botheredness. It’s raining, freezing; I officially had the worst sleep ever and im strutting around looking for my work uniform. As I walk out my house, the morning chill reaches my back and just gave me Goosebumps. At the workplace, you always have the characters, the ‘salesmen’ Ben Matthews, the ‘follow the rules, extreme suck up’ Jim Davidson and of course were would we be without the ‘girl wearing so much makeup she looks like a ghost’ Alex May. Then there is me, when I first came they thought they could just push me around cos’ im the pushover sixteen year old going on seventeen. But I stood my ground worked hard and now they respect me.

The only guy who was kind of friendly was Ben, but he had his moments of utmost ruthlessness like when going for a sale is like the equivalent of him cutting open the opponent’s body, like cutting bone like butter. Jim, well he was the complete weirdo in the group, he had a weird obsession with the inside of an onion and infact got himself, ‘the onion weekly’ which was only sold in Canada so he got it specially shipped from there, yes, how shall I put this, my work place is special.

Ahh, Friday, the fact that the week is over compiled with me getting a raise makes this week the icing on my proverbial cake. Finally the old man decided to give me a raise. The one thing I miss about what I use to have on my lazy Fridays were the Friday Prayers at the mosque. Meeting with my mates Jamaal, Azmaat and Ali, yes those were the good days and the lazy ones combined. It was getting pretty late by now and well I think you and I know Corydon isn’t the place to be waltzing about at night with your juicy pay packet slotted in your pocket. ‘oh god!’ I murmured, in front of me were some hoodies with their dogs, no problem I thought I’ll just cross the road, and oh look three of them crossed the road to come within 10 metres of me, that’s when my heart started beating so fast you could almost hear it from the outside! Now at this stage im whispering every single prayer I could remember, slowly but surely I got past 5 metres of the hooded thugs, I thought to myself just don’t attract attention and it almost worked until all of a sudden………I walked into the pole……WHACK! Yes it did hurt and I had about eight hooded guys laughing at me in hysterics great and I ran the rest of the way home.


As usual in my Workplace, whenever I get a break I’m praying in the stock room. No one at work really takes notice of this except the girl I mentioned last time: Alex May, YES THE GIRL WITH TOO MUCH MAKEUP. She comes into the storage room, sees me praying then makes a loud huff and puff and a huge sigh of annoyance before leaving while leaving the door wide open to leave the whole store staring at me as I’m praying. Every time I confront her she blanks me. For example like today: Hey Alex could you perhaps leave the door closed while I’m praying?’ I question.
‘erm sorry Adaam but I’m dealing with a customer.’ She says with a rude undertone and pronouncing my time likes she’s got something stuck in her….. And she is serving a ghost cos the shop floor was empty. When I came to England they said racism was only in the 1980’s when immigrants first started coming, HA like that was true at this rate it should be gone by 2080. Yes you won’t get that blatant shout of racist remarks but you always get the racial undertones which in my opinion is worse. That night I went to the mosque and prayed for three things, 1. That there was peace in Iraq and the other countries at war, 2. To protect my dad, mum and two lil’ bro’s and 3rd for Alex to be transferred to a different shop or leave or any inconceivable way for to disappear!
Back at home my mum is having her usual late night chats to my dad, you see because my dad is being held by immigration the whole family before we got to sleep is on the phone to my Dad. I do really miss him but I want to seem like I’m looking after the family and it doesn’t help when half way through the conversation with him my voice breaks and my dad ends up laughing telling me how much of a kid I am. Looking after two brothers aint easy I can tell you that, especially cos’ my younger brother Yasir has been acting odd recently whilst the youngest one Abdur Rehman is 7 years old gets high from air, he is constantly moving and annoying everyone in the family, feeding Abdur Rehman suger and the likelihood is you wont get sleep for a few days, hyperactive mode goes on overdrive and you find your 1000 word essay for English with bite marks on it and that is one of the fundamental reason why I did so badly in my Gcse’s. Yes being an older brother is what can say a special privilege.

One thing that was odd the next morning was my older brother Yasir was being very quite, I thought something was going on in school so I had those brotherly moments were I asked him if anyone was doing anything in school in my winnie the pooh boxer shorts and matching shirt (don’t judge me, I liked the show, still do infact)
‘Yasir, how are things at school?’
‘Fine.’
‘Is anyone picking on you or anything?’
‘No’
‘So no one’s hurting you or annoying you or bullying you’
‘No’
And this final no was greeted with him walking to his room and slamming the door, I was never good at heart to heart conversations with my brothers, usually cos I make it into or comedy show. The thing is though me and Yasir share a room so the dramatic exit he wanted was broken when he walked in a minute later, I was doing the robot dance in unbelievable synchronisation to the sound of my mum trying to fix the radio which at least got Yasir to laugh abit. That evening we had guests and as accustomed my mum would spend ages making 40 dishes to the standard of a five star Michelin chef and satisfying some random family who we once met once, in Iraq, once. We have to invite them to dinner though so we can sit through a meal of awkward silences, and their families’ father questioning me to think about a career in medicine. It was 7:45 sharp and dinner was served and as expected the father, wearing an old black suit and with a bold head that looked so shiny I could see myself in it asked ‘So what you doing now?’
‘Im working at a multinational cellular phone company that also markets high speed internet at discounted rates.’
‘Ooh sounds fancy!’ adds his wife.
‘You not wanting to be doctor?’ the Husband asks in such a husky Iraqi accent I nearly spit out my tea.
My mum cuts in, ‘Uncle you didn’t bring Abdul?’
‘No Hakeema he has Egjam soon, to be doctor, inshallah!’
‘Mahshallah!’ my mum says
‘Alhumdullilah.’ The uncle finishes. At this point you have to know that I was close to hysterics but it took all my energy to hold back and give them my cheesiest smile before leading them out the door and breathing a huge sigh of relief.

Ahh days off work, what a wonderful feeling, my feet hurt, my back hurt sand a lot of other body parts, I need a long relaxing bath, then the phone rings.
‘Hi can I speak to the Parent or Guardian of Yasir Ali please.’
‘Speaking.’
‘Yes, this is Miss Jenga, it appears your son has been the object of some racial abuse at school, have you noticed any odd behaviour from him at home?’
‘Yes, he’s been really quite lately and doesn’t talk much.’
‘well I’d like you to come in and talk to him he is quite upset.’
‘Have you caught the people who were racist to him?’
‘Yes I’ve called them and their parents in, please come in as soon as possible.’
A wave of anger passes through me as I put the phone down, I can imagine the perpetrator, a white skinhead with a jail bound dad and a mum struggling to keep up with two kids in a council estate. The first thing I did was call my mum, she was at a wedding and started shouting in Arabic (you see when Iraqi’s get angry instead of reacting they shot jibberish in there mothertoungue) I got my mum to calm down and told her I was meeting the headmistress and give them all a piece of my mind.
I hopped on my bike and pedalled all the way really angry strong pedalling (quite a good technique for getting somewhere quick.) I could imagine the kid and his parent swearing away not caring about anyone. I arrived asked my way around burst into the heads office, to see Yasir and an a Asian boy with his parents coming up to me and instantly apologising, I was a little caught off guard and gave Yasir I hug before discussing the matter further with the head, apparently Yasir was being called a terrorist and rocks were thrown at him by the Asian boy called Mitzu, he was then attacked by Yasir’s friend Jamie, who is now suspended for beating up Mitzu today. Then I saw a white man in his forties with about five tattoos on his arms and a slight beer belly. Jaime’s dad, I had always hated Yasir’s friendship with Jamie, a rough kid who was a bad influence on Yasir but your first assumptions aren’t always right are they, when I thought Yasir was racially bullied I instantly thought, some white skinhead, its funny how your views can be changed so quickly the one defending Yasir was the white skinhead, maybe this countries racial problems were not just plain black and white they were more deep-rooted and that was something I learnt that day. I took Yasir under my arm and gave him a talk at home about how you have to stand up against bullies, in some ways that incident made him more aware and confident about himself. I’m just glad I made it in time for friends though.


My dad was given a date when he would arrive in England 22nd January 2009, it was September the 4th and our whole family were counting down the days before he came to London. I was tired of being the breadwinner I wanted to be like a normal teenager and have moody strops, slam my door constantly and dye my hair black, become on the edge of suicide and moan about life all the time until my mum’s head would explode. Yes I wanted to be a teenager! Our family were also preparing for Ramadan, since my brothers were too young they only did the odd fast, but me and my mum would fast throughout. In Ramadan I tended to stop cycling to work and starting taking the Bus. Ahh the bus journeys were so interesting, in my opinion you get the ‘gangster type’ who hold there crotch (which I found really odd) and struggle to keep there pants on and sit at the back of the bus ‘busting beats’ bruv, you get me. Then there was the old English people who would sit at the front causing no one harm, and finally the immigrants (the group I’m in) who come in with their huge back packs and there annoying accent and take up so much space. There worst moment is when my stomach makes growling sounds and there is complete silence on the bus, and I get the odd looks of distain from a few random people.

Ramadan is about self-preservation, patience and too avoids all conflict, to devote your time to God. One bit of advice my dad gave me was that you can be a strong man or a man of strength; he said you should always aim to be the latter. My dad would say ‘a strong man believes all his success was down to him and him only but a man of strength realises that God was the reason for his success and thanks him for it.’ There you go, something to tell your kids (if you ever have any.) Ramadan was flying by and I was getting use to the daily routine of work and tired of the same monotonous thing day in day out. One thing I told my little brothers was the value of education (one of the reasons we came to England, except I was the guinea pig) and how important it is because if you don’t have qualifications you end up slogging it out year after year, like me but I’ve done it for almost 3 months now.

The next morning my mum calls me, ‘Adaam, your cousin Amir is coming here I need you go and collect him from the airport.’
‘Cousin Amir? I thought he went Iran to study?’
‘No that was Cousin Abdul.’
Ohh that was cousin Abdul, or was it Abdur Rehman?’
‘No Abdur Rehman is in Germany.’ Reiterates my mum.
The cousin conversation continued until we worked through the A’s into the B’s etc until finally we got to Z, yes there were plenty of ‘cousins’ I think some were just random street vendors we knew back in Baghdad but we just call them cousins because everyone felt like family back then.
I couldn’t exactly remember cousin Amir or how he was related to me but I knew he was new so I wanted to give him some tips when he came. Off I went by Taxi hoping for the worst and expecting the worst.

I was in a bit of delusion arriving at the airport, looking for someone you don’t remember then unexpectedly ‘ADAAAAAAAAAM! YALLAH COUSIN, YOU REMEMBER!’ I’m being hugged so tight my circulation was being cut off. My look of confusion allowed him to explain, ‘you know auntie shabab?’ I nodded but I really didn’t know auntie shabab, funny name though hehe shabab like kebab, ‘yes well her cousins, brothers best friend’s uncles mother’s son, who’s tailor had been in the family for over 15 years, I’m his son!’
‘Ohhhhh, ahhhhh, I remember.’(I really didn’t, but I really didn’t want another explanation) and like that we were the best of friends, he was telling me of how much Iraq has changed and how bad he found it in Iran. He wasn’t what I expected him to look like, he was slightly shorter then me, had a beard and matching goatee and was wearing matching adidas tracksuit with a leather jacket and flip flops, interesting style.

As I toured him around, I thought were should I take him? Then it clicked the London eye! Now I know what your thinking, its quite slow and boring, but I wasn’t talking about sitting on it, no way, I’m not paying for that. So we sat on the bench watching that wheel, go round, and round, he enjoyed it and I read my book so it was all cool. As we walk down cousin Amir had the tendency of holding my hand ever so slightly, when I looked at him he just smiled, again interesting habit, nevertheless odd. Then I thought he was getting bored so I took him to Edgware road, maybe he would feel at home, we ate at a nice little café, and Cousin Amir gobbled up his falafel. After a long day, I thought his tour was enjoyable enough, I finally took him on the bus, sat him next to a man who kept sneezing and stood as my cousin looked bemused before muttering in Arabic to me that the men smelt like a goat. I laugh and snort out load, not a smart move, the seat gets empty and I sit down and talk:

I broke down some Do’s and Don’ts (mainly don’ts) for him to learn about London:
Do’s
Do mind you’re own business
Do offer your seat to the elderly, pregnant women, (be careful as the women you suspected as being pregnant may not be
Do use deodorant when ever taking the train, I think I have suffered enough when people don’t take shower and then spray a load of aftershave on top!
Do apply for unemployment benefits and steal tax payers money, whilst having more and more kids with any wife you can find to increase the size of your council flat into a fully fledged home in Highgate (my anger spilled over after reading a article about this, those “%$£^£^& immigrants!) And ‘no’ you can’t stop me from reading ‘the Sun’ and daily mail.
Do read on the train

Don’ts
Do not eat at Sanjay’s tasty chicken (I did and didn’t really recover till yesterday!)
Do not ever run in the underground, I don’t think I have to explain myself for that one-hmmm (I put on a American accent), ‘he’s an A—r-a-b, brown skin he’s wearing a backpack and running- I don’t think the consequences will be good1
Don’t over sleep on the train (from my experience, high Barnet to Wimbledon, what a 2 hour journey that was!
Do not go to the toilet at kings cross station, (again I do not really have to explain this one) infact do not go to toilet’s at any underground station!
Do not smile, Londoners do not smile.
Do not offer a women who looks like she is pregnant a seat because that may not end well for you!


I think he was all set so I sent him in the Bus to my auntie’s house. As he walked away he said ‘by the way my names is Amir.’ I just smiled because I didn’t catch what he said at the time and then laughed because I thought it was a joke which resulted in him staring at me weirdly. Another guy looking for a life in this cosmopolitan metropolis, most people coming to London or the UK work hard but still struggle for money, let me tell you its not all its cracked up to be, I think some people will regret asking: ‘I need a wiza please?’


My Grandma had arrived safely from Basra and she had it all: the cuteness, sweetness and a heart of gold. She had seen a lot during her time in Iraq and it was emotional leaving your homeland. But then again you don’t get unlimited satellite television so she was watching this Arab drama, for a second I walk pass and almost caught in a trance I watch, I can’t seem to get my eyes off the television as Habib hits Zahra with a plant. The drama was ludicrous but strangely addictive; I sat on the edge of my seat as my Grandma snuck me a smile, Habib then was imprisoned as Zahra threatened to sell his two year old baby on the black market while he was in jail. At that point I realised I should really get up and go.

We all sat down for dinner that night and my Grandma was talking about who was marrying who, and who ran away, and which person is having a fight with whichever sheep or man you get the gist. I mentioned my Dad and everyone just seemed quite, my mum was emotional and just upset but I had some weird feeling in my gut that told me I had too see me father soon. It was bad enough as people kept telling me how much I looked like my father; even I couldn’t deny I looked like a duplicate of him! My brother Yasir wanted to see him too and Abdur Rehman just kept saying Baba, maybe dinner wasn’t the right time to mention my father. I sat with my mum in her room and after a long talk she breaks down starts crying and tells how much she missed him. I couldn’t leave my mum like this whatever my gut was telling me. I called my dad after speaking to him, he tells me everything is ok as usual, and tells me to stay strong.

I’m off to get my hair cut before meeting me mates after a long time, meeting Ali and the crew will be jokes. I usually get me hair cut at random places I really should stick to one place, but me Mum is always disappointed unless I come back bold, she feels that the more hair cut the more value for money. If I came back bold she would say ‘great’ and for some reason I sat in the chair of the hair dressers chair and said the ‘usual’ unfortunately I had never been to that hairdressers. I looked in the mirror; I had lines on the side of me head, and looked like a chestnut. Nonetheless it is beautiful day in London, odd for this time of the month but no one is complaining and Iam sitting in the bus, it is incredibly warm and someone has decided not to put deodorant on. As the funky smell caresses me and my dodgy haircut I remember the good times with Ali, my best mates always been there, I wanted to talk to him if I had the chance about what I should do about this weird gut feeling I had.


‘I think you got your haircut at the wrong side of Brixton bro cos’ your hair is well…’ Ali makes a sneaky comment and the rest of the crew laugh it off. I’m with my mates after a long time, apart from my dodgy cut it feels good to be with my close friends for a while. Ali is a guy I know I can trust, he is tall, Pakistani, and a joker. Then there is Jamaal, the tough talking Caribbean hoodlum, he’s had a tough life, and I admire how tough he has turned out. Azmaat was the nicest guy I know; he would help me in any situation. The two twins, Shamz and Namz are the dopiest guys I know, and finally Moosa, we all love the guy, chubby reliable and is probably the funniest guy I know without even telling jokes he makes me laugh. We sat at this random café sipping mint tea and the twins hooked on their shisha. We all chat about the usual stuff, most of my mates are doing their A-levels only me and Jamaal have dropped out and our working full time and only me and Jamaal have not had the time to meet up with the rest of the boys recently. Everyone else was going to go university soon, get degree’s, Ali got three A’s, was going to be a doctor and his parents were proud. It was the same for Moosa, bright guy and they both had a future ahead of them.

We all left, I felt abit dazed with all that darkness of the café, as me, Jamaal and Ali get on the bus as we all live pretty close, we get up on the top deck and for some reason this boy seemed familiar. I had never seen him before but his piercing blue eyes stung me, he was tall, kind lanky and had sort of brown skin, kind of the same colour as me, but for some reason I thought I had seen him before. I broke my trance when the boy got off the bus, as I saw him out the window disappear into his estate his image haunted me somewhat. Even my dreams kept drawing back to his blurred image, maybe it was just my imagination.

I will update everyone with the next extract soon!