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'Poverty, not race': Understanding the causes of gangsterism
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Secondary school days are confusing. From day one, you are subjected to a social hierarchy of "The Cool" and "The Lame".

You need to find your place: Wear your trousers low in seluar londeh to earn the title of “swag”, wax your hair in the style of Robert Pattinson or Rain, carry your bag only on one shoulder, and never use a Tupperware bottle - cool kids don't use Tupperware.

I take the longer route to the toilet to skip as much of Ms Saanvi's class. I walk downstairs and the smell of cigarettes rushes up to my nose.

It's them, I say to myself. I try to walk away but my footsteps are already audible to them. One boy shouts, “Who’s that? Come down here!”

I walk down to them. I put on a calm exterior, but cold sweat forms inside my shirt.

“Oh it's you,” they laugh at me. “Why are your shirts tucked in? Good boy - teacher's pet!” They laugh and pull my clothes out of my trousers, slap me on the arms, and hit my crotch all at once.

I resist only slightly lest they beat me up - they are the gangsters of the school. They call themselves “The Duck Brothers”, named after their gang leader, Duck Boy.

One of the boys blows cigarette smoke into my face. “Let me tell you something,” he says and points the cigarette bud at me, “If you ever tell anyone what you see here, I'll put this bud into your bones.” His bloodshot eyes pierce mine, and when they push me away from them, I pick up my pace and leave.

Over the years, it wasn't clear what the Duck Brothers did. We only knew they hung out in pubs and snooker bars where they drank, smoked, and spent money. Rumour had it that they beat many, including teachers...

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