The "Moroccan princess" and the Cybersexing Arab , a satire but a true story, dedicated to Fatima Mernissi the Moroccan sociological writer

2014/10/18 19:23:32] *** Missed call from mr. 1. ***

[2014/10/18 19:42:29] mr. 1: But u dont realy think as a regime agent u will survive long by threatening activists, right?

[2014/10/18 19:43:01] mr. 1: At the end of the day there is law

[2014/10/18 19:43:26] mr. 1: Muahhhh :) fuck u hard u animal :)))))

[2014/10/18 20:49:18] mr.1: R u sad :(?

[2014/10/18 21:51:58] *** Missed call from mr. 1. ***

 [2014/10/18 22:13:04] Canela: You are the agent, not me. You are the disgusting alawi who hacked Bilal's account and is harassing and alienating his friends while subtly trying to nose out information. One possibility. The other is that you are him, and you are just fucked up, dis functional and crazy and dumping your shit on people.

I know two,  others. They were tortured in prison and they both have this totally mad,irrational tempter though none of them shower me with obscenities like you. And among those who are or claim to be a revolutionary you are the only one wasting your time in cybersex.

[2014/10/18 22:16:09] mr. 1: Wht cybersex u r talkin about

[2014/10/18 22:16:16] mr. 1: And wbbho is Bilal

[2014/10/18 22:16:34] mr. 1: R u mad now?

[2014/10/18 22:16:57] mr. 1: U r an assad agent or not

[2014/10/18 22:17:05] mr. 1: Be honesty

[2014/10/18 22:17:19] mr. 1: Just be honest

[2014/10/18 22:17:27] mr. 1: Nothing more!

[2014/10/18 22:27:20] Canela: Or to  whatever your name is. F something. I should check the screenshots. Or ask Jean Marie. :)

[2014/10/18 22:2: I am who I said I am.

[2014/10/18 22:28:57] mr1: Screenshots show nothing, ur photoshop might show

[2014/10/18 22:29:18] mr. 1: But asking jean marie might help. Honestly

[2014/10/18 22:29:34] mr. 1: And u r practiced agent

[2014/10/18 22:29:42] Canela: Bilal F. You don't know who that is? From a Paris university, Syrian?

[2014/10/18 22:31:54] mr.: Syrian? Ok

[2014/10/18 22:32:04] Canela: Jean Marie is pro regime

[2014/10/18 22:32:06] mr. 1: So what do u want ?

[2014/10/18 22:32:13] mr. 1: Ask her

[2014/10/18 22:32:22] mr. 1: U said u want to ask her

[2014/10/18 22:32:24] mr. 1: So do

[2014/10/18 22:32:40] Canela: I already know who you are

[2014/10/18 22:32:42] mr. 1: U use same regime tchniques

[2014/10/18 22:32:48] mr. 1: Of frightening ppl

[2014/10/18 22:32:49] mr. 1: Ppl

[2014/10/18 22:32:57] mr1: Threatening

[2014/10/18 22:33:10] mr. 1: And print screens

[2014/10/18 22:33:20] mr. 1: And nosy info

[2014/10/18 22:33:30] Canela: Ok, fine. I am Syrian, from Lattakia and a regime agent. And I am after you and want to ruin your life. Now what?

[2014/10/18 22:33:38] mr. 1: So why dont u just b ballanced

[2014/10/18 22:33:45] mr.1: No

[2014/10/18 22:33:54] mr.1: U r not from lattakia

[2014/10/18 22:34:01] Canela: Have you ever been fucked by a regime agent?

[2014/10/18 22:34:01] mr. 1: Now nothing

[2014/10/18 22:34:11] mr. 1: U r the one

[2014/10/18 22:34:24] Canela: Who fucked you hhhh

[2014/10/18 22:34:36] mr. 1: So i will block u here if u keep threatening Nd talkin bullshit

[2014/10/18 22:34:37] Canela: Too late

[2014/10/18 22:34:44] mr. 1: Be good

[2014/10/18 22:34:51] mr. 1: Too late for ?

[2014/10/18 22:34:52] Canela: I am not threatening youn

[2014/10/18 22:35:01] mr1: Yes u are

[2014/10/18 22:35:10] mr. 1: U even black mailed me

[2014/10/18 22:35:23] Canela: I blackmailed that alawi

[2014/10/18 22:35:28] mr. 1: So u want to be normal or no??

[2014/10/18 22:35:31] Canela: I mortified him

[2014/10/18 22:35:50] mr. 1: Who alawii? And whts ur prob with alwaits?

[2014/10/18 22:36:07] Canela: And made him feel ashamed before all his friends

[2014/10/18 22:36:14] mr. 1: Why u black mail ppl

[2014/10/18 22:36:25] mr. 1: U think its hard?

[2014/10/18 22:36:37] mr. 1: To destroy anyones reputation?

[2014/10/18 22:36:45] Canela: Because he was stupid enough to ask me to fuvk him when he was angry that I do not like Bashar

[2014/10/18 22:36:49] mr. 1: U think u did good job by doin that?

[2014/10/18 22:37:31] mr1: The easiest thing is to chase someone and destroy his life

[2014/10/18 22:37:48] mr. 1: But that is not what i am ready to do

[2014/10/18 22:37:49] Canela: If you want to have a reputation, do what creates the reputation, do not do the opposite. Simple

[2014/10/18 22:37:51] mr. 1: Not me

[2014/10/18 22:38:17] mr. 1: U r not in that place to tell ppl wht to do

[2014/10/18 22:38:28] mr. 1: And even u with all the reputation u did

[2014/10/18 22:38:35] Canela: This is not what one does

[2014/10/18 22:38:37] mr. 1: It can be destroyed essily

[2014/10/18 22:38:46] mr. 1: So y u think u r smart?

[2014/10/18 22:38:55] Canela: I told you, I showed his friends what he does.

[2014/10/18 22:39:06] mr. 1: Ot was not ur business

[2014/10/18 22:39:10] Canela: There were some good Muslims among his friends

[2014/10/18 22:39:12] mr. 1: U were a betrayal

[2014/10/18 22:39:28] Canela: Sweetheart, I am teasing you

[2014/10/18 22:39:37] mr. 1: He can do much worse things to destroy ur career Nd life

[2014/10/18 22:39:39] Canela: You are gullible

[2014/10/18 22:39:52] mr. 1: U can not do that to someone

[2014/10/18 22:39:56] mr. 1: U can not

[2014/10/18 22:40:04] Canela: I am simply teasing you

[2014/10/18 22:40:12] mr. 1: No u were not

[2014/10/18 22:40:17] mr. 1: U betrayed

[2014/10/18 22:40:27] mr. 1: U cant lie now

[2014/10/18 22:40:31] mr. 1: Stop

[2014/10/18 22:40:37] m01: And be a good person

[2014/10/18 22:40:43] Canela: I betrayed what?

[2014/10/18 22:40:48] mr. 1: It does not worth

[2014/10/18 22:41:03] mr. 1: The private ethics

[2014/10/18 22:41:05] Canela: You asked me for cybersex

[2014/10/18 22:41:13] mr. 01: No i didnt

[2014/10/18 22:41:17] mr. 1: U r a liar

[2014/10/18 22:41:23] Canela: You showered me with obscenities

[2014/10/18 22:41:27] mr. 1: And u r a regime agent

[2014/10/18 22:41:38] mr. 1: I did nothing bad

[2014/10/18 22:41:41] mr. 1: Like that

[2014/10/18 22:41:43] mr1: To you

[2014/10/18 22:41:52] mr. 1: Leave me alone

[2014/10/18 22:41:55] mr. 1: And go

[2014/10/18 22:42:06] mr. 1: U disappointed me enough

[2014/10/18 22:42:41] Canela: And now you say I am messing with your reputation? You are messing with your reportation. What kind of asshole would do this stuff from his own profile to people he does not know? Who could be anybody?

[2014/10/18 22:43:04] mr. 1: Wht?

[2014/10/18 22:43:13] mr. 1: What i did

[2014/10/18 22:43:17] mr. 1: Show me!??

[2014/10/18 22:43:24] mr. 1: Tell me!!?

[2014/10/18 22:43:28] mr. 1: What!!?

[2014/10/18 22:43:35]  Canela: Go on facebook, add a friend of a well known lady among the jet set of New York and say " suck my dick."

[2014/10/18 22:43:52] mr1: Who did that?

[2014/10/18 22:44:01] mr. 1: U r a liar

[2014/10/18 22:44:04] mr. 1: U r mad

[2014/10/18 22:44:07] Canela: While using his name and his photo ?

[2014/10/18 22:44:14] Canela: You did

[2014/10/18 22:44:14] mr. 1: U lost a potential friend

[2014/10/18 22:44:22] mr. 1: No i didnt

[2014/10/18 22:44:22] Canela: Look

[2014/10/18 22:44:30] mr. 1: U asked me and i refused

[2014/10/18 22:44:34] Canela: You are a coward

[2014/10/18 22:44:37] mr. 1: U look

[2014/10/18 22:44:56] mr. 1: U r a mad crazy mentally sick person

[2014/10/18 22:45:00] Canela: I asked you and you refused. You were a virgin,. Hahahahahaha

[2014/10/18 22:45:09] mr. 1: I thought u were educated

[2014/10/18 22:45:20] mr. 1: Yes i was :))

[2014/10/18 22:45:34] mr. 1: Nono i was not but i didnt like u

[2014/10/18 22:45:59] Canela: I will tell that to Jean Marie. " Bilal is this shy guy in Paris. Shall we send him a nice girl to take his virginity! He is getting old."

[2014/10/18 22:46:35] mr. 1: Y u want to do this to me ?

[2014/10/18 22:46:53] Canela: I will tell her I tried to seduce you. And you were so innocent, you did not even know what I was talking about

[2014/10/18 22:47:07] Canela: So I took pity on you.

[2014/10/18 22:47:11] mr. 1: No

[2014/10/18 22:47:11] mr1: Dont tell her that plzzzzz

[2014/10/18 22:47:20] Canela: We should help you to have some fun

[2014/10/18 22:47:25] mr. 1: That is not nice

[2014/10/18 22:47:33] Canela: Paris must be lonely for a guy like that

[2014/10/18 22:47:37] mr. 1: But who is bilal in the first place?

[2014/10/18 22:47:55] mr1: Go

[2014/10/18 22:48:01] mr. 1: U r really crazy

[2014/10/18 22:48:09]  Canela: You want me to tell you who is Bilal F?

[2014/10/18 22:48:36] mr. 1: Leave me alone

[2014/10/18 22:48:44] Canela: He is a guy who

[2014/10/18 22:48:47] mr. 1: When u r back to ur mind

[2014/10/18 22:48:53] mr. 1: If u have any

[2014/10/18 22:48:55] Canela: Writes and

[2014/10/18 22:48:57] mr. 1: Then okay

[2014/10/18 22:49:03] Canela: Studied history

[2014/10/18 22:49:15] mr.1: Other wise leave me alone

[2014/10/18 22:49:24] Canela: And education

[2014/10/18 22:49:27] mr. 1: That might b written on the net

[2014/10/18 22:49:36] mr. 1: So u read it there

[2014/10/18 22:49:42] Canela: And business admin at a Paris university

[2014/10/18 22:49:44] mr. 1: Anyways

[2014/10/18 22:49:55] mr. 1: Hell go

[2014/10/18 22:49:57] Canela: Who gives interviews

[2014/10/18 22:50:01] mr. 1: What do u want from me?

[2014/10/18 22:50:20] mr1: I block u here if u dont talk in a descent way

[2014/10/18 22:50:21] Canela: Are you waiting for me to blackmail you?

[2014/10/18 22:50:36] Canela: I said I was teasing

[2014/10/18 22:50:45] mr. 1: U already blackmailed me

[2014/10/18 22:50:50] Canela: I have a sense of humour

[2014/10/18 22:50:59] mr. 1: No u were not teasing

[2014/10/18 22:51:04] Canela: I blackmailed the other guy

[2014/10/18 22:51:08] mr. 1: U r strange!!

[2014/10/18 22:51:08] Canela: Not you

[2014/10/18 22:51:27] mr. 1: No u did that with me too

[2014/10/18 22:51:31] Canela: I told you that I blackmailed a law student from Tartous

[2014/10/18 22:51:33] mr. 1: And u do it with many

[2014/10/18 22:51:37] mr. 1: I am sure

[2014/10/18 22:51:44] mr1: No

[2014/10/18 22:51:53] Canela: Ok, fine, if that is what you think.

[2014/10/18 22:51:53] mr. 1: Not true

[2014/10/18 22:52:03] mr. 1: I believe in that

[2014/10/18 22:52:05] Canela: Let's assume I am in Paris

[2014/10/18 22:52:10] mr. 01: Ok

[2014/10/18 22:52:14] mr. 1: Come

[2014/10/18 22:52:17] Canela: And have your address

[2014/10/18 22:52:24] mr. 1: Let me see u when i can

[2014/10/18 22:52:30] Canela: And am so angry at you

[2014/10/18 22:53:25] Canela: That I will call one of the usual suspects and send a hitman to your house to drop a snake in your window while you are sleeping

[2014/10/18 22:53:31] Canela: Or something like that

[2014/10/18 22:53:47] Canela: Are you happy now

.

[2014/10/18 22:54:17] mr. 1: U want to kill!??

[2014/10/18 22:54:25] Canela: Do you understand why this Kafranbel poster guy hired me as a writer

. :)

[2014/10/18 22:54:26] mr. 1: Ready to do that!??

[2014/10/18 22:54:35] mr. 1: U r liar

[2014/10/18 22:54:38] Canela: He hired me

[2014/10/18 22:54:40] mr1: He didnt

[2014/10/18 22:54:44] mr.1: No

[2014/10/18 22:54:48] Canela: Because he likes my writing

[2014/10/18 22:54:49] mr.1: He didnt

[2014/10/18 22:54:56] mr.1: Show me evidence

[2014/10/18 22:55:12] mr.1: U r schyzophrenic

[2014/10/18 22:55:23]  Canela: And thought I would have enough imagination to come up with a Bashar interview by Oprah

[2014/10/18 22:55:46] Canela: I don't even know Oprah's show but I wrote it and he loved it

[2014/10/18 22:55:56] mr. 1: Lies

[2014/10/18 22:56:04] mr. 1: Borring

[2014/10/18 22:56:07] Canela: Ok sweetie

[2014/10/18 22:56:10] mr. 1: No truth

[2014/10/18 22:56:15] Canela: I made this up

[2014/10/18 22:56:26] mr. 1: Y u call me sweetie???

[2014/10/18 22:56:26] Canela: I invented the snake story

[2014/10/18 22:56:36] Canela: I am not in Paris

[2014/10/18 22:56:36] mr. 1: Gooo

[2014/10/18 22:56:47] mr. 1: Just live ur life

[2014/10/18 22:56:48] Canela: I am simply telling you

[2014/10/18 22:56:56] mr. 1: Cant u live away

[2014/10/18 22:56:57] Canela: Don't mess with me

[2014/10/18 22:57:05] mr. 1: Go away

[2014/10/18 22:57:13] Canela: Because you don't know who you are dealing with

[2014/10/18 22:57:15] mr.1: Leave me alone

[2014/10/18 22:57:25] mr. 1: U r a piece of shit

[2014/10/18 22:57:30] mr. 1: Nothing more

[2014/10/18 22:57:30] Canela: I have no interest in blackmailing you

[2014/10/18 22:57:41] Canela: And I lied

[2014/10/18 22:57:53]  Canela: I did not take any screen shots

[2014/10/18 22:57:53] mr. 1: You are here blackmailing again

[2014/10/18 22:58:09] mr1: Wht is the money u take to go away

[2014/10/18 22:58:20] mr. 1: Say the amount as in the morning

[2014/10/18 22:58:37] mr. 1: Even if u took

[2014/10/18 22:58:38] Canela: And maybe I will say nothing to Jean Marie about what her educated friend does in his free time

[2014/10/18 22:58:50] mr. 1: I didnt say anything wrong

[2014/10/18 22:59:00] mr. 1: Who?

[2014/10/18 22:59:15] Canela: Would you like a copy of what exactly you said ?

[2014/10/18 22:59:17] mr. 1: I have no single thing about me

[2014/10/18 22:59:23] mr. 1: Yes

[2014/10/18 22:59:25] Canela: To help you remember?

[2014/10/18 22:59:28] mr.: Ok

[2014/10/18 22:59:34] mr. 1: Show me

[2014/10/18 22:59:43] mr.1: With no photoshop

[2014/10/18 22:59:45] Canela: Ok

[2014/10/18 22:59:51]  Canela: Hang on

[2014/10/18 23:00:00] mr1.: Hurry i m busy

[2014/10/18 23:00:03] Canela: I do not photoshop my messages

[2014/10/18 23:00:13] mr. 01: U can easily

[2014/10/18 23:00:17] mr. 1: Do photoshop

[2014/10/18 23:00:22] Canela: Why should I?

[2014/10/18 23:00:26] mr. 1: Anyone can do so

[2014/10/18 23:00:29] mr. 1: Easily

[2014/10/18 23:00:37] mr. 1: To hurt someone

[2014/10/18 23:00:42] Canela: Maybev

[2014/10/18 23:00:45] mr. 1: Or blackmail him

[2014/10/18 23:00:52] mr. 1: As u r doibg now

[2014/10/18 23:00:57] mr. 1: So?

[2014/10/18 23:00:58] Canela: I asked you to behave yourself

[2014/10/18 23:01:06] Canela: The first day

[2014/10/18 23:01:12] mr. 1: Go to hell

[2014/10/18 23:01:13] Canela: The second day

[2014/10/18 23:01:21] Canela: The third day too

[2014/10/18 23:01:22] mr. 1: I will block u here

[2014/10/18 23:01:30] mr. 1: If u keep leing

[2014/10/18 23:01:42] mr. 1: U r an ugly bitch

[2014/10/18 23:01:50] Canela: Lying about what?

[2014/10/18 23:01:54] mr1: Workin with the regime

[2014/10/18 23:02:03] Astrid Canela: Hahaha

[2014/10/18 23:02:06] mr. 1: Show me ur evidence

[2014/10/18 23:02:10] Canela: Oh my god

[2014/10/18 23:02:13] mr. 1: Without photoshop

[2014/10/18 23:02:18] mr. 1: I m waiting

[2014/10/18 23:02:30] Astrid Canela: Of working with the regime, you mean?

[2014/10/18 23:02:59] mr. 1: Working with the regime

[2014/10/18 23:03:01] Canela: You want to read yourself talk dirty"

[2014/10/18 23:03:22] Canela: My evidence of working with the regime

[2014/10/18 23:03:36] mr. 1: I want to see ur photshop work

[2014/10/18 23:03:42] Canela: You mean like my Syrian I'd card or something?

[2014/10/18 23:03:57] mr1: No ur evidence of the things u r blackmailing with

[2014/10/18 23:04:12] Canela: I also said I was teasing you

[2014/10/18 23:04:37] Canela: All I am saying is, don't mess with me

[2014/10/18 23:04:52] mr. 1: No u freaked me out with ur threats

[2014/10/18 23:05:00] mr. 1: And i am afraid now

[2014/10/18 23:05:05] mr1: Look

[2014/10/18 23:05:08] Canela: I know

[2014/10/18 23:05:09] mr. 1: One question

[2014/10/18 23:05:13] mr. 1: Answer

[2014/10/18 23:05:15] mr. 01: It

[2014/10/18 23:05:21] Canela: Have a cup of tea and calm down

[2014/10/18 23:05:51] Canela: I took revenge

[2014/10/18 23:05:58] Canela: Simply that

[2014/10/18 23:06:07] Canela: No more

[2014/10/18 23:06:16] mr. 1: U want to publish any material about any  conversation you are claiming took place between us?

[2014/10/18 23:06:21] Canela: Than taking revenge for disrespect

[2014/10/18 23:06:38] mr1: Answer

[2014/10/18 23:06:59] Astrid Canela: Publish it where?

[2014/10/18 23:07:06] mr. 1: Anywhere

[2014/10/18 23:07:07] Canela: Paris match?

[2014/10/18 23:07:21] mr. 1: Answer and dont be cowered!

[2014/10/18 23:07:22] Canela: Your university newsletter?

[2014/10/18 23:07:32] mr. 1: Answer

[2014/10/18 23:07:40] Astrid Canela: Ok

[2014/10/18 23:07:44] Astrid Canela: No

[2014/10/18 23:08:07] mr1: Ok so ur answer is :no

[2014/10/18 23:08:09] mr1: Right?

[2014/10/18 23:08:10] Canela: Have some tea, sweetie and collect yourself

[2014/10/18 23:08:25] mr. 1: Ok so ur answer is :no

[2014/10/18 23:08:26] Canela: Nobody is trying to ruin you

[2014/10/18 23:08:35] mr. 1: Right?

[2014/10/18 23:08:40] mr. 1: Ok so ur answer is :no

[2014/10/18 23:08:44] Canela: I wanted to teach you a lesson

[2014/10/18 23:08:47] mr. 1: Right?

[2014/10/18 23:08:50] Canela: I am a pro

[2014/10/18 23:08:55] mr1: Right?

[2014/10/18 23:09:00] mr. 1: Ok so ur answer is :no

[2014/10/18 23:09:04] Canela: Even though it is not my dream job

[2014/10/18 23:09:06] mr. 1: Right?

[2014/10/18 23:09:11] Canela: It is tiresome

[2014/10/18 23:09:14] mr. 1: Ok so ur answer is :no

[2014/10/18 23:09:24] mr. 1: Right?

[2014/10/18 23:09:30] Canela: And I wish I did not have to do this in the first placeb

[2014/10/18 23:09:41] mr. 1: Ok so ur answer is :no

[2014/10/18 23:09:46] mr1: Right?

[2014/10/18 23:09:51] Canela: Stop asking me to fuck you

[2014/10/18 23:09:58] mr. 1: Ok so ur answer is :no

[2014/10/18 23:10:02] mr. 1: Right?

[2014/10/18 23:10:06] Canela: Simple enough

[2014/10/18 23:10:13] mr. 1: Ok so ur answer is :no

[2014/10/18 23:10:18] mr. 1: Right?

[2014/10/18 23:10:21] mr. 1: Answer

[2014/10/18 23:10:44] Canela: Be a good boy and we will see, ok?

[2014/10/18 23:11:02] mr. 1: Ok so u r blackmailing me

[2014/10/18 23:11:06] mr. 1: Here u r

[2014/10/18 23:11:07] mr. 1: So

[2014/10/18 23:11:11] mr. 1: My words:

[2014/10/18 23:11:26] Canela: Speak like every other Syrian, and since you are in Europe, treat ladies like a gentleman and not like an abuser

[2014/10/18 23:12:34] Canela: Why does one blackmail someone into being a gentleman? Don't you have a mother to teach you that.?

[2014/10/18 23:13:40] Canela: Why does one have to scare somebody to death simply to get him to stop talking dirty to total strangers? Educated strangers?

[2014/10/18 23:14:34] mr. 1: If u published any thing i said or calimed i said or u used my picture or my name in any publication or public platform . In print or digital . Anywhere in the world then i will sue u for 300,000 three hundred thousand euros at least.

And i am telling you here that by law u can not publish private messages and i am telling u here that u scared me with ur manipulative attitudes and threats and blackmailing.

[2014/10/18 23:14:47]  Canela: Who may not be in the mood nor have any taste for cybersex? Cybersex is fucking boring, I tell you. I was looking at Google maps of the Himalayas while you were trying to make me come.

[2014/10/18 23:15:47] mr. 1: Stop faking lies

[2014/10/18 23:15:54] mr1: I said wht i want

[2014/10/18 23:16:06] mr. 1: Now any mote threats

[2014/10/18 23:16:14] mr. 1: Or blackmailing

[2014/10/18 23:16:26] Canela: Kundera would laugh his head off if he knew and write another short story about that. Look we could copy and print this entire conversation and put it in the Sunday Monde to make people laugh. Good idea? We can share the money they pay us for that. It is a good story

[2014/10/18 23:16:39] mr. 1: I will follow legal approach

[2014/10/18 23:17:02] mr. 1: Bye

[2014/10/18 23:17:17] Canela: They will laugh and show you to the door and say she really got you

[2014/10/18 23:17:19] mr. 1: U r mentally sick

[2014/10/18 23:17:42] mr. 1: I can sue u

[2014/10/18 23:17:46] mr. 1: Bye

[2014/10/18 23:17:50] Canela: No I just use my imagination in a different Ay from the way you use yours

[2014/10/18 23:17:58] Canela: Way

[2014/10/18 23:18:03] Canela: Not Ay

[2014/10/18 23:18:04] mr. 1: U r sick

[2014/10/18 23:18:10] Canela: More fun than sex

[2014/10/18 23:18:11] mr. 1: U r lonely

[2014/10/18 23:18:15] mr. 1: U attack ppl

[2014/10/18 23:18:16] Canela: Ok

[2014/10/18 23:18:24] Canela: This city sucks

[2014/10/18 23:18:25] mr. 1: U know that

[2014/10/18 23:18:35] Canela: So does Patis, it seems

[2014/10/18 23:18:44] mr1: Paris ?

[2014/10/18 23:18:46]  Canela: You are in Paris

[2014/10/18 23:18:53] mr. 1: Paris is a nice city

[2014/10/18 23:19:01] mr. 1: I wish i can go there

[2014/10/18 23:19:02] Canela: And spend your time in bed masturbating

[2014/10/18 23:19:14] mr. 1: U r disgustibg

[2014/10/18 23:19:23] mr. 1: Disgusting

[2014/10/18 23:19:27] Canela: Instead of getting on with your research plan

[2014/10/18 23:19:29] mr. 1: Old ugly woman

[2014/10/18 23:19:37] mr. 1: Research!????!?

[2014/10/18 23:19:42] Canela: What a waste

[2014/10/18 23:20:00] Canela: You got the Champs Élysées

[2014/10/18 23:20:19] Canela: And Montparnasse

[2014/10/18 23:20:19] mr. 1: Look who is wasting his time and others with blakmails and threats

[2014/10/18 23:20:22] mr. 1: Wake up

[2014/10/18 23:20:31] mr. 1: Wht!?!!

[2014/10/18 23:20:52] Canela: You could be hanging out drinking cafe au lait at Deux Magots

[2014/10/18 23:20:54] mr. 1: Go away

[2014/10/18 23:21:02] mr. 1: Stop stalkin me

[2014/10/18 23:21:04] mr. 1: Please

[2014/10/18 23:21:07] Canela: With the fans of Jean Paul Sartre

[2014/10/18 23:21:18] Canela: Watch beautiful women walk by

[2014/10/18 23:21:26] Canela: And what do you do?

[2014/10/18 23:21:35] Canela: Cybersex on facebook

[2014/10/18 23:21:45] Canela: Playing with yourself

[2014/10/18 23:21:48] mr. 1: Leave me alone u r a big liar

[2014/10/18 23:21:56] mr.b.mr.b2601: I cant block u here too

[2014/10/18 23:22:02] mr. 01: If u dont stop

[2014/10/18 23:22:04]  Canela: Do you realize how sad this is?

[2014/10/18 23:22:10] mr. 1: U r supper agressive

[2014/10/18 23:22:24] Canela: Read again

[2014/10/18 23:22:30] mr. 1: ......

[2014/10/18 23:22:44] Canela: Have you ever talked to a woman from Europe before?

[2014/10/18 23:23:49] Canela: You don't know that we do not do this?

[2014/10/18 23:24:19] Canela: That only Arabs and Turks sit in some forlorn depressing Internet cafe

[2014/10/18 23:24:30] Canela: And talk to girls they cannot touch?

[2014/10/18 23:29:46] Canela: This makes a good story for " women in revolution " group . I might out it there as a joke . And send it to my career woman friends for a good laugh

[2014/10/18 23:30:49] Canela: I will change your name , ok? And call you Mustafa Al Himar or something like that . So nobody will know who this was.

[2014/10/18 23:31:05] mr1: I will block u . Sorry. But ur harrassment is unberable

[2014/10/18 23:31:39] Canela: I will send you the link to the facebook group

[2014/10/18 23:31:55] Canela: It is full of Syria supporters

[2014/10/18 23:31:56] mr. 1: And just do me a favour since u talk abou mt himar and ask ur mother about ur real farher please .

[2014/10/18 23:32:07] Canela: Hahaha

[2014/10/18 23:32:23] Canela: Your father was a duck

[2014/10/18 23:32:24] mr. 1: Ok thanks

[2014/10/18 23:32:28] mr. 1: Bye

[2014/10/18 23:32:39] Canela: A cute little duck

[2014/10/18 23:32:42] mr. 1: Ur father is unknown ;)

[2014/10/18 23:33:01] mr. 1: Thts ur prob with algerians ;)

[2014/10/18 23:33:07] mr. 1: Hahaaa

[2014/10/18 23:33:19] mr1: Bye bye princess

[2014/10/18 23:33:29] mr. 1: U lost a friend

[2014/10/18 23:33:47] Canela: I will get on of those bath tub ducks and think of you while I water board the poor ducks in the bath. Of course ducks don't mind that so much . I am no sadist

[2014/10/18 23:33:50] mr. 1: :) u knew nothing about me.

[2014/10/18 23:34:06] mr. 1: ;)

[2014/10/18 23:34:09] Canela: Right

[2014/10/18 23:34:33] Canela: You stole Bilal s facebook account.

[2014/10/18 23:34:46] mr. 1: U didnt give urself a real chance

[2014/10/18 23:34:48] Canela: We are back to square one

[2014/10/18 23:34:59] mr. 1: Bye bye dear

[2014/10/18 23:35:04] mr. 01: When u r fine

[2014/10/18 23:35:08] mr. 1: Get in touch

[2014/10/18 23:35:11] mr. 1: Before that

[2014/10/18 23:35:14] mr. 1: Plz dont

[2014/10/18 23:35:26] Canela: You already told me I am not your type so you will not tell me about your PhD ideas

[2014/10/18 23:35:36] mr. 1: .........

[2014/10/18 23:35:55] Canela: Hermine was not Swann's type either

[2014/10/18 23:36:35] Canela: Have you ever read Marcel Proust? No, Odine, Odette, Odele, it wasn't Hermine

[2014/10/18 23:37:27] Canela: You will not give me any sample of your great intelligence because I am not your type. You just want to fuck

[2014/10/18 23:37:49] mr. 1: I hate sex

[2014/10/18 23:37:57] mr. 1: Wht r u talkin about

[2014/10/18 23:38:09] mr. 1: Leave me aloneeeee

[2014/10/18 23:38:40] Canela: Let us assume you were trying to impersonate a graduate student even though you don't have the brain nor any clue what a PhD thesis could contain, so you had to talk your way out of that one

[2014/10/18 23:39:22] mr. 1: Wht??

[2014/10/18 23:39:51] Canela: Or, as I already said, you are one of those on a regime scholarship who never had to work hard in school and just got the red carpet treatment

Call declined

[2014/10/18 23:40:04] mr. 1: Y u don’t answer? Super strange

[2014/10/18 23:40:17] mr1: So now

[2014/10/18 23:40:23] mr. 1: U either talk clearly

[2014/10/18 23:40:29] Canela: Or just a rich kid, is your Paris university private? Or public?

[2014/10/18 23:40:35] mr. 1: Or i will realy need to block u

[2014/10/18 23:40:57] Canela: Ok you want cybersex?

[2014/10/18 23:40:59] mr. 1: Private

[2014/10/18 23:41:07] mr. 1: Cyber wht????

[2014/10/18 23:41:12] mr1: Nooooo

[2014/10/18 23:41:17] Canela: I will tell you the story of the Moroccan princess

[2014/10/18 23:41:20] mr. 1: I dont want any sex

[2014/10/18 23:41:24] mr. 1: No no

[2014/10/18 23:41:28] mr. 1: I will block u

[2014/10/18 23:41:32] Canela: Who conquered the prince next door

[2014/10/18 23:41:34] mr. 1: U cant waste my time

[2014/10/18 23:41:43] mr.b1: U answer my question

[2014/10/18 23:41:52] Canela: By climbing over the roof when he slept

[2014/10/18 23:41:54] mr. 1: Wht u want

[2014/10/18 23:41:59] mr. 1: I will block u

[2014/10/18 23:42:00] mr. 01: Sorry

[2014/10/18 23:42:04] mr1: Bye

[2014/10/18 23:42:07] Canela: And stuck a cucumber up his ass

[2014/10/18 23:42:10] mr. 1: Gave u a chance

[2014/10/18 23:42:17] Canela: He married her after that

[2014/10/18 23:42:17] mr. 1: Bye

[2014/10/18 23:42:28] Canela: Because he liked her wit

[2014/10/18 23:43:06] Canela: This is hilarious

[2014/10/18 23:43:29] Canela: " no no, I don't want any sex. I am scared of you now."

[2014/10/18 23:43:37] Canela: We traded places

[2014/10/18 23:43:42] Canela: Hahaha

Mashhad, a pilgrims' destination

During my second trip to Iran I decided to visit Mashhad, a place that is as famous as it is remote, located on the other end of the desert , 15-20 car  hours from Yazd.
I took a flight from Teheran. Before embarking on this journey, the very kind lovely parents of my friend helped me prepare for the trip. Her mother lent me her chador, a white slightly taylored sheet with a purple flower pattern.  Trying it on it reminded me very much of the happy days of my childhood when my grandma would pull one of her bed quilt covers over my head,  something with little flowers on it, too, to check for any holes to be mended. I would stand in her quilt cover with my arms stretched out at the sides and she would look all over me. I kept quiet about my childhood memories and only mentioned that it did look indeed like a bed sheet. The Iranian family gave me a gentle though slightly embarrassed smile and agreed with me though advised me that this is a rude thing to say .
Next came what I call the " automatic hijab" , in this case another piece of cotton cloth, in a lovely brown sand colour, which could be pulled over the head in one go and which safely hid every last strand of hair while arranging itself into a headscarf. I looked into the mirror . Not bad actually, the hijab kind of suited me even. Certainly a lot better than black. I asked their daughter to help me practice the Shia prayer which involves a small stone, a piece of light clay actually, to be placed in front of you to rest your forehead on, thus having your own place on the ground to touch, like a portable personal clean protection. I worried about missing it while bending down and be exposed as a "fake", as a clumsy worshiper who doesn not even know how to pray. But she assured me that even real Shia sometimes miss too, so I would look quite normal and not attract attention.
The next morning my taxi arrived and took me to the airport. The flight to Mashhad was just a little over an hour, I think, and did not cost much.
I arrived and asked a taxi driver to take me to the Pars hotel which seemed like a cheap alternative to "Vali's non smoking home stay" which everyone talked about on the internet but which got very mixed reviews and seemed to be somewhat unsuitable for a female traveller as it offered dormitory style sleeping arrangements in his living room or something.
Anyway, my driver knew the hotel and delivered me to the door of a lace with dark red curtains that looked like it had seen better days. There were some sofas and lounge chairs in the lobby which looked somewhat threadbare and saggy, but at least the manager knew English. He informed me that he had given my room to a group of pilgrims but that I could have the restaurant downstairs all to myself. It turned out that he had layer some mattresses with white sheets onto the takhts, platforms that were meant for eating.
The shower was shared, my door was a wrought iron one with a big chain and a lock and if I moved around the corner to the end of the room, I could not be seen from the door, as long as I kept it locked. Across the hallway, past the shower door, was another dormitory for Iranians, which produced a stream of inhabitants, women and children, almost every time I left my room, sometimes even the fathers of the families could be met on the way to the shower. So I always had to sneak back and forth after taking a peek around the door, unless I was fully dressed and in hijab etc.
One day I left my door open and found a whole family of gypsies from the Zagros mountains sitting inside when I came back. They were playing music and the little girls danced and everyone wanted to have their photo taken with my camera.
That first night I ventured out to the street of the haram.
I could see it's lights shining from far away, and I could feel it's presence. As soon as I came close, I was strictly requested to put on a chador, by men that were standing in front of it on the sidewalk. I did not bring one, so could not get closer than to a ten meter distance from the outer gates and just reveled in the blue and golden lights radiating from the haram under the moon.

This mosque, which is actually several mosques and at least for different courtyards and several places  for prayer and worship with enormous carpets rolled out on the marble floors, inside and outside, is huge enough to hold 700000 worshipers at a time, almost as large as the Kaaba which is, or used to be, big enough for one million people before the Saudis started construction work to enlarge it even further. 

Mashhad is visited by Shia Muslims from all over the world, but especially from Iran and Turkmenistan. I  saw whole groups several times who would alight on the Haram's grounds and sit in formation on the floor  near the gate with their guide giving them lectures from the qran after arriving from a long journey from Java , Tunisia or wherever, which was followed by a formal prayer. I felt almost embarrassingly low key compared to them, me, who had come on a long Iran air flight and hopped over from Teheran after a day of exploration of the city, me, who felt, though respectfully , like an incognito observer who had managed to slip past the guards after being told by her travel agent who dealt in Iran trips, that she could easily be mistaken for an Iranian Muslim, as long as she covered up and never spoke a word while on the grounds. Everyone else had to have either taken shahada or was required to be accompanied by a guide or at least a friend who was a Muslim. Since I did not want the former and did not have the latter, I came alone, under the pretense of being just another pilgrim from wherever, though armed with a camera to take some pictures of this breathtakingly beautiful mosque which is a stunning piece of art among Islamic architecture. Cameras too were not allowed in but some research on the internet among reports from other travelers revealed that even though cameras had to be checked in at the luggage deposit, mobile phones were allowed, a fact that enabled me to unobtrusively take about a hundred stunning pictures of marbled floors, a lotus shaped fountain, shining golden domed roofs and infinite variations in the most intricate mosaiques in shades of blue and turquoise and gold and amber, this mosque was as beautiful as a dream., and all of it tall, ten times as tall as any of the humbled humans that walked among it's arches. 

Another fact about this mosque that many Sunni Muslims seem to have forgotten is that the legendary Arab ruler Harun Al Rasheed is buried in the earth under the center of the mosque, next to Imam Reza who is the main reason that so many Shia come here, and the seventh among the imams of the Twelver Shia version of Islam. I will not relate the story here of how they came to be buried next to each other, those interested can read it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ali_al-Ridha . 

The next morning, after taking a shower and washing my hair, I folded my flowered "gulgoli chador" which is especially for prayers, put on my borrowed hijab scarf and set out to visit the mosque. The street leading to it was lined with shops that sold things catering to the needs of worshipers: prayer stones, prayer beads or , in other words, rosaries, hijab scarves....  I could see many Iranian women accompanied by their husbands, dressed in chadors or black coats who still looked absolutely gorgeous, even in black. The trees let dappled sunshine fall onto the street. 

I bought myself a prayer stone. I still had trouble trying to remember all the zeros in a price, and, since it had never been a bright light in math, I also had trouble converting these 4 and 5 digit sums in my mind into some more understandable currency, so to this day I have not figured out whether I was hugely overcharged for this stone or not. 

It did not matter much but left a strange feeling. 

My stone came with it's own little cushion to be placed on, inside a light blue brocade silk lined bag and for the rest of this trip, it would rest on the window sills or dressing tables of my hotel rooms. 

I reached the path to the haram and wrapped myself into my white flowered sheet. I found the luggage check, only to be told that it was the wrong one, the one for women was on the right side of the entrance. I checked my bag and my camera. Then came the security check, where some women in black chadors would feel you down, much like in an airport. I passed, and my mobile passed too, but then she pointed at my feet in dismay and said something in Persian. I did not understand until it dawned on me:" Ah, you mean- socks?" She nodded affirmatively and sent me back outside. I thanked my luck that I had brought a pair of black socks in my luggage and did not have to walk all the way back to the hotel. So I covered the last bit of skin except for my hands and face in black and this time they let me enter. Whew! No question as to who I was, or where I came from, nor any objection yo me being on my own . I had been accepted as a fellow Muslim and I now almost felt like one. 

The mosque was even bigger than I had thought and it was, as I already said, stunning. Huge, wide, very high, and beautiful like nothing I had ever seen, except in my imagination when being read to from 1001 nights. 

The first thing I did was to follow the call to prayers. It was almost noon and everybody was gathering in the second courtyard, on an enormous carpet big enough for at least a thousand people to stand on, and about fifty meters ahead of me , at a distance from the water fountains, there sat two clerics who led the prayers. And everybody had a little stone which they all placed on the carpet, and I followed suit. 

They did a lot of prostrations, I did not count the number of rakat, but I later found out that this prayer was actually a combination of two since Shia Muslims pray only three times a day instead of five. 

Damascus and Maaloula during the revolution

In September 2011 I flew into Syria from Iran, transferring in Sharjah, the capital of one of the emirates, on a dead cheap Air Arabiya flight. Our plane arrived in Damascus airport just before midnight and I was very glad that B was there to pick me up. B and two of his cousins, the bedouins of Palmyra who were now staying in Damascus which is where they go when they are not in Tadmur or sleeping  somewhere in the middle of the desert in the wind shade of a warm camel's back or inside a tent. I was always totally fascinated by his lifestyle, having visions of Jane Digby and her bedroll, listening to the sheikhs planning their next attack or negotiating over some stolen camels. B loved camels and the camels loved him. Now he was waiting for me in the lobby of Damascus airport, a fact that made me feel a huge deal safer than if I had gone there alone, as it was four months into the Syrian revolution.
I anxiously asked a young Syrian woman next to me if I could use her mobile to call them and begged her to tell the officers I was her friend in case they stopped and got suspicious of what I was going to do in Syria during the revolution. Indeed, I was the only non-Arab far and wide in this airport now, except for some Iranians who had arrived on the same flight. But alas, the immigration officer just leafed through my passport to the page of my visa, stamped it and waved me past him, barely looking at me.  Maybe he was tired, or maybe he thought I was one of those few foreign students and expats left in Damascus. He was not interested in checking me out at all. Or was it because I had devised a plan to fly in from Iran?
The young lady, a doctor fom Homs, smiled and waved, and was gone. And there they were, all three of them, waiting for me in the hall. I had not seen B for a whole year, and had not even been sure I would ever see him again.but I was invited to a wedding, an Arabic wedding, and that is why I came to Damascus.
We got in the car, I asked him to text my hotel that I was not coming. I had booked a room in my favourite house in the whole world, just in case something went wrong.
We drove down the airport road to the center of the city. The road that is now often blocked because of fighting and checkpoints. I wonder what it will look like when I go there again. Mezze has been bombed, Qadam has been bombed, the military airport has been attacked, even the international airport received a few bombs too. We were driving past that long wall on the right side, with the guards holding rifles, the wall that hides a number of military facilities.
Then through Mezze, and finally to an area where I had never been before, quite near to the old city but far enough away to need a taxi most of the time, far enough for me to not really know where we were, so I would be afraid to go out on my own, and moreover, where we went, was minutes away from the high rise modern building that belonged to the intelligence, in other words, the police. Maybe not a bad place to hide at all.
This is where they were staying and this was, where I now stayed too.
B and I ventured into the souq every day. He would be on the lookout for the mukhabarat, which I still did not know how to recognize . I could only tell that they were within earshot when he would suddenly changed the topic, and would start talking in a loud voice about sex,  mentioning sleepless nights full of passionate love making, something that was totally out of character for him, as B was usually a stoic, taciturn though fun loving man and he never once brought up this kind of talk when we were at his home. But surely, overhearing his words would embarrass any curious listener enough to not scrutinize us any further, and especially, which was the main purpose I suspect, explain our supposive relationship to the uninitiated observer from the police who might be wondering whether B was walking along here with a foreign journalist or spy and spilling the beans on Syrian politics and complaining about the government to her. It took me a while to figure out what he was doing, as he never mentioned or explained it to me, and instead always caught me off guard with this loud sexy talk in public ,  making me blush and squirm in embarrassment.My way of keeping a low profile was to instinctively never carry a camera, I did not take a single picture this week except during the Arabic wedding of a friend, and I purposely ignored all the fascinating treasures of Damascus, barely glanced at the minaret of the Umayyad mosque, blending in with the crowd and looking as if I had lived here for years.
 Once we sat in a cafe in the middle of the souk and he suddenly started looking me deeply in the eyes, his irises lighting up with green twinkles, , talked softly in a hoarse voice about " do you remember how hot it was when we..." while running his fingers over my knees under the table. I was mortified and nervously looking around in this place populated by muslims, veiled women, minutes away from the Great Umayyad mosque, I could not see anyone, but I am sure, a police officer in civilian clothes must have entered the cafe, observing us from a quiet corner. This is how a British journalist got himself arrested later, by editing his interviews in one of these cafes that were frequently checked by the mukhabarat.

But his device deterred any policemen from wanting to interrupted the hot erotic flirt we looked so intensely involved in.
When Friday came around, we stayed at home, sat side by side on the sofa, and he switched channels on the tv with the remote control til we could see the demonstrations going on in the suburbs of Damascus, and I pulled up my legs and huddled next to him, thanking the Gods that I was here in a safe place, nursing a cup of home brewed Arabic coffee with cardamom. We did not really go anywhere on Friday, just remained at home, in front of the tv, listened to music, smoked cigarettes and talked. And I wondered for how much longer Damascus center would stay this haven of peace.

The morning after I arrived, we all got up and gathered around the table in the living room. B said, he would go out and by bread and butter. I wanted to follow him and he shot me a sharp warning look and told me to stay. I winced and stayed where I was. I had long learned that one must never disobey an Arab when he is serious. We could be seen together walking in the souk but I guess, not around here. The reason was unknown to me but I knew better than to ask. 

After a few days I asked if we could go on a trip. I wanted to see more of Syria, spending my time well. I took out my map and looked at the roads leading out of Damascus. There was nothing much to the West of Damascus, we were close to the Lebanese border. The road north led to Homs which was out of the question. The refugees from Homs would soon flood into Damascus. The road east led into the desert, to Tadmur where B came from. I knew that there was nothing much in between but sand....and I certainly did not want to be attacked or kidnapped on the way...

I studied my copy of the Lonely Planet Syria . "How about Bosra?" I said. This was a place I had not seen yet,and my book described it's archaeological treasures. He said no, pointed his finger to the map. "Bosra is close to Daraa and they have problems, we cannot go there." I finally asked if a trip to Maaloula was possible, the legendary Christian mountain village north of Damascus where the people still spoke Aramaeic. He said ok. 

So after breakfast we were on our way out of Damascus . The taxi dropped us off at a bus terminal. We took the bus and headed north. The bus drove through the suburbs, the industrial area, and I saw a sign that said "Douma" and shuddered. I had made sure we would not have to pass directly through Douma. This was where the demonstrations were, the shootings on the street, the raids and the arrests. But Douma lay invisibly in an area off the road. Thank God. 

After an hour or two we arrived in Maaloula . The bus stopped on the side of a mountain. We got off and sauntered down the main road which lay deserted in the afternoon sun. I could hear Arabic music blaring from a speaker on the other side of the valley and we discovered later that there was a wedding going on. Men carried the groom on their shoulders while the street filled with wedding guests coming out of a mosque off the road.

We decided to see the village on the mountain first. We walked up the long turn of the sandy road and entered the village from one end. These were houses that had been glued to the mountain with concrete, each row higher than the last, with narrow winding alleys in between. But it was completely still,not a soul seemed to be there, no voices, no breath, nothing moved. We stumbled over the broken stones and rubble that lined the alleys between the tight rows of houses. Silence. "Where is everybody?" I asked B. He had no answer. We kept walking, careful not to get lost inside this labyrinth of small alleys. After we had passed through whole village we came to a gate which had some graffiti scribbled over the top, in blue paint. "What does it say? " I wanted to know,and B said laconically "Ma'assalaama" - "Goodbye". 

"That is not very helpful, isn't it?" I said in despair as I still did not now where we were. He shrugged his shoulders and walked on. 

After we came own from the mountain we came to a cafe. Nobody there but the host. B ordered a beer and I drank some juice, and he sat with his chin in both hands, elbows on the table, looking grim. It was one of those long moments of silence where he looked into the distance and it was impossible to know his thoughts, so typical for him. I thought of it as the pensive Bedouin look, lost motionless in silent brooding, eyes focused on something far away in the desert. Only this time his look was dark and grim , his eyebrows wrinkled in a frown. The host came out from the cool inside of the cafe and they had a long talk in Arabic, and B looked even more pensive and concerned. But he did that say a word to me about the contents of their conversation. Then we drank up, gave the host a few coins and  crossed the valley to the other side of the mountain. The music blaring from the speaker became louder and louder and here was where we found the wedding, half way up to the monastery, near a mosque . 

 This part of the village was inhabitated and there were a few souvenir shops, another cafe where I bought more juice to quench my thirst on this hot, dry afternoon in the glaring sun, and then we came to the monastery. Mar Thekla had a church, a chapel and a small mountain cave. A sign explained the story of how the girl Thekla, over a thousand years ago had escaped here from her pursuers which were Arabs trying to kill her, and the mountain had opened up and swallowed her and given her shelter so that she survived. "But that is good!" said B when I read the sign to him, and I felt surprised that he sympathized with an early Christian. But thinking about it now I knew that it was the perfect story to please someone during the revolution. B himself had an injury. He described it as a motorcycle accident where the bone in his leg had been crushed and cracked, below the knee. The doctor told him, it would take a year to heal. I wondered if B had escaped into the desert on a wild ride on his bike, during a shooting or arrest in Palmyra. I had no idea, and he did not tell, all I knew was that he bravely ignored the pain when we walked for a long distance.

We walked through the inner courtyard of the monastery. I looked at the well, and the signs on the old stone. Now at this time, all the nuns have been taken to another place, no one really knows where they are, to protect them from the fighting that even reached Maaloula. I hear that even the inside of this holy place has been damaged, by some people who do not want to understand what Syria is- a country where four or five religions used to live in peaceful coexistence for hundreds or thousands of years. I fear for this ancient church inside Mar Thekla which is named after the girl that disappeared inside he mountain. 

We entered the church. It was a dark Orthodox Church with ancient walls and dark gold frames shining dimly in the rays of sunlight entering the door. Here we met a nun, a young woman all clad in black, with broad hips under her long robe. She and B had a long talk in Arabic while I looked around. B had never been inside a church before as he was a Muslim , and he looked around in awe and said softly:" it is so different!" But it sounded as if he liked it. 

I myself had never seen B like this before. Standing inside a church,without his kefiyeh , looking around at the paintings hanging near the ceiling. The B I knew was an irreverent handsome man on horseback, his long lanky but muscular body hidden under a dishdasha, wide trousers and a vest with many pockets that held his Marlboros, keys and a mobile phone that would howl every so often in an Arabic tune. And I almost never saw his hair, always hidden under the scarf the bedouins wear. B was beautiful, and he looked like two different persons. Now we were standing together in this ancient church, and he was befriending a nun. I don't know what she told him. But I believe, it is the same nun that I saw in the video of the 12 nuns of Maaloula giving an interview telling the Internet viewers that they had been taken to a safer place at the end of 2013. 

I hope they will be back, and all will be as it was. I pray it will be so. 

Nobody has told me where B is now. I still think of him often and hope to see him alive, some time soon.

Konya- Rumi's rose

Summer 2012

After talking to a Sufi friend of mine, learning Sufi dances in India, reading Vilayat Inayat Khan, Chishti, Rumi, Rabia and Attar, watching dervishes spin and learning how to whirl myself, I felt a visit to Konya in the conservative middle of Turkey had grown into a necessity.
I had also read that only those who are meant to come will get to see Rumi's garden, while the journey of others may be riddled with endless obstacles.
Mine was not. One day in August 2012 , after flying into Turkey and before setting up a meeting with my friend from Syria on this side of the border, I arrived in Konya on a bus, rolling in from the fantasy hills of Kappadokya.
I had called a hotel with the name of Ani ve Shems, which turned out to be large, proper, a bit dusty and completely deserted. It was just me, the waiter lurking near the television set, the receptionist,  the hijab wearing breakfast lady in the basement and me, plus a handful of other guests who I never met. I just noticed them by the crumbs on their plates when I arrived in the basement in the mornings to have " kahvalti ".
The whole part of this city seemed grey , moist and shady, the sky eternally overcast, my curtains thick and lace curtains covering the window panes even in daytime. My bed was as far away as possible from the window and unless I went outside, no one would have ever known I was there.
I soon discovered why this hotel was named like this: it was across the street from a small park that contained the tomb of Shams-e-Tabrizi, Rumi's beloved friend. The tomb was kept inside a little mosque where people went to pray, including me once, but the tomb was empty. Shams of Tabriz was not there. In fact nobody here knew where Shams was, there were various stories and theories. Maybe he was killed by the jealous followers of Mevlana, maybe he just quietly left . Either way, he left Rumi heartbroken and lonely, and in need for a new source of inspiration.
So I went and prayed on the second floor of this mosque, facing the empty tomb of Shams-e-Tabrizi, one evening at dusk.

The next morning I started my slow approach to the monastery. It was visible from a window of my hotel but once I went outside into the shady street, it disappeared. 

I walked along the park and to the left. Then between the dusty houses in the morning heat. After what seemed like a very long time, I hit the main road. 

There seems to be one main road in Konya which is more like a boulevard, an avenue cutting across town , with a green hill, an old mosque, tea gardens and a museum on one end , and at the other end- the monastery. 

It's roofs were a bright turquoise and shone over the city, a proud monument to it's past. 

The street which was called Mevlana Caddesi led in one long straight line to it's end. 

I arrived at a fence. There were people doing ablutions. The door was off to the left. 

I had read that his door opens and closes unpredictable intervals. It might open, or it might be closed for the day you get there. 

On my day it was open and no trace of it's closing hours. I went inside. 

The first thing that meets the eye after passing through the gate is a garden filled with small shrubs and paths between them, all of  them roses. Some in bloom, some invisible, and some dyeing. 

While I walked among the roses, signs and a recording explained stations in Rumi's life. 

Then I arrived at another stone wall  that had another gate. Here there was calligraphy on the walls. 

I made a detour to see more of the roses and tried to smell them, and then I went inside. 

Most people went directly to the main entrance. But I started walking around the hallway that passed in front of all the other rooms, so that I would see the main room last. There were smaller rooms with figures dressed up as Sufi masters giving lectures to young dervishes. I had heard that dervishes are celibate, and I wondered what life in this mevlevi monastery must have been like. Spending all your days in these chambers made of old stone, walking in the rose garden, worshipping God by scrubbing the floors... The kitchen was the biggest room among them all, and strangely, it was in front of the kitchen where the dervishes had trained whirling. There were figures of men sitting in the kitchen scrubbing vegetables , and there was a figure of a dervish apprentice standing in a corner of the room, ready to practice whirling by placing his left toe on a black dot on the floor while driving his body with his right foot, learning to spin in place without losing his balance. When the body rotates it imitates the basic movement of the universe and energy flows upwards. The dervish tilts his head to one side, offering the side of his neck, like a sheep to have its throat cut, or like a woman ready to surrender to a man. The dervish closes his eyes and spins. He wears a tall felt cap on his head and people say this cap symbolizes death. Maybe whirling is the ecstasy of dying and being taken away into the universe in one great silent tornado. I don't really know. It certainly makes thoughts stop and the mind go still. Similar to being in the middle of the desert at night, the stars above, the roaring silence of the sand hearing nothing but the pulse of your blood and the noise of your own beating heart. 

I envied this young apprentice dervish who only had to learn whirling in a corner next to the kitchen. Even if he was only a doll. 

After walking barefoot over the ancient floor boards I went outside and crossed the courtyard. Here was another fountain for doing ablutions . 

Then I went inside. The ceiling was very high. There was light wood, lamps everywhere, people were silent or spoke in hushed voices, there was dark green and black and gold and these were the blankets draped over the tombs. 

In one glass case there were all the clothes of a dervish. White clothes, grey wool colored coat, and the Sufi cap. 

There were six tombs, I think. Some high, some not so high. The last and greatest tomb was that of Hazrat Mevlana Jelaluddin Rumi himself. 

I stopped and stood. I could sense the people walking around me. Hundreds of visitors passing in front of the tombs, greeting them, looking, talking softly , offering silent prayers. Ii stood still in the middle of the mass moving by, took a step back to let them pass. My eyes closed, the shuffling ,rustling noises turned into a buzz, a hum, then silence, and then just the great heartbeat of the room. There was black in front of my eyes. When my heart slowed down, I started to open my eyes slowly, the lights returned, I saw the coats of people, the shiny light wooden boards of the floor. I inhaled, gathered myself,offered thanks and left. I knew a small part of me stayed behind, near the dark green, and under the roses,  dew drops falling to the ground. 

From Duhok back to The Iranian border, almost arrested near Halabja

The next morning I checked out of my hotel, had a last breakfast in the restaurant of the man I had never called, and then asked how to get to the taxi terminal. The guy in the hotel said, I should go to the Main Street, turn left and walk there. He balked at the idea of calling me a taxi. He said it was near, but the idea of dragging my suitcase down the street to some unknown destination did not appeal to me at all. Once again, unlike the gentlemanly Syrians, they did not offer to help. So I had them call me a taxi. A mistake as the taxi drove off with me in the opposite direction, seemed to go all the way around town, got stuck in a traffic jam, countless red lights, and finally, after a huge detour, or possibly, following a one way road , arrived at the taxi terminal. There were signs outside, listing Erbil, Baghdad, Sulaymaniye and a few other places as possible destinations. I walked inside, and asked the bullish surly man , once again mustached , and arms covered in thick curled black hair, to put me on the list for Sulaymaniye . Then I waited. Nothing happened. The room filled up with Kurds, one wearing brown Kurdish traditional clothes, all of them big, bullish and very very Macho looking. There were only one or two women, silent, in headscarves, accompanied by their husbands. I felt vulnerable and intimidated. The man at the desk was talking into his phone, his eyes looked fierce and unforgiving, the hair on his head was shaved very short. I decided not to talk to him. I waited. Finally I went outside, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, trying to look distant and unfazed. I waited. The clock ticked, nothing happened. A few people left by car, new ones came. It was now going on 13.30h, and I still had to go all the way to the border. Finally I stood up, went over to the desk and asked what was wrong. Why was there no car? He said, I was the only one who wanted to go to Sulaymaniye. I asked:"Ok, can I go to Erbil instead and change cars there? " he said, in that case, the taxi would be there soon.and indeed, two minutes later we were off. Me, and an older Iraqi who sat on the backseat. The car seemed to be brandnew. He did not drive past Mosul, he drove through small towns in the mountains instead. On the way he stopped at a butcher, bought half a kilo of meat and put it in his car. It could not be far from here, I figured. Then we stopped at a restaurant.
The Iraqi and I shared a silent meal of kebab and rice. Suddenly he looked up and said quietly:" I am from Baghdad. I am Christian." Utterly surprised, I asked incredulously:"You are Christian? Are there Christians living in Baghdad? " "Yes", he said , "there used to be 200000 of us, but now only 50000 are left, everybody else is gone. Al Qaida comes into the cafes and shoots us, because they serve wine." I looked at him sadly, letting his words sink in. Al Qaida was driving the Christians out Baghdad, I had not known. We finished our meal and went back to the car. I pondered the fact, how safe and quiet Kurdistan must seem to him, compared to Baghdad.
Some time after that we arrived in Erbil, and the taxi for Sulaymaniye was already waiting. A man took my suitcase immediately, walked off with it and put it into the trunk of a car. Again, like at Marivan crossing, I had trouble remembering which car in the row of cars that was, but I found it and we were off.

When we got to Sulaymaniye it was getting dark. The driver offered to drive me alone to the terminal for Panjwin, for a charge that was half the price from Erbil to here. I was surprised but agreed, there was nothing else I could do. At the next place they arranged a car for me, made me wait quite a while, and then a Kurd again dressed in salwar suit , started driving. He said it was late, it was dark now, and I should just take the car alone. It was a bit more expensive but not much. But after about 15 minutes his mobile phone rang and he was asked to come back. He made a u-turn and took me back to where I came from. Then he stopped, lifted his big heavy body out of the car, and started a screaming row with the other driver and almost got into a fist fight with him on the street. I had no idea what was going on. Then the other driver, a young man, in normal street clothes, no salwar baggy pants and kummerbund, got into the car and we were off in the same direction again. He did not explain. One checkpoint. I was asked for my passport, this time, then we drove on . He said, he would take me all the ay to the border instead of Panjwin because it was so late now. After 11pm passed, some lights appeared in the distance on the right side of the road. He pointed at them. "This is Halabja", he said. Tjhe place where Chemical Ali had gassed and killed thousands of Kurds, I knew that . The friend of my Iranian friend who I had met in Sulaymaniye had shown me the pictures. the long rows of dead, wrapped in white body bags. The famous photo of a little boy jumping over the bodies and running away which had been mistakenly shown in the news about Houleh once, and been attributed to Syria, before the real photos came out. This was the place where the tragedy had happened. The driver explained that Halabja had two parts, old and new, the bad and the good part. Then we came upon another checkpoint and were stopped again by the Peshmerge. Again, I had to show my passport. The soldier asked the driver where I was going. He said, to the Iranian border. The soldier turned to me, gave me a sharp long look from his black eyes and said, I sould come out of the car. I had to follow him in to the police station. He gestured that I should sit down on a couch, while he sat at the desk, leafing through my passport. "Do you speak Kurdish?" he said, "Kurdi?" "La", I said, no . "Arabi?" "Qalilan"- a little. He looked at me from under his dark brows. "Ism?" - What is your name? I told him . "What is your profession?" "Are you married? Where is your husband? Do you have children? What is the name of your child?" "Where are you going?" "To Panjwin, and then to Iran." "Why do you want to go to Iran?" "I have friends there. And I have a flight ticket from Tehran." "Tell me the names of your friends. Where do they live in Iran?" I told him. I told him the name of my Kurdish friend. The other officer seemed to say:"What kind of a name is that?" and the soldier explained that it was a form of some other name they knew which seemed to appease him somewhat. Then I told him the name of my friends in Tehran. How I knew them. He asked, if the man was a doctor, I said, no, an engineer. He seemed satisfied. Then he leafed through my passport again, shook his head and muttered:"Look at all these Turkish visas she got, she has been there so many times..." Then he got up from behind his desk, my passport in hand, walked around it and came towards me and sat down next to me on the couch. He stared me deeply into the eyes and snarled:"Shughl!"-Tell me your profession. I clenched my jaw, ruffled my brows, and resolutely took my passport from his hands. Leafed through it, opened the page with my Syrian visa. "See this visa?" I said. "This is from the embassy of Syria. Here it states my profession, in Arabic!" and held the open passport under his nose. He read it and after a few minutes decided to let me go.
We got into the car again. Drove for 15 minutes, another checkpoint. The driver stopped. "Where are you going?" the soldiers wanted to know, kalashnikovs strung over their shoulders. They looked at me with curiosity, in the semi dark of the car. "To the Iranian border." "Where did she come from?" "Duhok." "Why didn't she take the airplane from Erbil?" Exasperated , I rolled my eyes. Is this so f...g unusual to be a woman in a car in the night, driving towards the Iranian border? Was this place of such ill repute that people chose to fly across it? Was this nothing but a smugglers route, used by the odd Kurdish tourist? The driver explained something, they tipped their hats, and we were off again.
Then we approached the border. By now it was 1.30am, and I wonder if the border guards would be there at all . They were not in the building where I had received my visa for Kurdistan before, but instead in the back of the building. The driver and I walked down a long hallway to find them. Again I had to explain that I wanted to go to Iran, and after some checking they gave me an exit stamp. But then the officer came out with my driver to our car and said:"You cannot go there without hijab. You have to change your clothes, can you do that?" I opened my suitcase, took out a sscarf, put it on. They looked at me quizzically. "You can't go like that, you have to cover yourself completely!"  Appafrently my long blouse was still too tight, the sleeves only reached below the elbows. I took out a loose long orange Indian shirt, pulled it over my blouse, and I was covered in two layers now, down to my wrists and half way down to my knees. They said, this was ok now, and I should take my suitcase and go over to the Iranian border post. I said goodbye toi the driver and started walking. But then they called after me:"No , wait, we have to make sure..." They came after me, and shouted for the Iranian border guards to come out and meet them. All the guards gathered oin the middle of the bridge that led across the river between the two countries. The Iranians looked at my passport. "It is ok", they said . "Mush mushkila?" the Kurdish Iraqis asked, incredulously? "Really? No problem?" "Mush mushkila" the Iranians said, "She can come" The Iraqis smiled happy smiles of relief, the driver waved at me, and they walked back into the dark. I entered the Iranian border post. In here it was warm, the officers looked well groomed, graceful, slender and considerably less macho than the Iraqis. They were friendly and charming, and I felt really happy to be back in Iran, and left out a long breath of relief.
And indeed there was a bus, waiting, at this ungodly hour, to take us all to Marivan town and Sanandaj and the bus was full, too. Suddenly I was surrounded by Kurds who all wanted to invite me into their home in Marivan, to get some rest, have tea, get some sleep, before I go to Sanandaj. But I knew that my friend was waiting for me. I was hours late, after the long wait in Duhok, the interrogation and near- arrest in Halabja, and texted him with the phone credit he had kindly sent me that I would arrive at some time before 4 and 5 in the morning. Again! Like in Tehran, I had to rely heavily on the kindness and tolerance of my Iranian friend to come out and meet me, the lone traveller, at some crazy hour, to take me to his home.