This piece is dedicated to all the young men who have allowed me to journey with them through their most delicate and fragile moments in life.
In loving memory of H.A — whose life was cut short on November 27, 2008. I honour him every day through my work. Rest In Peace
Ahmed walks into my office with a blank expression. His eyes swiftly wandering — I can feel him scanning the room. He is looking for anything that may be out of place from his last visit. He sits right by the door –often a place where most people with traumatic stress find themselves. He scans the room one last time. The unsettling and restless energy is vibrating from his body. I can sense his internal system overworking to detect danger. For Ahmed, his brain and body have become hypersensitive, causing the trauma to be etched in his mind.
I calmly remind him that he is safe — and what he is experiencing is rooted in old stuff. Old wounds are present wounds — a differentiation that is often hard for the mind and body to grasp. It is similar to having your own personal ambulance in your brain. At the slightest trigger, the flashing lights set off and the body prepares for an emergency — even if it is decades old.
Ahmed’s internal system has been ‘’caught-off-guard’’ many times in his life. His mind and body have created a specific emergency response protocol to help him survive. He has built unconsciously, yet wisely a protective system against being ‘’caught-off-guard’’ again. Instead of being wounded by emotions — he has built high walls. He has layered every brick with a numbing agent to escape his internal agony. He feels nothing. He is geared for survival even in the face of safety. The four walls of my office turn into a war zone with invisible bullets flying. A war zone only Ahmed sees, hears and feels.
The feeling in my office is overwhelming. I am soaking up the variety of emotions dancing around the room. Ahmed’s eyes are glazed with despair and sorrow. His eyes look red and faint — without hesitation I ask him if he has smoked marijuana today. He shakes his head side to side — noting that he understands the importance of being sober in therapy. The dark circles shadowing his eyes hint to the many sleepless nights. Ahmed cannot remember the last time he has slept sound. His nights are filled with wrestling matches with his demons. He self-medicates to make them vanish for a split relief of sanity. The frequent nightmares hold him hostage throughout many nights. He often dreams of police storming through his home or silhouettes in the streets firing bullets at him. Most people with a history of traumatic stress often have nightmares that replicate their experiences and fears. For Ahmed, the terror lives in the darkest pit of his stomach. He lives his waking moments in constant fear of street retaliation or incarceration.
His foot anxiously slams repetitively onto the carpet floor. He tries to speak, but instantly chokes on his words. I can sense he’s in pain — but he has always been in pain. However, today’s pain feels different. It marks the one year anniversary of his best friend’s death. A life that was robbed in exchange for the false promises of the streets. The intersection where young men often meet to gamble with their life in exchange for opportunity.
His hands are aggressively fidgeting, as he rubs them in attempt to sooth himself. He remembers that day vividly. The flood of adrenaline during a traumatic experience creates an intensive memory. This often leads to flashbacks — a vivid recollection of the trauma that replays over and over again — as if it was reoccurring daily. The body is overwhelmed and becomes allergic to anything that might remind itself of the trauma. Ahmed is always on a high pursuit chase, attempting to escape any split reminder of the past.
He begins to recall that night with terror and helplessness. I can feel the internal turmoil intensifying — as he fights the war within. The very war he fought since childhood. The mind of a child solider — yet Ahmed had never lived through a war-zone. The battleground only existed within his home.
Traumatic experiences for children, especially those who have lived in violent households have similar brain structures to soldiers in combat. Ahmed’s exposure to the on-going violence as a child has put his alarm system on high alert. It is similar to a smoke detector in our kitchen that screams at the slightest risk of fire. For some people, their smoke detectors only go off when there is a real threat. For Ahmed — the “on’’ button is stuck; sending false alarms and gearing his body to prepare for imminent danger. He sees like a soldier, breathes like soldier and feels like soldier. The mind becomes no different than the mind of a veteran being treated for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Both share the permanent feeling of fear. However — for many young racialized men like Ahmed — there is no ‘’post’’. Their trauma is daily and on-going — with no expected return date to a place of safety.
Ahmed’s childhood experiences of violence are considered a norm in his world. He frequently normalizes his experiences of living in constant fear, not being able to protect his mother, and the abandonment by his father. The word “trauma” was foreign to him — he could not possibly imagine a life without it. It took time to push Ahmed to understand — that what may have felt “normal” did not always mean it was right. Trauma had stripped away his power — leaving him helplessly to fend on his own. He has spent his whole life working over-time to regain control. For young men like Ahmed — they are avidly aware of situations that are designed to disempower and disrespect them. They will do anything to maintain control, respect and safety.
The sun is shining happily in my office — yet it feels dark and empty. I am not sure if Ahmed showed up to my office or his street alias ‘’Ace’’. One of the many parts often young men navigate to cope with the chaos of their broken worlds. Ace likes to make special appearances during our sessions. He hates therapy. He is impatient. He feels numb. He is a representation of the streets, promising Ahmed a life of money, power and respect — convincing him vigorously the road to success lies in these streets.
In conjunction with their experiences of violence, many young men are exposed to poverty and economic pressures as they enter adolescence. They have been pushed into accepting the role of being the man of the house. Robbed from the opportunity of experiencing real childhood — they have adopted the belief that manhood is about gaining respect and providing for their family. They learn through experiences of vulnerability that through money — power comes and with power comes respect. They desperately seek to be treated like a full man in a world that fails to acknowledge them. The chase towards social acceptance becomes complex. Basic needs translate to having a set of accoutrements that would demonstrate they are men with dignity — despite their broken and impoverished realities
I welcome Ace — he represents his own story. I watch Ahmed struggle as he tries to navigate his identity. His tense body echoes what the streets have taught him. ‘’Man up and handle your shit.” He tries to cancel the noise in his head. I watch the feelings of shame overwhelm him. He shakes his head in disagreement, “we are not supposed to talk about these things.”
I challenge him, whether that’s him speaking or Ace’s critical voice. He grapples with the concept of breaking a code. The very code that governs these streets. The unspoken code that leaves homicides and shootings unsolved. The code that holds families hostage with no closure and no answers. It is the very unwritten set of rules that tell young men to remain wordless. Ahmed’s mind is geared to see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil. The code of the streets runs deeper than silence — it is rooted in fear. I remind Ahmed about the code of silence that governs the four walls of my office.
He nervously rubs his temples — seeking reassurance that he is not going crazy. I remind him — that he is not crazy and what he feels is because he has surivived trauma. He shuffles his feet in discomfort, as he stares blankly at the window behind me. The sun is beaming happily on his face — mirroring the opposite of what he feels inside. There is no facial expression — but I can sense the tsunami of tears overtaking him. Yet, I cannot see them. They only exist within the darkest corners of his world.
In their complex world, strength is often measured by how well they hold back their tears. Ahmed wrestles with his manhood — placing his emotions in a chokehold depriving them from any form of expression. He has handed himself a life-long sentence of emotional incarceration. Feeling numb has served an important purpose for Ahmed — it has allowed him to continue to live. I watch him attempt to disengage and protect himself from vulnerability. ‘‘Man up’’, as the voice in his head shamelessly taunts him. This time — Ace did not hold any power.
Ahmed begins to recall that night. An altercation that ended in a tragic loss of his friend. The very same friend — who was struggling to leave the fast-money lifestyle. The crossroads that many young men find themselves as they contemplate their realities. Ahmed struggles to let the words leave his lips, “it was supposed to be that last time.” A common phrase I hear from many young men in pursuit to give it up — but relapse right back. Escaping the lure temptation of the streets becomes almost impossible. Ahmed believes there is nothing he can do to escape his destiny.
At every stage in his life — Ahmed has been blocked off from becoming all he could be. He is unable to pull away from self-destructive impulses that cloud his judgement. He sees life through a lens of desperate finality. A tunnel vision rooted in despair and despondency. A survival set of lens handed down by the very streets that promised to love him. Ahmed knows that love does not exist here. To accept this reality means to have lost everything — and to have lost everything — means to have failed at life. He has willingly offered his hands and feet to be shackled to the intersections of these very streets. Barricading himself in a place of danger — yet it feels familiar and safe. It is all — he has come to know — and all he believes he has left. Ahmed is exhausted from always being watched by the world— he finally wants to be seen. He copes with the pain recklessly and callously. He walks the enemy line — desperately searching for an antidote to reverse the lethal injection of deprived hope. The culture of violence becomes a culture of sacrifice for many young men willing to go the extremes to seek wholeness.
The unnamed wound I have come to understand is the buried trauma often carried by these young men. They are wounded street soldiers carrying stories of what was, what is and what could be. The vast majority of young men are not committing violent acts. They are in state of negotiation with life, attempting to find their place in this world — often without much support from adults.
Ahmed’s broken story is no different than the other young men that find themselves in my office. Their repeated experiences with trauma have only resulted in shame, not courage; fear rather than determination; helplessness rather than resilience. The four walls of my office become a canvas of stories. A mosaic of fragmented pieces waiting to be restored.
The most important aspect of trauma — is not the moments spent at war, but the moments not spent doing anything related to growth and healthy development. The very moments we often abandon — without real choice to merely survive. The real focus shifts away from asking the question, “what did happen to Ahmed?’’ — but “what didn’t happen for Ahmed?”
I’ve learned that young men like Ahmed are not lost causes — in fact they are brilliant and possess skills with purpose. Yet, their anger and depression taint their ability to see their worth — truly believing they have nothing to live for.
Trauma has shattered their stories and distorted their vision to see life beyond their brokenness. They attempt to detach and distance themselves from the world around them. Loss of the past bleeds into loss of the future. Young men like Ahmed cannot plan for their futures — they fundamentally stop believing in it. They spend their waking moments protecting themselves from what has already happened. Moving farther, and farther away from any glimpse of hope.
In a parallel world of opportunity, love and compassion — young men like Ahmed would soar through life with purpose. The whispers of the streets would be met with deafened ears. Their waist bands would be free from the weight of protective weapons. They would be perceived with innocence rather than guilt. Their relentless passion would be driven by boundless ambition. Their internal turmoil would be articulated through words — rather then gunfire. Their search for meaning would be met with perseverance. Their greatest escape would not be the escape from the streets — but from the suffocation of endless love and support.
We fight for all the Ahmed’s of the world — not because they can’t — but because they deserve a break from fighting a world that will never truly understand them.
I walk the narrow lines of this deadly cliff — the place where they all gather to contemplate life and death. Our presence within these lines is never to rescue — because they have to save themselves. We choose to stand here willingly; to truly listen and honour their stories — because they are deserving to have their voices heard.
This place is meant to change us — not them. To challenge our perceptions of the world. To learn to fight differently. To demand wholehearted justice. To widen the circle of opportunity. To break the barriers that divide us. To reconcile our shared humanity.
And to make sense of the senseless.
Through this.
We break their silence.
The events discussed on this page are real encounters. ‘’Ahmed’’ and ‘’Ace’’ are pseudonym. The names have been changed to protect the most misunderstood.
“The streets don’t love you. Brothers against brothers. Sisters against sisters. Unparalleled cycle of violence. What must we do to break this cycle? Countless mothers mourn the death of their children gone to early. Just to become another statistic. Tied to an unruly cycle of incarceration and danger. How must we break these cycles? Realize that the streets don’t love you.’’
— Submission by a participant of The Street Resilience Project
Mandi Pekan is a Registered Psychotherapist — specializing in Trauma, Urban Violence and Community Development. Her work is central to dismantling misconceptions of youth gangs. She is the Project Director for The Street Resilience Project — a community-based research focused on humanizing the experiences of young racialized men involved in street-level violence.
