James Bevan

Creative Writing – Racism, a short story.

An internal scar

…which will forever haunt me on my ill-fated childhood. I try to pay no heed to the physical beating but more to the emotional distress I was unjustly forced upon. The colour of my skin alienated me from my students; as a result of this I had no friends, no one to look up to or even to care for. It was the time when I needed it the most, the foundation of my upbringing which would steer me on the righteous road to adulthood.

My first and only school report read: “A hard worker. Malkir is a determined student with a passion to succeed. He has built up an encouraging reputation and we are glad to accept him as a new member of our school community”. Something so simple made me feel so good. My dad smiled, looked at me and said he was proud. It sounds silly but I had butterflies in the pit of my stomach. I hadn’t felt this good since I won the spelling test in primary school.

My parents always said that I was special and everyone would value me for who I am, like Allah does, but evidently life doesn’t happen that way. Who is this God I worship? I devote my life, praying to my faith, all for this! Last Thursday it got to the point of no return. When I came home with a scratch from my forehead to my lower neck my parents said, “I don’t want you to let anyone hurt you anymore”.

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“Stupid, stupid religion. Where is God when I need him the most?” I had been in the toilets for about fifteen minutes now trying to get Jamie’s voice out of my head, but to no avail. The words echoed and imprisoned my autonomy. “Oh I’ll get you boy… you can be sure of that, I’ll get you”. On the brink of collapsing, I whispered “Allahu Akbar”. I could now feel my parents circulating me, as if their strength were my silhouette, a nebulous barrier without substance. As I felt this sense of security, I cautiously strolled to the lunch ...

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