By Zac Mehdid

 PLEASE, HATE MUSLIMS!

“3, 2, 1, GO!” shouts Blaž, as I lean forward and take my first stride to outrun the red monster on my right. It’s Friday night, and I’m racing a bus.

A warm cloud of sweat and booze blows away the cold wind of an autumn night.

This is the first time we come to our local pub, although we’ve been talking about it for weeks. We finally took upon ourselves to go.

Dennis and I got the same ale, which is what you expect from lovers like us. It tastes sweet and cozy, and slightly bitter at the end. It’s not the best ale, but it’s not bad either. We walk towards the door and enter the backyard. It’s warm and calm, better than I expected. The seven of us sit at the only table available. I grab a chair and sit at the foot of the table, in the way of smokers trying to get through me to go burn their lungs by the heaters.

I drank half of my pint when we decide to move to a better table that just got free, with sofas and way more room. A few minutes later, a blond woman comes to us. “Where are you from?” she asks with a Russian accent. I can see the hatred in her eyes when I dare to reply that I’m from France. “Germany” says Dennis with a smile on his face. She shakes his hand.

The woman is standing in front of me facing my right, waiting for my friends to reply. I am facing left, listening to a forty-something year-old man talking about virgins in heaven. Suddenly, the lady slaps me with her right hand. “Shut up” she says firmly, pointing her finger at my face.

She starts talking about Russia, Eastern Europe and how she hates “fucking communists”. “No! Not fucking communists! Hitler very good!” She’s arguing with herself, and I can’t understand anything of what she’s trying to tell us. Now, only Dennis and I are listening. I hide my face, trying my best not to laugh. I look at Dennis. He doesn’t show any sign of retained laughter. I admire him; I’m struggling so hard!

By the end, after accusing the USSR of murdering her parents, she argues again and accuses Muslims.

“Please! Please! Hate Muslims!” she says to us, not noticing that I come from a Muslim family.

She goes on and on, telling us that we should hate Muslims and not take in any refugees – funny enough, Dennis and I are working on a brief on how to get people to accept refugees.

By the end, I just want her to leave, so I pretend to agree with her. She doesn’t believe me. She looks at me and slightly moves backwards, as if she just noticed something. The Russian woman then asks us to shake her hand. She grabs mine, looks me in the eyes, and then suddenly pulls both her hands back. She looks at me, frightened. “No, no…” she says, as if she just witnessed her parents dying in front of her. It’s Dennis’s turn. After shaking his hands, she tells him how soft his hands are.

The blond lady looks at me. I can see the tears she’s trying to contain. She seems extremely confused. She moves around, not knowing what to do, then finally leaves.

This is for you a casual Friday night in a pub in West Norwood.