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.

"No space for women"

What do you do if in a mosque there is "no space" for women? Faraz Rabbani advised the following. Says a lot about us as a community that we have gotten so much used to nonsense ("sorry, no women allowed; there's just no space, what can we do"), that we're close to be shocked when we hear such a simple, common sense answer (by a highly qualified, highly regarded sheikh, after all).

In my memory

When a song was written for Northern Ireland, but works perfectly for Sarajevo, Beirut, Aleppo or Homs, too. It's the same pain, always.

"But when I returned how my eyes have burned 

To see how a town could be brought to its knees

By the armoured cars and the bombed out bars

And the gas that hangs on to every tree

Now the army's installed by that old gasyard wall

And the damned barbed wire gets higher and higher

With their tanks and their guns, oh my God, what have they done

To the town I loved so well"

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.