I am protected . . .

My heartfelt appreciation goes out to all of you who have taken the time and trouble to send me "forwards" over the past 6 months.

Thank you for making me feel safe, secure, blessed and healthy.

Extra thanks to whoever sent me the email about rat crap in the glue on envelopes - I now have to go get a wet towel every time I need to seal an envelope.

Also, I scrub the top of every can I open for the same reason.

Because of your genuine concern, I no longer drink Coca Cola because I know it can remove toilet stains, which is not exactly an appealing characteristic.

I no longer check the coin return on pay phones because I could be pricked with a needle infected with AIDS.

I no longer use cancer-causing deodorants even though I smell like a water buffalo on a hot day.

I no longer go to shopping malls because someone might drug me with a perfume sample and rob me.

I no longer eat KFC because their "chickens" are actually horrible mutant freaks with no eyes or feathers.

I no longer worry about my soul because at last count, I have 363,214 angels looking out for me. Thanks to you, I have learned that God only answers my prayers if I forward an e-mail to seven of my friends and make a wish within five minutes.

I no longer have any savings because I gave it to a sick girl on the internet who is about to die in the hospital (for the 1,387,258th time).

I no longer have any money at all in fact - but that will change once I receive the $15,000 that Microsoft and AOL are sending me for participating in their special on-line email program.

Yes, I want to thank you all so much for looking out for me that I will now return the favour!

If you don't send this e-mail to at least 144,000 people in the next 7 minutes, a large pigeon with a wicked case of diarrhoea will land on your head at 5:00 PM (EST) this afternoon.

I know this will occur because it actually happened to a friend of my next door neighbour's ex-mother-in-law's second husband's cousin's beautician.

DO IT NOW OR ELSE.

And have a nice day!

I take your words . . .

Is it by luck or is it a "devil's" trick that some words seams to have two meanings?
Take a look at these words . . . . is it only coincidence??

.

.

DORMITORY:

When you rearrange the letters:

DIRTY ROOM

.

.

PRESBYTERIAN:

When you rearrange the letters:

BEST IN PRAYER

.

.

ASTRONOMER:

When you rearrange the letters:

MOON STARER

.

.

DESPERATION:

When you rearrange the letters:

A ROPE ENDS IT

.

.

THE EYES:

When you rearrange the letters:

THEY SEE

.

.

GEORGE BUSH:

When you rearrange the letters:

HE BUGS GORE

.

.

THE MORSE CODE:

When you rearrange the letters:

HERE COME DOTS

.

.

SLOT MACHINES:

When you rearrange the letters:

CASH LOST IN ME

.

.

ANIMOSITY:

When you rearrange the letters:

IS NO AMITY

.

.

ELECTION RESULTS:

When you rearrange the letters:

LIES - LET'S RECOUNT

.

.

SNOOZE ALARMS:

When you rearrange the letters:

ALAS! NO MORE Z 'S

.

.

A DECIMAL POINT:

When you rearrange the letters:

IM A DOT IN PLACE

.

.

THE EARTHQUAKES:

When you rearrange the letters:

THAT QUEER SHAKE

.

.

ELEVEN PLUS TWO:

When you rearrange the letters:

TWELVE PLUS ONE

.

.

AND FOR THE GRAND FINALE:

.

.

.

.

MOTHER-IN-LAW:

When you rearrange the letters:

WOMAN HITLER

The child of another brand

Answer to SM abt. my previous blogg.
SM: Yes, unfortunately it is true (the stories are true) and the worse part of it is that most of them get lost as children. But also grown-ups...as you can read about in my blogg "Travel over silent water" and cases like the one I will write about in this blogg . . . Why am I so concerned about other people I trauma??? Because I have been there myself . . . The story about how I came out of it is to be found in my book “Tell Me Who I Am” . . . ISBN: 18440 17370

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

The best way of learning a new place, I found out, was to take any bus to the end-station and back again. Write down the number of the bus, from where you took it, where it went around town and the name of the end-station.
Usually, this brings up some funny experiences with the other on the bus and the bus-driver, who believe you have gone lost . . . .
But sometimes, you get witness to something you wish you never had experienced.

As usually, I had taken the bus from where I lived to go for a new route through the city.
When I came to the end-station, I left the bus to go for a walk around to see what the place had to offer. After an hours walk, I went back to the bus-station again to wait for my bus to bring me back home again.
As I was sitting there, I noticed a woman coming with another bus. She was well dressed and had a child at her hand also well dressed. They had just left their bus, but didn’t make any sign of leaving the bus-station, so I assumed that they should continue with another bus.
The woman took her child to a bench and told her to sit there. It was then I noticed that the child had “Downs syndrome”.
It was a beautiful well behaved child about 5 years old. But . . . . she was different than other children, disabled, of a different brand . . . she had “Downs Syndrome.”
Suddenly, the woman made signals to run towards a bus that just started to wheel out from the station. She gave the child a kiss and said: “Sit here until I come back, Maha.”
She started to run towards the bus as the child called for her: “Mom, don’t leave me. Mom, don’t leave me . . . .I’m afraid.”
In a flash of a second, I understood that the woman actually had in her mind to leave the child behind to her own destiny.
I run after the woman and took a hold of her arm.
“You are not leaving your child behind, madam?” I asked
She pulled her arm, looked at me and said: “It’s none of your business. Leave me and let me take the bus.”
“ Not without your daughter, madam” I said “Why do you leave her behind to her own destiny?”
I hold her back until the bus had left. She got angry and said: “ I don’t want her. You don’t know how it is to have a child like that.”
I replied: “That . . . you don’t know anything about, madam. I maybe know more than you ever can imagine. If you don’t want your child, it is a better way of doing this than what you are doing now.”
I continued: “If you don’t want her, why don’t you put her up for adoption or find a good orphanage for her?”
She looked at me, then run to her daughter and gave her a last kiss and said: “Mom loves you. Remember that, sweetie.”
She turned to a man at a distance that also had noticed the scene and said: “Will you look after her for me, I don’t care what you’re doing with her, but I don’t want her.”
Again she went for a bus.
The child started to cry and called: “Mom, please don’t leave me.”
Again I took hold of her and said: “Remember madam, If you leave your child in this way. It will not help if you tomorrow put on a veil to show the people around your false sorrow of the loss of your child.”
She shouted at me : “Let me go, I’m not Muslim so I’m not going to put on any veil.”
“Remember one thing madam” I said, suddenly with calm voice . . . “If you leave your child like this, your God will leave you in the same way in the same minute you enter that bus and as you refuse to look back at your child, your God will not look back at you neither.”
“I only want you to know that, when your life start to go against you.” I ended
She said: “I will not let you convince me to change my mind. She has to leave me.” She gave a nod towards her daughter.
She jumped on a bus and disappeared.
I stood helpless behind and didn’t know what to do. I went towards the girl and thought I maybe could go to the police-station to get an address to any orphanage.

But before I reached her, the man came and took her hand and fast disappeared between all the people.
I felt numb; I didn’t have any good feelings about the man’s intention when it came to the best for the child. He was not from the social level that could do anything, more so . . . I had caught him in rubbing his genitals, while looking at the scene between me and the woman.
I was left behind . . . . without a chance to stop a catastrophe . . . without a chance to help a helpless little child.
How can anyone have a heart to do something like this??
Although this happened many years ago, I cannot forget it. Every time I see a street-child in the streets of Cairo . . . I hear the little girl calling; “Mom, don’t leave me, don’t leave me. I’m afraid, mom.”

When you are in the hands of God. . .

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

Who become street-children in a city like Cairo?
Some of the children are run-away children from poor families, some are children set out by their parents because of one or another defect, like the girl I will write about in my next story, but most of he street-children are actually children who have lost their way home.
It has happened several times that I have picked up children early enough to be able to help them home. To put them on correct bus or to go with them in a taxi to their part of the city until they recognize where they are and can find their way home.
Some situations fasten more in my memory than others . . . .
Like the time when I met this boy . . .
At that time, I lived in an area named Mohandeseen in the Centrum of Cairo. I had just gone shopping and was carrying several plastic-bags with groceries. On my way home I suddenly noticed a boy about 9 years old, running to and from in the street giving a kind of repressed cry, looking at entrances of buildings and from time to time call out: “Mom, mom”
I had already learned the signals of a lost child and already I had noticed that his clothes were of good quality although they were dirty.
I don’t speak fluently Arabic but I can make myself understandable in emergency, go shopping and so on.
I went up to him and asked: “ What is wrong?”
He looked at me and suddenly said a lot I could not understand. I stopped a passing man and said: “This boy try to tell me something but I don’t understand. Can you translate, please? “
The man asked the boy what was wrong and again the boy talked a lot. The man told me that the boy was a beggar and only wanted some money.
The man told me: “Only leave him, he’s impolite . . . he’s asking for LE 20,- (20 Egyptian pound)”
I looked at the man and had a feeling that something was not correct in this case, but I took my groceries and started to walk. After a few steps I stopped and looked back . . . the man had also left and the boy was standing looking after me.
I went back . . . and asked: “Is it money you want?”
He started to cry and said: “NO, no . . . not money”
Again he said a lot I could not understand. I looked into the boy’s face and said: “Come with me. We have to find someone honest to translate.”
He understood my half English, half Arabic. I looked around and saw a pharmacy. In my mind I now intended to approach the pharmacist in a 100% Islamic way to bring him to act serious.
I told the boy to come with me to the pharmacy.
We went in and I said: “ Salam wa Laicum” (With God’s peace)
I continued: “Are you to be counted as a good Muslim? And Sir . . . do you have children?”
He looked at me with surprise and said: “I would believe so, madam. Why do you ask? I have tree children if it counts.”
I said: “I am in a situation where I need an honest man’s help. Are you to be counted honest enough to help a lost person?”
He looked with even bigger surprise and asked: “Are you lost madam?”
I said: “ No, sir. But I have a child here I suspect to be lost. He tries to tell me something but I can not understand him and I need a person who can translate. But don’t do as the previous man I asked. Because he lied to me and said the boy wanted some money, but that is not what he wants.”
I continued: “Sir, when I ask for your help now . . . look at the boy who is with me and imagine he is one of your children who have gone lost. How would you hope, people would have reacted if one your children asked someone for help? Help me now in the way you would like your own child to be helped.”
He looked at me as with fear and his voice was not steady when he said: “ Madam, who are you . . . who can talk such strong words.”
Since I don’t feel it’s funny to be joked with in a serious situation I replied: “ My name is Nour El Islam and just now, I am a tool in the hand of Allah.” I looked strait into his eyes.

His mouth was shivering when he turned to the boy and started to talk with the boy.
He turned to me and said: “The boy said that he can’t find his way home, but he doesn’t remember his name or address or anything. Madam, it’s impossible to help him in this case.”
I said: “Nothing is impossible when you are a tool in the hand of Allah. I’m educated as an antroposoph (The study of the brain) so I know some trick we can do to bring him to remember. With the help of Allah, we will succeed. Please Sir, help me in this. If it comes
customers . . . you take them, but when it’s nobody here, please help me.”

First I had to know for how many days he had been lost. . . He had been lost for 3 days.
For not to slip out of the seriousness of the case I said to the boy: “You have to ask Allah yourself for help. Ask for help to remember and to find your way home.”
He didn’t remember any prayer. (Although he was Muslim)
((I have to tell . . . this is very common that one looses the memory when one are in trauma and as a child the loss of memory can come very fast and fast become very serious. ))
I turned to the boy and said with caring voice: “That’s OK, dear. First of all, you shall know that you will stay with me from now on, until your start to remember. You will sleep in a bed; have food and bath and clean clothes.” (The pharmacist translated to the boy.)
By telling him this, I established the first step to remembering . . . the feeling of security.

I continued: “ I will start to say a prayer and you say after me.”
We did so and afterwards, the pharmacist said another prayer and he repeated after the pharmacist . . . . and then . . . he slowly started to remember the one prayer after the other. It didn’t take many minutes before he could pray his personal prayer for help.

Since he didn’t remember his name, I made a name-game. I told the pharmacist to write down all the names the boy said in the game. First I should say a name, so the pharmacist, so the boy, then it was my turn again and this way we continued for some minutes. We should say names faster and faster without thinking.
I knew that the boy instinctive would say his own name several times.
After some minutes, I asked the pharmacist what name the boy had repeated several times.
It was two names he had repeated more than others. I was sure that one of the names was his, the other was the name of his friend. The names were Mohamad and Ayman.
I told him to go to the door and look out and tell if he could see any dogs.
I told the pharmacist to suddenly call out the one name and I the other. I knew he would react intuitive on his own name. After a minute the pharmacist called: “ Mohamad, are you hungry?” . . . . . . No reaction . . . .
I called: “Ayman, can you see anything?”
He replied: “No, I can’t see any dogs.” . . . .His name was Ayman . . . .
And in the same minute he also remembered that Ayman was his name.
I asked him if he remembered if they had a telephone at home. He was sure about that but could not remember the number.
Now . . . usually one remembers the phone-number in rhythm. Some like; tatata tata tata, (like 456 78 90) or tata tata tata ta, (like 45 67 89 0) or tata tata tatata (like 45 67 890)
Again we had this game, but this time we should say numbers in rhythm.
Again I knew that he would eventually say his own number or a number to someone who knew him.
After some minutes, I asked the pharmacist what numbers of the boy looked like a phone-number. Tree of the numbers could be a phone-number.
He went to the phone and tried to call . . . the first one didn’t work . . . the second one, someone took the phone but they didn’t know him . . . The third number . . . . we got his mom on the phone . . . .
We had found his parents . . . he went to the phone and talked to his mom. As he talked to his mom, he suddenly remembered how he got lost. He had visited a friend after school, but when he should go home, he had entered wrong bus and ended up in a place he didn’t knew and didn’t know what bus to take or from where to come home again.
At that moment my emotions took over and I started to cry. It is so emotional overwhelming to know how easy it is to get lost.
The pharmacist had promised the mother that the boy would stay with him until they came to get him 1 hour later. That was the time of the way from where they lived.
I went home and never actually met his parents . . . . But when I came to work two days later, all my colleagues came running towards me when I arrived.

It had been a program at the television with the boy and his family, where they had told the story and wanted to thank me, since they had not met me in person.
I didn’t have TV . . . so I had not seen the program . . . but I got the message . . .

“Thank you, Nour El Islam.”

I got virus on my PC . . . look what it did to my mouse !

You have to be healthy to dear to be sick. . .

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

If you have not study medicine yourself . . . you better be healthy when you are in Egypt.
After several experiences with doctors, I have given up and trust my own judgement first of all.
Thanks God, I have never had any serious illness or accident, but if something happened . . . I have a doctor in Israel I am going to go to.
My first experience with a doctor here in Egypt, was 15 years ago . . . .
I didn’t feel sick, only had some chough because of the pollution here, but my neighbour thought I was sick and had flu.
So . . . she immediately phoned her brother who was a “doctor”. He didn’t know me nor had he seen me, but over the phone he prescribed me some medication, without my knowing.
The next day, my neighbour came to me with a plastic-bag full of medicine . . . . 25 different kinds of medications.
I looked thorough them . . . one for coughing, one in the case I had ear-ache, one in the case I had fever, One in the case I had head-ache, one to prevent pneumonia, one . . . . .
I looked up at my friend . . . . “What kind of doctor are you brother?” I asked
“Gynaecologist” she answered . . . .
Every day, I took one pill of each and threw in the toilet . . . and everybody was happy.
Another time, I really had some trouble with my stomach. I asked around to find a good doctor. One friend of mine, who are in the upper social class and is the type: ‘ only the best is good enough’ recommended me to go to her doctor.
I went . . . He examined me . . . then he said: “Who is with you?”
I replied: “No one. I am single, live alone and come alone.”
He said: “So then, who shall I talk to? “
“Me” I answered: “You tell me what is wrong, prescribe the medication and tell me how to use it and I take it myself.”
He said: “No, I’m sorry. We don’t do it like that here in Egypt. You have to come with someone I can explain things for and whom I can give the medication to.”
I asked: “Do you mean that whoever shall medicate me without my knowing with medication I don’t know or for what reason I take?”
He continued without listening to me: “Don’t you have any male neighbour or friend . . . it has to be a man . . .not a woman.”
I asked: “Why a man?”
He replied: “How can I tell a woman?”
I said: “Do you mean, that whoever man is good enough. If I go down at the street and stop the first man passing . . . that’s good enough?”
He said: “Yes, that is good enough. He can tell any of your neighbours . . . . I can wait.”
I went down and never returned back.
Another time . . . I thought it was time to take this once-a-year gynaecological examination we women use to take.
I went to a recommended doctor. As we just were finishing all the talking, he told me to go and dress off and put on a paper-gown.
As I passed him, I saw him start to masturbate . . . .
I never dressed off . . .
Another experience was a couple of years ago . . . I had these hot-flashes following the menopause. With hot-flashes in the middle of the summer with + 45C (157.5 F) in the shadow, it became too much for me, so I hoped I could get something for the hot-flashes at least.
I went to a doctor and asked if it was something I could take for the hot-flashes related to menopause.
He said: “Yes, I will prescribe something good for you.”
He gave me a piece of paper and sent me to the pharmacy. I gave the note to the guy . . . . and he gave me the prescribed medication . . . . sun-screen ! ! ! !
I went back to the doctor and said: “Is this an insulting or is it rather that you are not a doctor at all???”
He looked at me . . . confused, and said: “Madam, women in Egypt don’t have menopause.”
I looked at him and said: “Doctor . . . . Do you know the name of what we have between our ears?”
He looked at me . . . thinking . . . and said: “ No . . “
I tried to hold courses in massage, here in Egypt and was looking for books in anatomy. It doesn’t exist. After visiting all the book-shops in Cairo I went to the University hospital “Kasr El Aini Hospital” and asked a doctor: “What kinds of books do the medical students use?”
He guided me to a special shop inside the hospital. I went and looked through the books.
Not one single book had a picture of a whole human . . . . after asking why, I was told that it was not aesthetical. The books they used are the same books we in Scandinavia use in level 6-7-8 secondary school.
So . . . taken after the medical level of education here in Egypt . . . I, myself am a much better doctor that 80% of those in practice. . . .
Because I have study medicine . . . .

When the help was not wanted

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

I worked as massage-therapist at Gold’s Gym, when I one day got a phone-call from Diata. She told me that she had just arrived Cairo one week ago, coming from Canada and was stresses out of her body, so she needed a massage,
She got an appointment the same day (Friday) and I explained to her where I was located. The location should be ever so easy to find for a taxi-driver, since we are on the Nile, between Sheraton hotel and Cairo Zoo.
She had appointment 1:00pm . . . .
12:30pm she called and asked for the way again . . . in which I repeated. . .
1:00pm she called again and told me that the taxi-driver didn’t find it, if someone could explain in Arabic . . .
I gave the phone to one of the girls at the front-desk, who repeated the address and how to come there, in Arabic to the driver.
It showed up, that they were exactly cross the river of where we were, so she told him:
“ Look out the window and cross the river of where you are and you will see the sign of Gold’s Gym. You only cross the river and come down.”
1:30 pm . . she called again. . . . Again I gave the phone to the girl at the front-desk. . .
It showed up that the taxi-driver had taken wrong direction after crossing the bridge, but now wanted to go back . . .
2:00pm . . she called again . . . Now it showed up that the driver had gone towards the pyramids instead of bringing her to where she wanted.
The girl at the front-desk explained one more time how to come to the River Nile.
When she closed the phone, she looked worried at me and said: “I think this driver is not correct. Everybody knows where The River Nile and Cairo Zoo is . . . I’m worried about your client, Kirsten.”
2:30pm . . she called again. To me is appeared as if she was crying when she said: “ Kirsten, I don’t know where I am and I don’t know what to do.”
I told her: “Diata, your taxi-driver is not correct. Take the money you agreed upon out of your bag, keep it in you hand and open the door . . . even if the he is driving, only to force him to stop. Then get out of the car, pay the money through the window and run away from the car.
If you see a police-man nearby, run towards him . . . . Then you take another Taxi home.”
I continued: “Diata, I will call you after ½ hour to be sure you are safe and at home . . . OK?”
She said, still in distress: “OK . . . I will try.”
3:30pm I called her, now sure that she should be at home . . . . no one took the phone .
After this, I tried to call her every half hour without success. She did not take the phone . . . As the time went; I got more and more worried about her.
I send a SMS to her mobile . . . Asking if everything was OK with her.
I got no reply.
Every hour the whole night and the next day, I tried to come in contact with her by calling and sending SMS . . . . I never got any response.
At one point, someone took the phone, but didn’t answer . . .only let the connection stay open. I could hear some kind of music in the background, but no one wanted to talk to me.
Now I wondered . . . Is her mobile stolen, so the thief only didn’t want to talk? If that was the case . . . what had happened with Diata?
I should go to a business-meeting in the evening. (Now it was Saturday) I had trouble with concentrating and at the end, my business associate - Hassan, asked what was wrong.
I told him what had happened and that I was worried that something had happened to Diata.
At that moment another friend of mine - Pamela, from USA and working at US Aid in Cairo, called.
I suddenly could not hold myself and told her what had happened and asked her for advice in how to act.
She told me that I should contact Diata’s embassy, The Canadian Embassy. If she was registered, they could maybe do something.
Hassan volunteered in driving me down to the embassy. When we came, the embassy was closed and would not open before Monday 10:00am. I looked for any security, who would know any emergency-number to call. It was no security, it was no emergency-number to call, it was no one I could contact.
I was amazed. I had never seen any embassy without security, nor had I never heard about that it was no possibilities of emergency-contacts.
I called The Canadian Embassy and left “an emergency call” on the answering-machine, telling them to call me the first thing in the morning when the embassy opened on Monday.
I send a SMS to Diata saying; “Diata, is everything OK? If so, tell me . . . if I don’t get reply, it means that you are in trouble, and I will react according to that.”
I didn’t get any reply . . . . That meant that Diata was in problem. . . .
The police-station was approximately cross the street so I decided to rapport Diata missing. Having in my mind that it usually takes 48 hours before they start to search for a missing person, to give the person a chance to reappear. If I reported Diata missing now, it would already have gone more that 48 hours when her embassy starts looking for her.
Now, it was already 10:00pm Saturday. When we came in to the police-station I was told to speak with the police-officer in charge.
He listened to my story and called for a police-officer in a higher grade than himself.
He came 1 hour later.
I told him what had happened, my worry about Diata and that I had called Diata’s embassy.
The police-officer took a paper and asked: “ what is her fully name?”
I answered: “I don’t know . . . she had just arrived Cairo and the only thing I know is that her first name is Diata.”
He continued: “ Her age?”
I replied: “I don’t know, but taken from her voice, I guess between 35 ~ 40 years”
He looked at me and continued: “ Her address?”
I replied: “I don’t know. I only know she lives one or another place in Helopolis.”
He continued: “How does she look like . . . her appearance?”
I replied; “ I don’t know. I have never seen her before . . . . only heard her voice.”
The police-officer looked at me and said: “Madam . . . . here you come to rapport a person missing. You don’t know her fully name. You don’t know her age. You don’t know her looking. You don’t know her address. Do you expect us to find her??? What shall we look for . . . a ghost???”
It was now 3:30am Sunday morning/night.
The police-officer said: “Well, if you think she lives in Heliopolis, then the case belongs to the department there, so I will send you with escort to Heliopolis.”
Hassan and I were on our way in a police-car to Heliopolis police-station. Hassan aided me as an interpreter.
As we sat in the car, he suddenly whispered to me: “ Kirsten, I think you have come in trouble now. The two police-officers in the front-seat believe you have been playing with them.”
He continued: “ That is a very dangerous situation to come in, Kirsten. You can be taken into custody, and if they forget give a rapport, they may even forget you all together. If you have an emergency-number you can call, now is the time to make that call.”
I had an emergency number to my embassy . . . .
I called and was directed to the person in charge, Joern.
He told me to give the phone to one of the officers in the front-seat of the car.
He talked to the officer, who again made a call to the police head-office at the embassy. When I got the phone back, Joern told me to keep the line open until we had returned to the head-office. Joern chatted with me all the way back . . . . ½ hour.
When we came back to head-office, Joern told me to ask for the officer in charge and give the phone to him.
While we had been on our way to Heliopolis, the top-officer had been called and was there when we arrived.
I gave the phone to him. After he was finish talking with Joern, I got the phone back and Joern said : “ Now, you will be released. Give me a call when you are on your way home, so I’m sure they have released you.” I promised and hung up.
The police-officer looked at me and said: “ I think we have found you missing friend. Will you be able to recognize her voice?”
I said I thought so, but now it had gone 36 hours since I had a sleep, so my concentration started to go slow.
He made a call and gave me the phone. I got Diata on the pone . . . . .! ! !
Since the police had her cell-phone-number, they had called the company which used that sort of numbers. The company had tracked down the phone to find out where the phone was. The phone was in Sharm El Sheik in the south of Sinai.
Now was the question . . . .was the phone stolen, or was Diata in Sharm El Sheik?
When the police had tried to call, no one took the phone. Once someone had opened the phone, but not answered.
The police had then sent an e-mail to all the hotels in Sharm El Sheik asking for a woman from Canada, named Diata.
They had got answer from one hotel. They called the hotel and ordered them to wake up the woman and tell her to take the phone when it rings next time, since the call would be from the police.
That was how they found her.
It showed up . . . . that Diata had only got fed up of everything and with the same taxi-driver she had gone for a week-end in Sharm El Sheik.
I was left behind with the question: “When or how shall I react next time, if believe someone is in danger or trauma? Shall I react at all?”

When the death rides in front of you

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

It was in 1975 we should go for a holiday in the Norwegian mountains by car and caravan. We travelled around and had a grate time, and were on our way back to Oslo when we should go down a mountain where the road slings down the mountain as a snake.
Just when we were on the top, after several swings to come to the top of the mountain, we took a brake before we started our way down on the other side, with like as many swings down.
We had just started the first swing when my husband said: “Oh, Kirsten . . . . I think the brake is gone.”
He tried to stop the care with the hand-brake, but it was not strong enough to stop the car with the caravan, but enough for him to put the car in first gear, so he could use the gear as a brake too.
The road is rather narrow, but I told my husband to go over in the other lane to let the car behind pass on my side. (right side)
My husband (Johnny) did so and I winked the car behind up to my side and made stop-signal to him.
I shouted out the window to him: “Please go down as fast as possible, and call the ‘road-security-force’, we are without brake and go only by hand-brake. When the hand-brake is finish, we will go off the road. Then we need all the help we can get ! “
I continued: “Hurry, before someone comes up in this lane.”
He understood in a flash and continued down as fast as he could.
We took the first swing and tried to give signals to those behind, not to pass.
It had gone only 5 minutes when we saw a police-helicopter came over the top of the mountain, followed by another helicopter from NRK. (The Norwegian radio news company)
At the same time three police-cars came up behind us, one car right behind us, and one car in the left lane to prevent anyone from passing us and another one behind them again.
Johnny held so low speed as he could using the low gear and the hand-brake.
The police called in a high-sounder: “We are called to escort you down the mountain. We know you are without brake and are using only hand-brake.”
They continued: “We have stopped all traffic at the foot of the mountain, so you will not meet anyone coming up. Take the time you need and don’t worry about anything else than to concentrate about the driving.
Try to cut the swings as much as possible, to avoid getting a toss on the caravan.”
We took the next swing in slow speed.
It was 8 swings we should take before we were down.
The police called from behind: “We have both fire-engine and ambulance at the foot of the mountain, ready to come up in the minute you go off the road.”
Now we had taken four swings and we started to hope that we would reach the bottom before the hand-brake got finish.
Suddenly the first gear got loose and we took a push of speed. Johnny fast put the car in second gear, but now we took a little faster speed, but still we had the hand-brake.
The police called from behind: “Keep control, cut the swings, and keep the steer wheel steady.”
We took the next swing just as the hand-brake dropped. Johnny shouted: “We are without hand-brake, Kirsten.”
I shouted to my two children in the backseat: “Get down on the floor and put you arms over your head and stay there until I tell you to come up !”
At that time it was no seat-belt in the back-seat of the cars. So I figured that on the floor they would get less push when we drove off and would not be thrown around.
My children immediately understood the emergency and followed order.
My youngest asked: “Is it dangerous, mom?”
I answered: “Yes, darling. It is a little dangerous, but with the help of God, everything will be OK.”
The police called out to Johnny: “Pump the hand-brake . . . .pump the hand-brake !”
Johnny pumped the hand-brake and then it appeared as if it had some more to go on.
We had two swings left and the police called from behind: “You will make it now, even if you go off the road here. Only keep calm. Don’t loose the control.”
The car took more speed and Johnny shouted to me: “Kirsten, you take the hand-brake and pump. I have to keep the steer wheel.”
I took the hand-brake and pumped . . . rested and pumped . . . rested and pumped.
Right before the swing the hand-brake was totally finish.
The gear got loose and Johnny fast put it in third gear.
We had one swing left.
The speed rose to 40 km pr. Hour . . . 50 ~ 60 km/hr
We came to the last swing . . .in 100 km/hr.
The police called from behind: “Cut the swing and keep the steer wheel steady. You have a long strait road in front of you after this last swing. ”
We took the swing and could see the plain road in front of us, but the speed rose to 120 km/hr.
Suddenly the caravan got a toss and turned over and drew the car with in the process. Both the car and the caravan were on the one side wheels.
The police called from behind: “Hold the steer wheel steady . . . hold the steer wheel steady. You will make it.”
We could see that both the fire-engine and the ambulance people run to their cars at made themselves ready to come in the minute we tipped over.
But the caravan got down again in strait position and so the car, but only for to tip over to the other side.
Again, both the caravan and the car were on one-side wheels.
We could see the police tried to bring the queue of cars to back, since we came all the time closer to them in high speed.
Again the caravan and the car came down on all wheels but continued to wobble a couple of times before finally Johnny said: “Kirsten, I think I have control now . . . I think I am in control now.”
The police called from behind: “You made it . . . you made it . . . congratulation . . . only let the car run until it stops by itself. We are right behind.”

We all came to immediate after-shock emergency, also the children.

The face of mother earth

See . . . I have a problem here . . . I can actually see 15 faces . . . Am I then paranoia???

The teacher of pythagoras

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

I think the experience of being a teacher is the same all over the world.
The children behave approximately in the same way. An average day in grade 8 is as follows:
The bell rang and the children came tumbling into the class-room and bumped down at their seats . . . An incredible noise of shouting, flirting, scratching with the chairs, paper-balls and rubber-pieces goes through the air, for the first 5 minutes.
I stand at the board, waiting for the class to calm down, while I write on the board the date, the name of the weekday and the subject of the lesson (History). . . . When I can “hear my own thoughts” I call out to the class: “So . . . are we ready to start the lesson? Waleed, what subject do we have in this lesson?”
Waleed: “Sex. . . . Ohh, sorry . . . biology.”
Me: “No Waleed. We have History.”
I continue: “Can you open your book at page 58 guys. We have come to page 58 . . . 58 . . . page 58. Did you get that Ronny? . . . Page 58.”
I wait for 2 minutes to let the students come to the page.
“Rana” I says “Can you start to read, please.”
Rana stoops into her bag to get the book . . . after what felt like “forever” she comes up again: “Teacher, I think I have forgotten the book at home. I’m sorry, teacher . . . I really am.”
Me: “So, go and sit with Berta.”
Huge mess and noise as she draws her chair to Berta’s desk.
Rana: “What page?”
Oliver: “Dude ! “
Rana: “Yeah, I only asked, what page?”
Me: “ Christian, can you tell Rana what page we are on.”
Chistian: “ 50 . . . .no, just a minute. “ he’s bladdering in his book to find the page, then says: “No, not 50 . . . 53 . . . I think . . . just a minute.” Bladdering again: “No, 56 maybe . . . “
The class is laughing.
Christian: “Don’t laugh. I know I’m close . . .right teacher???”
Rana is rolling her eyes.
Me: “ Page 58. “ (I’m writing the page-number on the board.)
Waiting for Rana and Berta to open the book at the correct page, not agreeing in what page.
Rana: “What page did you say? “
I’m pointing at the board.
Rana: “Teacher are you angry at me?”
Me: “No Rana, but can we start now? “
Discovering Gert chewing on a gum, I turn to him: “ Gert, can you take out that gum please.”
Gert: “No prob.”
He takes the gum out . . . roll it between two fingers to a small ball and fasten it behind his ear. He looks at me with an innocent glance.
I turn to Rana . . . . waiting for her to start.
Rana: “Teacher, I’m sorry I had forgotten my book. It’s only one thing in the world that I want . . . and that is to make my teacher happy. To remember all my books, do the homework and class-work and make the most out of the lesson . . . . But just today . . . just today, I forgot my book.”
Me thinking:” yeah right. You forget all of it every day.”
Me saying loud: “OK Rana, that’s good . . . can we start now? Start to read from page 58 please.”
Finally . . . the last 35 minutes of the lesson appear as a lesson should be. . . .

My first book got published in June 2006. Only after 4 weeks on the marked, I got contacted by a Russian publisher who was interested in Publishing the book in Russian language. They used the term: "Your book appear as the autentic verson of *Davinci Code*" They will now make it available on the Russian market around Christmas time.
It is available in all book-stores that use distributors like (Gardners in the UK and Ingrams in the US), also making it available to order from most bookstores which use these distributors, such as Ottakars, Waterstones and WHSmiths in the UK. and also at www.amazon.com
Title: "Tell Me Who I Am". . . ISBN: 18440 17370 . . . Publisher: Athena Press LTD

Review of the book

This is a tremendously personal and very unusual book that almost defies description.

It is an account of an individual odyssey through many ways and byways of life and experience. It has some reflections, on the dichotomies of life as a Palestinian, as a wife, as a victim and as a conqueror; but it is not didactic, we do not feel that the author is marching to the beat of one particular drum.

Rather, she allows a free consciousness to associate, or equally to disassociate.

The reader will, when they reach the end, know that they have shared an artistic experience with the writer, the teacher, the companion.

This unusual and poetic creation could, we believe, find a readership.

Mark Sykes
Consultant Editor-In-Chief.

COVER BLURB

Author: Kirsten Nour namskau

Title: Tell Me Who I Am

She is a woman with God-given powers, and the forces of evil are out to get her. Who are they, these powerful and sinister bodies which seem to be all-powerful and are prepared to kidnap, brainwash and rape to gain control of her? They are shadowy organizations which indulge in nameless and terrible practices.

But what are the strange powers she has, and where do they come from? If they come from God, then which God? The God of Christianity or the God of Islam, or another God altogether?

This thought-provoking book is a combination of high drama and profound meditation on the nature of religious truth.

The only one honest. . .

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

In 1979 I was witness to a child got hit by a car and died instantly.
Immediately, it gathered a lot of people and I was pushed behind. I thought that it seamed that it was witnesses enough in this case and both police and ambulance was around the corner, so even before I left . . . they had arrived.
The police-office was actually cross the street of where the accident happened, and there was a man (Hans) with his friend (Gunnar), reporting Hans’s car stolen at the time of the accident. Gunnar had driven Hans, since his car was stolen.
The driver of the car had not stopped. He had right after the accident only driven away and disappeared.
Eventually, after witness’s statement the car was found and the owner of the car was brought to court. . . . Hans.
The girl was killed in the accident by the stolen car of Hans.
12 witnesses had attended the court. Among them was Hans’s friend, who had been with him at the police-station at the time of the accident and the police-officer who had written the rapport of the stolen car.
They had all witnessed against him.
I had not reported myself as a witness, because I thought it was witnesses enough.
What actually happened, I don’t know . . . but one day the police came to my door with a subpoena, saying that I was to attend the court that day with the police.
I came to court and was directed to the stand.
I was told that they had learn to know that I had been witness to the accident and they wanted me to tell what I had seen.
The prosecutor came up to me and asked: “ Can you see the driver of the car in the court?”
I looked around in the court to see if I could see him, but I couldn’t.
The prosecutor was impatient and said: “Is it that difficult to see him? “
I said: “Yes, I can not see the driver in the court.”
Everybody laugh.
The prosecutor said: “But isn’t it the man sitting there? “ He pointed at Hans.
“He is the owner of the car.”
I looked at Hans . . . and said: “No. That was not the driver. If it is his car, then he must have let someone else been diving it, but that man was not in the car at all.”
The prosecutor asked: “So, how was the looking of the driver? “
I answered: “He was young, about 18 / 19 years old, light, half long curly hair, combed with side-dividing and some of the hair coming down in his forehead, blue eyes, full lips, oval face and a strait nose.”
Everybody looked at Hans . . . Who had dark hair, waved and combed backwards, brown eyes, square face, thinly lips, snub nose and was about 30 years old.
Hans was staring at me with surprise as his mouth dropped.
For a moment, all the people in the court looked at me and it was death silent.
Then the prosecutor cleared his troth and said: “Why are you protecting him? You are lying ! We have had 12 other witnesses here and all of them have pointed out the person accused.”
He continued: “ And by the way . . . How can you describe the looking of his face, when you were behind the car? “
I said: “If you have had 12 other witnesses here, pointing at the accused, then you have had 12 witnesses lying.”
The prosecutor cut me off and shouted with anger: “Are you disgracing the court? “
I rose from the chair, like as angry, turned to the judge and said: “ Your honor. I was brought to this court by subpoena. When I am now here . . . I am going to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing else but the truth as I also have sworn on the Bible. If you want me to lie, then it is you who are disgracing me. Either you believe what I say or you let me go.”
The Judge looked at me with surprise as I did not sit down again before he told me to do so.
Then the judge asked: “But how can you tell the looking of the face, when you were behind the car.”
I cleared my voice and said: “ As I was standing behind the car, I look into the rear-mirror of the car to see if I could see the driver . . . . And I could, and at certain point . . . the driver also looked in the rear-mirror and our eyes met as we looked at each-other.”
Both the judge, the prosecutor and the lawyer of Hans as well as the rest of the people in the court looked at me in silent with open mouth . . . . for several minutes.
The court took reassess to the next day.
They made an act-play of the case and put me in position of where I had been standing . . .
And I proofed that I could see the face of the driver in the rear-mirror.
Hans got acquitted.
The news-paper wrote about the case . . . . and three month later a young man came up and reported himself as the driver of the car, he the same morning had stolen.
Later, I asked the friend of Hans, how he could witness false, when he knew the car was stolen, it was him who had gone with Hans to the police and was with him at the time of the accident?
He said: “When 11 others had pointed him out, it would have looked strange if I said the opposite.”
I went to the police-office and asked the police-man who had taken the rapport why he had witness false.
He said: “I could have looked wrong at the clock . . . and it’s none of your business anyway.”
I said: “Well, but this shows that we can not even trust the police, or our best friends. But among all the others . . . I dared to tell the truth . . . and I always will . . . Even if I am the only one in the world. “

Is it a laugh or a cry . . .

ONE Recently, when I went to McDonald's I saw on the menu that you could have an order of 6, 9 or 12 Chicken McNuggets. I asked for a half dozen nuggets. "We don't have half dozen nuggets," said the teenager at the counter. "You don't?" I replied. "We only have six, nine, or twelve," was the reply. "So I can't order a half dozen nuggets, but I can order six?" "That's right." So I shook my head and ordered six McNuggets

TWO I was checking out at the local Alfa marked with just a few items and the lady behind me put her things on the belt close to mine. I picked up one of those "dividers" that they keep by the cash register and placed it between our things so they wouldn't get mixed. After the girl had scanned all of my items, she picked up the "divider," looking it all over for the bar code so she could scan it. Not finding the bar code she said to me, "Do you know how much this is ?" I said to her "I've changed my mind, I don't think I'll buy that today." She said "OK," and I paid her for the things and left. She had no clue to what had just happened.

THREE A lady at work was seen putting a credit card into her floppy drive and pulling it out very quickly. When I inquired as to what she was doing, she said she was shopping on the Internet and they kept asking for a credit card number, so she was using the ATM "thingy."

FOUR I recently saw a distraught young lady weeping beside her car. "Do you need some help?" I asked. She replied, "I knew I should have replaced the battery to this remote door unlocker. Now I can't get into my car. Do you think they (pointing to a distant convenience store) would have a battery to fit this?" "Hmmm, I don’t know. Do you have an alarm, too?" I asked. "No, just this remote thing," she answered, handing it and the car keys to me. As I took the key and manually unlocked the door, I replied, "Why don't you drive over there and check about the batteries. It's a long walk."

FIVE Several years ago, we had an Intern who was none too swift. One day she was typing and turned to a secretary and said, "I'm almost out of typing paper. What do I do?" "Just use copier machine paper," the secretary told her. With that, the intern took her last remaining blank piece of paper, put it on the photocopier and proceeded to make five "blank" copies.

SIX A mother calls 911 very worried asking the dispatcher if she needs to take her kid to the emergency room, the kid was eating ants. The dispatcher tells her to give the kid some Benadryl and should be fine, the mother says, I just gave him some ant killer..... Dispatcher: Rush him in to emergency!

The silent scream . . . 

                                              By Kirsten Nour Namskau


Mathias was 7 years old and went to 1st. Primary in a school in Denmark.
His parents was divorced and remarried on each side. Although his parents was divorced, they had a god relation with each other as well as with their new partner.
Mathias had two other siblings who were teen-ages.
Every now and then they all went to spend a week-end with their father and his new wife.
I noticed that Mathias more and more often was upset after a week-end at his fathers place. More so . . . He had an unusual sexual-centered attitude towards the other children, which bothered both the other children, the support-teacher and I.
I took it up in a teachers meeting, and was told that it was only my imagination.
I had a parents meeting and was told that when Mathias was with his father, he didn’t like that his dad and his new wife always used the chance to go out in the evening, since they then had “baby-sitter” for their own child too, since both Mathias and his teen siblings was there.
When Mathias then came home later next day, he was always stressed.
As time passed, I could not any longer “put under the cover” the fact that Mathias gave all signals of being sexual abused.
I tried to ask Mathias what used to happen, when he was at his father’s place? It was difficult for him to give a full story, but little by little I got a picture of what could have happened.
One time, as he was crying, I asked him: “Do you want help, Mathias?”
He looked at me and nodded his head as he asked through tears: “Can you help me?”
I contacted the school-psychology and she came to stay with us a day to take notice of Mathias behavior and communication with the other children.
I had a new meeting with the school administration and the parents.
I told them . . . that I believed, after the picture I had been able to puzzle together after Mathias’s bits and pieces of what he had told me . . . That when Mathias’s father and new wife was out for the evening, Mathias’s siblings had friends coming in and they had party going on which could hold both pornographic films, narcotics, and a sexual conduct which did not suit Mathias’s age. More so, it appeared to me that Mathias himself had been used sexually.
Although, the school-psychology and the support-teacher confirmed that they also found Mathias’s conduct not appropriate for children in his age . . . I was firmly “put on my place” and was told that it was not my job to discover if any child got abused . . . My job was only to be a teacher, that’s it.
Mathias’s parents ( all four of them) demanded me leaving my job or they would bring me to court for false accusation.
I suggested they should file a case against me . . .
I contacted the office of children’s welfare, and they acted as fast as they could, but it was not fast enough. . .

We never came so far as to the court . . . .

3 months later, Mathias was rushed to the hospital . . . .

Where he died . . . .

Of sever injuries after violent sexual abuse . . .

The representative and my consultant at C.W. told me that even if Mathias had survived, he would never been able to live a normal life again, neither mentally nor physically . . . that was how sever he was injured.

This was the second time in my career that a child in my care dies, because I was not believed.
That made me to take the decision . . . . That I never want to work with children again . . .
I can not carry this kind of memories.
I feel so lucky that I have another education to lean on.

The echo of the unseen . . .

Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs.
His bed was next to the room's only window. The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back.
The men talked for hours on end. They spoke of their wives and families, service, where they had been on vacation.
Every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window.
The man in the other bed began to live for that one hour period where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and colour of the world outside.
The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every colour and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance.
As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene.
One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing by.
Although the other man couldn't hear the band - he could see it. In his mind's eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with descriptive words.
Days and weeks passed.
One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take the body away.
As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone.
Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the real world outside.
He strained to slowly turn to look out the window beside the bed. It faced a blank wall. The man asked the nurse what could have compelled his deceased roommate who had described
such wonderful things outside this window.
The nurse responded that the man was blind and could not even see the wall.
She said, "Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you."


There is tremendous happiness in making others happy, despite our own situations.
Shared grief is half the sorrow, but happiness when shared, is doubled.
If you want to feel rich, just count all the things you have that money can't buy.
"Today is a gift, that's why it is called the present."

The face of a crime. . .

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

I read a blog, warning about a “new” kind of approach from criminal people like murders, burglars etc.
Be aware of that crime is all over the world . . . One place is not any better than another. The biggest danger is; if you listen to people who warn you against the warnings and say it’s not true.
All over the world we have “copy-cats” who takes ideas from movies, news-papers and even jokes. If a person has a criminal mentality, they try out everything.

Many years ago, in Scandinavia, I was with my oldest son, shopping clothes. I had parked my car at the dock and we went into the center of the city near by.
After all the shopping, we went back to the car. On distance I notice a group of 4 – 5 youth. Well dressed, “well” behaved and it seemed that they were about to say “good-bye” to each other after a “get-together.”
As usually, I took precaution for the unexpected and locked up the door at the visitor’s side . . . . showed my son in and pushed down the auto-lock on his door before I closed it.
I went to my side, opened the door and locked it as I closed the door again, after I had entered the car.
Just as I put the key in the starter, one of the boys came slandering up to my side of the car and made signals to me; if I had matches to light his cigarette. I don’t smoke, so I didn’t have matches and told him so.
He asked me to open the window, since he could not hear me, he said. He asked for the time.
I told him the time and started the car, without opening the window.
I told my son to put on the seat-belt and not for any reason open the window. Because now, the other men had come to his side, trying to talk to him through the window and told him to open the window.
Their behavior got more and more aggressive as they tried to open the door, only to discover that it was locked at both sides.
Four of them, then went to the front of the car and leaned up to it to prevent me from start driving, while one was at my door starting to knock at the door and window to force me to open it.
It was neither other people nor a guard at the parking-plot as I could see.
I started to drive with very slow speed, to push the men away from the front of my car.
They did not move . . . only let themselves be pushed. I stopped and tried to use the honk to make S.O.S. signal to any guard, police or any other people who by chance were close enough to hear me. No one heard me and the youth started to laugh as they all the time got more violent in their behavior.
I told my son to sit tight, because I now was going to make a “karate-kick” with my car.
I again started to drive slowly enough for the boys to manage being pushed to walking level in front of the car, slowly I rose the speed to “running-level” for the boys, who still refused to move away from the front of the car. I rose the speed even a little more. Then one of the boys pushed himself up on the motor of the car and sat there.
It was then I make the “karate-kick” . . . . In fast reactions . . . I put one foot on the brake and the other on the speed-pedal. This makes the motor to “noise up” as if you suddenly take high speed, but actually stand still, at the same moment I put the car in reverse and backed fast a few meter. This brought the boy on the copper to glide off and because of the noise with the motor; the other had a reflective reaction and jumped aside. I fast put the car in pulling-gear again made a swing and drove away. Still one of the guys tried to hold on to the door at my side. He eventually had to let go and we drove home.
Some of these kinds of criminals are using a kind of spray which immediately putts you off. So if you open the window, it takes them only a second to spray your face and you go immediately unconscious. They may rape you, steel from you or even kill you . . . and it’s no sign of violence.

Quite recently, here in Egypt, I got a warning from a friend of mine . . . after the “Bird-flue” came to Egypt, some criminals saw their chance. They go two and two to people’s home and knock at their door. They tell they represent the government to give free “bird-flue” vaccine.
Several people have showed them in to get the vaccine. In the same minute you have got the vaccine, you become unconscious and they rob your home for everything. You wake up to an empty home . . . and it is no sign of violence, neither on you nor your home.

This is not any bogus or urban legend you are warned not to take serious in any link from a web-site. (Such link is a dangerous link and for sure made by criminals.)

This is a real story from my private life and I am not the only one. If you read news-paper at all . . . it’s full of similar stories and even worse.
So . . . watch out there . . . where-ever you are in the world.

What is between heaven and earth?

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

Have you ever had the experience of that “you have done it before” or “you have been here/there before” ?
Have you ever had the feeling of that you have been in the future or in the past?
I know that most people will not talk about it, in fear of being looked at as . . . . erratic, unpredictable, paranoia, etc.
But take a minute . . . no one have to know . . . I don’t ask you to tell me in a comment . . . only be honest with yourself.
Scientists are talking about parallel-lives . . . . Worm-tunnels . . . They claim that it is possible to live to lives at the same time in two different dimensions and that you are passing through from the one dimension to the next through what they call a worm-tunnel.

When my grandmother died, (the mother of my father) we were to clean out her flat. It was some confusion of if any of us, her grand-children, wanted her flat.
One day my brother went down to take a look at the flat. When he was about to put the key in the door, he heard someone inside. He used the door bell . . . and a woman opened the door and claimed that she lived there.
My brother got confused but after some reflections he went to our mother. When I came, he told me to take a visit down and see if I experienced the same as him. He didn’t want to tell too much, but told me that we could talk about it after wards.
I went down around 4pm.
The door-sign with the name of our late grandparents was still on the door. (Gerda & Ludvig Holm) I rang the bell and a woman opened the door. She was young with a strong body and dark eyes with a sharp glance.
I asked if I could talk to Gerda Holm and she answered: “Yes, that’s me.”
I looked at her and said: “I’m sorry, but the woman who lives here is my grand-mother.”
(I didn’t tell that she also was dead.)
She replied: “No, I am not your grand-mother.” She slammed the door in my face.
I went to my mother to meet my brother.
When I told him what had happened, he said: “Kirsten, recall the woman in your mind. How she looked like . . . . Do you have the feeling of, that you have seen her before?”
I said: “She actually looked like grandma, only much younger. Maybe she is the secret daughter of her we so often have heard rumors about.”
My brother replied: “When you were there, did you hear the siren from the shipyard at the dock. Signalizing that the working-day was finish?”
“Yes, actually I did.” I answered.
My brother replied: “But Kirsten . . . . The shipyard closed down 30 years ago. No one work there anymore.”
I looked at him with big eyes. “What is going on?” I asked.
He said: “ Listen . . . The woman is grandma. I went down one more time and waited to see if also grand-dad came after work, and he did. He invited me in and we actually had a talk, where I told him what will happen in the future of his family. . . . Kirsten, you go back in time when you go down there.”
He continued: “When I was there, grand-dad claimed it was the year 1938. I told him that with me the year was 1986.”
I went down again to see if the same happened. All correct, when I rang the bell the woman opened the door. When she saw me, she slammed the door. I waited to see if grand-dad came when the shipyard siren went. And he came . . . . only very young. They were both around 35/40 years old. I asked if I could come in and he invited me in. We sat at the kitchen-table for a long time and talked. After a while, my father came . . . . He was only 19 years old.
I told so much as I knew about them and what will happen in the future, since I claimed to be his grand-child from the future. I told that it would turn out a world-war with Germany in 1940. He didn’t believe that. “Grandma” was terrified of the fact that I knew so much about them, since it was a lot of secrets around the family of my father. They lived under pseudonyms and in exile from Romania.
Well, at the end I left and went home to discuss with my brother. Both did we go down 2 times and both did we experience that between each time which for us was 14 days, for them . . . it had gone years.
First time I was there, my father was 3 years old . . . The next time, he was 19 years old.
Our mother could confirm to us, that our grandparents had told her, shortly after the marriage between her and dad; about the “strange” people who had claimed to come from the future. (Our parents met each-other under the world-war and married right after the war.)
She had never understood what had taken place, but now . . . she was witness by herself of what actually had happened and that it was her own children who had, without special effort, gone back in time.
Explain this, if you can . . . . I can not.

Forgive me if I whine . . .

Today, upon a bus, I saw a girl with golden hair

I looked at her and sighed and wished I was as fair.

When suddenly she rose to leave, I saw her hobble down the aisle.

She had one leg and used a crutch But as she passed, she passed a smile.

Oh, God, forgive me when I whine

I have 2 legs, the world is mine.

I stopped to buy some candy The lad who sold it had such charm

I talked with him a while, he seemed so very glad If I were late, it'd do no harm.

And as I left, he said to me, "I thank you, you've been so kind.

It's nice to talk with folks like you. You see," he said, "I'm blind."

Oh, God, forgive me when I whine.

I have 2 eyes, the world is mine.

Later while walking down the street, I saw a child with eyes of blue

He stood and watched the others play He did not know what to do.

I stopped a moment and then I said, "Why don't you join the others, dear?"

He looked ahead without a word. And then I knew, he couldn't hear.

Oh, God, forgive me when I whine.

I can hear, the world is mine.

With feet to take me where I'd go.

With eyes to see the sunset's glow.

With ears to hear what I would know.

Oh, God, forgive me when I whine.

I've been blessed indeed, The world is mine.

Good morning, friends, and welcome to our hymn sing. We are pleased to announce that we have a hymn for almost everyone. Our program this morning will include:


The Dentist's Hymn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Crown Him with Many Crowns
The Weatherman's Hymn. . . . . . . . . . . . There Shall Be Showers of Blessings
The Contractor's Hymn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Church's One Foundation
The Tailor's Hymn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Holy, Holy, Holy
The Golfer's Hymn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . There Is A Green Hill Far Away
The Politician's Hymn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Standing on the Promises
The Optometrist's Hymn. . . . . . . . . . . . .Open My Eyes That I Might See
The IRA Agent's Hymn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . I Surrender All
The Gossip's Hymn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Pass It On
The Electrician's Hymn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Send The Light
The Shopper's Hymn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sweet By and By
The Realtor's Hymn. . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . I've Got a Mansion, Just Over the Hilltop
The Massage Therapist's Hymn. . . . . . .He Touched Me
The Doctor's Hymn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Great Physician


And for you motorists.


45 mph. . . . . . . . . . God Will Take Care of You
55 mph. . . . . . . . . . Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah
65 mph. . . . . . . . . . Nearer My God To Thee
75 mph. . . . . . . . . . Nearer Still Nearer
85 mph. . . . . . . . . . This World Is Not My Home
95 mph. . . . . . . . . . .Lord, I'm Coming Home
Over 100 mph. . . . Precious Memories

Travel over silent water.

By Kirsten Nour Namskau


My neighbor Arabia, called at the door and peeped inn. As usually we took a cup of coffee together after work. She worked at another school than me and we used to change experiences and ideas.
Suddenly she said: “I saw someone on my way to the bus today . . . close to the school. She was a beggar, but she didn’t beg or anything. She only sat there, looking out in empty air. I think it is something wrong in her case.”
“Like what?” I asked
Arabia answered: “I don’t really know, Kirsten. She looks foreign to me. Maybe she is a tourist who has gone lost. You know . . . That happens.”
I looked at Arabia . . . If she is there tomorrow . . . Bring her with you. Maybe we can help her to her embassy at least.”
The next day Arabia was later than usually when she rang the bell on my door.
She was standing outside together with another woman. I looked at her, a little perplexed at first, before I asked them to enter.
The new woman, I guessed was around 25/30 years old, tall, slim, light hair, blue eyes, pale complexion. She was wearing jeans cut off at the knees to a kind of shorts, black T-shirt without sleeves, no bra . . . and she was dirty . . . very dirty. Her hair was almost grey of dirt standing in all direction, her eyes was “dead” and dry and red-lined in lack of sleep.

I took her hand and led her to a chair as I looked at Arabia with questions in my eyes.
Arabia whispered: “She doesn’t talk. I have tried to talk to her, but she only stare out in the empty air. Maybe she is not normal . . . I think so, Kirsten. Maybe it’s better to call the police.”

I answered: “Well, let us see what a bath and some food can do with her.”
I went up to the girl, sat down in front of her, looked into her eyes and said; “ My name is Kirsten . . . Kirsten . . . What is your name?”
She only looked at me with eyes that didn’t “see” me.
I made signals with my hands, that she should follow me to the bath, and gave her soap, sponge and towel and signaled that she should take a shower and wash her hair.
She understood and I left her in the bath, to go and make some food.
Arabia went home and I was alone with the girl.
When she came out from the bath, I signaled with my hands that she should come and eat.
After eating and with a cup of tea, I tried again to come in contact with her.
I signaled a question with my hands if she could hear me when I talked?
She nodded her head.
I asked: “Do you speak English?”
She only looked at me with empty eyes.
I continued, now to look for any signals or movements in her eyes: “Kalamy Arabee?”
No reactions.
“Sprechen zie Deutche?” . . . . . No reaction.

“Habla Espanjol?” . . . . . . No reaction.

“Parle vue France?” . . . . No reaction

“Talar ni Svenska?” . . . She blinked with her eyes

“ Snakker du Dansk?” . . . . She looked at me and a hoarse sound came from her throat.

“Snakker du Norsk?” . . . . She started to breathe faster and looked at me.

I repeated in the Norwegian language: “Do you understand me now when I speak this language? “
She nodded her head and whispered: “yes, I understand.”
On her dialect, I could hear that she came from the vest side of the country. Maybe
Bergen or Stavanger.

I asked for her name . . . But it showed up that she didn’t remember any thing. She didn’t know where she was or how she had come here.

Educated as an antroposoph (The study of the brain) I stated a “game” with her to find out her name. We should say names, what came to our mind, fast after each other. I wrote down the names she said.
She had repeated the name Bente more than others . . . I asked her if she maybe named Bente? But she didn’t remember, so I told her that for time being, she named Bente until she remembered.
I asked where in Norway she lived, but she didn’t remember. When I knowledge her of her dialect, she only looked confused.
I asked if she had someone we could call in Norway . . . parents, siblings, aunts etc. . . .
She didn’t remember.
I had a “telephone-number-game” with her, where we said numbers after each other in rhythm.
Again I wrote down all the numbers she said. At the end I had an A4 page full of numbers. I knew . . . that among these numbers was a phone-number to someone who knew her.
It was late, and I told her to go to bed and have some sleep. “To morrow, you maybe will start to remember.” I said . . .
I called the emergency number of the Norwegian embassy and told that I had her and that I was about to find her relatives, but wanted the direction number to Bergen and Stavanger . . which they gave me.
The whole night I was sitting up, calling all the numbers she had said in different combinations.
Usually I got the message from an automatic answering-machine: “You have called a non-existing number. Please check you number.”
5 o’clock in the morning . . . Suddenly . . . Someone took the phone in Stavanger . . .
A tired voice answered: “Hello”
I answered: “ Hello, my name is Kirsten Namskau and I am calling from Egypt. I am sorry to call so early, but please listen to what I have to say. If it is better for you, I can call later, at a settled time.”

We spoke at the phone for 1 hour to try to find out whether the girl was in his family or not.
I told him to try to contact his daughter, who he believed was in Oslo and see if she still was there. I asked him to send some photos of his daughter and the family and gave him my address and phone-number so he could call later and talk to the girl. If she was his daughter, her name was in deed Bente and was 29 years old.

When the girl woke up, her mind had started to work again. Still, she didn’t remember everything, but bits and pieces came all the time. I tried to put the pieces together with her like a puzzle.
12 o’clock the man from Stavanger called . . . I gave the phone to Bente . . . and they talked . . . for more than 2 hours.
I could see in her face that she started to remember and that we had found her family.
It showed up . . . That some people . . . (The Norwegian Mafia) had kidnapped her, narcotized her, brainwashed her and brought her to Egypt in the trial of to sell her as a sex-slave to some Arabs. (Something which is very common)
But she had been too old and they hadn’t been able to sell her, so they only left her in the streets, to her own destiny. (20% of the poor people of Egypt are “lost” tourists. Like Bente.)

The same day, I took her to the embassy to get her a new Pass-Port. Afterwards, we went to buy a flight-ticket for her, back to Norway. She got a flight 14 days later, since we had to wait for the Pass-Port.

The next 14 days, I bought her some clothes and feed her up a little and tried to make it as a holyday. That was like as well good for both of us.

Some years later, I met her again . . . In Stavanger. She had recovered fully and was in work.
Her father was a preacher . . . maybe his prayer for his daughter had been heard. The prayers of saving her from “Hell and the demons of the life of sins”

God works in mysterious ways . . . She crossed my path and I got strong enough to be able to help.