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384 pages, Hardcover
Published October 3, 2023
2. GREAT BRITAIN To return to your question, well – likely is, you’ve already made up your mind, Mister. I can tell from the sorts of questions you’ve already asked me, like why I hate your country. I don’t doubt it seems a little strange coming from me, but believe me when I say that I do not, not really.
Truly, I have missed your Great Britain. I’ve missed your old British mores, Mister. Your pasties and that. Your cuppa-teas. Your John Cleese. And your poets.
This country has always been a home for me. Only place that’s ever really claimed me, or that I could ever claim. I think about my childhood, my rambling half-cocked education, and then, my rise into fame and fortune.
It all happened here – right here for me, in this city, in this United Kingdom of the Great British Isles. Nostalgia, call it. Remembrance maybe. I’m pining for the parts I was raised in. East Ham, that is, East London. Among local muftis, many mothers, wide boys, punters and clerics. Wouldn’t call the feeling patriotic – nothing as waxy as a word like that – but it does beg a better question. One that I’d quite like to put to you now, Mister, and that is this:
If the greatness of your Britain remains so assured, then why is it so difficult to hear someone hate it?
My story, for the purposes of what you wanted could have easily fitted on a list:.
Born Bas, Yahya, British-Iraqi, Iraqi-British.
Disabled. Delinquent – raised in poverty.
Radicalised against Western intervention in Iraq.
Gains notoriety promoting works of anti-Western hate.
Absconds from the UK – abandons known family.
Spends several years in exile. Stateless. Displaced.
Returns a pariah. Tail between legs
Western wind
When wilt thou cease
That the red and blue may burn
103. METAMORPHOSIS What exactly made me vomit out half my insides, Mister, I can’t say. I do think, though, that language, like rivers and seas, get polluted with what’s expelled into them. And that sort of pollution goes both ways, Mister. It sickens you. And when it’s used to carp and cuss, and degrade, the sickness can snag at the senses.
Words change the perception of things and other people. At its worst, in a kind of crazy regurgitation, whatever you say ends up defining the world. Making actual and true what once you’d only imagined. I’d been reciting, I think, for so long and for so many years, that it’d made me sick.
After washing off Ibrahim’s window, I realised I didn’t like what language was making of me. Didn’t like what I was becoming, Mister. I’d become a kind of gobbler, a consumer of the world’s bad news, and I was sick of the feed. I wanted it over.
Whether I turn out to be the hero of my own life, or the villain of yours these pages must show