The Hussein Chronicles

The Hussein Chronicles- Recollection

I’ve titled this chronicles as I believe I might be beginning a task that may take me a very long time. Knowing where to start is impossible, and my concept of how much there is to cover is very poor and minimalist at best, I hope for the sake of any potential readers, few in number as they might be, I can refrain from rambling.

Given that the main aim of my limited and rudimentary writing appears to be an attempt to corroborate and gather my messy thought patterns, it seems odd that I have yet to make any swing at this particular topic, which has been possibly the main body that my psyche has rotated around for almost a year.

I don’t think it would be any real understatement to say that the death of Hussein Shamshudin on Friday the 17th of February 2012 has been the single most important occurrence in my life thus far. Although this description has an inherent selfishness in its concern primarily with my experience of another person’s death, I am only really able to grasp the issue through my own, personal knowledge of it, so allow me some leeway in my self-centric appraisal.

This small (theoretically) piece of writing will be primarily concerned with Hussein’s relationship with me, over a period of several years, and the effect reflection upon this relationship has had upon myself.

Memories prior to secondary school are hazy, so I’ll have to begin at my first relevant recollection. I still remember winning the paper aeroplane making competition in year 7 with Hussein, which would have been in 2005. My position as a social reject was firmly cemented, and so a paper aeroplane competition was probably my place in middle school society, however Hussein seemed completely unburdened with this particular stigma, and felt no qualms in purchasing what seemed at the time a horrendously complicated book of paper aeroplane designs. If I’d done this I don’t doubt derision would have been widespread, but it just didn’t seem spectacular for him to do something seemingly absurd, which in another light could be said to be rather inspired, and classmates took interest in the year 7 equivalent of an engineering doctorate. Needless to say we went on to create the finest in tree-bark constructed flying-machine and won the competition, our creased and folded masterpiece floating lazily across the main hall of our school, dipping downwards before rising again in some inexplicable and thrilling quirk of aerodynamic design. I had no real hand in this, the competition was all Hussein’s, I know I’m not really linking this particular story to anything meaningful, however the memory has stayed with me, and always held some weight in my mind, his single minded devotion, and childlike attachment to the light hearted. His carefree and cheery attitude to life at odds with my constant and desperately over-thought struggle for existence. A personality such as Hussein’s could only be borne of a very real inner peace.

This being my earliest and most clear of memories with Hussein, it seems odd that little about our relationship stands out to me over the period of the following years, progressing through years 7, 8 and 9, which in time became 10 and 11. My personality twisted continuously, the old adage of a bullied individual becoming a bullying individual holds much sway in my case. Naturally a bigger child, I enjoyed my domination of the classroom, yet was in no real way liked by my peers, I consistently embarrassed and victimised anyone smaller or more intelligent than myself, which basically meant the entire class. Hussein was included in this number, I found myself bitter at anyone who enjoyed affection from my schoolmates, when I had very few real friends. And I think this position as consistent bully remained as a feature of my life well into year 12, possibly even year 13, and I’m sure there are those out there who might argue that this detestable feature is still present in me now.

Through these years my relationship with Hussein declined, until at a point I very much disliked him, and he very much disliked me. I always felt embarrassed and belittled by him, when in reality I was a dickhead who couldn’t take a joke, and was more an unwanted burden than anything else. The phrase:

“Listen Shinnie, how about you don’t give me any fags, and I won’t give you any fags”

Is now immortalised among my peers, given I was a notorious scab of cigarettes, and was never possessed of the presence of mind to purchase my own, I had no fags to give, and therefore would obviously, receive none in return. I was consistently horrible to Hussein, yet he still showed me odd and completely unwarranted moments of generosity and kindness. I’d find myself at parties, and he’d offer me two or three straights, or the remnants of a pack, with a look on his face as if to say “It was all just a joke, you know that, why don’t you believe it?”, and even more oddly, I’d turn him down, as if refusing him gave me some of my pride back.

I hated that phrase, I still do, made me feel about two feet tall, all of a sudden the whole group laughing at me had me torn back two years, three years, four years, back to the general distaste felt by others in my presence throughout basically my entire school career. Consistently unwanted, tolerated merely due to my general intimidation factor. And so obviously I hated Hussein for this, I wanted to like him, and I did on some level, as everyone liked him, but he didn’t like me so in my mind I couldn’t like him.

Realism

Over the last year, I’ve felt that my life has changed, and I’ve gone from strength to strength as a person. However I’ve always looked at February 17th as the turning point, yet this might not be entirely accurate. For some reason prior to Hussein’s death I felt an urge to attempt to repair our relationship, which had been rocky at best for as long as I could realistically remember, for the life of me I can’t recall why.

So I bought a packet of cigarettes, and gathered enough coins to keep Hussein’s hand in his pocket for as much of the evening as I could, and set off for Feather’s public house in Chalfont St. Giles.

I remember we were sat outside, everyone cleared off inside, leaving me and Hussein blemming away in the chilly night air. And it was like there wasn’t any problem, and there never had been any problem, shooting the breeze for a fingerful of minutes before setting off for the roundabout, I just felt like I’d nothing to worry about, we were mates again, nothing said, nothing needed saying. Its testament to him really, that after years of my childish inability to be friendly, it was just water off a duck’s back. I’ll never forget he was drinking a pear Bulmer’s.

We made our move, I called shotgun on Ryan’s car, taken, went to Cam’s one litre.

I can’t insert some pathetic attempt at a creative, touching one-liner here. Aiming to strike some emotional resonance. Ryan’s car was involved in a crash on Longbottom Lane in Seer Green on the way to the Roundabout pub in Wycombe. My car took an alternative route, they never made it.

From this point onwards until the next day is merely a mess of confused friends and conflicting reports, phone calls and snatches of terrifying information, worst nightmares materialising overnight through a late bedtime to become walking daymares upon the facebook-borne revelations of the morning.

18 February

09:19
James Shinnie
apparently ryan crashed last night

09:21
Tom Babb
hussein is dead

09:21
James Shinnie
no hes not

09:21
Tom Babb
ben just called me having talked to husseins dad

09:21
James Shinnie
fuck off

09:22
Tom Babb
do you really think i would lie about something like this

09:22
James Shinnie
yes
if you're bantering with me i'll be mad
Are you serious?

09:23
Tom Babb
unless ben is joking. which i doubt seeing as he was in tears on the phone

09:23
James Shinnie
when did he phone

09:23
Tom Babb
earlier today

09:24
James Shinnie
hes not picking up
jesus
09:44
James Shinnie
pick up

09:45
Tom Babb
sorry man
did you get any info

09:45
James Shinnie
pick up now

09:53
James Shinnie
meet up later man


When I went to the Shamshudin family on the day following his death. Hussein’s father Shiraz said that Hussein had spoken of me.

As Tom and Benedict recalled their time with Hussein with a fondness and detail I at the time couldn’t muster, I felt utterly ashamed. Shiraz would never know how I’d treated his son, how undeserving I was of any positive connection to his life, I felt by being in his old room, with his crying family around me, with a father who’s life has clearly been split in two, that I wasn’t worth the carpet I was standing on. How could I cower there and pretend I’d been anything like the friend to him Ben and Babb had been? This strikes me as a clear, and desperately important memory, yet I find myself attempting to recall it and tripping over myself, purely due to the huge mess of conflicting thoughts and feelings that were present at the time. It’s hard to frame how guilty I felt, and how guilty I still feel, I even feel guilty for feeling guilty, when I was in a room with a man who had just lost his only son. I’m unsure if this statement can really carry gravity in letters on paper, however I feel that in itself it should mean as much as it does.

In the following weeks, guilt became the main feature of my emotional composition. In an absurd process the guilt bred more guilt, as I felt my preoccupation with my own feelings was inherently selfish. I aimed mainly to support my friends, yet I felt very distant from them, as I knew deep down, and so did they, that my relationship with Hussein left a lot to be desired towards the end.

Rebuild

Over the course of the following weeks I drank very heavily, as did all of my friends. We all shared the sentiment that we were unwilling to leave each other, and had little inclination to spend time alone. Our lives were divided between school time, which was basically then a large communal smoking club, and the pub, which we left school around twelve thirty most days to visit, staying until late and then retiring to the nearest homestead. We were not a welcome addition to many of our favourite watering holes, as the effect alcohol had on our psyches at the time was merely that of a tear producing agent, at least for the first few days.

Although this rather childish reaction to grief seems very unhealthy, I was glad of it at the time, and still am. I found that in supporting my friends, and by being the open and honest member of the group I’d for so long not been, I somehow felt I was paying my debt to Hussein. Overnight the hard man image I’d built of myself melted in beer-laced tears, and it seemed that at rock bottom, I was finally able to rebuild myself as the individual I wanted to be.

Over this time our group of friends became very close, as our weakest and lowest moments became communal, we no longer worried about images, and we became one organism, as opposed to a conglomerate of perpetually drunk children. Members of the group I’d never really cared for, particularly George Christie, became people I now rate as among my best friends, our later use of MDMA together, and the ensuing openness also contributed to this very much. Elliot Cartwright also and myself became very close, and I was honoured when he told me that I was one of two people he confided in over the crash, I may not have mentioned before but Elliot occupied the passenger seat behind the driver Ryan, and was conscious immediately following the crash. During our school’s memorial service Elliot had to leave the stage during a speech, and I felt strongly that I was doing what Hussein would have wanted in leaving to comfort him; he later returned and finished his piece, which was followed by thunderous applause.

Around a week following the crash I managed to get through to Ryan, and spent a day and night with him. Upon arriving at his house I was struck and very much saddened by the change in him, usually the most jovial and cheery of people, with a chubby and red faced demeanour almost reminiscent of Santa, it was deadening to see him covered in scratches and bandages, barely able to smile. We left to see his girlfriend, and upon returning I suggested a pint at the local. 8 pints later Ryan was almost himself, and the next day I felt as if he really was happier. Again I felt I was doing what was required of me, in serving Hussein’s friends as well as I could I was paying my debt.

Of course I spent a huge amount of time with two of my best friends, and Hussein’s two very closest friends, Samir Karimjee and Benedict Shilito. If I could clear myself with these two, then perhaps I could have some measure of peace. I was consistently very open with them, and the contents of this word document would say nothing to them that they haven’t heard. I would like to think that I was a stalwart friend to both of them throughout the events of February and the following months, and a small part of Benedict’s address at the DCGS memorial owes its creation to myself, arrogance aside I was glad to be allowed to contribute, and really be valued at a time when nothing but genuine friendship and devotion would be allowed. It seems almost as I have little to say concerning our relationship since then, we are as we were and I would view any interactions between us at that time as merely what was expected of myself in my own mind.

Reckoning

Although I came very far over these weeks and months from February onwards, I don’t really feel I found any real peace until a while after the 17th, where a chance roam through old text messages on the part of Samir brought me more than I ever could have hoped for.

On the night of the 17th Hussein and Samir had a conversation concerning myself, where my sentiments towards the repair of our relationship were mirrored in him. An odd air of fate surrounds these words which echoes most deeply within me, despite my lack of faith in any religion or spirituality.

“I want to sort things out with Shinnie, give him a fag, buy him a pint”


The fact that after everything that had transpired between us, all my animosity and insecurity as a friend was forgotten via the simple exchange of two staples in a teenager’s diet. He wished for things to be better, and he still had faith in me, perhaps I can hope that he saw that I was going somewhere good as a person, finally.

The other main death in my life was that of my Grandmother Elizabeth Watkinson in 2011. I was at her side on the day of her death, and my Grandfather Raymond, a man I hold in the highest esteem possible, shook my hand over her body and said

“She thought the world of you, God knows why, you make her proud”

And I said with as much conviction as a 17 year old could muster that I would.

I think it’s the faith in me that these two impressive individuals showed, Hussein and my Grandmother, that gave me the self esteem, and faith in myself that I needed to make the changes that have led me to be happier than I have ever been. I don’t doubt I am still stricken with many flaws, yet I feel I am altogether a much better person than I ever have been. I am possessed of a direction to really make something of myself, and I know that from now onwards, all of my endeavours will be supported via memories of these two great specimens of humankind.

I am still burdened by guilt, and am not completely right with the way I was. And I shouldn’t be, for in remaining sceptical and aware of the weaker sides of my personality, I might serve to regulate them, and maintain my development to someone truly worthy of respect.

Remnants

And after such an ambitious introduction, it seems I am possessing of little more to write.

Seems rather anti-climatic.

I feel it would be wise to address a recent event, which betrayed to me that I may not be as stable as I’ve hoped, nor have I dealt with this issue to the extent I believed. Ultimately this particular event prompted me to write this.

Around a month into my adventures at university, one night I drank a rather copious amount. Upon reflection I drank like that basically every day here, and when you lead by five on the chunder chart, and can’t remember 90 per cent of the people who attempt to speak to you in the daytime, you begin to wonder if perhaps your habits are merely that of a fun-loving student.

Anyway, on this particular night, after a great-deal of roaming and drinking. I found myself in my room, completely broken down, and screaming my hatreds at my three walls and window. Hussein remained the main feature of my vocalisations, indecipherable to bystanders as they probably were, luckily I remained alone. I lost whatever semblance of sanity I had, and released a mighty-Odin strike against my window, and was slightly surprised to see the formidable double glazing disintegrate quite without question, and with little noise or protest, almost as if the window figured it wouldn’t be wise to risk another strike, and perhaps it should slip away now and wait for this all to blow over.

In the morning I found myself still quite drunk, and inexplicably smiling at the absurdity I had found myself in. A mess of an individual lying in blood covered clothes and sheets, vomiting as a cold breeze rolls in through a shattered window feebly attempting to shut out the November wind.

And upon reflection I’m not that worried, I am deliriously and inexplicably happy every day, despite the multitude of stresses and demons that strive to return me to a state of melancholy.

But the memories remain, and perhaps they always will do. Not traumatic as such. Just striking in their futility and hopelessness, that Hussein will always remain dead. I’m at university enjoying the best moments of my life, and I’d give anything for him to be doing the same.

Yet Hussein’s name flutters in the breeze, and Long Bottom lane will remain in my memories, as haunting as any graveyard, bereft of gravestones, and by now of any memorial. Without hope or positivity, yet somehow without an element of bleakness, quiet and grassy, placed unassumingly within the heart of my childhood, inexplicably monolithic and saddening, like the gravestones it lacks, framed by summer sunshine and shared cigarette smoke. Ever-lingering and never quite gone, yet never quite real.

Ryan Grace admits causing death of friend in crash
3:12pm Monday 21st January 2013
A TEENAGE driver has admitted causing the death of his friend after losing control of his car in a country lane in Seer Green.
Ryan Grace, 19, was behind the wheel of a Citroen C4 when it hit a tree in Longbottom Lane last year.

Ryan
An early morning facebook conversation a few weeks shy of the year anniversary brings my remote self up to speed. An old friend pleads guilty to causing the death of another old friend, and an old friend lets me know via the medium of typed black lines on a social networking site.
Almost a year later the hangover of one particularly terrible night still afflicts some of us in the deepest way. Aftershocks of trembling magnitude shake personalities and character traits to the core, and no one person involved can be said to really resemble their personality of the same time 365 days ago. A man I’ve known for years may lose his liberty before he even has his own house to live in. Many more lose their happiness and pieces of their mental makeup bit by bit, the separation afforded by university careers and the slow mechanism of drifting friendships serves to remove the safety net of support and shared suffering that so far perhaps provided the greatest comfort.
For most of us we suffer little more than emotional destitution and fundamentally altered psyches, for others physical injury and traumatic memory, yet legal ramifications and punishment are far from our minds, and to think of this as a case of fault and blame is something not one of us can bear.