Allah - that’s what we called him at first. We didn’t know where he came from, just that his face was permanently frozen in an evil grimace that expressed his moody disposition. It was his first day at school and he didn’t talk much. Mr Jax was eager to teach trigonometry but Allah walked into class as if he were a centipede with 98 missing legs.
‘We don’t have all day Ahmed,’ Mr Jax exclaimed.
Nothing.
‘May we begin?’
Nothing.
‘Is something wrong Ahmed?’ Mr Jax asked with some concern.
His silence had become predictable to us, and this time was no different.
Allah straightened up in his seat, patted down his green shirt, took a deep breath and tucked himself in under the broken down table awaiting the inevitable hell of maths like a prisoner awaiting his penalty. He sat alone in the damp corner of the room, isolated in a world of his own as streaks of gay sunlight darted through the crystal clear window shining across his unattempted math paper. His fists were clenched beside him as if he was ready to behead someone. No one understood Allah.
Class was dismissed and we set foot on the marble footsteps that gave way to a soaring, majestic network of basketball courts, benches and patches of tall savannah like grass as we scanned for a spot to settle and eat our lunch. As we made our way closer to the vacant bench across us, kids darted around us from every direction like wildfire. My heart exhilarated and bubbled up inside me like soda water as I nearly dropped my lunch.
‘Where’s Allah anyway?’ Greg asked.
Allah stood self-centred at the pit of the field, staring blankly under his malevolent eyebrows. A football came homing towards Allah, but he didn’t move. The kids yelled and beckoned for the foreigner to return their ball.
‘Give us the ball back you lazy blob!’
The biggest kid from the pack, John who was the most unkind and unpleasant of them all, showed no mercy as his face formed a menacing smile as he began to peel the lid of his banana yoghurt. He tapped Allah on the shoulder and immediately threw the thick sludge all over his green shirt to reward him for his efforts of not returning the ball.
‘I'll knock you into the middle of next week and meet you coming back on Sunday next time,’ John announced as he turned to return to his pack.
Allah raised his fist and belted John in the stomach before he could squirm off to the rest of his bratty friends. John fell to the floor and shrivelled like a ball as he squealed like a strangled duck.

‘I’m a soldier.’
 I quickly ran across the field to help Allah, after all I was his classmate.
‘Are you ok?’
Allah nodded dismally.
‘Take off your shirt, we can get a spare from the lost property, come.”
There was a solid look in Allah’s eye, the wind chilled instantly around me. I knew he didn’t want to. Allah walked off.
The following morning at recess, Greg and I sat together, however Allah was across us and invited us over to his lonely table. We moved to his table and unpacked our lunches and were on the verge of indulging our nutella and ham sandwiches when Allah pulled out some funny looking meat which let off a foul odour. I was on the verge of pinching my nose and gagging over my shoulder but Allah leaned over and gave me some of his meat. He did the same for Greg. For the first time we felt a connection with Allah, as if he was opening up to us. I decided to rip a portion of my nutella sandwich and gave it to him, Greg semi-reluctantly gave him some of his ham sandwich, the part with the crust because Greg hated the sandpaper texture of the crust swimming in his mouth. As he ate our lunch and we ate his, we all smiled.
‘Allah, do you ever take your shirt off? You’ve been wearing the same shirt two days in a row!’ Greg joked.
Allah stood up and moved back as he raised his arms one by one. He pulled the green shirt over his head and his body stood before us. Disbelief was written all over our horrified faces. Scars ran through the left and right of his body, junctures everywhere. We stood up too as our eyes fixed up his stomach where there was a big gash and hole.
‘Bullet shrapnels,’ he murmured as he pointed towards his stomach.
His body evidenced the struggle of hardship, bravery and the defiance in his heart. A true soldier’s wounds. There was a song in every heart, cheerfulness in every face and a spring in every step. We could finally see it in Allah. He closed in on us and we formed a huddle.
‘I’ve never had friends back in Iraq. I would like you and Greg to be my first. Please.’
The synchronised bells from all angles of the field rung in unison as we walked side by side to class, it was a true picture perfect moment.
This was the first time we called him for who he was rather than what he was,
‘Race you back Ahmed!’