^^ Dee waa intaan akhristay, ya mujtahid. The nasraani lived under Muslim rule. How does Sheikh El Islam's fatwa apply to today's circumstances? Ileen the Danish Cartoon's did not originate from Burco ama Gaalkacayo, adeer! Wax fahan.

^^ Good stuff.

^^ What's the point you badow? It's a short story.

^^ You don't. You leave them to it. Heh@Juxa..fair enough.

^^ If Ibti wore a burkah it would be an Armani one. Juxa, you want me to have a one-on-one session with a sijui and tell her all about myself? Armay i caashaqda?

Juje, honest question, are you keeping a diary of events and things you've seen so far? More importantly (and in case this whole enterprise fails), are you making sure that your contacts book is bursting at the seems by now? If not, I suggest you start now. You are witnessing history (for good or bad) and I strongly doubt that any of your colleagues are cataloguing any of it.

Reminds me of the post I wrote on my Boredom thread a few years back. Even though it went down the sewer with most of the other stuff I luckily had a copy saved somewhere. Here: ------------------------------------- My Boss Is Mad Everyone complains about their bosses and how crazy, unreasonable, rude or fussy they are. But nobody has a boss like my boss. He was not always my boss. In the beginning he was merely a senior colleague of mine. But fate, fortune and, probably, a secret CIA experiment all conspired to eventually make him my boss. I always knew he was a buffoon. A harmless buffoon, I thought. But you only get to know the depths of someone’s buffoonery when they get some power and are let loose on the world. George Bush? Bah! He’s nothing to MY boss. Here are a few conversations I had with him recently: Boss: I just received a letter from some charity for the homeless. In it, there is a blank Christmas card that I am urged to fill in and send back so that it can be passed to a homeless person and cheer him up during Christmas. I am planning to enclose some money with the card. It is nice to help the underprivileged, is it not? Me: Giving to charity is always nice. Boss: These homeless people are probably all hopeless drunks that have wasted their lives and chose to stay on the margins of society. But to help them from time to time, even though I do not agree with their lifestyles, makes me feel good about myself. Like Tony Blair always said, we need to give back to society. Me: Hmm Boss: I am going to write something along the lines of: hope this card reaches you in good health and that you spend next Christmas under your own roof. I have enclosed (with this card) a gift that Santa gave me (you know he’s busy at this time of year). Me: What if the card is given to a Brazilian homeless man who does not speak English? He might not get your humour. Boss: What humour? I was not joking. Beside, there are no Brazilian homeless men. They are all illegal immigrants. Me: Hmmm Boss: I am going to enclose five pounds with the card and a post-it note with the words ‘lucky, lucky you’. Five pounds is nothing to me but everything to a homeless man. Me: This time you are joking, right? Boss: What is it with you and jokes? Are you saying I am being offensive? Me: No. I just think whoever receives your card might misinterpret your words and think you are patronising them. Boss: We are talking about homeless people here. I don’t think they have the intelligence to read into things the way you do. You worry too much. Me: I suppose I do. Boss: Ok. Ok. I am going to add the words ‘I am not being offensive’ after ‘lucky, lucky you’. Yesterday, I received an e-mail from our Head Office asking me about some issue that needed clarifying. My boss was dealing with that issue and had all the paperwork for it. I passed him the e-mail and enquired as to what I should do next. Boss: I have never dealt with this issue. You did. Me: No. I have never come across this information before. In fact, I remember you telling me about it a few months ago. Are you sure you don’t have the paperwork for it? Boss: No. Maybe the secretary was dealing with it all. Me: But it is not part of her job. Boss: No. No. She dealt with it. I now remember asking her to do so. She has the all the paperwork. I will go and get it from her. He went to the secretary and she told him she knows nothing about the matter. He returned and spent ten minutes telling me how incompetent she is then went back to her to make sure she does not have the paper work. He spent the rest of the day running between her office, his office, the offices of other colleagues and then returning to me to tell me how incompetent they all were. He then went back to his own office and started searching. An hour later, he came back to me and said the following: Boss: I found the paperwork. You know, it is lucky that I am so organised and file things methodically. That is the problem with this company, nobody files things methodically. I really don’t know how this office could function without me. Me: Where did you find the paperwork? Was it the secretary? Boss: No. I had it. If I was like you or the others I don’t think I would ever find it. Thank god that I file things methodically. On the same afternoon, someone came to him to inform him that they will be going on Paternity Leave. They wanted to take the whole two weeks off and did not know what the exact rules were. After talking to them, he came to gossip about the whole thing. Boss: You know Ian is going on Paternity Leave? Me: Is he? No, I didn’t know that. Boss: Yes he is. I tried to advise him not to go. He doesn’t earn that much already and cuddling a baby for two weeks is really not something that is worth starving yourself for. Me: You told him that? Boss: I like to look after the welfare of my staff. But what is it with the poor and sentimentality? He can see his baby when he returns home from work. You see your kids when you return home from work, don’t you? Me: Err, yes. But I don’t think it is the same thing. Boss: Rubbish. What does a new born baby need with a father? It is the mother that breastfeeds them and has a bond with them at that early stage. Me: Yes, but the mother will be tired from the ordeal of giving birth and would need help. Boss: What help? Babies sleep for 23 hours of the day when they are that young. The mother can sleep when they sleep then wake up and feed them when they wake up. It is this politically correct society that we live in that spoiled these people. Me: I don’t think it will be a good idea to share these views of yours with Ian. He might misinterpret them. Boss: There you go worrying too much again. I am sure Ian knows I am a caring boss and that I only have his interests at heart. I might even push for a pay rise for him when the time comes. He does not earn much you know. I really don’t know how he is going to raise a baby on his income. Do these people ever think before doing things? Me: I am sure he thought about it and planned things before deciding to have the baby. You do realise that the average salary in this country is £25,000 don’t you? Boss: Is it? How are these people managing? Me: Hmmmm Boss: I still think it is my duty to advise him on savings and other monetary issues. He will be a father soon and I’d hate to see him have money problems when he has such responsibilities and obligations. Me: I know you mean well but to imply that he might not be able to look after his baby may offend him. Boss: Why do you always assume that people will get offended? People are not as soft as you. Do you really think if Ian was that soft he would have been able to survive on his meagre salary? Me: Hmmmmm Boss: Exactly. Don’t worry yourself about these things. I know how to deal with him and even if he was offended at the start, I am sure he will forget all about it once he hears about the pay rise. Me: What pay rise? Boss: I told you, I am going to try to push for him to get a pay rise. When I tell him that I know he will realise that I am on his side and wont worry about this nonsense talk of being offended and what not. Me: Sure. Boss: I’ll talk to him on Monday. Just to add here that Ian (that’s not his real name of course) hates my boss. This is because one day when this boss of mine was talking about the cleaning company we employ and how bad they were he said the following to Ian: Boss: These cleaning companies are a joke. We pay them so much to wipe desks, clean and take rubbish out. Honestly, it is a job you or I can do. Actually, if you wanted to, you can supplement your salary by setting up one of these companies and get your wife to do all the cleaning. Ps Just to complete the picture, my boss is in his mid 60s, single and still lives with his mother. I always tell myself the only reason I did not strangle him yet, is that I am so cool I can have the globe twirling on a finger of one hand whilst picking my nose with the finger of the other. But oooh I’d love to kick the brown stuff out of this buffoon. I also believe he suffers from Asperger's syndrome.

^^ I googled. It seems he is talking about Muslims who insult the prophet and gaalo living in Muslim lands. Am I missing something here?

Maaddeey, Sheikh Ibn Taymiyyah moxo yedhi? War wale waxbaad igu afuufaysa dee.

^^ Could she have been anything but a sijui?

Originally posted by Maaddeey: ^^ waxaad isku qaldeysaa reflex & knee jerk , horta adigu ma ogtahay inaad Mutacassib li aaraa'ik tahay?, intaadan fekerkaaga Ilaah ka dhigan, is weydii: 'waa maxay xukumka qofkuu Rasuulka caaya?' kadib aan hadalnee!, lakin waxaan ku waydiiyey: 'sideed isu waafajineysaa 'I pay no attention to what a gaal says about my prophet' &: لا يؤمن أحدكم حتى أكون أحب إليه من ولده ووالده والناس أجمعين Maxaad isku dhix khaldaysaa, saaxib? Nabiga Muslim walba ayaa jecel. Lakin jaceelka laftiisa waa different levels, ya shaykhuna. Dagaal hadi lagu jiro, dee sheekadu waxay noqonaysa 'bi abi wa umi anta ya rasool allah'. The problem is, tano dagaal maaha (no matter how you try to twist it in your mind). Tano waa gaal deen aanu oglayn wax ka sheegay. Dee waa yiilkadiis, waaba gaal. Wax fahan. And, no, I'm not too rigid as to blindly stick to one opinion that I could not be persuaded from changing. Wax la kaalay markaasaan arki doonna. So far, all you gave me was The semantics of reflex and kneejerk dee. Hawaadaan aad igu afuufaysid iga daa, the solid rocks of reason igu dhakhar, saaxib.

Boys, boys, forget this argument about Al Shabab ruling Somalia or not and focus on Nur's madness on this thread. Apparently, it is not enough for him that Al Shabab is already accused of countless transgressions into people's personal freedoms, he now wants to force people into marriage! Not encourage, not persuade but force. Nur, akhi (with respect of course), I pray that you never take any position of leadership in Somali affairs beyond the meagre moderatorship of this section.

Originally posted by Maaddeey: Ngonge, ma hilib doofaar baa kugu fakaday, sxb?. Reflex kaagu waa inuu shaqeeyaa markii Mustafaha wax laga sheego!, waa min baabi: dacnii adribu cunuqah . Bani adam illahay caqli siiyaay ma 'reflex' bu ku shaqeeya, saaxib? Ma Khayer baad i mooddaay? I pay no attention to what a gaal says about my prophet, saaxib. I find it foolish that others do. Yes, I said FOOLISH. You, of all people (being a supporter of grave digging), should know where I'm coming from. Man kaana yacbudo moxamadan fa inna moxamadan qad mat, etc. Furthermore, all these pointless protests only go to egg the mischief-makers on (as we have seen in the past few years). Worse still, they allow governments like Pakistan, Saudi Arabia and many others to have the excuse to revert back to censorship (they blocked YouTube and all social networking websites the other day because some gaalo had put videos of South Park on and YouTube refused to delete them). The bottom line here is that as long as you react to this naked provocation the provocateurs will carry on finding new ways to offend you and, with time, the ignorant rabble will (eventually) lead the cause and end up turning the prophet into a god. Lakin miyaad i fahmaysa dee, ileen nin reflex ku shaqeeya bad tahay!

Another conference, another photo opportunity!

^^ Buuba, Kaluun & Omer control nothing, adeer. Xaabsade (like it or lump it) controls LA. It's a valid argument and these guys can not really be compared. You're better off going with A&T's Siyaad analogy.

^^ Hada ma in JB's book?

^^ You're as stubborn as a regular Norf.

^^ (JB is from SL).

Bal mukurka eega! Iyadoo tikniko saaran ayaay miskiinad iska dhigaysa. I have a feeling Xiin & Baashi would call this guy Keligi President, and they would be correct.

Ileen Maaddeey waa former tuug! He must have become a wadaad in jail.

^^ Yet it makes no difference with that team really. I mean, they always get the praise and attention but always fail to deliver. If that team has one secret weapon it is actually the new manager. Yet, I don't expect them to get far in the tournment (nor do I expect any of the other African teams to make it beyond the first knockout round). Kubbada barta (Egypt ba raggan wada garacday for six years).

Officials in military uniforms?

Enough already.

Samira Azzam This story (originally 'Amun akhar) is from Azzam’s second collection, Adhilul-kabir (The Great Shadow), published in Beirut in 1955. The author weaves humor into her melan¬choly theme. The setting of the events is the annual visit of Christian Arabs from Israel to the Holy Places in the Old City of Jerusalem. At the time the Mandelbaum Gate was the location for temporary reunions of divided families and friends In one of the cars filing up for inspection at the Customs Office at Daraa, there sat a woman huddled under a grey woollen blanket. She was evidently disturbed; Her anxious look through the rear window caught the fair-haired Syrian inspector who, after a sweeping glance over the luggage, was now fingering one bulging bag which could have never been kept closed except for the rope tied around it. The old woman tapped the window with her fingers, and the driver came up to her. “Tell me, my son, what do they want from us ?” asked the woman. “Nothing,” answered the man, “They're just doing their job; they'll Id us go soon.” “Have they disturbed the basket?” “They asked me what was in it, so I said only hard boiled eggs, pine kernels and.. and.. Haven't you counted the contents a hundred times in front of me ?” “But, my son, you've forgotten the coffee. You know, over there coffee is something precious; more valuable than gold. I am taking two kilos for Mary; she loves coffee. Every morning as soon as she'd opened her eyes, her hand used to reach for a matchstick to light the primus stove, and put the coffee on to boil. Then she'd hand me a cup, and give one to each of the others, And then she'd drink what remained in the pot.” The old woman's words were followed by a sigh and with the edge of her black shawl she rubbed away a tear that was trickling down the deep lines of her face. When the inspection was over, the driver returned to his seat, adjusted his felt cap and started the motor. The car sped along the road which crossed the desert that stretched out between them and the frontier of Jordan. With shrivelled fingers the old woman crossed herself over the face three times over and then asked, “How many hours before we get there ?” She heard the driver answer her without turning his head. “It's one o'clock now, we might reach Amman by six o'clock in the evening. That is, of course, if everything goes smoothly and we are not detained by the Jordanian Police Inspection at Ramtha.” “Are they too going to go through our things ?” asked the woman. “It's their duty.” “Then will you try, my son, not to let them open the basket. Tell them that all I'm carrying to Mary is hard boi-” “Hard boiled eggs, pastry stuffed with dates, pine kernels and coffee,” the man hastened to complete. “There are also some apples and some clothes for the children: a suit for Karim, another just like it for Elias, and a red jacket for Abdul Nur. I don't know why, but Abdul Nur is the nearest to my heart. Is it because he has his grandfather's - Abboud's father's - name? He was born the year before last, at Christmas time: we learnt of his birth through the Family Programme over the wireless. A friend of mine got the message, it wasn't I that heard it. I kissed the ground twice in thanks to God for Mary's safety. Three times Mary has been through childbirth - all alone, with no one to help her. Her mother-in¬law is dead and I - her mother - was far away. Seven years have gone by since we were parted. She was a bride then but now she has Karim, Elias and Abdul Nur. Seven years… a good slice of your life. She never was able to leave Nazareth for Jerusalem to see us: each time she was either pregnant or in childbed. Her husband came oper once and my boy Abboud went to meet him in Jerusalem. He told Abboud that J'vlary had become so lean - and you can already see some white in her hair. Poor girl! she is still too young to age like that. How old is she? Many girls of her age have not yet married. She is only twenty six, 0:” even a little less. She is two years younger than my son Abboud. Abboud is not yet married, but Mary. . She has three sons, Karim and--”. “And Elias and Abdul Nur - and the last of them has his grand¬father's name… and -” “God bless you, my son, you have a good memory,” the old woman said and went on, “ Young people have good memories. It is youth. When I was young and before my back was bent, I used to memorize the dates of birth, marriage and death of the sons of our community. People used to call me the Register. But now, aren't I too far gone from those days? “Sorrow, my son, dims the mind and exhausts the body. We used to live in Jaffa. You know the place? We lived in the Darj el Qalaa. We had an orange plantation; its oranges glistened like gold and were known for their sweetness. Our people had been there a long time. Our house was open to all - my husband being the head man, what we used to call the mukhtar. And according to custom, it was he who used to receive strangers. We were cooking constantly - always puffing and blowing at the oven - and our home always echoed with visitors' voices. . you know, the day Mary got married, more than twenty persons stayed with us overnight.. no lack of bedding, and plenty of food. . The copper pots which Abboud's grandfather had brought from Damascus.. Now everything's gone: house, orange-grove, bedding, pots - all ! All I have now is two mattresses and two sets of bedclothes, and two pots and a table - which Abbo~!d himself made before going off to the desert.. And I live in one room '- that's the way the world goes, my son. Don't drive in such a rush… you're making my bones ache. Arrived, are we? What are these houses? Not Amman? It's Ramtha. Ah! an inspection here ?” The car stopped and the driver jumped out with the passports for inspection. The old woman tinkered with the window until she managed to open it and, pushing her head out, she took a deep breath. She called the bronze-faced policeman wearing a red head-cloth and started to talk to him in a half-whisper. “My son, the basket at the back of the car, the basket is mine.. I'll save you the trouble of inspection. All I have in it is boiled eggs and. . “ “Boiled eggs ?” asked the man. “Yes,” she answered,” for I am going to meet Mary, who is coming from Nazareth to Jerusalem. I thought that boiled eggs…” “But why boiled ?” put in the man. Mary might prefer them fried. “ An aged smile covered the woman's face as she went on, “Ah, I did a bit of thinking: I said to mysclf, fresh eggs would crack with the shaking of the car, and spill over the cakes, pine kernels and clothes. They say that over there clothes are expensive: have you heard anything of the sort? No eggs at all there, my son. This I came to know from some people who went to Jerusalem last year. And meat too, they say is scarce. How I wish I could have brought her some meat… but I was afraid it'd go bad. One can survive on a meagre fare. And as long as Mary and her husband and her sons are in good health, then my thanks to God know no bounds. We're better off than others and there are others better off than us… Lost money you can regain... houses we can restore as long as we have our men safe around us. The unjust will have their day. And when Abboud comes to see me, well, that's enough to make me forget the tears, the suffering and the long cares. But there's nothing grieves me as much as my separation from Mary. Seven years now, my son. She was only just married when I left her. Now she has Karim, Elias and Abdul Nur.” When the old woman saw the driver approaching, she swallowed her words, and withdrew from the window. She then arranged her blanket and fell to nibbling at a cake which she had pulled out of her bag. “Gracious God !” she muttered. And the car resumed its journey. “My son, do you know where Jubran el Sayegh lives in Amman ?” “No I do not.” “Then how can you say that you go to Amman frequently ? You should know the place. Jubran has a drapery store in .. oh ! I forget the name of the street now. Wait son, I'll look for it. Abboud wrote it down for me on a piece of paper. Yes, here it is... read it. Will you take me to that place? For that's where I'll be spending the night. . the man is a distant relative of ours, and his wife has been a friend of Mary's since they used to go to the convent school together… they were in the very same form. Do you think the man will keep the shop open till we arrive? Why don't you answer? You look tired.. I don't blame you. One single journey has left my bones broken. I don't know what I'd do if I had to make it three times a week like you do. I never thought I'd make this journey, but I have to. I couldn't let the opportunity slip this time.. I'd have made it on foot. If you were a father you'd know the longing a mother has for her child. Nothing is dearer to you than your child, unless it's your grandchild. I can't contain myself... wish for nothing more than for this night to be over. “or then I'll find myself in a car carrying me to Jerusalem and another driver, as kind as you are, taking me to Mary. Then I'll never stop kissing her; I'll be savouring the smell of her flesh, and never have enough of it. I'll talk to her till my mouth grows dry. I'll ask her about Jaffa; she might have visited it. I wonder what's become of our house? Is it still standing? which of my people are still left there? And our orchard - has Mary tasted its oranges? And the church, is Father Ibrahim still the parish priest? And my friends Sarah, Um Jamil, and Marianna? Are they still alive?” Excerpt from: Still Another Year, by Samira Azzam. Arabic Short Stories, 1945-1965. Edited by Mahmoud Manzalaoui. The American University in Cairo Press, 1985. pp 297-302. Samira Azzam (1934-1967) Samira Azzam was a Palestinian refugee. She lived and wrote mainly in Lebanon from 1948 until her early death in a car accident. She was married to a national of Iraq, a country in which she had worked as a broadcaster, for a short time. She wrote two novels and published four collections of short stories, of which the last was Al-insanu wal sa’aa (Man and the Clock); she also translated Ray West’s Fifty Years of American Fiction.