It` s silent, finally. I can only hear the needle` s noise through the fabric.It` s calm and soothing like the sound of the sea waves. I have no hostile thoughts, even the bad ones hurt less.Up, down! The needle appears and then disappears. A straight seam flows in my mind, a flat, background seam. The time passes with a different beat, the proper one, not too fast not too slow. Like in a good dream. The needle appears then it disappears, reminding me that it is real and feeding me its simple, undemanding friendship.

Gracious God!

One can not feel good about what one has unless one disgraces what the others have.I was reading this article at “Peshku” and just could not resist the temptation.The article expresses an admirable concern about the people who convert from Islam to Christianity, and who apparently live in fear because of their choice.Real as this fear must be, the article is not very constructive, as it does not really provide with any ideas as to how these people can be helped (though a sneaky-freaky idea underlies there) and as far as I understood the situation is not even applicable in Albania. The point of the article?

Well people like Monika Mohebbi can not deal with their sense of guilt and their complexness, (they have to voice it) or simply they have a problem with religion in general (Nëse lexon Kuranin atëherë të hyn frika. Nëse nuk bëj këtë apo atë gjë, çfarë do të ndodhë? Nëse nuk mbaj shami koke atëherë shkoj në ferr. )for I do not know of any religious teachings that say it is okay to steal, lie, kill, cheat or backbite or be the servant of your own desires. 

I am willing to voice the fears of the other side.When I decided that I had enough of a pointless, purposeless life, became a muslim and started to pray and especially when I hid my wonderful locks, to all but the eyes of my earthly beloved, my intellect was given a proper, symbolic, and painful funeral.The really nice but unhappy and perplexed person I used to be, was killed.I had no more friends and of course a lot of psychological tendencies of mine were dug out of my childhood.I was never asked why this choice, never asked if I was happy, the reasons of my change were all assumed. I became a curiosity.I also knew these two young girls who came to my home to pray, hiding from their families who told them : “Better prostitutes than muslims” and did their best to get them out of Albania to “save” them.( Freedom of choice was never given a single thought)

And I know of a lot many more muslim women and girls who  are or live with the fear of being shut out of the society simply for making the choice  of being  such. 

Long live the internet for making us connect with so many people (though often the wrong ones),

for making us live like cadavers in our own homes, for making us live (already) as a memory in our children`s minds ,

for giving us the chance to flirt at any possible moment of the day or night.

Long live the internet for making me able to be a master of my own anger.

Yet I sit there, trying to find something to say as if I had no simple thoughts that fill my mind at any pulsing of time (having three kids and a husband!). I think I` m simply incapable of indicating details and describing thoughts or feelings or situations so I cling here and there in distant and scattered words as if I was climbing a mountain.This raving though feels as if I was carsick The wandering from page to page does nothing but increase my quarantine.I have to tidy up my brain and find out a good way to make up for the lack of affection which I find to be in itself a discriminatory act. It is painful to constantly need some kind of human exchange and look for it say in a bag.But I definitely have decided that my feeling that I am the victim is only a sign that I love myself too much or think myself too good.So I have to match the idea of me with me

“C’mon Billy”

C’mon billy
Come to me
You know i’m waiting
I love you endlessly C’mon billy
You’re the only one
Don’t you think it’s time now
You met your only son ?

I remember
Lover’s play
The car was cold and
We lay in it for days

I remember
The things you said
My little billy,
Come to your lover’s bed

Come home
Is my plea
Your home now is
Here with me
Come home
To your son
tomorrow might never come

C’mon billy
You look good to me
How many nights now
Your child inside of

Don’t forget me
I had your son
Damn thing went crazy
But I swear you’re the only one

Come along, Billy, now come to me
Come along, and come to me.

P.J.HARVEY