At the police station II.

Second time in a month or so that I am called to the police station to report a hate crime.

The first time the officer taking my report tells me that basically Islamophobia is not that much of a big deal.

The second time (today), another officer is of the opinion that if I had not tweeted about 'controversial' topics such as extremism and racism, I would not have attracted the attention of the Islamophobic numbhead to consequently floods me with his racist filth (so in a nutshell, the crime is the victim's fault). When I ask him if his statement is not the same as asking a woman who was sexually harassed if she really had to wear that miniskirt, he gets upset and says, 'he is offended'.

Second time I am at the police station to report a racist / Islamophobic incident, second time I don't feel that those police officers are ... what they should be, professional, sensitised, on the side of the victim.

Second time in a month that I complain and that my complaint is dealt with in the most professional manner and that the duty inspector is as shocked about the comments made as I was when I realised what was being said to me.

Don't accept poor treatment. Don't give up. Keep on complaining, keep on protesting. You might think it's not a big deal or that it's not going to change anything anyway, but if we continue to swallow whatever we are being served, nothing is ever going to change. Ever.

At the police station.

Or: Explaining hate crime to those 

who are here to combat it.

When you call on the phone to report racist stickers that you have seen in the city centre, everyone is very friendly. "I will forward this to my colleagues, Ma'am, can you come to the station to give a statement, Ma'am, thank you very much for calling, Ma'am."

When you arrive at the police station at 9 o'clock, a woman takes your statement. Blond hair, fair skin, middle-aged. It's you and her, in a stuffy room with no windows.

Police officer, blond, middle-aged: "So you felt that the stickers were offensive?"

(Relatively) young white hijabi: "I didn't just find them offensive, I found them highly offensive, and to be honest, I also got a bit scared when I saw them, for myself and my family. [insert bit about particular family background and ways in which this relates to the stickers] I have always felt safe in [this city here], but it changed (a bit) when I saw these stickers."

Police officer, blond, middle-aged: "But crime and violence, this something that happens everywhere, isn't it, it's a global problem?"

(Relatively) young white hijabi: "Well, yes, but these stickers are used by right-wing extremists to mark their territory and to spread fear. This is part of their strategy, it's part of their campaign. They send a message to people like me, to Muslims, to refugees, migrants, brown people."

Police officer, blond, middle-aged: "But this could happen to anyone..."

(Relatively) young white hijabi: "Erm, no. This is a hate crime. They specifically target one group of people. And sorry, but you, as a blonde, white, British woman won't be targeted by them. I wouldn't if it weren't for my headscarf. But me, the way I look, with this [points to her scarf], I am one of their targets."

Police officer, blond, middle-aged: "But if that was true, they could just put a bomb in a mosque - they don't do that."

(Relatively) young white hijabi: "Erm, yes, of course they do. [insert short excursus about recent attacks on mosques in the UK in general and [the region we live in] in particular, with particular mention of the Muslim grandfather who has just gotten assassinated - for being Muslim - a few days ago] ... "I can't really believe I need to tell you this. They are targeting Muslims, refugees, brown people, and everyone who, to them, looks like that."

Police officer, blond, middle-aged: "But you have that everywhere ... in Paris they just attacked people who were in the street"

(Relatively) young white hijabi: [insert a sentence about how that was a case of Islamist extremism ... which is different from right-wing extremism ... which is what I am talking about at the moment] "No. No, sorry, this is not right. I'm not going to continue like this. I am not going to speak to you any more. I want to speak to someone else. And I want to complain about this. Now."

When you go to the police station to report racist stickers you have seen in the city centre, you might come across a police officer who seems to have less knowledge about hate crime, Islamophobia and violent extremism than you do. Who shows a complete lack of sensitivity while dealing with a victim of a hate crime. Who is playing down an issue she is clearly not facing herself.

But you can complain. And (relatively) young white hijabi did. To the duty inspector and, after that, to the two female police officers assigned to take her statement. Two officers it was this time, both (relatively) young, one blond + white, the other brown + Muslim. Who agreed that this was outrageous, took the statement, chatted about this and that, were friendly, laughed, made little jokes, explained what was going to happen now.

When you go to the police station to report racist stickers you have seen in the city centre, this is the sort of police officers you should have welcome you. Not people you need to explain to that the crime that you are here to report is actually a problem.

When life hands you lemons...

Or: How I was chosen for a "random" security check, and ended up giving an impromptu live hijab tutorial

Sunday morning, at the airport. I forget to take off my watch, the metal detector goes off.

I think, 'they'll quickly check with the portable metal detector'. No, they want to search me in a separate room.

Ok, whatever. It's me and two female security officers who close the curtain behind them.

I think, 'they'll quickly pat me down and I can go'. No. Not that easy, not that quickly.

It's them, and me.

Female security officer (FSO) 1: 'Can you please take your scarf off, madam?'

Me [with a strong expression of WTH on my face, raised eyebrows and all]: 'Take MY SCARF OFF?'

FSO 1: 'Yes.'

FSO 2 [smiles, looking slightly embarrassed]

Me: 'Okkkk...'

I take off my scarf. FSO 1 pats me down from head to toe, doesn't forget to check my socks (because THAT'S where we Muslimist terrorist extremists hide our bombs, you know), a few minutes later she says I can put back my scarf on.

I reach for it. There is silence. And I think, 'You know what...'

Me: 'Well, at least you'll get to see now how I wear my scarf...'

FSO 1 and FSO 2 both look at me.

I force a smile.

Me: 'Yes, because there is different ways of tying it. I usually do it likes this...'

FSO 2 [looks at me pointing on my scarf, nods hesitantly]

Me: 'So first I put the scarf here. On top of this [I point on the undercap]. I always wear one of these underneath. Otherwise it can be really annoying when the scarf doesn't stay in place but keeps moving around. You know, that's just REALLY annoying. One time around and then a pin here...'

FSO 1 and 2 both follow my movements and nod in agreement.

FSO 1: ' And do you wear it in the summer, too?'

Me: [little excursus about light fabric, long sleeves, and breezy maxi dresses]

Both nod again and touch the fabric of my shirt when I hold it towards them.

FSO 1: 'Do you have scarves in many different colours?'

Me [laugh]: 'Oh yes, I do. But my favourite is pink!'

FSO 1: 'Pink is great!'

Me: 'Pink is the best!!'

We all laugh.

FSO 1: And makeup is not allowed?

Me: [short explanation about my personal preference (no makeup), scholarly opinions (divided), and individual choices (it depends)] ... 'and then there is those who believe it is not allowed but they do it anyway. But that, you have it in all religions, don't you, you have Christians, too, who do that...?'

They both nod enthusiastically and murmur in agreement.

FSO 2: 'And now this pin?'

Me: 'No, that one comes all the way in the end. Look, here. I'll use this one first, here, and then that one. See, now it is all in place.'

I look at myself in the mirror and see both of them turning towards my reflection in the glass.

Me: 'I just need to pull at little here, and there, and then ... that's it, done!'

Smiles all around, and I leave, pick up my baggage and look for my gate.

Syria in Beirut

In Beirut, Syria is everywhere. It's just 50 kilometres to the border, and 100 to Damascus. Syria is not far, and Syria is here. 

I had been told to be careful, told not to mention that my husband comes from Syria. I was careful for a few days, but everyone here asked about him. Abuk lubnani? Zowjik lubnani? (Is your father Lebanese? Is your husband Lebanese? ... because what else would bring anyone to Lebanon?!) No, he's not Lebanese, he's Syrian. La, huwa suri. I was not going to lie. I mean, come on. 

And the response, again and again, was ou ana suri, ana suriye (I am Syrian, too). 

Followed by a big smile. 

Ou ana suri. 

And Syria was everywhere. It was the big, black Landrover parked in front of a block of flats in Sanayeh, Syrian license plate. The young man who works for a local NGO who came to Beirut when he couldn't stay in Syria any more. The beggars on Hamra Street, young women, old women, almost always with children, toddlers, babies who run barefoot on the dirty pavement. The shopkeeper and his wife, who have been living in Lebanon for 30 years. The taxi driver with the toothless smile. The AUB student with the excellent GPA. The doctor who, when he needs help, speaks to the policemen in English because he knows they won't be as helpful if a young men with a Syrian accent approaches them. Layali and her daughter who live in Beirut now after having spent seven years in Abu Dhabi where Layali's husband's company had send him. Naya who says she can't go shopping with me because if the shopkeepers hear her Syrian accent, they will charge her double the price. The waiters at the Syrian restaurant where the most delicious Syrian food is served, the restaurant that makes its owner rich while 30 of his employees live together in one apartment, work, sleep, work, sleep, work, sleep, and the family is still in Syria.

Syria is everywhere in Beirut, if you look closely, if you care to listen.

Syria is here, when fighting breaks out in Tripoli, close to the border. They say you can hear the bombs targeting Aleppo on the highway leading north. It's a small country, the borders are never far.

Syria is here, when a bomb explodes in Dahiye, in South Beirut, where the Shia live, because Hizbollah fights on Assad's side, and ISIS fights Assad, and ISIS does not like Shia. 

Syria is here, when you speak with Halima, a Lebanese artist and women's rights activist, about the Lebanese civil war, and you say that in a way Syria has become the new Lebanon, and she says, no, shakes her head, and says no, Syria is much worse, much worse. With tears in her eyes, this strong, composed, confident woman, who has lived through the Lebanese civil war, with tears in her eyes, she repeats, no, Lebanon was never like this, Syria is worse.

Syria is here, when you sit in the park with your friend Lina, the kids play, its a sunny day in December, and it's beautiful here in the park. You need to make a phone call, and while you're on the phone she receives a call, too. Is everything ok, Lina? It was her family from Aleppo, who just wanted to tell her they are fine. A missile has hit their street, many people died, but their house was not hit, they are alive, they are not hurt, even though many people died, many children, the children... I need to tell my husband and my sister they are fine, and she starts typing on her smartphone. You would not want them to hear on the news their family's street was hit without knowing their house was spared, you would not want them to worry. She was fine until I started to cry. I cry, she cries, Syria was there, on the bench, in the park, Syria was in Beirut.

And Syria is the man at the local corner shop, who greets you with a smile and a friendly keif al-hal? keifek? (how are you?) every time you pass by, who reacts faster than you when Lieschen is sick next to their shop one summer day, it might have been the heat, or maybe something else. Almost every day you see him, the neighbourhood wouldn't be the same without him, and one day he asks you, mineen inti (where are you from?) and you say min Almaniya (from Germany), and since he asked, you can ask, too, and the response is, of course, ana suri (I'm Syrian). Min Haleb (from Aleppo). 'albi bi Suria, he says, my heart is in Syria, and there he stands in front of you, this rock of a man, holds his hand to where his heart is and he cries. 

'albi bi Suria, and in Beirut Syria is everywhere.

A different kind of diversity

.
Of cultural diversity in Beirut.

African and Asian migrant workers. Their children. And my child. 

 

So how is Beirut? It's hot, it's humid, it's busy, it's crowded ... full of people who could hardly be more different. If you know anything about Lebanon's capital, if you have only read one or two poorly researched articles you'll know that there are 18 different officially recognised sects in Lebanon, that there are Muslims, Christians, Druze who call this city home, that you have more Christian sects in this country than you could probably ever name from the top of your head ... even if you identify as a Christian yourself. There are Sunni Muslims, Shia Muslims, Syrian-Orthodox Christians, Catholic ones, Maronites ... to name just a few. There are different religious sects, different socio-economic classes, people who speak French fluently and others who hardly know a handful of words of English. There are those who live in London, Paris, Washington or Dubai for most of the year and those who have perhaps never left the city they were born in. And that's just the Lebanese. Add to that Syrians, many of whom recently sought refuge in the country, and Palestinians, the majority of whom have been here for much longer.

 

But that's not the only way in which Beirut is diverse. One stroll on one of the capital's streets, and you'd have to be blind not to notice all those African and Asian faces. Beirut is Eritrean, it's Nigerian, and Filipino. It's the African housemaid, the Asian nanny. Some of them in gingham uniforms, others in their regular clothes, they often accompany families of the upper middle class when they take their kids to the park or a walk by the seaside.

 

Doing research as a European in a country like Lebanon can be challenging. You don't really speak the language, you're not used to the heat, and things are different than at home. You are different.

 

Doing research with a child is even more difficult. Or so I thought. I didn't think I could just drag along ze baby to my interviews so I started looking for childcare. On a student budget. Ha ha, she's ambitious, that woman!

 

But I found something. In a centre run by an NGO providing all sorts of support services to Asian and African migrant workers living in Lebanon. They were kind enough to agree to let ze baby stay for whenever I needed someone to look after her for a couple of hours.

 

So that's how ze baby ended up spending a few hours every week with a group of little African and Asian kids. Originally from Sri Lanka, India, the Philippines, or half Asian, half Arab, most of them have been in Lebanon for the majority of their life. They speak Arabic, some English (which is the language of communication in the centre) and sometimes also the language of their parents, be it Hindi, Tamil, Tagalog or Filipino.

 

That's how ze baby ended up spending a few hours every week with all the other children, and that's how I ended up hearing all those stories.

 

About recent changes in the law that don't allow maids, cooks, cleaners and nanies from Africa or Asia to keep their children. They don't get the residence permit they'd need to stay, so eventually the kids are being sent "back home", a country many of them don't know, where a language is spoken many of them have never learnt, or at least not properly.

 

About how much the children love that they can run around, sing and shout in the centre. Because at home, in their parents' employers' home, they are told to be quiet, not to disturb the employers with their laughter and their shouting - noise, disruption, not wanted, stop it please, can you be quiet now?!

 

About how some parents before they found the centre just locked the children alone at home until they were back from work in the afternoon.

 

Because doing research with a child is difficult, and working with a child is difficult, too. Childcare is expensive and hard to find, the European researcher from the UK knows that as much as the Sri Lankan cook in Lebanon. Or maybe not as much. But she knows, too.

 

And so ze baby plays and sings and paints with the other little kids. And while I sit there and look at them I can't help but think how much they are the same, children, funny, laughing, quite adorable most of the time and simply annoying from time to time, and how much they differ. They are five, six, seven, eight now and all play together, but Lieschen, just because of the place she was born in, the family she grew up in, the country the nationality whose nationality she holds, has the opportunity to such a different life. All the same yet still so different. That's Beirut, that's also Beirut.

Beirut is...

After four days...

Beirut is hot. Beirut is humid. Beirut is big and busy.

It is old houses and modern buildings, broad highways and narrow streets.

Beirut is Hamra and it is all those people who are extra friendly to the German hijabi. Are they Sunni? Or just generally friendly?

Beirut is bushes of pink majnounieh, those flowers I know from Palestine. 

It is people advising me not to tell others that I have worked in Palestine or that my husband is Syrian because politics ... and me talking about it anyway because what the heck.

Beirut is full of Syrians, young people, families, poor rich, big cars with Syrian number plate parked outside of the 5 star hotel, and Ahmad who is going to the camps in the North, where thousands of Syrians are living surviving.

Beirut is Sanayeh with all its greenery. An urban jungle. Trees, bushes, palm trees, flowers. Green against the yellow and grey of the houses. Beirut is beautiful.

Beirut is the current waste management crisis, communication between the municipality and its waste collection company going wrong. 

Beirut is secretly guessing which sectarian group he / she / they belong to ... as if it mattered. It is seeing a cross, a picture of the Dome of Rock, a painting of Nasrallah, a hijab worn a certain way and  thinking 'aaaaaaah!'.

Beirut is sitting in a restaurant near the sea and realising that, even sitting so close to the water, does not really bring any relief from the heat.

It is sitting in a café with a former combattant, speaking about his past and the reconciliation work he is involved in now, before he buys Lieschen a fresh orange juice.

Beirut is full of foreigners. It is meeting an American-Lebanese family who used to live in Germany on the playground, it is Syrians, Syrians, everywhere, it is Italian tourists in Gemmayzeh, French volunteers in Dawrah, and all those Africans, Filipinos, Sri Lankans, Indians and Thais who came here for work.

Beirut is haggling with the servis drivers and making use of all those tricks you learned in Palestine. 

It is answering again and again, 'where are you from?', 'are you Muslim?', 'are you married to a Muslim?'.

Beirut is seeing, from your roof-top balcony, a mosque and a church ... and the sea.

Beirut is airconditioned rooms smelling of cigarette smoke.

Beirut is barely coping with the humidity and wondering how on earth they manage back in the days, without fan, no AC, God, what on earth did the French want here?! 

Beirut is hearing Arabic in the streets, English and French, marhaba, ahleen, kifak, ca va, yallah bye.

Beirut.

Currently doing fieldwork in Beirut. More pictures and texts to come inshaallah.

Wenn Muslime Christen in Pakistan schützen

"Habt Acht! Wer grausam und harsch gegenüber einer nicht-muslimischen Minderheit ist, ihre Rechte beschneidet, ihnen zu viel aufbürdet oder von ihnen stiehlt - ich [Muhammad] werde mich über diese Person [bei Gott] am Tage des Gerichts beschweren." [Hadith nach Abu Dawud]

Wir hören meistens nur die negativen Beispiele. Von Diskriminierung, Unterdrückung und Gewalt. Aber es gibt, immer, auch die andere Seite. Ganz unspektakulär das Zusammenleben im Alltag oder Aktionen, die aus dem Gleichgleich des Jedentags herausstechen. Christen in Pakistan sind vor allem eins - Pakistanis. Ihre Religion mögen sie nicht mit dem Großteil der Pakistanis, die Muslime sind, teilen, aber kulturell sind sie nichts anderes. Pakistanis. Umso schöner eine solche Geste, die (auch wenn von 2013, also nicht mehr ganz aktuell) genau das unterstreicht: Unsere Gemeinsamkeiten sind so viel größer als das, was uns trennt. Auch wenn ihr anders seid, stehen wir an eurer Seite und verteidigen auch eure Rechte. Davon bitte mehr, nicht nur in Pakistan! Hier geht's zum Link.

Convert Conversations I

.

Culturally German, religiously a Muslim. 

Or: Too much biryani.

Bismillah

In the beginning it was exciting

If I am being perfectly honest, in the beginning it was exciting. This new religion came not only with a testimony of faith, principles of belief, acts of worship and the building of a relation with God, but with a whole new, and at times exotic, culture. Cultures, I mean. There was Eritrean hospitality, Moroccon tea, Algerian music, Pakistani food, Turkish fashion, Bosnian sweets, Central Asian architecture. Learning how to be a Muslim, I also learned loads about the many cultures that Islam left its footprint on in one way or another, cultures that are hard to think of without the enormous influence the religion of Islam had on them. 

Turkish lentil soup, Arabic hiphop, South Asian tea

Now, more than ten, almost fifteen years later, I can make a mean Turkish lentil soup; know how to do small talk in Bosnian, Turkish and Arabic; could give a 30 minutes presentation about Arabic hiphop and a 60 minutes presentation about the role of the diaspora in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. I can tell a Moroccon hijabi from a Saudi, Pakistani, British-Pakistani, Turkish, Syrian or Malaysian one - from a 100 metres! (when I wear my glasses) - and I would happily explain to you the difference between aloo paneer, palak paneer and aloo keema ... if you asked. I can say the traditional Islamic greeting salam alaikum (may Peace be with you) the way it is pronounced in Turkey, Arabic countries and the Sub-continent. I prefer Fairouz over Umm Kulthum and Moroccon green tea with mint over South Asian red tea with milk; haggle like a pro (I am known to have made a taxi driver in Jericho complain, "she's worse than the locals!"); and it does not seem odd to me (any more) to keep on asking "how are you?", even after the person in question has already replied (twice).

Muslim habits, norms and values

With Islam, I got to know a long list of different countries, cultures, mentalities, lifestyles. Cultures which differ in many ways but which have in common that Islam is one of their main cultural reference points (not the only one, of course, after all, we don't want to fall into essentialist narratives of how all Muslims are the same, do we?). I have gotten to know many aspects of these cultures, I have gotten to love some of them, and many have become a part of me. I have not just become a Muslim but I also adopted quite a few habits, norms and values that are often regarded as essentially linked to Islam while in reality they are rooted in one of the many cultures, societies or communities which happen to be majority Muslim.

Culture and religion

Culture and religion are closely intertwined. That is not just an Islamic phenomenon but something that can be observed in all cultures and religions worldwide. Sometimes this intertwinement is pretty obvious, at times it happens more subtly and you need to look closely to spot it. Sometimes it is problematic, sometimes absolutely fine, or perhaps even of advantage - for example, when it brings out the best in a community of believers. Intertwinement can mean similarity, overlapping, contradiction; it is not positive or negative per se. In practise, the intertwinement of religion and culture means that it is often hard to tell where culture starts and religion ends.

"If you want to be a true believer..."

At first, I did not mind that too much. At first, it was exciting. And at first, I also lacked the knowledge to tell the difference between cultural practises and religious principles. Wrapped in mashaallah, alhamdulillah, bismillah, many things that were not Islamic in their own right (but, for example, Arabic or Turkish) or even not Islamic at all (as they contradicted the very basics of this religion) looked like they were the way to go - if you wanted to be a true believer. "Oh, you don't like abayahs? But that's what proper hijab looks like!" - "What do you mean, you are not happy to sit in the back? But you are a woman! We can't allow free mixing in our Islamic classes!" - "No, no, no, don't ask the speaker your question directly, let one of the brothers pass your question on!" - "Male friends? Astaghfirullah!!??" - "Western music? Filth! I only listen to Nancy Ajram..." - "No, I don't think we should start yet; yes, we are already 45 minutes behind schedule, but what if anyone is still on the way? Isn't it our duty to wait for our brothers and sisters in Islam who came here with the intention of listening to an Islamic talk and not prevent them from gaining knowledge? Gaining knowledge is so important in Islam!" - Ok, sorry, I might have gotten a bit carried away. Where was I?

Ten, almost fifteen, years later...

Ten, almost fifteen years, later, the initial excitement has slowly worn off. Not completely, I still owe a lot to all the Muslims (and their respective cultures) that I have met on this journey in the last years, I love many things I have learned from them, things that have become part of me. But I have become a bit older, a bit (tiny bit!) more knowledgeable, a bit more confident and, sorry!, less accepting of nonsense. I have realised in the last years that people have been trying to sell me something as Islamic which is not. And I'm tired of it. I don't need to wear a Saudi abayah to be a Muslim; I don't need to have the same views on gender relations as many South Asian Muslims, for example, do; my Norah Jones is not less Islamic than your Nancy Ajram; and if you serve samosas and dates to non-Muslim visitors at an event organised by the local mosque that's not "typically Muslim food". Your culture is not representative of Islam. 

Losing out of sight how diverse our Muslim community is

Alhamdulillah for biryani, but do we really need to serve it at every event organised by our Islamic Student Societies? At every single event? If all members of said society are desi (see, how I have learned my cool cultural terms), that's, of course, absolutely fine. There is nothing wrong with biryani. This is not about biryani. This is about a majority acting as if the minority did not exist. This is about losing out of sight how diverse our Muslim community is. If all members of a mosque or student society or what-not are not Arabic but they keep on serving Arabic food, in my mind, there is something wrong. And I am not saying that this is being done on purpose, that the biryani fraction of my community have bad intentions or that they are to blame. If you are in the majority it is very easy to forget how those in the minority feel. I am not blaming you for that. But please, try to be a bit open-minded and don't start rolling your eyes and saying, "but it's Eid", when I suggest to order pizza instead of kebabs. 

An Islamic community in Germany

Last year, I spent Ramadan in Germany. My mosque there is very multicultural. The majority of the visitors are German-Moroccons, but  the mosque is also attended by German Muslims with a German background (like me) and by those whose families once came from Turkey, Syria, Eritrea, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Bosnia, Tunisia, Algeria, Egypt, Southeast Asia, Poland, Slovakia, the US (many of whom have also become pretty German in the meantime). The only language we have in common is German so pretty much all activities are in German. In fact, a comparatively high number of young Muslims attend this mosque as they feel more at ease in a German-speaking (as opposed to Turkish- or Arabic-speaking etc.) environment. Here, they understand the language. And know how things are being done. 

German pasta salad for iftar

During Ramadan, free food is provided in the mosque every evening. Most of the time, it was Moroccon food. But that was fine. If 70% of your visitors are Moroccon, there is nothing wrong with serving Moroccon food 70% of the time. If, however, you serve Moroccon food only, I would say, there is a problem. At my mosque, they didn't do that. It was Moroccon food most of the time, with the odd Afghani or Pakistani meal inbetween. One day they made German pasta salad. German pasta salad. With mayonaise, cornichons, sweetcorn - exactly as we would do it at home. I was in food heaven, but I also realised this was the first time in over ten years of being a Muslim that I was eating European food in a European mosque.

It is easy to forget to look outside the box

As I explained above, in many cases, the majority of culturally (pretty) Turkish, Arabic or South Asian Muslims in Europe don't even realise how it can be for a German Muslim, for example, if Islam is made look, taste and feel foreign most of the time. They feel at ease, they know things to be that way, they expect things to be that way, so for most of them the thought that this might not be the same for those with a different cultural background does not even cross their minds. Again, I don't really want to blame them for it. I know myself how easy it is to see yourself only, to assume your preferences to be the norm, to forget to look outside of the box. I do it. You do it. We all do it. And as long as it happens unconsciously, unintendedly, I don't really want to blame anyone.

Muslims full of hared of "the West"

But there is something else, too. There are those who just don't question the predominance of Arabic / Turkish / South Asian / you name it! cultural practises in Islamic organisations and mosques in Europe - but who would, if you told them, agree that, yes, perhaps, one day we can have spaghetti napoli in the mosque for iftar and hmmm, why not get some potato salad, too?! And then there are those who are full of hatred of "the West" which they see as an antidote to "Islam". "Look at the West and how they treat their old people, sending them to care homes instead of looking after them, what a shame!" - "Look at how morally corrupted the West is!" - "You want to wear Western clothes?! Astaghfirullah, that would be imitating the kuffar!" 

I am not imitating "the kuffar" or "the West". I am of one them

I am sorry, I am not imitating "the kuffar" or "the West". I am of one them. Culturally, I am one of them; religiously, I am a Muslim. And before you start screaming now, "Oh my God, she declared herself an unbeliever" - I haven't. Not everything in Europe contradicts Islam. There are loads of cultural aspects that you can perfectly reconcile with Islam. In fact, some aspects of European cultures are even more Islamic than much that is found in many "Eastern" societies (talk about punctuality, bindingness of appointments or lower levels of corruption ... that is if you stay North of the Alps... :P ). 

Like the first Muslims back in the Prophet's time

By holding on to my German identity, I am really not doing anything different than the first Muslims back in the Prophet's time did. They were converts. And carried their (polytheistic) ancestors names, continued to eat their (type of) food and wearing their traditional clothes. They remained a part of society. What we consider essentially Islamic now (names such as Fatima, for example) used to be part of the culture of a polytheistic society. What did the Prophet (Peace be upon him) and his followers do? Did they start to scream, "don't imitate the unbelievers" and change their own ways completely? They didn't. They changed what needed changing and held on to what was acceptable to keep. Fatima stayed Fatima. She was not made change her name into a more "Islamically sounding" name when she converted. 

Islam is bigger than this, it is for everyone

And lastly, don't misunderstand me. I am not asking for big changes. I am not asking for German pasta salad everyday. Have your biryani. I'll share it with you. But don't pretend this was Islam. Don't make us, Muslims and non-Muslims, believe your Pakistani naans or Turkish pides were more appropriate to have in the mosque than my German rye bread. Islam is bigger than that. It is more than just biryani. Let's not belittle this grand religion, let's not veil the universal character it has. Islam is for everyone. Look outside your box, have some compassion and try to walk a bit in my shoes. Leave me some room and let me be who I am. That's all I'm asking for.

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LA is...

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Californian diary, part 4 (part 1, part 2, part 3)

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LA is the grandparents' house. House, garden, garage, four to five cars in the driveway. LA is four bedrooms, three bathrooms, two living rooms. LA is eating out, gifts for Lieschen, flying in the granddaughter from England.

LA is a huge suburb. House, garden, garage. House, garden, garage. House, garden... LA is hills, palm trees, multi-lane highways, traffic jams, green valleys to your left, I wish we could stop and take a walk in the fields...

LA is spending hours in the car. LA is taking the car to go to uni, taking the car to go to work, taking the car to visit a friend, taking the car to see your son, taking the car to get the groceries, taking the car to go to the mall, taking the car to get an icecream from the cornershop.

LA is leaving an airconditioned house, getting into an airconditioned car, going to an airconditioned mall before arriving in an airconditioned office.

LA is a tiny city centre, square kilometres of suburbs, endless highways.

LA is the Grandparents' neighbourhood. Doctors, lawyers, teachers. LA is La Puente or Santa Ana. Where per capita income is a third of the one in the Grandparents' city. Where you realise that just because you haven't seen any of the fat Americans everyone talks about in Europe in the city the Grandparents live in, doesn't exist mean they don't exist. They do. Perhaps not in the Grandparents' part of town, but there where it's not four bedrooms, three bathrooms, two living rooms, but a one-storey small house with a flat roof and loads of junk in the front yard and a fence that could really do with some mending.

LA is the mechanic who comes to your house to fix the car. Who is hardly older than you are, works seven hours in the burning afternoon sun and when you get him an icecold coke gives you a big smile revealing the huge gap in his front teeth. LA is the old woman with greyish-blonde hair, a face aged by the sun and rotten teeth who sells you an icecream in Disneyland. 

LA is the villa of a US South Asian family in one of the better parts of town you visit, six bedrooms, five bathrooms, three living rooms, where you sit in the midst of golden picture frames of the son who graduated with an-MBA-mashaallah, the parents years ago on their wedding day, the whole family posing and smiling to the camera, thick, fluffy carpets under your feet, where you are being served chilled apple juice, shami kebabs and green apple slices with red chilli sprinkled over them, while the daughter who is mentally handicapped and writes poetry makes chocolate-chip cookies for you.

LA is driving in the car with two young Desi Americans, who have only ever been to South Asia once or twice and discussing with them the differences between here and there, how we see them, how they see us, how others see us and them and everyone, talking about politics and culture and history and food.

LA is the Grandparents' house. Grandma, Grandpa and the uncles you love Lieschen and will miss her when she is going to leave again.

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America is...

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Californian diary, part 3 (part 1, part 2)

America is very big.

"Everyzing is verry big in zis countrry", said my father jokingly, mocking a typical German accent, after I told him about my first visit to the US two years ago. Yes, everything is very big in this country.

Big cities, vast landscapes, a country that covers half a continent. Six different timezones. Six-lane highways. In each direction. 

Icecream scoops big enough to feed two. When in doubt, always ask for the kids portion. Never order anything large. The American small is the European big-enough.

Two kilogram yoghurt pots, four litre milk bottles. Microwaves, ovens, dustbins three times the size of their European equivalents. A fridge as big as my bathroom.

A bag of chocolates weighing as much as five German chocolate bars for Lieschen.

Large, not to say fat, people. A huge American flag flapping in the wind. America is big.

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Palestine in California

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Californian diary, part 2 (part 1)

As soon as we enter the shop, it smells like Palestine. It must be some of the spices, zaatar perhaps? it's been some time, crazy how odours can take you back to a place thousands of miles away. It smells like zaatar, the butcher behind the meat corner in the back of the shop speaks with an Arab accent and in the background some young Arab woman sings a catchy pop tune on the radio. A little bit of Palestine in California. It's hot outside on the street, April in LA is like August in London, but cool inside the shop, thank God for ACs.

Fresh oranges (60 cent the kilogram ... this is California, baby!), bananas, apples, eggplants, tomatoes, cucumbers, bundles of cilandro, basil and dill are piled up to your right. Deep-frozen meat and sausages, all halal, in the huge freezers to your left. Colourful hijabs and abayahs in one corner; the exact same kind of biscuits my friend from Gaza would have for breakfast in Ramallah in another. Two oversized Easter bunnies look down on us customers from the top of one of the huge shelves. There is one aisle with South Asian spices and specialities and one with Turkish delicatessen, to cater to all those who are kind of from that same corner of the world.

Living in the Southwest of the US of A, in an air-conditioned beige house with a car and a garage in the front and the small garden in the back that no-one ever uses anyway. Living in the Southwest of the US of A, buying a little bit of home. Or what used to be home. Or what used to be my parents' home. Because I have only ever been to Palestine once and when I walked over al-Manara in my baggy jeans they called me al-Amreeki.

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The journey

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Californian diary, part 1

When my 100-year-old grandmother's uncle left for the US some time in the late 19th or early 20th century, it was the last time he saw his parents. Letters took weeks, if not months, visits were not really an option.

Today we hop on a plane (ok, one bus, one coach, two planes, and a car) ... and 24 hours later, instead of rainy England we're in sunny California.

Waiting to board the plane in London-Heathrow. A group of loud, bored, fat, white, inconsiderate teenagers walk by. Everything I hate about America. Oh no, we're going to the US... Boarding the plane. Blonde stewardess with red lipstick and a huge smile. Friendly welcome, a wink to Lieschen. She has the same accent as my American friend Mary. Who studied in four universities and speaks five languages. Everything I love about America. Yay, we're going to the US...!

On the plane. Indians to my left, Indians to my right. Germans in the row in front of us. French in the aisle. God-another-seven-hours-on-this-plane conversations with a drunk Scot who hates extremists but doesn't mind Muslims and an Englishman who lives in the States. Discussions about Scottish independence (yes or no), Germans in the UK (us) and Brits in the US (them), South Asian (me) and American (him) spouses. About kids. That grow up somewhere in between.

Landing. Queues. Security. Border agency guys who all have the same strange humour. PhD student from England, originally from Germany, exams coming up in May, right answers, passport stamped, you're in.

Relief. Not that there was any reason, but I'm worried every time. And think of those who didn't make it.

Nina was sent back. Housewife from Romania, going to join husband from Nigeria, no good enough reasons to go back, wrong answers, out.

And that's just us, who can afford a plane ticket, not one of the thousands who try to climb fences, outsmart guards, brave the desert sun...

Dallas. Texas. Yeehaw!

Tired. Late night here, early morning there. Yet another plane. Couple of more hours.

LA. Hello Golden State. Hello US.

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Wir müssen schreien, sonst hört man uns nicht

Frauenwiderstand in der DDR der 1980er Jahre 

1. April 2014  bis  31. Mai 2014 

Montag bis Freitag, 9 bis 20 Uhr 

Reformhaus Halle (Treppenhaus), Große Klausstraße 11, Halle (Saale)

"Die Plakatausstellung zum Frauenwiderstand in der DDR erzählt „eine Geschichte vom Sprechen lernen, Verantwortung übernehmen, von Solidarität und der Verteidigung der Menschenwürde in einer Gesellschaft, die von Willkür und Lüge beherrscht wurde“. So beschrieb Bärbel Bohley im Rückblick eine Widerstandsgeschichte, die vor nunmehr dreißig Jahren begann."

Mehr? Hier.

Event: Tackling exclusion in Muslim communities

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"Friday 21 Mar 2014, 18:45 - 20:30 

Abrar House, 45 Crawford Place, W1H 4LP 

Event Details:

It is common to observe that exclusion and discrimination occurs at every level of society, on grounds of race, gender, ethnicity, sexuality, class, politics, age, and more. 

But how far are  British Muslims prepared to address exclusion within our communities and our institutions? Who is being excluded directly or indirectly, ignored and rendered invisible, their concerns unrecognised let alone addressed?

Are we prepared to go beyond our comfort zones to make our institutions more inclusive, welcoming, and reflective of how our communities are today? Join us for a frank discussion of these issues and how we as a faith community might go about tackling them."

Event details: here.

Das andere Iran

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Fotos aus dem Iran ähneln sich oft: Frauen in langen, schwarzen Gewändern; Männer in wuchernden Bärten; Kopftücher; Hinrichtungen; Massen an Menschen. Das ist das eine Iran. Aber natürlich gibt es auch das andere Iran. Leute, die in oft widrigen Umständen versuchen, ihr Leben so leben, wie es für richtig halten; sich ein kleines Stück Freiheit erkämpfen; Moment finden, in denen sie ganz sie selbst sein können. 

Solche Momente sind es, die der iranische Fotograf Hossen Fatemi in seiner Serie An other view of Iran festgehalten hat. Schöne Bilder sind es, die er zeigt; intensive Bilder; Bilder vom Leben ... die hoffen lassen, dass der Iran eines Tages frei sein wird.

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Integration? Kauf ich mir

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Oder: "Noch so einer" vs. "schön, dass du da bist"

Oder: Hasret und Enes

Hasret ist in ihren Vierzigern. Sie kam als Grundschulkind aus der Türkei, wo sie bei den Großeltern, Mama und Papa waren zum Arbeiten in Deutschland, gelebt hatte, nach Deutschland. Sie machte ihren Abschluss, arbeitete, erkämpfte sich das Medizinstudium, begann ihre Promotion. Heute ist sie Ärztin. Jetzt, wo sie beruflich Fuß gefasst hat, ist auch das Kopftuch nicht mehr so eine Barriere, zu dem es teilweise während ihrer Ausbildung und den ersten Berufsjahren von so manchem Chefarzt oder Uniprofessor gemacht wurde. Sie kann was, man will sie. Ihre Fachwissen und die Erfahrung im Beruf sind gefragt. Ihre Türkischkenntnisse sind ein Plus, die Kulturkenntnisse sowieso. 

Ihr Sohn Enes, so würden manche vielleicht sagen, lebt hier "in der dritten Generation". Als es Zeit für ihn war, in den Kindergarten zu kommen, meldete Hasret ihn im katholischen Kindergarten um die Ecke an. In Laufnähe, und dass den Kindern dort auch religiöse Werte vermittelt wurden, sagte ihr auch zu. Enes bekam den Platz. Alles war paletti, bis Hasrets Mutter den Kleinen zum ersten Mal in den neuen Kindergarten brachte. Sie wurde dort so herablassend, so forsch, so was-willst-du-Gastarbeiter-hier behandelt, dass Hasret sich weigerte, den Kleinen in der Einrichtung zu lassen. Jemandem, der ihre Mutter so behandelte, der solch ein Bild von Deutschtürken, von Muslimen hatte, ihren Sohn anvertrauen? Nein, danke.

Hasret hat das Geld, sie kann es sich leisten - und einige Monate später war Enes in einer Internationalen Schule in der Stadt angemeldet. Der Lehrplan orientiert sich an britischem Vorbild, die Kinder sind - wie auf der Insel - bis nachmittags in der Schule, Enes lernt neben Deutsch und Türkisch jetzt auch Englisch und er ist willkommen. Wäre er in eine der Schulen in dem Viertel, in dem Hasret und ihre Familie bis heute wohnen, einkommensschwach, bildungsfern, gastarbeiterig, gekommen - Enes wäre in einer Einrichtung gelandet, auf der er "noch so einer" gewesen wäre. Wie heißt du? Enes. Aha, schon klar. Und dann noch die Oma mit Kopftuch und türkischem Akzent. Jetzt ist Enes auf einer Schule, auf der man sich freut, dass er da ist, wo er dazu gehört, Teil des Ganzen und Multikulti wie alle anderen ist.Wo Vielfalt willkommen ist, wo Enes willkommen ist.

Hasret hat das Geld, sie kann es sich leisten.

Sexismus. Und Rassismus.

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Von afrodeutschen Frauen, alltäglichem Sexismus und Rassismus während des Nationalsozialismus - und im Deutschland des 21. Jahrhunderts, von Ausgrenzung, Widerstand, Anpassung und Rebellion.

"Ausstellung

Daima – Frauen | Bewegung | Feminismen | Identitäten

Mo 17. Februar bis Fr 28. März 2014 


Öffnungszeiten: Mo–Fr 14–18 Uhr

Belächelt und sexualisiert werden – diese Erfahrungen teilen viele Frauen. Was, wenn sich das mit Erfahrungen von Rassismus mischt? In der Veranstaltungsreihe kommen Frauen zu Wort, die all diese Erfahrungen von Ausgrenzung teilen und sich ihnen aktiv widersetzen: durch Kunst, Politik und Zeugnis-Ablegen. 

In Kooperation mit Witnessed / edition assemblage. Gefördert von der Senatsverwaltung für Arbeit, Integration und Frauen. Alle Veranstaltungen finden in der Galerie im August Bebel Institut statt (Müllerstraße 163, Berlin, S+U Wedding). Die Räumlichkeiten sind rollstuhlgerecht, Zugang über den Haupteingang des Gebäudes. 

Rahmenprogramm: 

Fr 14. Februar, 18–21 Uhr: Daima. Images of Women of Color in Germany

Ausstellungseröffnung und Buchvorstellung. In Ausstellung und Buch porträtiert die afrodeutsche Fotografin Nzitu Mawakha zwölf Schwarze Frauen, die in Deutschland leben und arbeiten und/oder Deutsche sind. Sie erzählen von Alltagsrassismus, Sexismus und Widerstand, von Familie, Community und Schönheit. Das Besondere: Nicht die Frauen erklären sich – sondern sie sind diejenigen, die die Betrachtenden befragen und den Blick zurückwerfen. Mit: Nzitu Mawakha (Fotografin & Autorin), Sharon Dodua Otoo (Herausgeberin der Reihe »Witnessed«) und Protagonistinnen von Buch und Ausstellung. Grußwort: Barbara Loth (Staatssekretärin in der Senatsverwaltung für Arbeit, Integration und Frauen, angefragt). Live-Musik: 3 Women & The Bass. Um Anmeldung bis 10. Februar wird gebeten. 

Do 20. Februar, 18–20 Uhr: Einschreibungen. Fotografie und Widerstand 

Fotografie blickt auf eine lange politische Geschichte zurück. Welche Möglichkeiten bietet sie im politischen Kampf und um Identitäten auszudrücken? Der Vortrag zeigt zunächst, wie Fotografie mitwirkte, Unterschiede herzustellen und zu zementieren – in Bezug auf Ethnizität, Geschlecht oder Sexualität. In Kontrast dazu werden fotografische Arbeiten wie die des afroamerikanischen Philosophen W.E.B. Dubois, der Schwarzen Südafrikanerin Zanele Muholi und des Afrodeutschen Philip Metz vorgestellt. Sie wollen Fremdzuschreibungen brechen, Blicke irritieren und eine eigene Bildsprache entwickeln. Geht das? Mit: Nana Adusei-Poku (Forschungsprofessorin für Kulturelle Vielfalt, Hochschule Rotterdam, und Dozentin für Medienkunst, Hochschule der Künste Zürich) Moderation: Çağla İlk (Architektin und Kuratorin, büro MILK). Um Anmeldung bis 14. Februar wird gebeten. 

Fr 7. März, 18–21 Uhr Von »Mädchenfallen« und Selbstbewusstsein

Regina M. Banda Stein im Gespräch mit Marie Nejar Am Vorabend des Internationalen Frauentags hören wir den Bericht eines ereignisreichen Lebens: Marie Nejar, Jahrgang 1930, liest aus ihrer Autobiographie »Mach nicht so traurige Augen« und spricht mit Regina M. Banda Stein über ihr Aufwachsen als Schwarzes Mädchen im Nationalsozialismus, über ihr Leben als Schlagersängerin »Leila Negra«, als Krankenschwester und als Aktive in der afrodeutschen Community. Mit: Marie Nejar (ehem. Schlagersängerin und Krankenschwester), Regina M. Banda Stein (ehem. Vorstandsfrau ADEFRA Berlin, Krankenschwester, forscht zur Geschichte Schwarzer Frauen in der Pflege). Um Anmeldung bis 3. März wird gebeten.

Do 20. März, 18–21 Uhr: Feministische Kämpfe of Color in Deutschland. Eine Chronik 

Feminismus in Deutschland ist auch das: Frauen, die nicht nur Sexismus erfahren, sondern auch Rassismus durch die weiße Mehrheitsgesellschaft; Frauen, die sich jenseits von dieser organisieren. Seit Mitte der 1980er Jahre sind Schwarze Feministinnen in »ADEFRA« organisiert und wagen »Immigrantinnen, Schwarze deutsche, jüdische und im Exil lebende Frauen« Bündnisse, zuletzt 2013 in der Tagung »FemoCo«. Was die Beteiligten verbindet: Die Erfahrung, dass Sexismus von Rassismus, Homophobie und anderen Formen der Ausgrenzung nicht zu trennen ist. – Der Abend wagt eine Chronik politischer Kämpfe. Mit: Jasmin Eding (ADEFRA-Gründungsmitglied), Natascha Nassir-Shahnian (FemoCo-Konferenz) und Peggy Piesche (ADEFRA, »Euer Schweigen schützt Euch nicht«). Moderation: Manuela Bauche (August Bebel Institut). Um Anmeldung bis 14. März wird gebeten.

Fr 28. März, 18–20 Uhr: In Gedenken an Juliana Wonja Michael (1921–2013)

Ausstellungsfinissage. Die Finissage ist Juliana Wonja Michael gewidmet, die im März 2013 verstarb. Die Tochter des ab 1894 in Berlin lebenden Kameruners Theophilus Wonja Michael und dessen weißer deutscher Ehefrau Martha Wegner überlebte den Nationalsozialismus durch ihre Arbeit im Zirkus – für viele Schwarze eine Nische, die Arbeit und einen gewissen Schutz vor Verfolgung bot – und in der französischen Emigration. Mit Fotos, Videos, mündlichen Erinnerungen und einer Lesung aus autobiographischen Notizen erinnern wir an die Raubtierdresseurin, Botschaftsangestellte und Übersetzerin. Mit: Nicola Lauré al-Samarai (Historikerin), Lara-Sophie Milagro (Schauspielerin, Label Noir). Um Anmeldung bis 24. März wird gebeten. 

August Bebel Institut, Müllerstr. 163, 13353 Berlin (S+U Wedding) 

 Tel. +49 (0)30 4692-121 / -122 

Fax +49 (0)30 4692-124 

programm@august-bebel-institut.de 

www.facebook.com/augustbebel 

www.august-bebel-institut.de"

Ayo

Ayo: Live at the Olympia, Paris (2007)

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Urgently looking for a babysitter? Do's and don't's.

 Or: Love my ISoc

If you are urgently looking for a babysitter but have just recently moved to a new city, don't ask the few friends you have made there in the last weeks. 

They would love to help but are too busy.

If you are urgently looking for a babysitter because without one you won't be able to attend your lecture but have just recently moved to a new city, don't register with a babysitter agency. 

Signing up will be free but to actually contact potential babysitters and childminders, you'll have to pay dozens of pounds (which you don't really have).

If you are urgently looking for a babysitter because there is only one week left before the term starts, don't contact the Family Information Service at your local council.

They will provide you with a list of childminders but the only one who could pick up your daughter from her school hardly speaks any English and when you ask her on the phone if she is currently looking after any other children, she shouts at you, "What do you need this information for?!".

If you are urgently looking for a babysitter and you really have know idea what else to do, don't ask the friendly woman you know from the playground and who works as a childminder. She is already looking after two other children and will start to look after two-year old twins from next week.

Don't send an e-mail to the priest you have recently met, he will be so busy he won't get a chance to reply (and feel terrible about it when you meet him next time, bless him). 

...

...

...

If you are urgently looking for a babysitter but have just recently moved to a new city where you hardly know anyone, do go the induction meeting of your university's ISoc. After the presentation introducing the society and the activities planned for this term, wait until they ask if anyone has any questions. Raise your hand and say, "salam alaikum, I don't have any questions regarding the presentation but ...".

You'll leave the event with a list of six potential babysitters and won't have to worry again about who will look after your baby.

#alhamdulillah #lovemyISoc #impossibleisnothing

Ins Blaue hinein

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Ich fuhr in den Jemen, als das noch möglich war

Ich fuhr in den Jemen, als das noch möglich war. Als noch nicht Nachrichten von Schießereien mitten in Sana'a, in Totschlag ausgeuferte Entführungen und in die Luft gesprengte Ministerien die Runde machten.

Ich fuhr in den Jemen ohne das Land oder seine Bewohner wirklich zu kennen und mit nur minimalem Einblick in die Sprache und Kultur. Ich fuhr alleine in den Jemen, mit Koffer, Handtasche und einem Zettel mit der Adresse meiner Unterkunft und meines Arbeitgebers in der Hand.

Am Flughafen von Sana'a erwarteten mich Hitze und Staub, Gelb und Braun. Von Bergen umringt lag dort die Stadt vor mir, über 2000 Meter auf einem Plateau in der Mitte des Landes gelegen. Sieben Stunden Flug hatten mich von Mitteldeutschland in den Nahen Osten geführt, in die glitzernden Metropolen der Golfstaaten, die es geschafft hatten. Noch eine Stunde Flug später kam ich im Jemen an. 

Als ich die Altstadt sah, wurde mir klar, dass ich vor Jahren ein Bild von Sana'a gesehen hatte, braune Lehmbauten, weiß bemalt, vor graubrauner Gebirgskette, und damals gedacht hatte, "wow, so stellt man sich bei uns 'den Orient' vor". Es gab diese Stadt, es gab dieses Land - das Bild war real, auch wenn es damals, in Deutschland, auf mich klischeehafter gewirkt hatte, als so manche verzerrte Darstellung allens was östlich von Wien liegt.

Aus der Flughafenhalle ins grelle Sonnenlicht, den weißen Staub getreten, verfolgte ich die Ich-bin-Tourist-aber-das-müsst-ihr-ja.nicht-unbedingt-wissen-Taktik. Ahnungsvolles Gesicht aufgesetzt, leicht arrogante Miene gemacht, Kinn hoch, und zielstrebig geradeaus. Wohin ich da lief - keine Ahnung. Ohne nennenswerte Arabischkenntnisse ein Taxi angeheuert. Den Namen meiner Unterkunft konnte ich sagen, das Stadtviertel, und eine Straße, die in der Nähe lag. 

Bis zum Stadtviertel kamen wir. Wie erklärt man einem Taxifahrer, der kein Englisch oder Französisch (Deutsch sowieso nicht) kann, wenn man selbst des Arabischen nicht wirklich mächtig ist, wohin es gehen soll? Eine Telefonnummer hatte ich dabei, aber weder er noch ich ein Mobiltelefon. Zum Glück ist man freundlich im Jemen, hilfsbereit und gastfreundlich, zum Glück war der Mann bereit trotz vorher ausgehandelten Fahrpreises Straße nach Straße zu durchfahren und immer mal wieder nach dem Weg zu fragen.

Gefunden haben wir das Haus schließlich tatsächlich, aber eigentlich bin ich damals in Blaue gefahren, bei meiner ersten Reise in den Jemen.