Freedom of the Veils

King Nchaoui had done a great work: he and his wife Esther had liberated the women of his Kingdom. They told him that in Paris, that this would be the next step of the development of their great plan and that is why they need his wife to be in public on photos. He shook his head in disgust with his men in Paris. „With her on photos in public? Ces’t inderdit ca. My father kept the women in the back and they ruled the house and the narrow lanes, that worked there in all ages, that is how the kingdom worked for all the times.“ They did not reply to him and looked at each other in their Lezare and Cardin suites. „How much money did his father have in our banks here?“ „Ces’t inestimable, oui mon roi ces’t un etat complet pour une decade.“ That was all he heard before he was lead out of the premises.

Then they were everywhere, they walked through the Medinas, the stood at corners and chatted and they went in line, in rows after each other through the town looking for groceries, blocking other pedestrians ways. They did not really know what they were doing nor did the know why they they were on the streets some of the spectators thought. They always kept to each other, they never approached anyone outside of their small groups so they attracted not much attention. Harmless creatures shown the light for the first time in decades of Moroccan history beside the few modern Western style women without veiles who behaved like modern Arab women behave everywhere in the world and the tradional women in their traditional clothing who were seldom seen as seldom on the streets of the kingdom as before in the ages his father. The just moved from their houses to buy something and back, always in a nuns like dark coat with the mouth or nose covered, always respected and with a cool and calm appearance mostly. They did not talk to me usuallly out of respect for their husband but when they were asked and knew the language or signs and symbols they behaved always respectful and answered as good as they could. I never heard anything from them, that they talked bad. Strange that they were seldom regarded as inferior or downtrodden creatures in sharp contrast with their Saudi sisters. Something worked out also in the background. Same as the women from the North with their tribal outfit with a straw hat and striped skirts selling bread and olives. They always looked me in the eyes and to me they were the most interesting creatures up there.

Now it was different. The old ones were meant to disappear and replaced forever. Like a swarm of bees all with the same outfit: long coat, kaftan, mostly coloured and a colored headscarf: the new women of King Nchaoui and his wife Esther, the stars of his Moroccan revolution.

I moved into the Medina of Rabat, the capital, because it was cheap as hell, traditional hotels still available for less than 10 $ a night, and it was a travellers tradition in the old days I was still trying to cling on. But those are really inside the Medina, deep inside, former travellers delight after the hippie high time in the seventies. That spirit lived on in our traditional regions from the high North to middle South until the late nineties: companionship with the locals, cheap hotels with an unmistakable flair of tradition, and camaraderie with the working class and the poor there and the vendors, hasslers and kif smokers as well. Mostly they were clean as a whistle, those hotels, always mobbed up by white clad women day by day with liquids with a strong smell of chlorine and even lime in the eighties still. You never forget the clean smell of Moroccan detergents, they meant something: ocean blue tidyness no big corporation detergent could ever replace.

But I was not ready yet for the real deal in the old town, the Medina and jumped into a more modern version of a Moroccan cheapie at the border between New Town and Old Town. Something creeped to my mind that this was not the natural move anymore since I stayed away for more than twenty years from the north of the country. The south was still a bit on the old travellers side ten years ago.

It was a woman off course who ran that hotel, I have never seen that before in the Kingdom – a bit tradional, a bit modern, some fancy electric gadgets around on her desk, blinking and flickering, but still the old style of an old house with ornamented tiles and patio and open roof. But it was different: no men around but a „prive“ room at the entrance that stood wide open with two fat local women inside who immediately stared at me without any joy, hope or contempt, just empty. The “watch the Kafir“ look but I did not know that yet. This woman at the reception desk was cold as ice in her long coat and her headscarve modern style. No more shy laughter, no more inhibitions, no more disgust with a nonbeliever eventually, no more distant flirting, pure distance through ice. „Identification papers“ I gave her my passport and she looked at it and pushed over a pice of paper: „fill out the form here.“ I looked her in the eyes and saw nothing but a wide staring just waiting for any response and I filled it out without any comment and went to my room. It was the perfect European hostel and hotel experience turning any traveller into a beggar and submissive object of moods of owners and staff. I noticed the WIFI router on the reception desk and its many antennas and also that she gave me the room next to the reception and so herself. ‘Promising’ I thought. „The WIFI“ is often a synonym these days for electronic harassment in cheap hotels around the world, sometimes they advertise it as „extra strong WIFI“ to attract customers with „special needs or wishes“, those who are addicted to microwave pollution of any kind maybe, I still can’t get the clue, but they just want to control us and keep us away at daytime.

A typical AOI mutation seen these days with more and more supports. „We should replace all drugs with microwave modulations of all spectres and forms“ said technical agent Stephen Sweetlick on the last AOI kick off meeting in Kiev. „The vast majority of the gay crowd is willing to follow us this way and give the meth and scag all up, the E as well. They are forming a new cult out of that: „We all have to shine in the frying pan“ is a new song of Gaylords and the Turbosphincters this year in the internet. This proves without any doubt that we are right in the AOI to turn society in a new direction. „the slogan ‘We are not living in the eighties anymore, things have to be changed. Push the Grandfather from his free seat on a park bench’ is replaced this season by „Grandfathers shines and swings with us in the ray-dom habit – he loves the mindswing devices in his park“. Bars and clubs have been formed in the posh test centres as Reykjavik, Kopenhagen, Cologne, Ibiza, Mykonos and Paris with radiating mood enhancement machines under each seat and are sizzling with success. Nobody wants anything else but this, drug dealers are running berserk without customers. „We are doing good, we are doing good we create a safe new society“ ” We swing your mind we enhance your mood – we will all shine bright as stars” He raised his fist in the air and began to yell for some minutes until the crowd of AOI agents followed him by „hail hail hail“ choruses and stamped on the floor untilthe hall was vibrating also from there stampede. „The slogan will be incorporated in the next years grand street parade and pumped out of the leading parade wagon. No doubt, this will be the next step in the final transformation of all societes into wave and radiation only system nobody wants to evade because ‘it is all good, it is all good, it is all good because this is god, god, god’“ He again raised his fists and the lights were blackened while the AOI expert crowd was extasing away in special celebration modulations waves from giant “bubble machines” that made some of them copulate with each other and others ejaculate on the floor while the were yelling „anybody has to be fried, anybody has to be fried until we are all done and ready“ while others were transported away with exploded face tissues. Those had to much body fat. “Reduce your body fat index, reduce your body fat index, you cowards and deserters“ the crowd was howling. Sweetlick commented, „take them to the cremation centre if it looks to ugly and calm them down before, I don’t want to be disturbed by their sight in the streets of Berlin “

The room was just a typical Moroccan hotel room with a washbasin, and a metal bed frame with a mattress and colored bed sheets and blankets. „’Looks ok’ I thought when I heard the sweet summing in my ear after she turned on the „WIFI“ in the recption becoming stronger until it was like a dull insects trying to commit suicide after I swallowed it because my stomach begant to „feel the vibe „ as well. ‘OK, the usual travellers delight, let us see if I can sleep at all’. I undressed, fixed a towel around my hips and went to the shower outside. I wore a T-Shirt and the long towel so, I thought, that would be enough to calm the anger of the alleged islamist commando in the „chambre prive“ watching me eventually. The shower looked like in the „Tales of 1001 Nights“, it opened to a room with a thick carpet as a curtain and door for the shower, there was no real door with a lock to close. What a brilliant and tempting honeypot I thought: a serail and a steaming shower where you undress and feel so relaxed because there are carpets and I saw no door to close. You can’t leave your money in a room in hotel, well, you take it with you into the shower. Where to put it there? Oh there is a metal hook just beside the curtain, hang it there the money belt with your credit card and cash and passport. Or what would you do? Hang it near the door, oh, there is no door, hang it near the shower curtain and relax under the shower. Close your eyes and wash your hair, rinse the shampoo out of your hair and forget about everything, about the dust and hassle on the street, you have a safe showerroom. Then you are ready and you dry yourself with a towel. You have rinsed that stress and hassle and dust and some annyoing kifsmokers on the street and the cold receptionists away and out with that delightful shower. Then you leave the shower and your eyes roam around in the room and your nerves are suddenly in highest alert, it is shooting thru the synapses, the red hot alarm signals, the adrenaline rushes with such a speed you are in a state of acute shock. Everything has changed within a milisecond: the moneybelt is gone. It is just gone. Nothing more has happened. You have not seen anybody, you have not heard anybody. There is just an empty space at the wall under the hook were the moneybelt hung before. Now you are in the state of an antilope that is surrounded by lions in the Serengeti: hastily you search for rescue. You look arround with widened eyes, searching for the moneybelt in the cabin, you throw around your clothes, you search within the clothes. Under the curtain on the floor? At the top of the curtain? No, it is just gone as if it was 1001 Nights. You still can’t believe it. It can not be true, whre was I. Just in that room, just in that room. Did I leave it in the hotel room? No it was there at the hook, at the hook. How is that possible? You dress quicky and approach the reception. Nobody is there. You shout and yell: “hello, please help me!“ And somebody arrives, in a cool and tempted manner and does not even look at you. „I lost my moneybelt in the shower! Everything is gone, help me please! It is just gone, I had it there“. „Let’s look“ the man says, or the woman „come on“ and walks with the guest to the shower. He opens it and looks around: „there is absolutely nothing!“ he says „or do you talk about this“ hes says and holds an shampoo bottle in his hand. You look at him with eyes wide open and you say without a tone in your voice: „my moneybelt! All I had was in there, everything“. „I am really sorry Sir/ Madam, but nobody was here except me, so who can take it and I was back in the private room. Didn’t you lock the shower?“ „No, no, there is no door!“. The receptionist smiles and shows the hidden sliding door hat can close the shower. „Didn’t you see that?“ „No, no, no, I didn’t, my money is gone!“ „I doubt that strongly“ he says, because there were no guests here, only me and I was back, but you did not close the shower you say. So you accuse me and I have nothing to do with it! So either you leave the hotel now and never return or I will report you to the police!“

That is one story that usually happened in showers of cheap or middle class hotels in the Kingdom. Or the warm water is suddenly gone and you step out for 10 seconds. Come back and your moneybelt is gone – a ghost has entered, maybe a ghoul of INTERZONE. And if it is not gone and you carry it with you and complain with the hotel owner about the cold water and he will show you the empty gas bottle for the heating and exchange it and turn it on before your eyes. Then you undress again and try the warm water. It will not work at all off course. You get angry and jump out of the shower because nobody was there before and approach the hotel owner again. That’s it. Return into an empty shower cabin and die of despair there….

But no, this did not happen in my hotel ever, because I saw it and put my money belt into a plastic bag thrice and showered with it. I even put it between my legs when I dried myself with the towel and never gave it out of my hand. But it happened to many others. I am a well know cash man and even the worst animals of international politics know that and tell their policemen where to find me and why to steal and rob my money, my radios, my cameras, my dirty underwear because they are afraid of me and my writing.

So I went out with a towel around my hips, and a T-Shirt and my moneybelt on and slippers at my feet when I met Aisha the hotel owner a few meters away from the shower when I was returning to my room. She was high with anger with me up to the rafter and shouted: „one Dollar, one Dollar for the shower and you have door there to close, close door.“ „Well I was behind a curtain and I saw no door. It is a dark room and I was not to be seen“ „It is there, it is a hidden sliding door why you walk naked here, why?“ „Well I am not naked but totally covered and how do you know how I was in the shower?“ She did not answer but hasted away into the „chambre privee“. I let that slip but an unpleasant feeling prevailed. I put one dollar on the reception desk. That was my first day in Chaouiville, the capital.

I walked around in the Medina and was astonished about the post-medivial continuity of the image presented to me since the early eighties. Still the old gut feeling about olive vendors with open buckets full of olives in hand made vinegar and so on, meat from freshly slaughtered animals hanging from the ceilings of small stalls and so on, we all know it, what it is like. But it wasn’t, it was different, it was not as hollow as Copenhagen is these days or Paris, not just so bad, but there was a force that most travellers did not even feel or can name, because they have been distracted from it: it is the AOI. Travellers? There were none, no travellers in Rabat at all except me and a tourist group from charter tours leaving within hours. Mhmm…the muslim people around me seemed to ignore me, no more ‘you want this, you want that’ no more „hashish, kif’ nothing.

So I went to cafe were the smokers are, they even have two in a row full of kif and hash smokers constantly telling each other stories and rolling joints with hash, some we smoking kif from traditional pipes. That part was untouched, it was even more than before, they smoked without any inhibition in the smokers cafes. I unpacked my notebook and began to write but they did not like it at all because I did something…..and began to start a typical show around that. They were also AOI, distracting me from writing: they blow hash smoke in my face all the time simply they wanted me to talk with them, smoke with them and later be their sex toy maybe. But I was not one of them, I was just a writer, so they blew and blew and blew: hash smoke in my face and then they were happy when I could not write anymore when I was stoned from their excellent material. I went to toilet to have a break from their crazyness and: one of them had ignited one of their stinkbombs inside before: he had smoked a full joint inside and closed the door hermetically so the laughter was all theirs when I returned. But they remained old friends, crazy remnants of the past in a male only society of the Kif Brotherhood that will soon be taken down I guess.

But women were there on the streets and in fancy food stalls. They were everywhere and they were owning the place somehow by a force that was also unfamiliar but yet: I knew it. Not just like it was in the former Eastern block but….they were blocking somehow and talking about the people on the street it seemed because they had sometimes a sisniste look around them. But they did nothing to prove that yet, the were just walking and this very slow, some alone, some in pairs, some in small groups and always in a different speed than all other and always whispering to each other. And these others were just men and very few traditional women in their traditional garn. The army around me wore long colored or uniform colored coats and colored long headscarves and usually had a plump appearance. I tried to ignore them but I couldn’t, it was merely impossible. They ruled the place with stubborn as if it is noting attitude and a mediocrity we have only observed late sixties in Germany in small towns, when the squareheads from the war generation had still the power and ruled about us in public by continously talking about people behind thier backs.

Suddenly I felt their view in my back and heard whispering voices: „who is that lunatic here, do you know him?“ „he is here to do it to us they told me, he wants to do it to us all, he is a kafir“. „he is doing all those things to women, they told me, he takes his thing out and does it to me.“ ‘ooops’ I thought, ‘better move out a bit, but that is just a laugh, I thought, just a laugh these days, they are just getting excited. The King has done well to send them on the streets, they will learn how life is.’, the old fashioned humanist was still talking inside me. Instead of further walking thru the streets I returned to the border areas to the Ville Noveau, watching policemen with baseball caps kicking the poorest vendors on the ground selling paper towels and used batteries and cheapest stuff like this. They were just taking their things and packed it all together to move it out. I have never seen that before, that distance between those new style cops in blue uniforms and the poor local people. They did not care at all about them, they took their belongings, grabbed it together and throw it into a police van, blocking the medina street. Another cop was holding an older hasheesh smoker at his arms, shouting to him and beating him with the open palm while the man looked absolutely concerned and hopeless. „He beat a child he beat a child“ one of the women shouted without any inhibitions. “No no“ he said, „she fell just because she was stumbling“. „You do this, you do this“ the cop shouted and grabbed him harder. I walked on because I felt a wave of anger toward me and the staring of the New Women towards me so I looked the other way and walked on, not caring for the poor scenery they displayed. I would be the next victim, that was for sure.

I took a chair in one of the big cafes a little bit outside of the Medina and realized I was not unwelcome but also not welcome. That indifference in the air was hardest to take. I hate that – pure disregard or even hate directed towrds me is quite easy to take. It was not common before,let’ssay thirty or even twenty years ago in the koingdom: they tested you nout within ten minutes and you got your place: idiot or coll kif smoker or crazy kif smoker or just honorable man. This does not happen anymore now. The owner had a typical Moghrebian or Algerian face with a thin moustache and a meagre look they had usually in the seventies and eighties. I ordered coffee and opened my notebook to write ignoring the looks, what the fuck.

I wrote a bit and gave a beggar a small zakat of ten cents, that was also still alive: beggars in cafes and aroundand went on writing. An old women in tradional garn came to me and asked me if she could take the sugar, she was not feeling well. „Off course“ I said and reached her the small plate with sugar cubes and she took it. Somebody rushed beside me and yelled loud to her „go away, go away, no stealing my sugar“. I turned around and told him: „let her, I gave her the sugar“. That did not stop him and he shouted and yelled around „what a stupid man, give away my sugar, my sugar“. I could not believe his indiscrete act of hostility not only towards her but also me and I told him again: „stop insulting me. It was my sugar with my coffee and I can give what I want“. His look was full of hate and anger and annoyance suddenly and he was talking to the men in the cafe. They started staring at me and began to smile. I stood up, paid that piece of shit and went away.

Searching for another place to write and live I searched inside the Medina again and realized that the food has changed remarkably. Traditional homemades were disappearing and middle eastern food was established in sterile snack shops and food stalls beside Hamburgers and Tacos. Jellabas were disappearing and substituted by middle eastern islamist outfits for the male. The women wore those ankle long King and Queen coats and headscarves in colors mostly. I passed a window of a photographer shop and saw the Kngdoms flag and in the middle of the windowthe Saudi flag. Walls had murals with a huge Saudi flag, Saudi banks, an lot of „Riad“ agencies and hotels and busniesses and everywhere these women, as if a female army was swarming around. „That is him“ I heard behind my back, „he wanted to rape a grandmother in the cafe of Ibrahim“, „Yes, the kafir from that hotel, he is running around there naked with his big thing in his hand all day“, „why is he here?“ „First he wanted to take me, that is why, he is always around, then he wanted that grandmother in the cafe, but she could escape. Ibrahim and our men helped her“ „And this was all nothing, this is all nothing, when they go against us women!“, „what will the people say?“ „we teach them all about that kafir today, they will know then“. „Everybody is crazy in Chaouiville, all are crazy“.

I went back to my Aisha hotel immediately to check out. All of the three women in headscarves were staring at me and turned their heads away suddenly with utter disgust when I passed them with a fresh and innocent „Bon jour“. I opened my room and did not find my radio, it was definetely gone. „This crazy man there is listening radio, as if this was nothing“ I remembered that from a bus in the North of the Kingdom, when we were passing tapes ripped out of music cassettes stil used there until toiday and destroyed CD’s on the streets. Time to leave urgently. I grabbed everything I still posessed and banged my key on the desk.

Searching a new hotel in the medina. Was I crazy? Because I smelled that dangerous rat now like an unwashed jihadist in a bus seated directly beside me but I moved on into the heart of darkness. I could not grab that reality around me becasue I was posessed by the images of the past. No, I was still walking in the past, I was walking in a Moghrebia that appeared in Crosby Still, Nash and Young songs with old men with a kif pipe and endless smiles or faces as if hammered out of stone, chicken in trains and endless harassement ending in good luck and happy purchases too often, in disaster sometimes, and magical charms everywhere and the mystery of the Berber spells and hidden secrets in small shops. I walked out from this world into the modern veiled Moghrebia of Queen Esther and could not see it. It was made somewhee else. It was made in the salons of the capitol of the Grand Nation, it was made in the secret chambres of the fraternite. It was made for the future, it was made for good, it was made to change things a bit, it was made to alter reality, it was made to liberate the women, it wss made to create a modern nation, it was for liberte, fraternite, egalite. I passed bank after bank in the medina as well, as much as small grocery shops before. Rectangular counters with marbles and one, sometimes two ATM machines waiting without clients for all the middle class and rich people that would walk on then half empty streets without poor people and self made food but with fancy shops where to buy veils in all modern colors from Paris and the new outfit for men with a small white caps, long thin trousers and a long shirt, that suited well with the half long beards still to be seen in the medina here, in Oman, in Riad, in Dubai, in Karachi, in Brussels, in Paris and London as well. I looked at dozens of Snack Shops with the same food: Tacos were most favoured, hamburgers too, muslim halal style, as in Oman and Dubai, even Falafel was now available, more than 5000 km away from the next nation feeding that to the poor in the Middle East. Why not, I thought, a young generation is changing things, why not to calm myself and try to accept the void I am feeling about the absence of what? The absence of the magical world the kingdom has housed before. But you don’t see it directly, it is just a slight feeling that develops; something is not right, something has been taken. And remnants are still there and these remnants trick you because they do not work out. They wander around and search for the world they have lost but can’t find the binding links of it, because there are only remnants around as they are themselves. But King Nchaoui has provided them with nice new buidlings instead: modern railway stations, designed in Paris, Grenoble and Toulouse, housing complexes in the North to give breeding ground to the nice white small caps with beards and fully veiled wives like in France. That has King Nchaoui given to them, together with his wife Esther, who is so modern with her open hair and so traditional as well in her traditional garments so they decided to „change more to be different“ and build new avangardistic buildings for dozens of millions of dollar directly near old railway stations, even touching them and they presented their people something really spectacular: a new harbour in the East of the Kingdom of Moghrebia: they have a spectacular natural harbour there in the east at the Mediterrenean coast like hammered out of the rocks with a huge sand beach in between and many ships and Yachts of the rich and the famous were harbour ed there when they celebrated their busisness they had often with the good people from the Chemel. King Nchouai wanted to put his imprint on all that to transport it into the new age and let his people from Nchouai-Ville built a modern harbour temple as a architectonial sculpture directly like the pyramids of Centre Pompidou in the middle of that beach to show anybody that he is modernizing the Kingdom of Mohammedia to be celebrated not only by his New People he is creating by taking them home from France but also by the Masters in Paris himself who worship and praise him as never before to drive all the old people out and establish a modern presidential style autocratic systme as they have by pushing old customs and traditions to the brink of extinction. So the natural harbour there was split in the midle by a rectangular spaceship, a futuristic piece of French delight so that no more boats and yachts were necessary to celebrate the glory and riches of his kingdom. They stayed away since that masterpiece was created and also the other unwanted visitors from the past, the travellers and small entrepreneuers stayed away. Those who still came because of the glorious image of the past were treated as straydogs there by the Kings command and even denied water and foods in some cafes and restaurants – they felt so sory that the disturbed his dreams and stayed all away so his dicipels have the fortune to worship his masterly monument in the harbour all alone. This was all celebrated in the fancy hotels and in the 200000 Euro Winnebagos in which the French masters stayed in his muslim Kingdom.

In Nchouai-Ville they did not do that. It was too much in the centre of the Kingdom. Too well known, too much watched. Instead they changed the customs into a panislamic festival modulating all the old arabic and berber regional traditions into nonexistence and playing with the islamists to do so. Queen Esthers women had me in their grips. It was the AOI telling the New Women of Moghrebia that I was there and I was writing. „Why is this kafir writing? Nobody wants this, nobody knows“. „There is one book, the holy Koran that is enough, he can read that.“ „is it forbiiden to write?“ „No but if a kafir writes something poisonous will come out“.

I tried on, I still believed in them, in the writers they had in the old times I knew personally and I ignored the ugly ghosts around me, blocking my ways in the medina with three or four, staring at me in the Noveau Ville, backtalking and so I used my established contacts in the medina. In that traditional restaurant run by older men with the traditional recipes Moghrebia has to offer and what I was famous for I was waiting for my waiter when he approached me with a loud „Salam Aleikum!“. It hit me as a shock, he has never said that before. I looked up and at him and he stood thee, waiting, not friendly smiling as usual but with a sarcastic grin when I repeated exactly what I said „Salam Aleikum“ and „Bonjour Monsieur“ by avoidig Alleikum Salam and by that denying him the muslm answer to Salam Aleikum. He was shocked and did not know what to do. He was stealing himself away. He had played the role of the liberal but typical semi modern citizen far away from insisting on muslim customs with a foreigner. The bond was broken at that point immediately – we both felt it. Our both imaginations about each other fell, I thought before he is the typical follower of the old king, leaving his religion if he ever followed it in the closet at home and supports the laizist state. A short moment I thought this could be a warning, that I was regaded as dangerous non-believer but tjis was just a selfmade twist that woiuld not work out in reality in Moghrebia.

I ate silently and not angry but annoyed and down and stepped out and saw for the first time about 50 men praying on the median street although the mosque was half empty. It nearly looked as worse as Paris.

I knew now I was done but I still thank the restaurant waiter for his honesty to show me what the New Times of King Nchaoui and Quenn Esther really meant:: I was like many on a watch list of the islamist, they had already build up the stage for my trial and execution.

Whatever that is today in Moghrebia, or might be, an execution. They can not stone you to death on a public square yet or whip you to death, because that’s what it usually means: torture to death, but they are building it up and you will never see the real players until it is ultimatively too late, as in Syria. When I walked to my new old fashioned muslim hotel, a travvelkers and hippes and freaks delight in the seventies and eighties in the middle of the Medina that I had chosen before in an outbreak of postive energy I knew I was done. It could not be denied anymore. I climbed the stairs in total silence and secrecy and went to my room, opened it and went inside when I saw a policemen sanding in the room on the other side of the patio. He looked at me with ań empty and stern face and put on his police cap. I went out again and passed the reception where the old man running the nbhotel was sitting or lying always. He greeted me with overwhelming enthusiasm „ca va bien, ca va bien?“ and grinned and smiled. I walked to the MacDonald because I could not stand the attitude in the cafes at allanymore and had hours of writing with other poor refugees who were using the place for interaction and writing and whatelse. For the first time I had the feeling of not being watched by slimy scumheads. I left after midnight and walked to the Medina not on the main boulevard but through another road. „Whooff, whoff, whooff“ it made suddenly beside me and then I saw IT: a giant Rottweiler dog was jumping directly towards me in the dark. I moved to the side a bit and he ran full speed fifty, hundered, two hundred meters along the lane and the he turned and ran full speed back and jumped when he was near me as if he would catch me back to his two masters, two AOI agents with basbeall caps just like those policemen who were kicking down the poor in the Medina. Nobody said a word. The two animals were just staring dfrom under their baseball caps with hollow faces in my directions. And on it went. The killer machine, I have never seen one like this ever before in a muslim country, was running up and down beside me and jumped towards my direction when nit approached me. I walked away in a speed a bit faster than normal. That was all I could do. I was in their hands but in full atack mood. The Islamic Salvation front has started its first physical attack and I had my hands an my pocket knife ready to kill all of those animals if the dog would bite me. An attack by a German Rottweiler is a deadly matter at night always. They never stop biting thru to your bones until you look like a dead politicalprisoner in Bergen Belsen concentration camp. Nobody knows how to handle them here at all and there is only one move when one of those Germen killier machines attack: kill them on the spot no questions asked – no matter what happens to their masters later…..

I opened my hotel room and it was all there: luggage and sanitary items unmoved and I could sleep. Next morning I walked through the Medina with empyt staring albehind me. Nobody dared to speak a word. Same as the phony hotel owner. It was even too much for the Moghrebians to play the sweet and gentle after this. They were angry that they could not lock me into a cage as the Islamic State did in Syria with three or four Rottweilers for execution maybe, I thought when I passed the shop with the Saudi flag. I walked one of the very small lanes in the Medina for the first time becaue before I rspected that as a family space whre the traditional women ruled. That was not necessary anymore because that system is out of order now. The women are on the street for the Salvation Front and the Salvation Front is i the small lanes and vilages. I had my small camera with me in my pocket for evidence and at one time I took it out to take a picture of islamist propaganda. Nobody was there at all and I walked on when suddenly I heard a voice from behind: You are jew, you are jew!“. I nturned around and this was the first time I saw one of them, later they were after me in bus stations of Moghrebia everywhere in full Jihadi outfit and a secret service smartphone: a man from an islamist movement, I walked on and he got angry: „Jew,jew, jew“ That was the next stupidity those women of King and Queen of Moghrebia have told them. The sex hungry writing jew artist to rape them and spoil their holy book and their new French-German lifestyle that goes well with it in the Kingdom. I just moved, turned around once and said „NO!“ into his hate driven face totally unknown to me. I reached open space where a group of young Moghrebinians played a music game with traditional Berber music with loud and playful singing and dancing just as a rehearsel. They were left totally alone there in spite of all the noise and movement they created but attracted hatefulviews and commets by the Arabs around. I made a short movie nof them that was brilliant, full of life and extasy from the old Moghrebia and then went away before the Salvation Front and the police were getting to angry. They were all soaring with hate, disgust and misbelief about what they saw and heard. Those were young people from the Southern Berber tribes regarded as kafirs in Nchaoui-Ville. I moved on and was attracted by more music some kilometers away out of a Pavillion they were playing loud Rai music. Wow I thought, maybe things are getting better, not without a sarcastic undertone. There was no more music to be heard in the kingdom in public except koran chants without any instrumenst. TV was restricted to football,allhe rest was haram to the new citizens of King Nchaoui and Queen Esther. I placed myself in a chair zhere to enjoy at least one nsmall glimpse of life. When talking to young people sometimes they take out a smartphoe nand show you recordings of Rai music in secrecy and say „all from Algeria, you must go to Algeria to listen“. But here suddenly. Rai music in the open space. It did nozt last more than than five minutes.

„Whooff, whoff, whooff“ it made and baaang, the giant dark German Rottweiler popped up and was passing me wih fullspeed not m,ore than ten centimeters beside my legs. Some dark figures appeared i the back pretending that he escaped becaue he only had a plastci rope around his neck. I spat on the floor and just moved out. Tthe dog doing exactly the same as the night before. Running hunderede meters and then coming back barking at me and passing me very close.

I walked away and was watched by uniformed policemen with empty faces and hollow but stern looks and I decided to leave that fucking place. I made it out by takin out my long Moghrebian knife, that was always the first aid in the kingdom, that I knew for sure and those New Citizens have not forgotten that remedy. They know I am serious since I am a young man and they tried to harass and rob us in a hotelroom in the North when we were youngsters. Just show them what you do to a melon instaed of their throats first, they will instantly know if you are serious. And I am, I never was one of those freaks whose girlfried got boned by half of the hash dealer crews and who bought hash pushed on them and then returned to the dealers when they were in jail by the police. Or even better, not being one of those piss artists who broke down a kilo of hash the just bought under pressure and flushed it down a Moghrebian toilet in a hotel. A good knife is cheaper: just 8 Dollars and it works fine if you know what you are doing and are able to do it. This part of their culture they have never forgotten, so they called me one of them, because I had shown them in the past also when I broke some chairs on their backs when they threw a wrapped slap of hash in my soup in a Medina restaurant and the hot liquid splashed in my face. „You are as crazy as we!“ You can bet I am, and I got free tea then for being cool, but now I went away and decided to eat some ggod food in a restaurant in the new part of town. It was not posh and there were modern women without veil but the owner had a beard I did not like at all. But the food looked brilliant and healthy so I took a seat outside near the huge fridge for the softdrinks. I orers soupand salad. The salad arrived and was good, but not the soup. I ordered again and was waiting and waiting. Suddenly it felt really hot on my right side. The fridge was humming differently now and emitted a horrible heat that burnt my face and my right side. I cxould not see properly anymore, my eysight was clearly foggy. I called the piece of shit and he arived with the soup. I just looked at his fridge with a look as if I had my knife at his throat. „I have many friends in Germany and alos here in Nchaoui-Ville in diplomatic village“ he said and unplugged his killer machine beside me. The humming stopped and the heat waves diminished immediatly. I ate my soup. It was the best I have eaten this term in the Kingdom. It was as cheap as it was in Lithuania.

Copyright Ronald C. Kaiser 2018