Post by Kesh on Jun 26, 2014 22:02:10 GMT
Jun 3, 2014 11:46:36 GMT @Djed said:
THE DEAD ALGERIAN:
As the gun is held to my head, I think ‘Shit. How the fuck did I get here?’ With the rack of my brain, I close my eyes and reflect ‘well that’s not a hard question at all…’
> The Algerian Civil War, December 1991: The Start and the End
Three year old me held on to the body with strength I didn’t know I possessed. Shrieks from women, shouts from men and wailing from children pulsated around me, but it all seemed to be from a different world. Or maybe that was the world, and I was somewhere else? Because what was happening couldn’t be real, it couldn’t be true. My hands were tattooed to the colour of red; the more I seemed to hold on, the further up it stained my arm. Pressing down on the gun wound didn’t seem to help as blood gurgled out of the mouth, spitting in every direction and spraying onto my shirt. I couldn’t understand why what I was doing wasn’t making any difference. I forced my lips onto the forehead of the body over and over again, “Please, I need” I remember whispering. “I won’t hit, I won’t hit anymore!” Earlier that day, I was on the receiving end of a wagging finger with the words ‘you will not hit again, do you understand?’ I do understand, and I won’t again, please, just please.
Suddenly I was being picked up from behind and carried further and further away. With all the strength and energy in my body I shouted, screamed, kicked and punched in every direction to stop it from happening. “Back, back” I screeched whilst pointing with fingers covered in tears, blood and sweat. But I wasn’t heard, not over the second rain of gunfire that circulated the area. That was the last time I ever saw my mother. Sure she was already dead when I was holding on to her, and sure the random man who picked me up and took me to safety saved my life, but that wasn’t what I wanted. He should have left me to die there, because that’s where my life and who I am ended anyway.
The words ‘you will not hit again’ echoed around my head even after all those years. “Won’t I Mother?” I thought as I kicked a man to ground and run off in the opposite direction. ‘You left me here, so you have no right to tell me what to do anymore’ was my justification. A few years after the death of my mother I found a way to channel the frustration, isolation and anger that I felt. This one time I was playing football, I was kicked in the shins. I decided to hit back, and from then I never looked back. But there were only so many fights I could get into whilst playing football. Eventually I found there were more opportunities at an actual football game, one where I was a supporter. As I grew older my following became more and more prominent and before I knew it, I was, following the Algerian football team all around. I mean I do love the sport, and the team, but with the added incentive of scrapping with the opposition also there, I was in my element.
My life as it is now, with a gun to my head is all because of the 2014 FIFA World Cup. Being a pivotal period in my life, I remember the details of the football leading up to it better than the drama and fights I was getting into during. Our qualification to the tournament was one of ups and downs. We’d won 5 of the 6 initial games in our group to reach the playoffs. Our form was great leading into it, but we lost the first leg 3-2. A fucking late penalty ensured our loss, I remember spitting in disgust at that end of that game, didn’t even have the heart to look for a fight. We did battle to a 1-0 win in the next leg though, went through on away goals. Fair to say, I was on top form that night.
Back to now, and the inevitable coming of the end of my life, and I can’t think of anything else. You’d think it would be about what actually got me in this mess. But no, it’s all about the Algerian football team at the time. I think and I think: We had Belgium 17th June in our group, Russia26th June and South Korea22nd June too. I remember going on this online forum whilst in the airport waiting for my flight, and there were these bunch of Soccer Nerds online laughing at one of our players Nabil Bentaleb, but he turned out to be one of the stars of the competition. The joke was on them I guess. With the rock at the back that was Madjid Bougherra (and scorer that got us to the World Cup); flamboyant and exciting midfielder Medhi Lacen setting up Islam Slimani in attack we were ready to really surprise at the World Cup. I remember in our first game when…’ARGH’ I groan as reality hits me again, ‘I’ve a fucking gun to my head’ as it is further pressed towards my skull.
Here I am talking Four – Four – Fucking Two when that’s about how many minutes I’ve got left. If there’s time I’ll tell what happened to me to during World Cup that got me here. And if I ever get out of it, I might even let you know how we did in the World Cup.
Maybe Mother was right. I probably should have kept that promise to never hit again. I did hit, and here I am talking to myself about nothing in particular. Some way to end it, eh? Four-Four-Fucking Two.
Kesh is 100% responsible for this post
remember getting through came at a price though
RIP x
