2
Identity Formation and Fragmentation

I don't remember having any negative experiences in Dublin. I can only recall green and expansive fields as far as the eye can see and friendly people who would always return a smile and exchange greetings with me. Of course, you see the world through a very different lens when you are a child but the point remains I had a happy childhood growing up in Ireland. I remember school being fun and I was always, without exception, accepted by my peers. I certainly don't remember any adverse childhood experiences. Not because my mind has repressed or suppressed them. But because this period of my life was relatively ‘normal’. I wasn't the outlier. It also helped that my father was seemingly comfortable with finances. The fridge was always full of fresh food and the house we lived in had a massive back garden. The area felt safe and secure. Life wasn't tainted by trauma back then, certainly not consciously.

I do, however, recollect my mother crying to herself from time to time with a cup of coffee in her hands and rocking back and forth. Leaving her family behind in Lebanon and migrating to Ireland with my father was deeply distressing. She also had to raise five children more or less single handedly given that my father would spend long hours working in the hospital. Mum had such a close bond with her parents and siblings. They all grew up together on a farm where my grandfather would harvest the fruits. The scent of jasmine would permeate the Mediterranean breeze (mum even named my youngest sister Jasmine, such was the nostalgic effect that this flower's aroma would have on her).

This was in the 1980s before the advent of the digital age. There was no such thing as WhatsApp or FaceTime. For my grandparents to call my mother they would have to travel to Sidon from the farm they lived on which was at least a 30-minute drive to a place where you could make international phone calls. The costs were prohibitively substantial so these calls were unfortunately rare. I remember the phone ringing and my mother picking up. There would be a delay and instantly the expression on her face transformed into excitement. She would switch from English to Arabic when she realised she was receiving an international call from her parents in Lebanon. I could hear her shouting because the connection was so poor. These conversations never lasted long enough and just when she got into the rhythm of talking and you could see her smiling and laughing the call ended abruptly for my grandparents ran out of credit. My mother of course would cling onto the hope that the reception was poor and that she just had to wait a moment to hear their voices again. But as soon as reality sank in her face turned sombre and she would place the phone back on the receiver. She would then withdraw into herself and cry inconsolably. My mum was understandably depressed during my childhood. I mean, who wouldn't be in her circumstances? All alone in an alien world.

I will never forget traveling to Lebanon with my mother during this period. She wanted to pay my grandparents a surprise visit. It was raining in the village where they lived. There is a relatively long drive that traversed the farm before you would arrive at my grandparents' house. I remember the taxi driver flashing his lights and sounding the horn as he turned into the drive. My aunties would leave the house despite the rain to see what all the commotion was about. They had a suspicion that something exciting was happening, that my mother was paying them a surprise visit perhaps! The moment my grandfather caught onto this, he burst out of the house barefoot and ran to the taxi, which would stop in the middle of the drive, rain pouring all over him. My mother would emerge from the car and even though it was raining, I could still see the tears of joy streaming down their faces as they hugged each other tightly. I remember my grandfather crying, his eyes were red because of all the tears. He would incessantly kiss my mother on her forehead and repeatedly say to her ‘habibti, habibti’, ‘my sweetheart, my sweetheart’ with paternal love and affection. Just remembering this moment makes my eyes well up. I can't begin to fathom the pain that it must have caused my mother to have been separated from my grandfather when she left him to move to Ireland.

Clinical depression or major depressive disorder were not in my repertoire of words back then. I am fairly certain mum would have met all the diagnostic criteria. Sadness was, however, in my vocabulary and I remember my mum being sad. But I also remember her being happy. For example, I think the local community was excited that there was a Lebanese family in town and that someone might be able to cook some delicious Lebanese cuisine! We would have guests come over including my school teachers. It sounded like a commotion emerging from the dining room when the food was being served! My mother even published a small Lebanese cookbook, which was hugely popular amongst the locals. I think now about how activities like cooking can be protective for our mental health. This preoccupation can give you a sense of purpose and pride through inviting people over to share the mouthwatering meals with; culinary skills can also promote social connectedness and community cohesion. Maybe cooking for her family and others, as a hobby and of her own volition, was a factor that prevented my mother's mental health from deteriorating even further, heaven forbid, into a severe depressive episode with psychotic symptoms.

Notwithstanding my mother's struggles, life in Ireland, for the most part and certainly for me but of course not for everyone, was like a dream. It was only when we moved to England after my father was offered a job that we noticed our skin complexion wasn't white. I lost count how many times the other pupils at the school we attended would make racial taunts at us. It was not uncommon to get into scraps. Although I had a strong aversion towards any type of violence I had no other option but to defend myself. I'll never forget one day a group of boys yelling at us from a distance and calling us derogatory names. One of them launched a stone at us and narrowly missed. I admired how my older brother was not intimated, however, I was surprised when he suddenly and fearlessly picked the stone from off the ground and hurled it back at them. I thought that was the end of that but suddenly and seemingly from out of nowhere one of the boys ran as fast as he could towards my brother and with full force and momentum he swung a metal tennis racket at the back of my brother's head. Blood immediately started gushing out and I was left in a state of shock. Having worked as a doctor in emergency medicine for five years, I know now that such a blow to the head could quite easily have caused an intra-cranial bleed and killed him. My brother, however, wasn't perturbed in the slightest. He didn't even flinch. All he did was slowly and gently place his hand on the back of his head as if to assess the damage. He then applied pressure to the wound and resumed his walk as if nothing had happened. To this day I think where did the hatred that fuelled this violent attack come from? How could a person, no less a child, just assault another person, a fellow child, without a trace of compunction, hesitation or restraint?

‘You will never be one of them’ my dad's best friend would say to us when we were children. As if to labour the point he then said, ‘What do they call you, Paki!’ It is a disgusting term that betrays the racist attitude towards people who are brown in colour. Of course, you don't have to be from Pakistan to be called a Paki in the same way that you don't have to be a Muslim to be a victim of Islamophobia. Ask members of the Sikh community; many of them have been victims of Islamophobic attacks (more on that later). When I returned to England from Lebanon (we moved to Leeds in 2000) I remember a racist incident that was covered by the media involving a professional football player for Leeds United Football Club. He was being served a meal in a fast food restaurant and he said to the cashier, ‘I don't want no Paki serving me chips’ when alluding to the cashier's colleague. Such flippant and offhand remarks do reveal an underlying racism that is deeply entrenched that can be very harmful to recipients. This is all the more concerning when you are a footballer because you are idolised and you have tremendous influence. Of course, that is not to say that there aren't any kind and compassionate people who are welcoming and accepting towards immigrants. But to say racism doesn't exist, especially in its more subtle and indirect forms or to dismiss attacks, attitudes and comments as not being racist simply isn't true. Often the victim is framed as being sensitive and the fault is with them and how they construed the words and actions. I can share an astonishing anecdote to illustrate the point. This is a true story that occurred when I was a student in a secondary school in Worcester, which is in the Midlands of England. A fellow student reported to his teacher that a peer of his referred to him as a Paki. Instead of validating the racial attack and condemning it and summoning the perpetrator and comforting the child, the teacher in a very nonchalant and matter of fact manner replied, ‘But you are a Paki’ as if the term was not derogatory and was not uttered with the intention to offend or to insult but merely to denote his ancestry is in Pakistan. This...