Translated from the Norwegian by David M. Smith.
This is part of our special feature, New Nordic Voices.
From: Lars Bakken <lars.bakken@nova.no>
Sent: July 20, 2001
To: Jamal聽 <c.r.e.a.m@hotmail.com>
Subject: Survey of youths鈥 everyday lives in Groruddalen
Hi again, Jamal!
听听听听听听听听听听听 I鈥檓 writing because I haven鈥檛 heard back from you. This is in regard to the research project we discussed at Stovner Center, where we intend to use your story in our survey of the everyday lives of youths from minority backgrounds in Groruddalen. As a reminder, every participant will be entered into the drawing for a Scott mountain bike (worth 10,000 kroner) and a travel gift card of the same value.
听听听听听听听听听听听 Remember, you are not required to submit your answers in writing. You may also record them into a dictaphone.
听听听听听听听听听听听 It would be great if you could send me your reply. I hope to hear from you as soon as possible!
听听听听听听听听听听听 Yours,
听听听听听听听听听听听 Lars Bakken
听听听听听听听听听听听 Senior Researcher, NOVA
* * * * *
From: Jamal聽 <c.r.e.a.m@hotmail.com>
Sent: July 22, 2001
To: Lars Bakken <lars.bakken@nova.no>
Subject: Survey of youths鈥 everyday lives in Groruddalen
i鈥檒l talk in one of those things
send to tante ulrikkesvei 42a
* * * * *
From: Mo <mo.1@hotmail.com>
Sent: August 4, 2001
To: Lars Bakken <lars.bakken@nova.no>
Subject: Survey of youths鈥 everyday lives in Groruddalen
It was nice meeting you. I鈥檒l do it, no problem. I like to write, I prefer that over talking, really. And I have lots of free time in the evenings after homework.
I should be able to write pretty regularly. Only I鈥檓 not sure if any of it will be of interest. To be honest, I can鈥檛 tell what it is you want to know. You said just talk about school, family, work and so on. I guess I like things to be a bit more specific than that.
But ok, I鈥檒l just write some things about myself. Not a problem, really. I don鈥檛 know much about other people鈥檚 lives anyway.
I told my parents about this, by the way. They were fine with it. That鈥檒l be good for you, they said, as long as you have time.
I live with my parents, as you probably gathered, and two siblings, my six-year-old sister, Asma, and five-year-old brother, Ayan. They鈥檙e practically twins. When people say that, Asma sticks her hands up in her face and screams, 鈥淪top it!鈥 Ayan just smiles.
Asma, Ayan, and Mohammed. I鈥檓 not sure what they were thinking, my parents. It鈥檚 tradition to name your first-born Mohammed, and the Prophet is the example that all Muslims follow; it was my mother, especially, who pushed for the name, but then they鈥檙e so fired up about me setting forth and getting a good job and all, so why name me that, exactly? It helps a little that people call me Mo, but still. People know.
My father came to Norway at the end of the 70鈥檚. My mother followed a few years after. I was born in Oslo, at Aker Hospital. Lived in Stovner my whole life. I鈥檓 totally unfamiliar with the land my parents came from. No knowledge of it whatsoever. Stovner: that鈥檚 what I know. Boys wearing hoodies in front of the big housing complexes. Women in hijabs pushing strollers. Elderly Norwegians smoking and playing bingo. That Stovner. Housing-Stovner. Not House-Stovner. Everyone knows there鈥檚 a big difference. House-Stovner is filching apples out of the neighbor鈥檚 garden when his back is turned. Housing-Stovner is why we鈥檙e a dark-red blotch on Aftenposten鈥檚 map of the boroughs of Oslo: like a drop of blood soaked into the newspaper. Lots of immigrants. Lots of juvenile crime. Lots of dropouts. Lots of cashiers, nurses, janitors, people on welfare. Three siblings and two parents in a three-room on the eighth floor on Tante Ulrikkes vei, wallpaper and furniture from the 80鈥檚, and an elevator that gets stuck just a little too often. The man below us is unstable, an addict, and he has a pit bull that has to sniff me every time I walk past. I hate dogs. Then we have old man Svendsen on the third floor. He comes out to rant and rave because the hallway smells of food and the stairs aren鈥檛 mopped. When the kids are making noise, he barks up the stairwell: 鈥淨uiet down, dammit!鈥 To anyone who鈥檒l listen, he announces that he鈥檚 鈥渧oting for Carl.鈥 The kids throw rocks at his window and prank call him at the front door; he just yells all the more often and all the louder. Sometimes you hear him mutter: 鈥淕od, the shithole this place has come to.鈥
Outside this apartment block, there are still more of them, high-rises and low-rises, the color of salmon. In the middle of the housing cooperative there鈥檚 a large sculpture of a flame. I never understood that: a monument to something burning. The planks of the bridge up by Stovner Center are green with mold, there are holes along the sides, and it swings. I mean it. You feel it sway up and down when somebody runs across it. It鈥檒l collapse someday, I bet you anything. At Stovner Center, you see the same faces doing the same thing, day in, day out. Folks on welfare with too much time on their hands talking to other folks on welfare with just as much time, when they鈥檙e not playing the slot machines. And the youths, they hang around in clusters everywhere, Burger King or the Mix kiosk, yelling as you walk past: 鈥淚鈥檒l destroy you, man, I swear.鈥 If there鈥檚 anything I can鈥檛 stand, it鈥檚 the way they always have to yell at you that loud.
The bus stop and metro station are close by. Three people were machine gunned there in January. One of them paralyzed from the waist down. My parents don鈥檛 like me being there after dark. For that matter, neither do I. The Dane working the Narvesen kiosk by the entrance always treats you like his enemy, flinging your change so the coins bounce across the counter. Sometimes they fall to the floor and you have to pick them up. As if you鈥檙e bowing to him. The plexiglass doors to the station are covered with graffiti. Not just the usual markers and spray paint, but carved into the glass itself with a knife. The walls on the platform used to have graffiti from end to end. In the early 90鈥檚 they painted it over with a vibrant community, large profiles of children from all over the world. The colors have faded, the paint is chipped. It reeks of smoke and piss, especially on Sunday mornings, but regardless of the stench, George is always there, reaching up to his elbow in the trash for empty bottles. It鈥檚 disgusting even to look at.
That鈥檚 how I think. Sometimes. A lot, actually. I鈥檓 negative. I know it. It鈥檚 just鈥t鈥檚 a real struggle not to be鈥
But there were also times when I liked Stovner. When I was a child, especially. Then it wasn鈥檛 a spot of blood on a map. The complexes were homes. The graffiti at the metro station, murals. The welfare recipients, neighbors. All those brown little children, my friends. The white kids, too. I can still point them out in my yearbooks. Christian. Stian. Andr茅, Thomas A. and Thomas N. Children of the rainbow, the rainbow race: that was us at school. Culture days with food from all parts of the world. Field trips to mosques, churches, temples. At Rommensletta we played soccer, after which we tasted the best water in the world from the faucets at the clubhouse of Rommen FC, and ate raspberries on the hillside near the Fossum youth house. When we had any money, we bought twenty sticks of Bugg chewing gum at Vivo for ten kroner. I remember that. Birthdays with a long table decked out with garlands, Ninja Turtle cups, and chocolate cake with coconut shavings. Snowballs, frozen fingertips every winter, king of the hill on the snowbanks, and Nintendo at Andr茅鈥檚 house, until he was called to the kitchen for supper and we all headed home to receive ours.
That鈥檚 how it was, I think. Different. A different Stovner. A different Norway. And I was a child. Things changed when I got older, there鈥檚 no question. But you know, I wish it could have stayed that way a little longer. Longer than second grade at Rommen School. I know it鈥檚 silly, but sometimes I think: what if I hadn鈥檛 raised my hand to go to the bathroom that day?
That hallway, usually teeming with rambunctious kids, was totally still. With every step my sneakers screeched against the linoleum floor. I entered the bathroom. Now, that bathroom was a scary place. The air hissed through a duct. The urinal flushed by itself. It roared. I didn鈥檛 have much time. The devil lived in there, according to whispered legend, and came out if you stayed too long.
鈥淗e wakes up when it flushes,鈥 they said, 鈥渁nd if you鈥檙e not outta there before then, you鈥檙e dead meat.鈥 I splashed a few drops of water on my fingers. The door felt like it weighed a hundred kilos when I pushed it open and dashed out.
Back in the hallway, the screeching of my shoes blended with the sound of voices. Deep, grown-up voices, and angry. I slackened my pace, the screeching softened, and I stopped right by the corner where the voices were coming from. I heard clearly: the subject of all that anger was us.
So many foreigners at the school now. Mentally retarded, slow kids. Parents without a clue. Neighborhoods become slums. The dreaded walk to the metro after the sun had gone down and the gangs came out. The day they could finally take their pensions and get the hell out? It couldn鈥檛 come soon enough.
I think. A lot of it went over my head. But there was no mistaking one thing, and that was the extent of their distaste for us, the anger. In that hallway where I stood, they grew. Into giants. Horrible giants, like in The BFG, which we took turns reading out loud in class, giants that terrified me, not as much as when we read The Witches (that one caused me at least ten nightmares), but scared anyway, scared of those big giants who stole kids out of their beds and crushed them to bits between their huge jaws.
I got back to my desk and could only hear the smacking of lips, limbs being snapped, screams being screamed, my own scream perhaps, I don鈥檛 know, a scream coursed through the building in any case, but just then, the schoolbell rang, which was probably it.
On my way home, my stomach started giving me trouble. It rumbled, threateningly. I took off through the grass that was thick with dandelions, turning the tips of my shoes yellow. I couldn鈥檛 wait on the traffic lights at the intersection with Fossumveien. Instead, I took the tunnel that, in all truth, was no less terrifying than the bathroom at school, since flashers were known to lurk there, but I flew through it anyway, continued up by the telephone booth and the old Fossum School building onto the short path where there was always dog shit, which I leaped over and flew into the stairwell. As I waited for the elevator to come down from the tenth floor, I was sweating, hopping from foot to foot. When it finally arrived, I realized I couldn鈥檛 hold it any longer even if I clenched every muscle in my body to shaking.
I was so humiliated when I got in that I went straight to the bathroom and started to cry. I cried as washed my pants and underwear by hand in the sink, scrubbed them with my knuckles and Head & Shoulders, the brown stuff gushing out and flowing down the drain. Then I scrubbed myself until I was red from the waist down. I stood listening until I could hear that everyone had moved to the living room, then I ran to my bedroom in my underwear and hung up my clothes to dry in the closet.
I never told anyone about that incident. Not even my parents. I kept it all to myself, as if I鈥檇 been witness to a crime that would go away if only I kept my mouth shut.
I kept my mouth shut and realized that Stovner was a very small place, and Tante Ulrikkes vei even smaller. I realized that in Stovner, people lived in houses on one side and housing on the other, and that the two were nothing alike, something that held true for Oslo just as much as the rest of the world. I realized that those teachers weren鈥檛 alone. The morning paper and the six o鈥檆lock news were full of stories about us. 今日看料 youth gangs where new recruits were forced to jump random people on the street. 今日看料 how bad the schools were. 今日看料 eighteen-years-olds who couldn鈥檛 read, much less write proper Norwegian. 今日看料 the housing complexes that were soulless living machines, and that too many of the machines鈥 residents got all their money from the welfare office. I remember when they started to talk about integration on Dagsrevyen:
鈥淪everal politicians are sounding the alarm over the inadequate integration of immigrants.鈥
I didn鈥檛 know what they were talking about. It made me think about space ships, like the LEGO space ships when I was a kid, the ones with yellow glass and black wings. I pictured space ships taking off and integrating towards the stars. But that wasn鈥檛 it. This was down here on earth. Mosque every Friday instead of church once a year, turning down hot dogs at Christian鈥檚 birthday party, bickering over the proportion of beer versus soda on apartment volunteer day, showering in your underwear in the locker room, cousins marrying cousins, and women always three steps behind their husbands at Stovner Center.
Stovner received a fair share of visitors. Politicians outside the metro station expressing concern about the unsustainable and unacceptable situation. Or the lady from the family support center who dropped by school one day. I remember our teacher announcing a special guest, a little lady with huge glasses who came in and sat at the desk. She said there was something she had to tell us, it was a little difficult, but important to talk about.
鈥淚t鈥檚 not always easy for parents when your family is struggling to get by,鈥 she said. Her face was serious, but the voice was a soft whisper, almost like Mrs. Doubtfire鈥檚. 鈥淧arents can sometimes be in a bit of a bad mood if they are worried about finances.鈥
All through the next day, the kids went through school calling one another hoboes.
This isn鈥檛 the way things ought to be. I mean, it can鈥檛 be, right? It does something to people, I know it does. Some people here, they become so hardened. As though pressed together so tight they turn into stone. Others are content to let everything take its course. Just straight ahead, no matter what they bump up against. They go into work or off to school, oblivious to it all. Like Andersen on the fourth floor or Mahmoud on the fifth. They go home to their families and read the Aftenposten that鈥檚 waiting on their front doorstep, or they watch Dagsrevyen or satellite, cursing inwardly over what they鈥檝e just been shown, remembering none of it by the time they go to bed.
Sometimes I could wish I was like them. Or those who鈥檝e become hardened to it all. I don鈥檛 know. I feel like I鈥檓 the type that just crumbles apart.
Everything I grew up with was transformed into something foreign, mature, and toxic, but there was nothing I could do about it. I didn鈥檛 know what to believe about anything. I was a child who thought too much. More than was good for me. Moreover, I was aware of it, since it didn鈥檛 seem as if anyone else thought as much as I did. They certainly didn鈥檛 let on, if they did. I thought myself into anger, anxiety and weariness; everything blended together into a sense of unease in the pit of my stomach, creeping sometimes up, sometimes down. I suffered from nausea and diarrhea. My mother gave me fennel tea. It didn鈥檛 help. She put me on a diet of rice and white bread. That didn鈥檛 help either. When I was in seventh grade, she took me down to the doctor鈥檚 office by Stovner Hall. A bald man in clogs listened to me with a stethoscope and pressed an ice-cold finger to different parts of my stomach.
鈥淧robably just puberty,鈥 he said. 鈥淣o medicine for it, really.鈥
There was nothing that could be done about anything, really.
Some tried. Michael, the head of the Fossum youth house who went on TV for years in defense of the Stovner Youth. The Norwegian mother down in number 19, pressing her case in letters to the editor that things weren鈥檛 as blood-red as the papers made it out to be, that Stovner was a functioning unit that consisted of perfectly normal neighborhoods. Or Amir, the law student who was so good with words, he went head-to-head with Carl Hagen in debates. And maybe you鈥檙e thinking it wasn鈥檛 only them, but many others, and I鈥檇 say you鈥檙e probably right, only I wouldn鈥檛 know, since I wasn鈥檛 hearing those other voices as much . Not as much as the voices on Dagsrevyen or in VG, the government ministers and city councilmen, all the high-pitched and deep voices that yelled in my ears constantly and forced my eyes wide open until I lay there all night watching the shadows dance along the wall. Only to get up the next morning and see the families of Thomas A. and other kids hoisting cardboard boxes and furniture into vans on their way to Nittedal and Ski and Skedsmo.
No one wants to be around the problem child.
Not even the Salvation Army, who used to strum their guitars outside Stovner Center every Saturday, singing songs about Jesus. They鈥檙e gone now, too.
But that鈥檚 enough for now. It鈥檚 getting late and I have business admin tomorrow at 8:15. I鈥檒l write more tomorrow night.
Respondent: Jamal
Borough: Stovner
Date recorded: August 5, 2001
Hello, you hear me?
Uhh鈥o, you said I鈥檓 supposed to tell you about my life, right? Like a diary or something? No way I鈥檓 doing that. I don鈥檛 like writing. Not in some diary, anyway. Shit鈥檚 for girls, man.
So I鈥檒l talk instead, alright?
Ahh, shit. I don鈥檛 know. What am I supposed to say? I guess I鈥檒l just start talking. No plan.
Ok, ok, I鈥檓 Jamal. Brown, Muslim, from Stovner, T.U.V., Tante Ulrikkes vei, yeah you know, represent always. Live here with my mother and little brother, Suleiman, but we just call him Suli. My father鈥ssh. Forget him, he鈥檚 gone, the tishar. Yeah yeah, I know, people tell me not to talk like that, 鈥榗ause he鈥檚 my father and all. I could give a fuck.
My father is a tishar.
But anyway, what鈥檇 I say? Yeah, the high-rise, the first one, that鈥檚 where I live.
Ha ha! Fuck, this shit is crazy. Like, how am I supposed to talk to you?
I told my homeboys I鈥檓 doing this research thing here. They鈥檙e like, 鈥淪hit, bro, what the hell for?鈥 I鈥檓 like, 鈥淗e鈥檚 gonna give me stuff, worth ten bills, man.鈥 So I better win one of those things you told me about!
You know, it almost feels like I鈥檓 rapping here. Like, I know this thing ain鈥檛 a mic, only a dicta-whatever, but I swear, that鈥檚 sort of why I鈥檓 doing this, so I can just like, talk about my life on the microphone and people can hear what I鈥檓 saying, you know?
Everybody wants to be a rapper. They may not act like it, but they do. Kinda like me, not that I think I鈥檓 the bomb, chill out, I know I鈥檓 not. I memorize all these rhymes from different rappers, but whenever I try to do it myself, nah man, it鈥檚 hard. My rhymes are so 迟忙锄.
But yeah, I鈥檓 into so many rappers. 2Pac, Nas, Jay-Z, Biggie, Snoop. Gangster rap and street and all that, but you know, I like some of the others too, anyone who can kick it, really. Outkast and stuff.
I love hip-hop. Always have. Ever since I was, I mean, when we were kids we would listen to MC Hammer and all, but when I was maybe twelve, no, eleven, I was hanging out with my friend Rashid, and his big brother, Mustafa, he鈥檚 like four years older than we are, and pretty much always a tishar to us and ragging us out for some shit. Go outside and talk, you鈥檙e bothering me, or else it was, you don鈥檛 know what the fuck you鈥檙e talking about. And I can鈥檛 say anything since he鈥檚 my friend鈥檚 big brother, and he could kick my ass, easily. I鈥檝e seen him do it plenty of times to Rashid if Rashid talks back or anything. But anyway, he鈥檚 got his stereo and he brings out this one album and he鈥檚 like, 鈥淏oys, I鈥檓 telling you, this shit is the baddest music on the planet right now.鈥 And we鈥檙e looking at this thing, there鈥檚 these kung-fu people on the cover and the name of it is Enter the Wu-Tang. We were just like, what the hell is this, chop-suey music or some shit? But then he puts it on鈥
It was sooo intense, you have no idea, man. I swear I鈥檓 getting goose bumps here just thinking about it. I鈥檓 telling you, it was the ghetto blasting from the stereo. It was so real, you know what I鈥檓 saying? And those beats, those beats are just chaos, man. Just listen to 鈥淐.R.E.A.M.鈥 or 鈥淭earz.鈥 Just do that, and then come back and tell me that鈥檚 not the most baddest shit you ever heard.
From then on we were just Wu-Tang crazy. All the boys. Rashid, Majid, Tosif, Navid, Andr茅, Abel. Like, everyone had to be one of them. Andr茅, he鈥檚 Ghostface, but not Killah, right, since you know, he鈥檚 white, and Rashid is Raekwon, I鈥檓 Method Man, Navid is GZA, Abel is Ol鈥 Dirty Bastard and we鈥檙e at Rommen School like, 鈥淭.U.V. Clan ain鈥檛 nothin鈥 to fuck with.鈥
Ha ha. Funny shit.
But with hip-hop, I swear man, it鈥檚 like no other music really speaks to me. What else is there? Bon Jovi? Aqua? Britney Spears?
Fuck all that.
I鈥檓 no nigga from Compton, but like, I sort of am, you know what I mean? You know what all鈥檚 here at Stovner. Pakkis, niggas, degos, chinamen, yoghurts, Arabs, lankers, you name it.
It鈥檚 like, we鈥檙e all brown in a country of white people, you know?
But that鈥檚 exactly what hip-hop is all about. Hop-hop is all about hanging on the streets, smoking weed, hooking up with bitches and all, that鈥檚 how we live, right. And they鈥檙e always like, be proud of your hood, even if others talk shit. And you know all the people who talk shit, man. Constantly. 鈥淪tovner is the most 迟忙锄 place in town.鈥 鈥淚mmigrants are 迟忙锄 people.鈥 And shit like that.
But I mean, those 鈥榯aters that live here in Stovner, they鈥檙e alright. The young people and all. Like Andr茅, he鈥檚 our homie. But the old ones, man. So many of them are straight-up racists, I swear. Voting for Carl Hagen and shit. Or it鈥檚 like, when me and my friend were just little brats sitting at the window, 鈥淗ey yo, this ain鈥檛 Africa. Get down from there, ya bloody apes.鈥 I will never forget that shit. Or them 鈥榯aters in houses in Stovner, so many of them strut around like they鈥檙e the fuckin鈥 cream of the crop, like they鈥檙e from the west side of the city, and then you find out they live right over here, in fucking H酶ybr氓ten! But I swear the worst ones are the 鈥榯aters from other parts of Oslo and around Norway. The ones that go on TV and talk shit about us, and they鈥檝e never even been to Stovner or so much as shaken a brown person鈥檚 hand.
Like, what鈥檇 I do to them? So fucked up.
But nowadays, now we鈥檙e all just like, fuck all those haters, right? Represent no matter what. Represent T.U.V. and Stovner, forever. Forget all them others in this country. We don鈥檛 need them. We got all this here, you know what I mean? We got these high-rises. These people, right here. That鈥檚 who we are. Don鈥檛 let the haters get into your head, telling you you鈥檙e 迟忙锄 and all. No way. You鈥檙e schpaa, man.
For real, sometimes I鈥檒l put on Nas鈥檚 鈥淩epresent,鈥 the one where the beat starts out sort of slow but then it takes off and gets totally banging, Nas is spitting out the lyrics and flowing so sick and I go around and look at these high-rises and this street and the music is blasting and I鈥檓 just like, goddamn, this shit is so tight, I swear, I almost want to cry, but at the same time I鈥檓 happy.
Like, we know the hip-hop, the hip-hop knows us, right?
Shit, I鈥檓 almost rhyming here!
Ah, man, you don鈥檛 even know how ghetto I am right now. I鈥檓 talking to you in the bathroom. Ha ha. What am I supposed to do? My brother鈥檚 asleep in his room.
Here, listen, I鈥檒l flush.
But yeah, hear this. I don鈥檛 have a computer, so I can鈥檛 check my email a lot. When I鈥檓 on a computer it鈥檚 mostly Napster and shit. Or other stuff, you know, porn and all.
Chill out, man, everyone does that, I bet even you. That鈥檚 probably all anybody does at that office of yours, the second no one鈥檚 looking. Just like at school: oh shit, here comes teacher, click the x, click the x! And that just brings up twenty new porn windows and we gotta unplug it, and we鈥檙e like, uhh, I dunno teacher, it just turned off, man.
Ha ha.
But anyway, I gotta go. Talk to you later, NOVA-man. Sorry, forgot your name.
Peace
From: Mo <mo.1@hotmail.com>
Sent: August 5, 2001, 9:05 PM
To: Lars Bakken <lars.bakken@nova.no>
Subject: Survey of youths鈥 everyday lives in Groruddalen
Just so you don鈥檛 think so, it鈥檚 not like I all I do is complain. I don鈥檛 hate Stovner either. I don鈥檛, really. It鈥檚 more like鈥擨鈥檓 not sure how to explain it鈥攍ike it reeks here. Not just in the metro station, but all over Stovner. Like an old rag that鈥檚 been hanging on the kitchen faucet and become stiff and stinky. And I鈥檓 not sure when it began, it was probably gradual, but I started to wish for something, anything really, to keep that stench away.
It was at middle school鈥攁s if things weren鈥檛 confusing enough already鈥攖hings came to a head. I had to have something to latch onto. And having never found that at Stovner, I looked to the outside.
The more I thought about it, the more obvious it became. If life in Stovner was so hard for so many, most of all for me, things had to be better on the outside. It was that simple. And when I first found that thing to latch on to, with each new day, the thought of everything out there expanded. A footless escape, through hundreds of daydreams. On the way to school. At school. On the way home from school. Countless hours in my room, staring at the ceiling or out the window, while Asma and Ayan played with dolls and cars on the floor next to me.
I鈥檇 put myself in different places, places I imagined to be the opposite of Stovner. Places I鈥檇 seen on TV, or on trips through town, like the drive to Fornebu when the airport was still there, or when we visited a friend of my father鈥檚 at H酶yenhall. I placed myself on the staircase of a big house, or in a trendy caf茅 together with trendy people, or on the deck of a boat in the sunshine on the Oslo Fjord. All very different places, to be sure, but all of them had something in common: they were all peaceful, no one was angry. I had no name. No one had any name. No one looked like this or that; and everything blended together, as if what I was in Stovner meant nothing anymore, in this imagined place.
It鈥檚 a little embarrassing, but that鈥檚 the sort of thing I would fantasize about. That was the basic fantasy, though I would add more to it as time went on. Girls, particularly. Not girls from Stovner, but the kinds of Norwegian girls you鈥檇 see down in the city in the summer. Ridiculously hot, of course. And then, money. Lots of it. A good job that I go to in a suit. A car that makes people鈥檚 heads turn. I鈥檓 standing in my big garden, exchanging small talk with a neighbor who smiles. I stuff everything into those fantasies. They take up every last bit of blank space. If my siblings are too noisy, I go outside. Walk in the forest at Stovner, the one down by Rommensletta around Tante Ulrikkes vei and Smedstua, or sometimes down by the flood-lit ski trail at Liastua, seeking the quiet that will let me really get into the fantasies proper, and I need that, that false start, before my impatience gets the better of me.
That鈥檚 really why I am so occupied with school right now. My parents too. They鈥檝e said it a million times since I was little: go to university, get a degree, a good job, big house, nice car, pretty wife. Little do they know, they鈥檙e just fanning the flames that are already there.
Especially my father. The man who won鈥檛 fall over no matter how hard the ground shakes, just grabs hold of the nearest object and won鈥檛 let go. Like when I was in school, for instance. Often he was the only immigrant father to show up to parent-teacher conferences. He would also sit down with me every night to help me with homework until the assignments became too hard for him, and now his job is more inspector, checking in now and then to make sure I鈥檓 working, giving me a supportive nod.
I remember when I started eighth grade and they put me in Norwegian 2, as they probably did to everyone with a name like mine. They鈥檇 have bumped me up after the first test anyway, but I鈥檝e seldom seen my father as mad as when I told him about it.
鈥淲hat!? Why!?鈥 he yelled. It wasn鈥檛 directed at me, and still I backed away, my eyes fixed to the floor. 鈥淎re they idiots or what?鈥 He called the principal that same day. Next day I was in Norwegian 1.
Thanks to him, I got out of Koran school several years before other kids, so I had more room to remember everything from regular school. I was there less than a year, during which I read the Koran cover to cover and learned how to pray. That was it. Now I can recite the testimonial word and the supplication. Everything else, gone. Fasting on Ramadan, gone too. I got out of that, since who can concentrate on an empty stomach, as he put it. My mother insisted I observe it on the weekends, but even that ended in middle school, when I was often studying for tests on weekends as well. We go to mosque twice a year now. For Eid. My father and I stand on a soft rug in a repurposed factory building at Galgeberg and pray. We head for home when the service is over.
I think he鈥檚 the reason why I have so few religious feelings.
鈥淗e knows so little,鈥 I heard my mother sigh to him once. He didn鈥檛 say anything.
Sometimes, more in the past really, when she and I were out by ourselves at Stovner Center buying groceries for instance, she would recite Surahs from the Koran, hadiths and du鈥檃s she wanted me to understand and repeat after her. Usually it ended with her yelling at me with irritation: 鈥淢ohammed, listen!鈥 as I jumped from boulder to boulder along the street, trying to keep my balance with the bags of milk and bread.
I spend a lot of time on schoolwork, but I can鈥檛 remember ever really enjoying it. It comes easy, always has. I don鈥檛 know. I retain most of what I read. And I like straightening things up, that鈥檚 probably part of it. The school wants things orderly and neat. Just give me a big pile of stuff and I鈥檒l clean it up. Sometimes to a fault, since I get really stressed when things are lying around, and often I鈥檒l clean so much that I have hardly anything left once I鈥檓 done. My favorite subjects are those that involve putting things in order: math over social studies, science over Norwegian, economics over history.
Elementary and middle school bored me. I hated the schoolwork, the long days, the hours that stretched out endlessly. The dry air from the old radiators at Rommen that made me tired, the orange curtains that smelled like winter clothes when we unboxed them in the fall. Whenever I hear people say they like learning, I don鈥檛 get it. It鈥檚 not for me, I think. I read schoolbooks at a pace no one else on Tante Ulrikkes vei comes even close to, I do lessons that other students don鈥檛 bother to do, and I cram for tests as though my very life depended on it; it鈥檚 the only way I know to get out of the forest at Stovner.
But it鈥檚 not always just school, school, school. I鈥檝e been to parties, school reunions. I鈥檝e had one girlfriend. One. At the end of seventh grade. It lasted one month. Mostly, it was just weird. She came up to me at the school dance and asked if I鈥檇 like to take the floor with her. Linda. From Chile. She was alright. Not the prettiest, but not ugly. Not hip, not a nerd. She just hung around vaguely in the middle, like me. We danced to 鈥淲hen Susannah Cries.鈥 She had on her Buffalo platforms, the highest there are, the soles had to have been 10 centimeters thick at least, she towered over me. I danced on tip-toe. My legs ached, I had to stretch my arms up to get them around her waist. I knew I probably looked like the biggest idiot. Some of the guys saw us and laughed, goaded me to grab her butt. 鈥淒o it man, do it,鈥 they mouthed. I didn鈥檛, but I was exhausted when it was over. On the way home her friend came up to me.
鈥淟inda wants to know,鈥 she said.
鈥淚鈥檓 not sure,鈥 I said.
鈥淲ell, you better say something,鈥 she demanded.
鈥淵eah, ok, I guess so.鈥
So we started going out. I didn鈥檛 know the first thing about girls. I鈥檓 serious, absolutely nothing. I had no idea what going out with someone involved. Like how I was supposed to do a bunch of stuff, and the fact that Linda would be put out if I didn鈥檛 take the initiative and hold her hand. And then she wanted to talk on the phone every day, but got mad when I told her not to call my house because then my parents would know. After school we hung around the area a little, sat on benches, or went over to the Center to look around in stores, take photos inside the booth, or buy a soda to share. I can鈥檛 recall us talking all that much. In any case not what about. We sort of just hung out next to each other in the same place. The kissing was good. Lots of little pecks, one after the other, maybe ten in a row. I never really got the hang of how to use the tongue, but I liked it anyway. Beyond that, it mostly amounted to a lot of stress.
On Saint John鈥檚 Eve, she rang at the outside door. During Norway-Brazil. Luckily, I was the one who answered the intercom.
鈥淚t鈥檚 me,鈥 she said.
鈥淲ho鈥檚 me?鈥 I asked.
鈥淗ey, come on鈥攊t鈥檚 Linda.鈥
鈥淲hat a jerk. Always so superior,鈥 said another voice. 鈥淐ome down,鈥 said Linda.
My father yelled. 鈥淐ome over here! It鈥檚 a goal! Flo!鈥 That was the one name he knew. He got it right, for once. Arne Scheie鈥檚 voice followed: 鈥淲e have scored in Marseille!鈥 I stuck my head inside the living room and saw Norway take the ball out of the net behind Taffarel.
鈥淏e right back,鈥 I yelled and sprinted down the stairs.
They stood by the entrance, looking serious. The friend spoke and said that Linda and I needed to talk.
鈥淐an we make it quick?鈥 I said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 the game with Brazil, and鈥︹
Linda was cross again. 鈥淚鈥檓 rooting for Brazil. Fellow Latinos.鈥
I think I said it was silly not to root for Norway when she lived here. It wasn鈥檛 even Chile. She said that soccer was silly, anyway.
鈥淵es! Penalty!鈥 a voice rang out of an open window. I was itching to go back up. Linda had something to say, but kept it to herself. A minute passed. Then the whole neighborhood erupted. We heard it above us. In front of us. Behind us. People were beside themselves. 鈥淵es, dammit, yes!鈥
鈥淥ut with it,鈥 said the friend, giving Linda a light shove.
鈥淚 think you act superior,鈥 said Linda. 鈥淚t鈥檚 like, you just don鈥檛 care at all.鈥
鈥淲ell, I don鈥檛 know. I mean鈥on鈥檛 I?鈥 I said.
The howls started again. Even more of them, and even louder. People streamed out of the stairwells. Two grown men with huge beer bellies embraced one another and hopped up and down. Another had a little Norwegian flag, waving it feverishly like a kid in a May 17th parade. Children came out with soccer balls, imitating Rekdal鈥檚 game-clinching shot. The air was brimming. The cars on the roads gave a chorus of honks. The smell of a bonfire wafted over from someplace else.
鈥淭ime for us to go,鈥 said the friend.
鈥淥k,鈥 I said as I stood watching the commotion.
They started to walk. Maybe twenty meters away, Linda turned and yelled across the yard:
鈥淲e鈥檙e finished, just so you know.鈥
鈥淥k,鈥 I yelled back, with a look up to our windows on the eighth floor. They were closed, fortunately.
That was it, really. I haven鈥檛 had any girlfriends since. I don鈥檛 go out much or take part in many activities after school. I never hang out at Fossum Club or the Rock Factory. I drink a little if I鈥檓 out at a party, but then I鈥檓 hardly ever at parties. I do like to smoke, though, it helps me relax. But while others go full throttle into all that, I keep my distance. Especially now, in high school, now that the daydreams have grown in step with the pressure to get good grades, I just stay in most of the evening.
Sometimes I hear them on weekends. The beer bottles knocking against each other inside their plastic bags, or a quiet summer night, when it never gets totally dark and I lie in bed with the ventilation open as I hear them laugh till they cry and play street soccer and smoke.
I鈥檓 lost to them, the ones out there. I鈥檓 the weird kid, I know they think so. Like them, only not. Norwegian 1, not 2. Speaking the language of the schoolbooks, not the streets. The kid they see on the way to and from school, but never anywhere else. The kid they wave at and might talk to now and then, but never call. The kid they just leave alone, to himself. I am that kid, long accustomed to the outside, even though I wear the same Adidases and tramp around the same sidewalks.
I mean, really it doesn鈥檛 bother me all that much. I鈥檓 used to me, if you get what I mean. I鈥檝e always felt like an only child anyway, even with Asma and Ayan. After all they鈥檙e ten, eleven years younger. I鈥檓 not very social around people. I鈥檓 able to talk to those who talk to me first, but I鈥檝e just never been comfortable talking to people I don鈥檛 know, out of thin air. I don鈥檛 need all the parties, to be outside all the time. I don鈥檛 want to. Really. I鈥檇 rather just stay inside and daydream about other things, alone. Focus ahead, all the time, that鈥檚 what works. Don鈥檛 look from side to side.
Respondent: Jamal
Borough: Stovner
Date recorded: August 15, 2001
Check one, two.
Just kidding. I know I go on about hip-hip all the time, but I won鈥檛 rap here. So just chill.
I鈥檓 not in the bathroom this time, by the way. In my room. Suli鈥檚 in the living room with my mother. She鈥檚 sitting on the couch. She鈥檚 like, always worn out. She gets her dough from welfare. She used to try and claim disability, but the welfare office, they were like nah, man. They didn鈥檛 want to make it a regular thing, so she鈥檚 getting, what鈥檚 it called, temporary whatever, and it鈥檚 a hell of a lot less. She鈥檚 gone down to that office, but every time they鈥檙e like, she鈥檚 not enough sick to get it regular. Ain鈥檛 sick in the body, they say.
Man, I dunno. Come by and see for yourself whether she鈥檚 not enough sick, you feel me?
She鈥檚 on that couch so much. I go out, she鈥檚 there. Come home, she鈥檚 there.
But whatever.
What was I going to鈥
Yeah. My life and all. School just started back. Bredtvet High, you know. They just shoved me in that school. I didn鈥檛 choose to go there or anything. Last year, things didn鈥檛 quite work out right. So they sort of said to me that I got to repeat a grade because I failed too much last year. I鈥檓 like, ok, fine, my mother鈥檚 telling me I got to finish high school and all.
I鈥檓 always sweating at school. I swear, my head like, overheats there. I鈥檓 sitting there, following along鈥攕ometimes, anyway鈥攁nd I don鈥檛 get everything the teacher鈥檚 saying, I mean, a lot of times I understand a little, not in math, but anything else, I understand what they鈥檙e saying when they鈥檙e saying it, anyway I think I do, but when they give assignments or something to read or whatever, I dunno, my head feels hot and my body just feels worn out. I don鈥檛 know, it鈥檚 like, I can read, you know? But when the teacher asks me what it says on the page we just read, I already forgot it even if it was two minutes ago, or like with assignments, I just can鈥檛 think, and I just want to go to sleep, and I start to think about other stuff, stuff at home, you know, or stuff outside, anything.
School is like that every day, for real. I do other stuff during class, sleep or whatever, draw the Wu-Tang 鈥淲鈥 on my desk, and the teacher starts giving me shit. Never trying to help, just giving me shit. It鈥檚 always, 鈥Ya-mal, get to work.鈥 鈥Ya-mal, wake up.鈥 鈥Ya-mal, you need to pay better attention.鈥
Ya-mal, for fuck鈥檚 sake. It鈥檚 pronounced Djamal, got it? Dja and mal, it鈥檚 not that hard, but those fucking 鈥榯ater teachers, they never even tried to learn it right, even after I said it probably twenty fucking times. And they say it鈥檚 time I start learning?
They put me in Norwegian 2. 鈥淵ou have problems with language. It鈥檚 ruining your studies.鈥 They started going in on all that. I was like, what are you talking about? I speak Norwegian, I can understand almost all the Norwegian they say to me. So what if I just fuck the words around a little.
That鈥檚 not the problem.
Norwegian 2, man. Only brown people are in there and the lesson plan鈥檚 a joke. One time, I swear we spent three months talking about what we did on summer vacation.
So messed up.
But I didn鈥檛 say anything about it. I just thought, this is better than Norwegian 1. Norwegian 1 is hard. Norwegian 2, I can take it easy. It鈥檚 all chill.
So, I sleep or goof off more and more during class, and they keep getting madder and madder. At middle school I started to talk back a little more, like shut up, I鈥檓 not messing with anyone, don鈥檛 mess with me, dammit. They sent me to the principal鈥檚 and told me to take a moment.
That鈥檚 how it was.
They don鈥檛 understand a goddamn thing, I swear.
But anyway, it鈥檚 Bredtvet now. Rashid is there. The other guys are at other places. Like, Tosif at Elvebakken, Navid at Stovner, Andr茅 at Stovner, Abel at Hellerud, Majid at Sogn鈥攔eally, Majid鈥檚 a slacker, so I dunno. But there are tons more Stovner guys at Bredtvet, some in my class too. Some from Furuset and Ammerud. I don鈥檛 like them so much, the Ammerud guys. This one guy was eyeballing us hard that first day in the schoolyard. We just eyeballed him back and he sort of backed off. But they鈥檙e totally boss at lifting baguettes and Coke at Prix. Seriously, they come back into school with like three baguettes, two school buns and five Cokes. Fucking kleptos, man.
Then there are some Veitvet and R酶dtvet guys. Some of them are brown and some are 鈥榯aters. I don鈥檛 really talk to them, to be honest. But they鈥檙e ok, don鈥檛 cause a lot of chaos or anything.
This one guy smokes weed, I found out already. Arsalan. Pakistani. Hangs with the B-Gang kids at Furuset. He says that, anyway, but you know how guys talk: 鈥淚 know him and I know him. Wallah, I can just call him up.鈥
But you know, in lunch hour I went and smoked with him down by the lady prison there.
So yeah, I smoke it.
So what? That stuff won鈥檛 kill you. I mean, it鈥檚 better than other stuff, right? Nobody causes any chaos or bad mood when they鈥檙e high. Never. Like, when do you see people kick the shit out of someone else when they鈥檙e high? Never. Weed is chill, man, that鈥檚 why I like it. You know what you鈥檙e doing, right, even though you鈥檙e on weed. When people drinking and all, or take pills and coke even, that鈥檚 when you see guys doing sick shit. You wake up and you don鈥檛 even know what you did yesterday. Or else you get like Nico, the juicer at the stairwell on the other side of me. This bouncer guy. Totally brutal. Huge as fuck and tattoos up and down his arms. Like, if he鈥檇 have gone into wrestling, he鈥檇 have gone against Hulk Hogan and shit.
He鈥檚 got his pit bull, too. Diesel. You see him coming, you get on the other side of the road. Bigger than a lion.
This one time Nico had been chewing roofies and came out with that mutt of his, and that dog wouldn鈥檛 listen to him. It was like, trying to sniff around in some shit, I dunno. And Nico, the idiot, starts losing his shit . 鈥淐ome on, Diesel, fuckin鈥 dog. Come on.鈥 Like, what the fuck good does that do? It鈥檚 a dog, man. So Nico pulls on the rope, like, seriously yanks the dog right up next to his face, and fucking head-butts it. I swear to God, man, he head-butts Diesel right on his nose. We were stunned, man. Like, did he just do that? And Diesel, man, he starts howling and crying, and I was like, I never felt sorry for that dog in my life, but that time just, damn.
That man is sick.
But if Nico was on weed, he鈥檇 be fine. Never see someone on weed head-butt a dog.
So yeah man, weed, no stress. No one gets worked up. All kinds of people do it here. Brown folks, 鈥榯aters, Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, everybody.
I mean, I don鈥檛 think God really gets onto people for stuff like that, you know what I mean? Weed and all, or drinking, or women. Nah man, I think God is just like, who鈥檚 the best person on the inside, fuck the small stuff, right? I think so, anyway.
But yeah, I almost forgot to mention, women.
There鈥檚 this girl in class, or lots of them, I guess, but this one named Sarah. She is fine, man. I think I鈥檝e seen her around Stovner a few times. When we went into the classroom that first day, I was like, holy shit, how fucking awesome it is that she鈥檚 in my class. She鈥檚 like two seats in front of me and looks so fine. Has that good color, dark hair, great body, all of it. I talk to her a little. The first day I walk up to her in the schoolyard, she鈥檚 having a cig during lunch hour, I say to her:
鈥淗ey, how鈥檚 it going, cool we鈥檙e in the same class.鈥 After that, we had cigarettes together a few times. Not all the time. I don鈥檛 like having all those other guys around. Forget it. Rashid, man, he鈥檚 always checking her out all the time. Those dogs just jump all over it. But when we have lunch hour and the others don鈥檛, or when our class is over before theirs, I get to have a cig with her. It鈥檚 just been two times now, but she said yes both times, so you know, I think I鈥檒l probably try to have more cigs with her.
This one teacher, though, is a real cunt. I am not kidding. Edvard is his name. He鈥檚 a racist, I swear. Always eyeballing me. Last year, whenever I would see him in the hallway, he was always throwing me nasty looks. And now, like, he looks at me like a damn criminal because I鈥檓 a couple minutes late to class. Never seen him give that look to 鈥榯ater kids. When you鈥檙e brown, you notice shit. Just ask any brown kid. We know when some 鈥榯ater looks at you in just that way, and we know what he鈥檚 thinking, too. And whenever I ask him something, he鈥檚 like, in this sarcastic voice, like he鈥檚 talking to some retard, 鈥淚f you had been paying attention, then you鈥檇 know what to do.鈥 Or: 鈥淛ust think about it.鈥
Such bullshit. I am so good during class now. Follow along and everything. I mean, when I鈥檓 high, I don鈥檛 really pay attention then, but other than that, I try, but a lot of times it鈥檚 so hard, you don鈥檛 even know, man. Like when we have science and we鈥檙e supposed to make some stuff, I don鈥檛 even know what it鈥檚 called. Some substances have one number, other substances have this other number, and you鈥檙e supposed to add them together, but it鈥檚 not like math either, 鈥榗ause it鈥檚 letters, like H2O + I dunno, N4O, you got me? I don鈥檛 understand dick, and my head gets hot and all that shit I already told you. Totally fucked up. So I start looking over at Sarah instead, and then that guy comes over to me with that look again and he鈥檚 like, 鈥淭o work now, Jamal,鈥 and I鈥檓 like, 鈥淗ey man, I don鈥檛 get this.鈥 You know what he says? 鈥淭ry harder.鈥
Fuckin鈥 jerk-off.
Well, that鈥檚 school.
Yeah, and by the way, listen. Don鈥檛 go and write stuff down like Jamal smokes weed in that research, got me? Get the cops knocking at my door and all.
You gotta do the #31# and hide the number, just with my name, ok?
Peace
Zeshan Shakar 聽was born and raised in Oslo. He has a master’s聽degree in political science from the University of Oslo, and works as a聽Special Advisor to the Deputy Mayor of Oslo. His first novel, Tante聽Ulrikkes vei, was published in September 2017 and won the prestigious聽Tarjei Vesaas Prize for the year’s best literary debut.
David M. Smith is a Norwegian-to-English translator. He holds a Humanities MA from the University of Chicago and a National Translator Accreditation from the Norwegian Ministry of Education and Research. In 2017, he was a Travel Fellow for the American Literary Translators Association Conference in Minneapolis. He is currently a Blog Editor at Asymptote, and starting fall 2018, he will be attending the University of Iowa MFA program in literary translation.
Published on April 17, 2018.
