Facing the mob. . .

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

I was in 4th primary . . . Magne was in 3rd primary . . . .
Magne was a well-raised boy, always neat and clean, polite to everybody, did his homework and class-work at the very best.
But . . . it was something with Magne which made him vulnerable. His one eye did not move. It was only staring straight forward.
This was enough to catch the mob’s attention.

Every day, Magne was a victim of the mob. They hassled him both verbally and physically.
One day I told my father about Magne and how he got mobbed in the breaks at school.
My father asked: “ But . . . where is the teacher who is supervising the playground ? Don’t they react on what is happening?”
I told him that it seemed they didn’t see it.
Then my father said: “ Kirsten, if you see Magne get mobbed, you have to inform the teacher who is on duty in the playground.”
I looked for Magne the next day, but didn’t see him. Magne didn’t show up at school for long time.

Magne had got enough. . . . When he came home from school that day, his parents noticed he was more silent than usually, but didn’t make any fuss out of it. After Magne had gone to bed and his parents some hours later also wanted to go to bed, his father wanted to take a last peep into Magnes room, to see if he was OK.
He realized in a split of a second that something was very wrong with Magne.
Magne was rushed to the hospital where they discovered that Magne had taken a huge quantum of sleeping-pills. His life was in serious danger and he had to stay in intensive care for several days.
Now, it became clear for everybody how serious Magnes case was. Magnes father went to the school and had a meeting with the teachers, the headmaster and the school-doctor, to inform them about what Magne had been advised to do, if it happened again.

After some time, Magne came back to school and for some time it appeared as if the mobbing took off.
But slowly they started again . . .

One day I saw the mob was real cruel to Magne. Suddenly three of them took Magne between themselves and carried him to a huge trash-container. They opened the lid and throw Magne inside and shouted: “ Here is where you belong. Feel at home.”
I run to the teacher who was on duty and called for her attention: “ Teacher, they are mobbing Magne. You have to help him. They have thrown him in the trash-container.”
I shouted out several times and pulled the teachers arm.
She looked at me and said: “ I have not seen anything. What I have not seen, I don’t know anything about.”
I looked at her with big eyes: “ Are you not going to help Magne? “
I continued: “ If you turn around, you will see that they are standing around the trash-container and make mockery with Magne who is inside, and he can’t come out because someone is sitting on the lid.”
The teacher repeated: “ I don’t turn on your command, little miss sneak. As I said, what I have not seen, I don’t know, and if I don’t’ know . . . how can I help?”
I looked at her with big eyes and whispered: “ But I told you . . . “
The bell rang, and soon the play-ground was empty of children as they all attended class. But one did not come to class . . . Magne.

His class had come half way into the lesson when Magne knocked at the door. When he opened the door he stopped for a few second (which felt like minutes) and looked at the class. He looked filthy, with sandwich residues in his hair and on his clothes. . .
He went up to the teacher and whispered something to her.

Those who had mobbed him started to feel uncomfortable. But the teacher didn’t say anything, so they relaxed a little again, but only for a few second . . . The teacher went to the phone and made a call.
The mob stiffened, but still the teacher didn’t say anything and Magne was still at the teacher’s desk.
A few minutes went ( which felt like hours) when someone knocked at the door and in came the headmaster and the school-doctor.
The mob got pale, but still no one said anything. The headmaster and the doctor took a sharp glance at the class before they went to the back of the class-room and took seat at two empty chairs.

Magne went to the front of the class and looked at each and one of his classmates . . .
With silent, controlled voice he said: “I know that I get mobbed because my one eye does not move. . . . My eye became like this after an accident when I was two years old. An item pierced my eye and I lost it. . . I have only one eye.”
He continue: “The eye I can not move, is not real. It is made of glass and I have to take it out when I go to bed.”
Magne lifted his hand up to his face and in front of the class, he removed the eye.
There . . . in front of the class was Magne standing . . . with only one eye. Where the other eye had been, was now only an open hole.
Suddenly, Magne did a move with his hand as he shouted to his worse mobber: “ Hi Petter, catch it !!! “
Something went through the air and without thinking Petter, as an instant reaction only opened his hand to catch whatever came through the air.
Slowly . . . . Petter opened his hand to see what Magne had thrown.

There. . . in the palm of his hand was Magne’s eye . . . staring at him.
And for the rest of his life . . . whenever he opens his hand for whatever reason . . . It may be to receive changes in the shop, to shake hand with someone, to fill his hands with water to wash his face . . . he will see Magne’s eye in the palm of his hand. . . staring at him.

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Happy Halloween !!!

Why do demons and ghouls hang out together?
Because demons are a ghouls best friend!



What did the skeleton say to the vampire?
You suck.



Why did the ghost go into the bar?
For the Boos.

Why did the game warden arrest the ghost?
He didn't have a haunting license.

What do you get when you cross a vampire and a snowman?
Frostbite...

How do witches keep their hair in place while flying?
With scare spray...


What is a vampires least favorite food?
Steak.



What do they teach in witching school?
Spelling.

How did the ghost say goodbye to the vampire?
So long sucker!

Why don't skeletons ever go trick or treating?
Because they don't haveany body to go out with...

What do you call someone who puts poison in a person's corn flakes?
A cereal killer...

What does the papa ghost say to his family when driving?
Fasten your sheet belts...



Why was there no food left after the monster's party?
Because everybody was a-goblin!




Why was the little ghostcrying?
Because he had a BOO-BOO!

What's a Vampire's favorite fruit?
NECKtarine!

What do you call a ghostwith a broken leg?
A Hoblin Goblin!



Why didn't the skeleton cross the road?
He didn't have the guts!

Why does a Mummy make a bad birthday gift?
Because he is too hard to unwrap!

What do goblins and ghosts drink
when they're hot and thirsty on Halloween?
Ghoul-aid!!!

What is a Mummy's favorite type of music?
Wrap!!!!!




What happens when a ghost gets lost in the fog?
He is mist.

What are a ghost's favorite kind of streets?
Dead ends.

What happens when two vampires meet?
It is love at first bite!

What do you call a little monsters parents?
Mummy and Deady.

What do you get when you cross a black cat with a lemon?
Sour-puss.

What's it like to be kissed by a vampire?
It's a pain in the neck.



What did Dracula say after reading all these jokes?
They suck!

When adoption becomes a fashion. .

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I read about Madonna adopting a child and all the fuss she encounter in that case.
What came to my mind when I first read about it was; “Now you see. . .It will become a fashion among the rich and famous to adopt children, because they want to copycat Angelina Jolie.”
This is a dangerous trend.
Angelina adopted her children without a lot of coverage and fuss, just because that was her personality in her work in Unicef. She even adopted the children although she was single.
After my opinion, if other rich and famous people want to walk her shoes. .
Why not “adopt on distance”? Meaning. . . You make a personal deal concerning one or several children in an orphanage and agree on a personal coverage of food, health-care, clothes and education of that/ those children, while they still are in their own environment. You visit them and take them for holiday, etc.
To adopt because of fame or to take attention is wrong. Maybe Madonna is serious, but she has her own kids and could afford to do things in a different way. Was it really the child’s best she was thinking about, or was it her own vanity?
If I had her means, I would have made a deal with the whole orphanage. To once a month send clothes, food and equipment to cover all the children in the orphanage. Give regular visits to ensure the children are taken well care of etc.
In stead, she took one child and makes a nursery-room more costly that
US $ 20 000,-
That’s insane, if you ask me. . . . what is your opinion??

Your time on earth..

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

Someone asked me: “What troubles you the most in Egypt?”
I answered: “The traffic . . . They don’t have any traffic-culture, rules, proper driving-license or traffic signs.”
I came to think about a story someone told me long time ago . . . .

He was doctor and his wife was teacher. Both were successful and well renowned for their work. They had three children who also did well at school and were the most popular among teachers and other children as well. They lived in a like as well renowned, expensive area in Cairo.
This day, they were on their way to a family gathering in Alexandria.
Before they went to Alexandria, they also should go for a short visit to a small, famous village to buy some gifts.
They started early in the morning to reach it all.

In the village some miles outside Cairo, the people had just waked up. Everybody was busy with their morning chores before they got their morning cup of tea.
In one of the families, the mother was about to make tea, when she discovered that she didn’t have more sugar left.

As all this happened in the village, the other family was coming along in good speed with their car, as the children were reading some children’s magazines and the mother humming. They were known to be a happy family with a lot of love to each-other.
At certain point, the road got blocked by some sheep crossing the road. A little later, they went into a water-leak in the middle of the road, so they had to turn and take another way, which delayed them for about ½ hour.
To catch up with the time, the doctor raised the speed.
The wife could sense that his mood changed and that he got stressed by the delay.
She told him that they were not in that hurry, and by the way….it didn’t matter if they came ½ hour late.

In the village, the mother asked her small son who was 6 years old, if he could cross the street to his aunt and borrow some sugar-bits for the tea.
The boy run fast, crossed the street to his aunt to borrow some sugar-bits. His aunt was happy to see him and was holding him for a while to have a chat.

In the car, the children started to argue about the magazines….they all wanted the same magazine and soon they were in a loud-voiced shouting.

Their mother turned around to calm them down. Just at the same time as they reached the little village.

The little boy had just got the sugar-bits, holding them fast in his hand, so he should not drop them as he crossed the street. His feet made small footprints in the sandy road.
In the car, the mother was still looking at her children, trying to calm them down when she suddenly felt her husband made a sharp-stop.
It was as if all the angles in heaven was shouting: “NO, NO, NO, NO”
The next second it became so silent as if the whole universe were holding its breath.
She turned around, not knowing what had happened.
She saw her husband leaning forward towards his hands which was cramped around the steer-wheel, whispering: “ Ohh, nooo”
It took even a few second more, before people started to come out from the houses to see what had happened.
All this happened in front of only 2 minutes.
The wife opened the door of the car, to go out and see what had happened, since she still was not sure.
She went to the people who were gathered in front of the car.
There. . . she saw a little boy, stretched out under the wheels of the car. His face was pressed down in the sandy road, his arms was stretched over his head. One hand open, the other one tight closed.
When they opened the closed hand….. they found the sugar-bits he had saved for his mom’s morning tea.

Application mess . . .

Hi to all my friends. I'm sick today, so I don't have the energy to write too much, but I came to think about this small story to cheer up myself.....and maybe you....
.
It was this man applying for work. It was at the time when they had just started to use these new application-forms, but he filled it out the best he could.

Name : Christopher Club

Address : No. 2 Tooten str.

Date of birth : 3. May

Place of birth : In the barn

Sex : 3 times a week, only

The life is like a butter-fly

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

I was sitting in the teacher’s room when Ayman came and peeped in the door. It was something in the expression in his face which took my attention, so I asked: “Is something wrong, Ayman? Is somebody bulling you?”
Ayman looked at all the teachers and said: “No, it’s better I don’t start, because everybody say that I shall not talk about it.”
Ayman was in level 2 primary school.
“You can talk to me about it.” I said “Whatever it is.”
I continue: “What is it you shall not talk about, Ayman?”
His class-teacher came up and said:” No, not again, Ayman. Get out and play.”
Ayman turned to go out, but I took his arm to hold him back and said to his teacher: “What is this about? What is it Ayman shall not talk about.”
“Oh,” his class-teacher said “his grand-dad has died and he wants to talk about it.”
She turned to Ayman and said: “Ayman, you grand-dad was old and sick. It was to the best for him to die. You shall not think more about it…. It’s better for you to go out and play.”
Ayman dried his eyes with dirty hands, leaving wet-dirty lines in his face. I draw Ayman closer to me and said: “ I can talk to you about the death of your grand-dad.”
“Oh miss. My hands are dirty and I touch your skirt…now it became dirty>”
“Ayman” I said: “ My skirt is not important, I’m more worried about you. Tell me Ayman, what is it you want to talk about?”
.
His class-teacher again started to say something, and I fast turned to her made a signal that she should “zip” her mouth.
.
I turned to Ayman again: “Tell me, Ayman”
Ayman started: “You see, my grand-dad is dead, and no one want to talk to me about it. They only say that it was to the best for grand-dad”
He continued: “ But you see, I don’t know what happens when one die, and that scares me. Because they put grand-dad in the ground and I’m worried about him, because it’s dark there and I am afraid for the dark.”
“I will tell you about the death, Ayman.” I said
,
“Did you know, that God has said: ”Whatever question one have about life and death, you can go to the nature and find the answer.”
I continue: “ Long time ago, I wondered about the death too, just like you. So I went out in the nature to find the answer. Can you guess where I found the answer, Ayman?”
I continue without waiting for answer: “ Yes, when I looked at the butterfly, I saw the answer of questions about life and death.
.
The life of a butterfly starts as a butterfly lay an egg under a leaf of a tree. Like a woman are pregnant with a child…. Inside the egg develops a larva which comes out from the egg…..like a child gets born. The larva lives on that particular tree its whole life and the food is the leaves on the tree. It doesn’t know about any other food and it believes that the tree is the whole world.
Like a human…. We live here on earth and don’t know about any other place we possible could live, and the food we eat, is the food we can find where we are on earth. “
.
I continued, now with all the teacher’s attention too: “ The larva eat and live what it feels is the best life one can have. It grows and gets bigger….but also older….. like human…we eat, grow and get older.
One day the larva starts to feel tired. It doesn’t really know why, but it feels tired, so it starts to make a cocoon. It’s like a sleeping-bag made of tiny threat from its saliva. So also with human….. as we grow older we get more and more tired and we know we maybe will need a longer ‘rest.’”
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I continued: “ When the cocoon cover the larva completely it goes to rest. It doesn’t eat or crawl around any more. . . . . Inside the cocoon it now starts a process…… the larva dissolves and become only a drop of water. If you ever see a cocoon and pinch it so the drop of water comes out….it will never become a butterfly. But if you leave it……. Something start to evolve from the drop of water…… like when a human die…… we lay him or her in a coffin or wrap him or her in sheets. Some even burn the dead body, but it doesn’t matter. They may put the ashes in a pot or throw it out. If they throw it out, God will collect it and put it in a pot. Inside there, the human or the ashes slowly dissolves and turn into the most precious drop of oil in the universe. To be sure no one pinch it to take the drop of oil, we lay him /her in the ground. “
.
“One day, when what has developed inside the cocoon has grown and become so big so the cocoon starts to become too small, the cocoon cracks. Out from the cocoon comes a totally new creature, totally different from what went to sleep. It stretches its body and discovers that it even has got wings. It tries to fly, and discover that the world is so much more and so different from what it was before it went to sleep, so it believes it has come to a totally new world. And the food….. So much different kind of delicious food and drinks, nectar from different flowers has different taste. The larva really believes it has come to Paradise….. so also with the human…… from that one drop of oil starts to evolve something new and totally different. When it is ready and finished grown into this new state of what it has become, he/she leaves the place of burial…….”
.
I never come further in the story, because here the child takes over….also now, Ayman suddenly called out: “ And become an angle in Paradise!”
“Yes, Ayman” I said “That’s exactly what happens.”
(I always agree with the child here. Whatever ending the child suggests according to his/her culture and belief. Sometimes one become an angle, sometimes one gets reincarnated into another body another place on earth, become a flower or animal, sometime the child even suggest the oil become nourishment to many flowers and by that even ‘multiply’. Whatever the child suggest…is what is correct for that particular child.)
.
Ayman left the room with happy face. Now he was not afraid any more…… neither for grand-dad nor the death.

It's not fair. . .

Use of mobile

I have lived in Egypt for several years now.
I have a mobile with Vodafone recharging-cards system.
If I buy a recharging-card for LE 50,- ($9,-). . . . . I am enforced to finish the card inside a certain period of time. After that they close the line, even if it is money left on the card . . . and one even have to pay to re-open the line again.
This is ABUSE after my opinion, in the normal understanding of act.
I bought this mobile, Nokia, for LE 250,- ($44,-)
Then I bought a phone-line for LE 750,- ($ 132,-)
After this I am forced to make calls for a certain amount of money pr. week or month, after the card I have bought or they close my line.
What they are doing is to demand me to pay for TWO lines, one permanent line and one temporary line.
This happens in a country when the average salary pr month is LE 300,- ($53,-)

In Scandinavia where the salary pr. month is equal LE 45 000,- pr. month ($7895,-)
One can get a mobile to LE 1,- (one Egyptian pound) ($0,1)
One gets a phone-line for LE 350,- ($62,-)
If one uses recharging-cards, the card is valid so long as it is money left on the card.
If one buy a recharging-card for LE 25, - ($5,-) but use one year to finish calls for LE 25,- . . . then the card is valid for one year. On top of this you even have a certain numbers of free-calls.
Like www.sms.ac . . . .you have 5 free sms pr. day.
That is service after my opinion.
And this is how it is all over the rest of the world, as far as I know . . . . But not here in Egypt.

Some people use the phone as emergency equipment. (Me included. I never sit in the phone for hours.)
But here in Egypt, that is impossible.

What I react on, is that countries all over the world give AID to a country where the companies themselves are robbing the people.
This has nothing to do with the government; this is the ignorance, self-serving attitude, greediness and the lack of knowledge of what service is from the ownership of the companies.
What is your opinion? How is the system in your country?

The birdies. . .

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After a discussion of; "What is between heaven and earth", I got this letter in the mail. . .
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On July 22nd two years ago I was en-route to Washington, DC , on a business trip. It was all so very ordinary, until we landed in Denver for a plane change.
As I collected my belongings from the overhead bin, an announcement was made for Mr. Lloyd Glenn to see the United Customer Service Representative immediately.
I thought nothing of it until I reached the door to leave the plane and I heard a gentleman asking every male if he were Mr. Glenn.
At this point I knew something was wrong and my heart sunk.
When I got off the plane a solemn-faced young man came toward me and said, "Mr. Glenn, there is an emergency at your home. I do not know what the emergency is, or who is involved, but I will take you to the phone so you can call the hospital."
My heart was now pounding, but the will to be calm took over.
Woodenly, I followed this stranger to the distant telephone where I called the number he gave me for the Mission Hospital.
My call was put through to the trauma center where I learned that my three-year-old son had been trapped underneath the automatic garage door for several minutes, and that when my wife had found him he was dead.. CPR had been performed by a neighbor, who is a doctor, and the paramedics had continued the treatment as Brian was transported to the hospital.
By the time of my call, Brian was revived and they believed he would live, but they did not know how much damage had been done to his brain, nor to his heart.
They explained that the door had completely closed on his little sternum right over his heart. He had been severely crushed.
After speaking with the medical staff, my wife sounded worried but not hysterical, and I took comfort in her calmness.
The return flight seemed to last forever, but finally I arrived at the hospital six hours after the garage door had come down.
When I walked into the intensive care unit, nothing could have prepared me to see my little son laying so still on a great big bed with tubes and monitors everywhere. He was on a respirator.
I glanced at my wife who stood and tried to give me a reassuring smile. It all seemed like a terrible dream. I was filled-in with the details and given a guarded prognosis. Brian was going to live, and the preliminary tests indicated that his heart was OK, two miracles in and of themselves. But only time would tell if his brain received any damage.
Throughout the seemingly endless hours, my wife was calm. She felt that Brian would eventually be all right. I hung on to her words and faith like a lifeline. All that night and the next day Brian remained unconscious. It seemed like forever since I had left for my business trip the day before.
Finally at two o'clock that afternoon, our son regained consciousness and sat up uttering the most beautiful words I have ever heard spoken.
He said, "Daddy hold me" and he reached for me with his little arms. [TEAR BREAK...smile] Mary!!! By the next day he was pronounced as having no neurological or physical deficits, and the story of his miraculous survival spread throughout the hospital.
You cannot imagine, we took Brian home, we felt a unique reverence for the life and love of our Heavenly Father that comes to those who brush death so closely.
In the days that followed there was a special spirit about our home. Our two older children were much closer to their little brother. My wife and I were much closer to each other, and all of us were very close as a whole family. Life took on a less stressful pace. Perspective seemed to be more focused, and balance much easier to gain and maintain. We felt deeply blessed. Our gratitude was truly profound.
The story is not over (smile)!
Almost a month later to the day of the accident, Brian awoke from his afternoon nap and said, "Sit down Mommy. I have something to tell you." At this time in his life, Brian usually spoke in small phrases, so to say a large sentence surprised my wife. She sat down with him on his bed, and he began his sacred and remarkable story.
"Do you remember when I got stuck under the garage door? Well, it was so heavy and it hurt really bad. I called to you, but you couldn't hear me. I started to cry, but then it hurt too bad. And then the 'birdies' came."
"The birdies?" my wife asked puzzled.
"Yes," he replied. "The birdies made a whooshing sound and flew into the garage. They took care of me."
"They did?"
"Yes," he said. "One of the birdies came and got you. She came to tell you "I got stuck under the door."
A sweet reverent feeling filled the room. The spirit was so strong and yet lighter than air. My wife realized that a three-year-old had no concept of death and spirits, so he was referring to the beings who came to him from beyond as "birdies" because they were up in the air like birds that fly.
"What did the birdies look like?" she asked.
Brian answered, "They were so beautiful. They were dressed in white, all white. Some of them had green and white. But some of them had on just white."
"Did they say anything?"
"Yes," he answered. "They told me the baby would be all right."
"The baby?" my wife asked confused.
Brian answered. "The baby laying on the garage floor."
He went on, "You came out and opened the garage door and ran to the baby. You told the baby to stay and not leave.
" My wife nearly collapsed upon hearing this, for she had indeed gone and knelt beside Brian's body and seeing his crushed chest whispered,
"Don't leave us Brian, please stay if you can." As she listened to Brian telling her the words she had spoken, she realized that the spirit had left His body and was looking down from above on this little lifeless form.
"Then what happened?" she asked.
"We went on a trip," he said, "far, far away." He grew agitated trying to say the things he didn't seem to have the words for.
My wife tried to calm and comfort him, and let him know it would be okay.
He struggled with wanting to tell something that obviously was very important to him, but finding the words was difficult.
"We flew so fast up in the air. They're so pretty Mommy," he added. "And there are lots and lots of birdies."
My wife was stunned. Into her mind the sweet comforting spirit enveloped her more soundly, but with an urgency she had never before known.
Brian went on to tell her that the "birdies" had told him that he had to come back and tell everyone about the "birdies." He said they brought him back to the house and that a big fire truck, and an ambulance were there. A man was bringing the baby out on a white bed and he tried to tell the man that the baby would be okay
The story went on for an hour. He taught us that "birdies" were always with us, but we don't see them because we look with our eyes and we don't hear them because we listen with our ears.
But they are always there, you can only see them in here (he put his hand over his heart). They whisper the things to help us to do what is right because they love us so much.
Brian continued, stating, "I have a plan, Mommy. You have a plan. Daddy has a plan. Everyone has a plan. We must all live our plan and keep our promises. The birdies help us to do that cause they love us so much."
In the weeks that followed, he often came to us and told all, or part of it, again and again. Always the story remained the same. The details were never changed or out of order. A few times he added further bits of information and clarified the message he had already delivered. It never ceased to amaze us how he could tell such detail and speak beyond his ability when he talked about his birdies.
Everywhere he went, he told strangers about the "birdies." Surprisingly, no one ever looked at him strangely when he did this. Rather, they always got a softened look on their face and smiled. Needless to say, we have not been the same ever since that day, and I pray we never will be.

"Can I play with Andreas, mom?"
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By Kirsten Nour Namskau

My son was 8 years old, when he one day came into the kitchen and asked: “Mom, can I play with Andreas?”
I looked at him with surprise and said: “Why do you ask that. I have never restricted you from playing with anyone, have I?”
“But you see, mom” he continued “Andreas has AIDS. He has been in hospital for an appendix operation, and they gave him blood-transfusion with AIDS-infected blood. So now, he has AIDS.”
I looked at the main-door area where Andreas was standing. He immediately was on his way out, when I called him back.
“Andreas, you don’t have to leave . . . of course Tord-Asle can play with you.”
(I have my opinion about AIDS, and I believe that if children take AIDS, it is something else going on, and the parents will get the information, that this kind of AIDS is not contagious. A later talk with Andreas’s mother supported my belief, when she told me that the doctor had given her exactly that information.)
Andreas had lost all his friends. He even was denied attending school. Everybody started to look at him with fear, but he came to play with my son at his room.
After a while it became more convenient that my son went to his place where they played.
As the months passed, Andreas stared to become weaker, but my son went to him every day to play with him.
At a point, Andreas felt too weak to play, but he enjoyed watching my son play in front of him.
One day my son came to me and said: “Mom, I don’t know what I can do for Andreas. It feels awkward to play alone every day.”
I told him: “Maybe you can tell him stories and fairytales?”

My son was very articulated, and always used to make face-expression, voices and gesticulations with his hands going with the story, so he was actually good in telling stories.
He went to Andreas and was happy that Andreas really enjoyed him telling stories which brought him to laugh.
.

Again, some weeks later, my son came to me and said: “Mom, Andreas likes me to tell stories, but now he is too weak to laugh. He says it hurts in his chest, if he laughs.”
I looked at my son and asked if he had told Andreas the story about the stars? Because then Andreas didn’t have to laugh.
“No,” my son said “But that is a good idea, but I’m not sure if I remember it all correct. Can you tell the story for me one more time, mom?”
I told him the story one more time and happily he went to Andreas.
That became the favourite story to Andreas. He wanted my son to tell the story over and over again every day and my son enjoyed to tell it.
One day my son came home and told me that Andreas had been too weak to have visitors, so his mom had told my son to wait for a week.

After a couple of weeks, I asked my son: “ Have you seen Andreas lately, Tord-Asle?”
My son looked at me and said: “No, but I will go up to him today and see if he is better.”
After a while, he came crying home and told me that Andreas’s mother had told him that Andreas was dead 7 days ago.
My son had asked why they had not told him, so he could come to the funeral and take the last “goodbye” with Andreas?”
Andreas’s mother had told him that funeral was not for children.
.

“But, “ my son said “ now I feel so bad, because I have not taken farewell with Andreas.”
I told him to go up again and ask where Andreas was buried, so we could go and put some flowers on his grave and take the last farewell with Andreas.
After a while, my son again came crying home and said: “ Andreas’s mom, says the graveyard is not for children.”
The tears run down his cheeks as he was crying violently.
.

I took him in my arms and said: “ Tord-Asle, do you know what you shall do? You shall go back again to Andreas’s home and ask if you can take farewell with Andreas there, in their home. “ ”Ask if you can get a photo of Andreas when he was healthy and in a state you want to remember him.” I continue “Put the photo in front of you and talk to Andreas as if he is there. Tell him his favourite story about the stars for last time and take farewell. Will you?”
.

My son was happy for the idea and left to take farewell with his best friend.
Later that day, Andreas’s mother called me and told me what had happened. . . .
.

My son had come to the door for third time that day. When she opened the door, he had fast said: “Please don’t close the door. Can I please come in because it is something I want to say?”
Both the parents of Andreas were at home and when my son came in, he asked if he could take farewell with Andreas there in their home.
They had finally understood his need of taking farewell and let him in. He asked for a photo of Andreas, which they gave to him.
He had put it in front of himself. He looked at the photo of Andreas and said: “Andreas, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I want to take the last farewell with you. I want to tell you that you were my best friend and that I will miss you.”
He continued: “Andreas, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I want to tell you your favourite story for last time . . . OK?”
.

He started to tell the story:” Andreas, do you know what the starts in the sky really are? Forget about other planets and meteorites . . . . I mean the real stars? Yes, you see, that is small holes in The Heavens floor. As God has gone from room to room in His Kingdom for thousands and thousand of years, the Sheppard’s-stick he is using has made small holes in The Heavens floor. Through these small holes, the people on earth can take a glimpse of the glory in God’s Kingdom.
And do you know what? All people on earth will one or another time get an invitation to God’s Kingdom, some soon, some later, but we will all get an invitation . . . . . . “
.

My son stopped for a moment, then continued: “Andreas, it seems that you got your invitation before me, but when I get my invitation, we will meet again. Then we again will be the best friends . . . . OK?”
.

He looked at the photo of Andreas. Then suddenly it was as if he could hear Andreas’s voice whisper in his ear: “Yes, Tord-Asle, you are indeed my best friend.”
He rushed up from the chair and called out in the air: “ Andreas, are you here? If you are, I only wanted to say good-bye, and that I hope you are not sick any more. “
.

Then all three of them suddenly could feel a kind of warmth coming over them. They all had a cry together, but at the same time they got a kind of silent peace in their mind.
.

Andreas’s mother also told me, that they had been so fortunate to feel Andreas’s present a last time and therefore also they could take a second farewell, which had soothed their mind.

If women ruled the world

.

.

A woman's working-day

A man was sick and tired of going to work every day while his
wife stayed home. He wanted her to see what he went through so he
prayed: "Dear Lord: I go to work every day and put in 8 hours
while my wife merely stays at home.
I want her to know what I go through, so please allow her body to
switch with mine for a day. Amen.
God, in his infinite wisdom, granted the man's wish. The next
morning,
sure enough, the man awoke as a woman.
He arose, cooked breakfast for his mate, awakened the kids, Set
out their school clothes, fed them breakfast, packed their
lunches,
Drove them to school, came home and picked up the dry cleaning,
took it to the cleaners
And stopped at the bank to make a deposit, went grocery shopping,
Then drove home to put away the groceries, Paid the bills and
balanced the check book.
He cleaned the cat's litter box and bathed the dog.
Then it was already 1 P.M. and he hurried to make the beds, do
the laundry, vacuum, dust, and sweep and mop the kitchen floor.
Ran to the school to pick up the kids and got into an argument
with them on the way home.
Set out milk and cookies and got the kids organized to do their
homework, Then set up the ironing board and watched TV while he
did the ironing.
At 4:30 he began peeling potatoes and washing vegetables for
salad, breaded the pork chops and snapped fresh beans for supper.
After supper, he cleaned the kitchen, ran the dishwasher, folded
laundry, bathed the kids, and put them to bed. At 9 P.M. he was
exhausted and, though his daily chores weren't finished, he went
to bed where he was expected to make love, which he managed to
get through without complaint.
The next morning, he awoke and immediately knelt by the bed and
said, Lord, I don't know what I was thinking. I was so wrong to
envy my wife's being able to stay home all day. Please, oh
please, let us trade back."
The Lord, in his infinite wisdom, replied, "My son, I feel you
have learned your lesson and I will be happy to change things
back to the way they were.
You'll just have to wait nine months, though. You got pregnant
last night."

Welcome to the real world.

All men. . . it's your turn

Why is it only the women who shall get everything squeezed. . .

Why is Sarah silent. . . (Part 3)

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

I felt I needed a talk with my supervisor, so I went to her.
I told her the progress with Sarah and what I had discovered.
I told her that I thought it was time to involve the police.
Officially, the murderer of Sarah’s parents had never been found.
I knew who the murderer was and I knew that Sarah was in danger.
I showed her the drawing of “the bad man” and asked my supervisor if she could recognize this man?
“Oh, Yes” she said right away “That’s her uncle.” Happy to be able to recognize the person after a child’s simple drawing.
“This is the murderer” I said. “Are you aware of that Sarah is living with the murderer of her parents?”
I continue: “ How do you think Sarah feels, knowing that he at any time can kill her too?”
“It is him who has threatened Sarah with, that if she says a word, he will kill her too.” I said “That’s why Sarah doesn’t talk.”
My supervisor laugh and said: “ NO Nour, you exaggerate. He loves Sarah. He can’t have children and I know he several times had asked Sarah’s mother if he could buy Sarah from them?”
“Yes” I said “And when Sarah’s mother didn’t want to sell her daughter to him, he killed both her parents. Then he could have her.”
I continued: “ The most appropriate to do now, is to call the authorities. Don’t you understand that Sarah is in danger?”
My supervisor asked if she could see the file of Sarah. She wanted to look over it . . . .
At the end of the day, I went to her office to pick up the file again.
My supervisor refused. Suddenly she said: “ Ohh, here comes Sarah’s uncle to pick her up.”
I stiffened in the door.
My supervisor called on Sarah’s uncle to introduce him to me.
I recognized him right away, after Sarah’s drawing.
I had difficult to take his hand.
Then my supervisor did something which literally took my breath.
She gave the file to Sarah’s uncle.
He looked at the drawings and I could see his face stiffened.
I heard him whisper to Sarah : “ Sarah, I understand what you have tried to do here. I can not take any chances. Do you understand that? We have to talk when we come home.”
He continued: “ It is to hope no one have understood the meaning of your drawings.”
I was close to faint.
Sarah looked at me with big, scared eyes and her face was holding a scream which said: “ You betrayed me…. You betrayed me. You promised not to tell . . . ”
I could feel the color faded from my face. I felt dizzy and nausea.
Sarah and her uncle left.
I went into my supervisor’s office. I was out of my mind of fear for Sarah.
I shouted to my supervisor: “ What have you done? How could you do something like that? The file belonged to me, it was confidential, highly confidential. Don’t you have The Authority of Silent?”
I continued, now more controlled: “ Today Wafaa, did you sign the death-certificate of Sarah. When Sarah dies by an “accident” you shall know that you have the responsibility for her death.”
I continued: “ When you do things like that, then I can not continue my work with Sarah. I have lost her trust.”
I didn’t see Sarah the rest of the semester.
The summer came and went and I had started at another school.
One day, I was called into my supervisor’s office at my new school.
“ Kirsten” he said “ I have got a phone-call from your previous school. Your previous supervisor, Wafaa told me that a student of yours is dead by an accident.”
He continued: “ She told me that you had told her a ½ year ago, that she is the one responsible of the girls death. Now she can’t get a piece of mind.”
“How did the girl die?” I asked.
I was told; That Sarah and her uncle had gone with a boat on The River Nile. Her uncle had told that Sarah had fell over board and that he had not noticed it right away. When he noticed she was not there, he had turned to look for her, but had not found her. She had drowned.
But some people who lived at the river-side had seen that he had thrown her over board like a bag of rubbish. They had very fast, tried to get hold on a small boat, to come Sarah to rescue. Sarah herself had tried to hold on to life and fought for her life by trying to swim, but unfortunately, she drowned before anyone reached up to her.
The people had reported the case to the police and it had been a hearing. But Sarah’s uncle was a rich man and the other people were among the poor.
Sarah’s uncle had paid the judge one month salary in bribe…… and after that the case got dropped.
I looked at my supervisor and said: “ I can not help Wafaa. What she did was unforgivable. She deserves to live with a restless mind. “

By my self . . . every morning when I wake up, I “see” Sarah, with big, scared eyes and her face holding a silent scream:
“ You betrayed me . . . . You betrayed me.”

Why is Sarah silent. . . (Part 2)

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

Some weeks later, I again tried to bring her to talk.
She was in a mood as if she wanted to cry. I took her on my lap and whispered: “ It’s OK Sarah, if you want to cry. No one will know. Only you and me.”
She rested her head on my shoulder as the tears run down her cheek.
After a while, I whispered: “ Will you tell me, Sarah?”
“Will you tell me you pain and sorrow?”
Sarah went down from my lap and stood in front of me, holding her hands on my knees.
But she didn’t say anything. She only stood for a long time and looked into my eyes.
I looked at her and started to hum with low voice:
“ Why is Sarah silent, why won’t Sarah talk to me?”
I repeated the humming several times: “ Why is Sarah silent, why won’t Sarah talk to me?”
Then she slowly took one step back, she took her pointer and hold it to her mouth as if she wanted to say “hush” , then her eyes turned very angry as she stared at me, she then took her pointer and draw a line crossing her throat.
She looked at me to see if I had understood.
I felt the chill creep in on me, because I understood very well.
I asked Sarah: “Has someone told you that if you say a word that person will kill you?”
Sarah nodded her head, looked at me and put her finger at her mouth.
I said: “ I will not tell anyone, Sarah.”
I continued: “ Sarah, can you draw the bad man?”
I gave her crayons and paper. She started to draw. . .
The first thing which hit me when I saw the drawing of a man was his hands.
She had used the red color and the fingers were “long”.
It was dripping blood from them. The man had glasses, was slim and used cover on his head.
When she was finish, she used the crayon and hit the man over and over again until the crayon broke.
I knew . . . This was the murderer of her parents.
As usually, I put the drawing in her file.

Some weeks later I whispered to Sarah: “ Sarah, will you tell me what happened that day?”
I gave her paper and crayons.
She made a drawing of a room in her home. There was a child sitting under a table, hidden by the table-cloth. Two people were lying on the floor. One man covered with red blood all over, and a woman. But the woman didn’t have any head. The head was on another place. On the floor was a big knife. The whole paper was filled with red color in tough lines and curls.
I looked at Sarah and asked: “ He didn’t see you, because you were under the table, Yes?”
Sarah nodded her head.
I continued: “ Sarah, is it that man who has said he will kill you too, if you talk?”
She nodded her head.
“Sarah” I said “ Do you know the man?”
She nodded her head and looked at me with scared eyes.
“Sarah” I said “I will not tell anyone what you tell me. OK?
But Sarah, I have to ask you . . . . How often do you see that man?”
She held her hands up in the air and started to count and count and count showing one and one finger at the time and suddenly I understood.
Suddenly I got scared myself. I was thinking: “Does this man know me too and my contact with Sarah? Am I in danger too?”
I asked Sarah: “Do you see him every day, Sarah?”
She nodded her head.
“Does he know you are coming to me for lessons, Sarah?” I asked.
She nodded her head.
I let her go to her class; I had got something to think about . . .

(To be continued. . .)

Why is Sarah silent. . . (part 1)

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

I’m specialized as a teacher for children with learning-disabilities. (Of all kind. . . . ) I have developed a special method, taken from my different educations and it works better than anything . . . .
(I’m not talking abt. Special Schools for disabled children, but the Spec.Ped. teacher in an ordinary school.)
I have discussed the matter of so called “Special Pedagogical teachers training” with colleagues and we all agree in that it goes more in to act like a private teacher for the child, revise the lesson and help them with the homework.
I don’t like to “play” with the problem; I like to go to the source of the problem and try to solve the problem from there, so much as possible.
So when I work with a child, I don’t use books or go through syllabus or review what they have done in the lesson or have as home-work.
I work with the problem, whatever the problem is . . .
Here in Egypt, they have just started to understand the needs of these kinds of teachers and schools.
I met Sarah 15 years ago, when I worked in a school little outside Cairo. (At that time it was nothing like this in Egypt at all.)
The owner of the school was interested in my way of dealing with “problem-children” so he asked me if I could try to help Sarah.

Sarah didn’t talk.

She was 6 years old and I discovered very fast, that she was extremely intelligent. She understood English and followed an ordinary lesson, did her homework perfect and was the best in class in almost everything.
But ….. She didn’t talk
My supervisor told me that she was not mute but had been witness to her parent’s death when she was 3 years old. No one really knew what had happened, but since then she had not said a word. Now she lived with her uncle and aunt.

“Well,” I said “then the problem starts from the time when she was 3 years old and I have to go back to that time to begin the recovering of the problem.”
I was with Sarah 2 hours every day during school-time.
The first time I met her, she was in front of me and I asked her for her name. I knew she would not answer, but I repeated the question several times as I also repeated my name.

I started to hum the question: “ I am Nour and who are you?…..I am Nour and who are you? . . . . “
I discovered that the humming relaxed her, so I took her up on my lap. She leaned her head to rest it on my shoulder and I started to rock her as I was humming children’s songs, riddles and rhymes.
Every time I “said” something to Sarah, I either sung it or whispered it.
I started every lesson by humming: “ I am Nour and who are you? . . . . I am Nour and who are you?”
One day as she was sitting on my lap, she suddenly leaned her head towards my ear and whispered very low: “ Sarah.”
I gave her a hug and said: “ I love you, Sarah.”

After three weeks, I tried to go one step further and found crayons and paper.
I whispered to her: ” Draw the most beautiful you know . . . flowers, animals, nature or colors only. The most beautiful color you have. “
She made a drawing of yellow and green. Shaped as circles and “clouds”.(The colors of harmony and love.)
I whispered: “ Can you make a drawing with the ugliest colors you have?”
She made a drawing using red, Shaped as lines and curls with rough hand. She continue and continue as she started to cry like a wounded dog and her hand got more and more rough until the paper tore under her crayon.
Although I repeatedly whispered: “ Sarah, it’s ok. You don’t have to continue. I agree with you, it is indeed an ugly color.”

It ended with that I physically had to stop her, taking the crayon from her. I took her on my lap and started to hum on her favorite song. Slowly she came to rest.
I picked up the pieces of her drawings and put them in her file.

Some time later, I asked her to draw mom and dad.
She drew her mom with big skirt and pout.
“I understand” I whispered “Your mom often use to take you on her lap and kiss you.”
Sarah nodded her head vividly and kissed the drawing over and over again.
She drew her dad with long, strong arms and a big smiling mouth in his face.
I whispered: “Dad used to take you in his arms and make you laugh, Sarah. Right?”
Again she nodded her head vividly.
She took the drawings of her mom and dad, and started to kiss and kiss the drawings.
She gave me a kiss too, on my cheek as she left for the class.
She appeared happier when she left me that day.
She knew I understood her . . .

(To be continued. . . .)

Someone is watching you. . .

Have you ever had the feeling of that someone is watching you? . . . That it is someone in the room or that you "thought" you saw a shaddow?
Well, it start to become public known now, what every psykolog know . . . That it is possible to manipulate a person to the extend so the chosen victims brain refuses to visualize the presence of another. . . The other person becomes an "incubus / succubus" (invisible.)
The problem we face today, is that this knowledge has gone out of controll and even children use this effect.
How dangerous is this "joy" . . . Is it dangerous at all?

Since this has become so common of an act . . . then we know the answer of what ghost, poltergeist, “Holy” spirits and so called “guardian angles” are . . . yes?

Then we maybe also know who “Holy Maria” got pregnant with . . . right?

As well do we take a clue of who the clairvoyants have contact with, when they believe they have contact with "spirits" from “the other side” . . . correct?

Women's opinion about men. . .

1) What do men and clouds have in common?
~ When they disappear, it becomes a good day.

2) Why do men have one gene more that a horse?
~ So they shall not drink from the bucket when they wash the car.

3) Why do men like Blondie-jokes?
~ Because they understand them.

4) What do men say when they are in water to above the waist?
~ This goes beyond my understanding.

5) When is a man worth more than $10,-?
~ When he push the shopping-trolly.

6) What is the different between a man and a yoghurt?
~ A yoghurt is cultivated.

7) Why does it exist men at all?
~ Because a vibrator can not push the lawn mower.

Now i am challenging you men. . . What is men's opinion about women?
(Come up with something else than "blondies". . . not all women are blond)

Thanks for your time.

To all my family & friends I want to

THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME.


Do we usually appreciate the time other spend with us?

Do we understand the value of giving others a little of our time?

~~~(``'·.¸.·'´´)
~~~`(¸.·'''·.¸)´

It had been some time since Jack had seen the old man.
College, girls, career, and life itself got in the way. In fact, Jack moved clear across the country in pursuit of his dreams.
There, in the rush of his busy life, Jack had little time to think about the past and often no time to spend with his wife and son. He was working on his future, and nothing could stop him.
Over the phone, his mother told him, "Mr. Belser died last night. The funeral is Wednesday" Memories flashed through his mind like an old newsreel as he sat quietly remembering his childhood days.
"Jack, did you hear me?"
"Oh, sorry, Mom. Yes, I heard you.
It's been so long since I thought of him. I'm sorry, but I honestly thought he died years ago," Jack said
"Well, he didn't forget you. Every time I saw him he'd ask how you were doing. He'd reminisce about the many days you spent over 'his side of the fence' as he put it," Mom told him.
"I loved that old house he lived in," Jack said.
"You know, Jack, after your father died, Mr. Belser stepped in to make sure you had a man's influence in your life," she said
"He's the one who taught me carpentry," he said. "I wouldn't be in this business if it weren't for him. He spent a lot of time teaching me things he thought were important...Mom, I'll be there for the funeral," Jack said.
As busy as he was, he kept his word. Jack caught the next flight to his hometown.
Mr. Belser's funeral was small and uneventful. He had no children of his own, and most of his relatives had passed away.
The night before he had to return home, Jack and his Mom stopped by to see the old house next door one more time. Standing in the doorway, Jack paused for a moment. It was like crossing over into another dimension, a leap through space and time.
The house was exactly as he remembered. Every step held memories. Every picture, every piece of furniture....Jack stopped suddenly.
"What's wrong, Jack?" his Mom asked.
"The box is gone," he said
"What box?" Mom asked. "There was a small gold box that he kept locked on top of his desk. I must have asked him a thousand times what was inside. All he'd ever tell me was 'the thing I value most,'" Jack said.
It was gone. Everything about the house was exactly how Jack remembered it, except for the box. He figured someone from the Belser family had taken it.
"Now I'll never know what was so valuable to him," Jack said. "I better get some sleep. I have an early flight home, Mom."
It had been about two weeks since Mr. Belser died. Returning home from work one day Jack discovered a note in his mailbox.
"Signature required on a package. No one at home. Please stop by the main post office within the next three days," the note read.
Early the next day Jack retrieved the package. The small box was old and looked like it had been mailed a hundred years ago. The handwriting was difficult to read, but the return address caught his attention.
"Mr. Harold Belser" it read.
Jack took the box out to his car and ripped open the package. There inside was the gold box and an envelope.
Jack's hands shook as he read the note inside.
"Upon my death, please forward this box and its contents to Jack Bennett. It's the thing I valued most in my life."
A small key was taped to the letter. His heart racing, as tears filling his eyes, Jack carefully unlocked the box.
There inside he found a beautiful gold pocket watch.
Running his fingers slowly over the finely etched casing, he unlatched the cover.
Inside he found these words engraved: "Jack, Thanks for your time! -Harold Belser."
"The thing he valued most was...my time"
Jack held the watch for a few minutes, then called his office and cleared his appointments for the next two days.
"Why?" Janet, his assistant asked.
"I need some time to spend with my son," he said. "Oh, by the way, Janet, thanks for your time!"

"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take but by the moments that take our breath away,"

Where are you God, when my day is over?

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

I had for long time had the feeling of that something had been going on around me, I could not really put my finger on. Since I could not “put my finger on” what it was, I took it as stress and frustration from working as a teacher. Often did it happen, that I couldn’t find what I were looking for and things got placed around in a way I could not remember I had put them, and so on . . .

I always wondered about how people and colleges around me talked about me and my life at home…… talking about what I were doing, when I suppose being alone in my home. How they made comment about the food I made and things I wrote in letters and so on.

When I asked how they got this information’s, they only laughed.

One day my neighbor asked me who all these people was who came to my home?

Came to my home?? I didn’t have anyone coming to my home. I was most of the time alone, preparing for the next day at school.

She insisted that it came too many people to my home, and since I was a single woman, I should be careful receiving so many men.

Men??? I didn’t receive any men. To be honest, I think I’ve got enough of men . . . for a long time into the future.

But when I came to school the next day, I was called in to the owner of the school. He faced me with the rumors that I received men in my flat. That is something absolute unacceptable in a country like Egypt. That single women receive men in their flat without notice the neighbors of the reason and who they are.

I looked at him with big eyes.

“What is going on” I asked. “ I have often wondered about how people talk about my private life, inside my home, when I suppose to be alone. And now you tell me that I am receiving men.”

“Well” he said “It’s not only men, we come and go all of us . . .”

“What ! “ I shouted “ Can someone please, tell me what is going on here? Because it seems that I am the only one who doesn’t know that I have visitors in my home.”

I continued: “Are you invisible ?”

I said it more as a joke, but having study psychology and antroposophy earlier in life, I knew that it is possible to in a way trick the brain of a person to deny the visual presence of another person.

But please, this is not a common act around . . . . is it????

The owner of the school didn’t answer. He only looked down at his desk.

I “pushed” him verbally, I already knew the outcome of this conversation, so I felt I didn’t have anything to loose after all.

“Hey there,” I said “I want some answers here. I think I have the right to know what’s going on, so I can do the necessary action in the future to stop whatever is wrong.”

He then told me my biggest fear. They came and went in my home, took things they needed and played around me, invisible for my eyes.

I thought: “ This is not happening to me. This must be a nightmare . . . God, please wake me up.”

But I was already awake.

I asked him: “ How can I protect myself from someone or something I can not see, feel, smell or not even know is there?”

I continued: “ Can you give me an answer on that? More so, who are you to criticize, who have been playing around me by yourself?”

“Well sir,“ I continued “ Muslim as you are . . . have you read the Holy Quran? Well, it is these kinds of people The Quran is referring to, when it talks about “jinners”. . Those who go into other peoples home without notice their arrival to the host, whispering in their heart and bring trouble into their life. Allah says:” These people have only one future and that is the burning hell.” ”

“I don’t care about what the Quran says” he said “ But I can not have you at the school any more.”

When I came home, it was another surprise waiting for me.

My land-lord came to my door and told me I had to leave the building the same evening, for the same reason I had lost my work.

He even came in and started to pack down my things. He obviously could not get me fast enough out of the house.

I was shocked. What now? My land-lord took all my boxes and put them under the stairs in the staircase. He said they could be there until I had found a new place to live . . . if I found something.

A colleague of mine came after work to have a talk with me.

She said: “ Nour, you have to go home to your country. Your situation is dangerous for you.”

I said: “ No Wafaa, I have not done anything wrong, and Allah knows.”

She said: “ Then you at least must leave the area, Nour. Go to another part of Egypt, where no one knows you. You will get neither work nor housing here any more.”

She continued: “ Nour, is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes” I said: “ You can give me a bed for the night. Tomorrow I will look for another work.”

She said: “ No. I’m sorry Nour. I can not bring you to my home. You are an outcast now.”

I looked at her and said: “ Wafaa, you goes for being a good Muslim. You have told me that you have prayed to Allah asking Him to use you as a tool in his hand. Maybe He is trying you now, Wafaa. “

I continued: “ As a tool in Allah’s hand, you can not choose the work He wants you to do. He put you in situations He feels you can manage, if you trust Him. Because in whatever situation He put you into, you will not be alone . . He will be there with you to ensure you succeed. So I am asking you Wafaa; Do you trust your God ~ Allah?”

She looked down in the street and said with low voice: “ Nour, ,you have to understand something. This is not a case for Allah. He can not help you in this problem.”

“Really” I said “What kind of problems can He help one in?”

She didn’t answer.

I continued: “ Wafaa, listen to me. I have gone through several traumas, worse than this and been in several critically situations in my life. I don’t go for being a good Muslim, neither do I go for being a good Christian, I don’t even pray regular, but I know my God and I trust Him. I trust Him, Wafaa. Trust . . . . do you know the meaning of the word, Wafaa?”

She was still facing the street, nodding her head.

I continued: “ Waffa, I want you to listen to me now and watch carefully what happens after this.”

It was 8pm. I looked at the sky, stretched my hands to the sky, the palms together and said in a silent voice : “ Allah, Allah, look at me. . . My day has taken an end. My life is crumbling. My bed tonight seems to be made of tears and stones. I am asking for you mercy, Allah. I don’t ask for velvet nor silk, but a simple roof over my head so I can sleep in peace. Help me out of the ashes of cruelty which burned me out today. With the grace of Allah, it so will be.”

The tears was running down Wafaa’s cheeks when she said: “ Nour, Allah can not help you in this matter. You have to leave the area.”

“ No” I said “ I have not done anything wrong. If I leave the area, means I confess that I have done something disgraceful.”

I continued: “ Wafaa, I trust Allah in, that before midnight I will have a place to sleep. Watch me . . . and see what Allah can do for me. Because I trust him”

She was still crying as she left me.

I felt traumatized by the situation and didn’t really know what to do. I had not eaten the whole day and felt hungry. I sat down at the pavement to clear my mind.

It was about 10pm. A friend of another person in the building was on her way for a short visit. When she saw me, she stopped and asked why I was sitting there so late at night.

I told her what had happened. She looked at me for a while before she went up to visit her friend.

11pm. She came out again. She lived only a street away. She stopped and said: “ Nour, you can not stay here all night. I have called my husband Mostafa, and told him your situation. You come with me home and stay with us until you have found a new place and work. Leave your things, Mostafa will come and get it.”

Before midnight, I had roof over my head . . . .

After 3 months, I found a new place to live and got work in another school with a salary 5 times higher than the salary I had before. (Before my salary was US $ 60,- pr. Month, this time I got US $ 300,- pr. Month.)

The constant education of life

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

To work as a teacher in Egypt is a chapter by it self . . . I had got work as a teacher in a school nearby. It takes time to adjust to the third world’s way of schooling. They try to come with in the western way of handling the children but they don’t really succeed.
They have not really understood the point, that although we don’t have the habit to beat and give rough punishment to children, we still have a line of authority.
So, their children become very impolite, the parents treat the teachers as their servants, and expect to be able to pay good marks for their children. (If not, then it is a bad teacher.)
The privatization of the schools has gone all wrong . . . it is pure business and you almost can see the children turns into “Dollar signs $$$$$$$” in the school-yard.
This leads to that 90% of the private schools have an administration who don’t know what they are doing . . . when it comes to syllabus, educations and qualified teachers and their needs of equipments, as well do they not know what the students need of equipments.
This leads in next term to; that for an educated, well qualified teacher from the western world, the schools in the third world appear to be a hobby school with hobby books, hobby syllabus, and hobby teachers who are tourists seeking job for 3-4 months, (many of them still students in their own country), home wives who need some pocket-money, or any one who can speak more than three words of English. (If you can speak English, they believe you are the best teacher.)
They also would like to have foreign, well qualified teachers, but the problem is, that these teachers know what they are doing and why they are doing it. They know what they need to give a good lesson and claim it. They will usually not accept gifts from the parents, for the purpose to give their children “the best in class” marks.
More so, they make it quite clear for the children who is in charge in the class and will usually not accept that the parents, (who don’t know anything about schooling) tell them what to do with the children and how to teach in the class.
They claim regular “parent’s meeting” where they want to speak with the parents . . and they tell the truth about their child and the progress of the child.
Like as well do they claim a proper salary. (The salary for an Egyptian teacher is between US $ 45,- to US $ 200,- pr. month.)
This usually becomes a big headache for the school administration (who don’t know what they are doing), so usually, they prefer to employ un-educated “highly qualified” foreign teachers. (read; European youth, tourists, ex-wife of an native etc. )
This follows by at all time; a fight for the parent’s accept, nodding heads to the administration and lurk at the other teacher to get ideas, like as well do the jealousy bloom, and if you can pinch anyone . . . that’s great.
But, you get used to everything, almost. . .
I was thinking, if I don’t succeed, I happily have several educations to lean on, so for sure I will not be out of work.
. . . . .

Sarah Pipalini . . .

Three Italian nuns die and go to heaven. At the Pearly Gates, they are
met by St. Peter. He says, "Sisters, you all led such exemplary lives
that the Lord is granting you six months to go back to earth and be
anyone you wish to be."
The first nun says, "I want to be Sophia Loren;" and *poof* she's gone.
The second says, "I want to be Madonna;" and *poof* she's gone.
The third says, "I want to be Sarah Pipalini..."
St. Peter looks perplexed. "Who?" he asks.
"Sarah Pipalini," replies the nun.
St. Peter shakes his head and says, "I'm sorry, but that name just
doesn't ring a bell."
The nun then takes a newspaper out of her habit and hands it to St.
Peter.
He reads the paper and starts laughing. He hands it back to her and
says......
"No sister, the paper says it was the 'Sahara Pipeline' that was laid
by 1,400 men in 6 months."

If you laughed, you are going straight to hell

How do you care for your "Old people"?

How would you like to be cared for, when you get old?

A frail old man went to live with his son, daughter-in-law, and four year old grandson. The old man's hands trembled, his eyesight was blurred, and his step faltered.
The family ate together at the table. But the elderly grandfather's shaky hands and failing sight made eating difficult. Peas rolled off his spoon onto the floor. When he grasped the glass, milk spilled on the tablecloth.

The son and daughter-in-law became irritated with the mess.
"We must do something about father," said the son. "I've had enough of his spilled milk, noisy eating, and food on the floor."
So the husband and wife set a small table in the corner.
There, Grandfather ate alone while the rest of the family enjoyed dinner.
Since Grandfather had broken a dish or two, his food was served in a wooden bowl.
When the family glanced in Grandfather's direction, sometime he had a tear in his eye as he sat alone.
Still, the only words the couple had for him were sharp admonitions when he dropped a fork or spilled food.
The four-year-old watched it all in silence.

One evening before supper, the father noticed his son playing with wood scraps on the floor.
He asked the child sweetly, "What are you making?"
Just as sweetly, the boy responded, "Oh, I am making a little bowl for you and Mama to eat your food in when I grow up."
The four-year-old smiled and went back to work.

The words so struck the parents so that they were speechless.
Then tears started to steam down their cheeks. Though no word was spoken, both knew what must be done.
That evening the husband took Grandfather's hand and gently led him back to the family table.

For the remainder of his days he ate every meal with the family. And for some reason, neither husband nor wife seemed to care any longer when a fork was dropped, milk spilled, or the tablecloth soiled.

Word of the day. . .

"Good looks catch the eye but a good personality catches the heart. "

The path of the outlawed

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

So, what’s next? I got my divorce, as everybody else, the children was passing the last years of the teen-ages and the smallest one wanted to live with his father. Suddenly, I didn’t have any responsibility, but I had my education as a teacher and still felt young enough to have some years ahead of me.
Is it now I suppose to realize myself?
Well, why not travel a bit? Take a look at the world . . . . what’s out there?
I packed my back-pack and took the train from Norway through Europe and ended up in Greece. I called a friend of mine in Egypt and asked him if it was ok if I came over to Cairo.
I was on the plane the next day . . . . and the following months, I should learn that friends are someone “you never should turn your back to.”
I had met Kenan earlier the same year, on a holiday. When I first met Kenan, it was something in his appearance which brought me to feel sorry for him. His life had taken a u-turn when he lost everything he had during one night in a Casino. Now he had causal work as a joiner on buildings-sites. He was a pity sight with several teeth missing, middle-aged and heavy-assed. But I had learned that he knew a lot of people in correct society. So I hoped he could help me by recommend me to someone who could give me work. And friends are friends, one doesn’t always have to be in an emotional relation to be friends . . .right?
Kenans nephew was personal-manager at Nile Hilton Hotel in Cairo. He had at the time a big flat in Zamalek, (the island in the river Nile.) He said I could take one of the rooms in his flat while I was searching for work and my own flat to rent.
So far everything seamed to go nice.
The following weeks, people started to tell me strange stories about Kenan, but during my life I had learned not to listen to gossip and I thought all this stories was rude gossip. I thought that maybe we could help each-other, if it was so that Kenan had some problems; maybe I had the means to help him in his situation.
But as the weeks passed, I felt more and more drained of energy and thought I was coming up with a cold. More so, every time I went for an interview, I felt something was not correct in the situation, but since I could not point out something special, I thought it only was my imagination. All until one day, I was at an interview in a kindergarten and almost was given the job as KG.1 teacher, when the owner of the kindergarten got a phone-call. She excused herself and took the phone. I started at the same time, because I could hear the voice of Kenan on the other side of the line, (Kenan always spoke very loud) and I thought something had happened to him. But that was not the case. He right out told the woman not to employ me, because he didn’t want me to work.
When I came back home, I asked him what he meant by doing something like that….so this was the reason for that I didn’t get any work????
I explained for him that we was not married, he didn’t have any regular work, so who should pay the bills? Did he believe that I was millionaire, or that my savings lasted for ever?
Again, Kenans cousin, Gelal, told me that it was better if I only left Kenan, for the sake of the both of us. I told him as so fast as I could find a work, I would also look for another place to live.
The coming week I started to feel not all well. As if my head was in a tin and I couldn’t keep my thoughts strait…as if I was about to slip away…..
A friend of mine, Amisa (who actually was Gelal’s ex-wife) told me that I had to leave Kenan very soon.
She told me: “ Nour, it scares me what they are doing with you. You are changing. Don’t you understand that they are poisoning you?”
“Why should they do so?” I asked
“If Kenan is poisoning me, who is there to help him, since his family had deserted him?”
“That’s why we have deserted him, you see.” She said
“He’s dangerous “
When I came home, I got a phone-call from another friend of mine in a city at the Red Sea named Ismaleya. He had just heard that I and Kenan lived at the place of Gelal.
He told me:” Nour, you have to get out of there. Tomorrow, I will come with a friend who has a car. Pack your things and get out in the street at 12pm. We will pick you up and find you another place to live.”
Secretly I packed my bag and put it under the bed, ready to lurk out of the house the next day at 12pm.
But it was too late . . . .
Early that evening I started to feel tired already at 8pm. I went to bed and felt a strange “silent” appear in my body and my head. I couldn’t fell asleep, I could hear everything around me, but it felt as if I couldn’t move or talk.
Whatever it was Kenan had poisoned me with, had send me into coma.
I could hear someone was at the door and Gelal opened it for someone. I could hear the sranger (a man) was asking for me. He was invited in and told that I had gone to bed.
I lost the sense of time, and I was conscious about that fact, because it was as if the same man came several times. I recognized his voice.
Suddenly one day, I could hear him outside my bed-room door. With an angry voice he said:” Is this woman always sleeping? Something must be wrong with her.”
I wanted to shout for help, but I couldn’t move or talk.
I could hear Kenan took a grip on the door-handle to prevent the stranger from coming in.
Then I heared the stranger; it sounded as if it was a fight outside the door and the stranger said, that if he was not allowed to see me, he would call the police, because he could feel that something maybe was wrong with me.
Again it sounded as a fight and suddenly the door blow open with a “bang.” I could feel and hear someone come up to my bed and took my hands. He massaged my hands while he said:” Nour, Nour, you have to wake up” At the same time he shouted out to Gelal to call a doctor.
He continue to massage my hands and feet to make them warm.
I tried to open my eyes, to talk, to move, but it was impossible.
I could hear someone come and the stranger left for a minute. . .
I wanted to call him back. I could feel fear but couldn’t move.
The stranger came back with another man. The new man came up to the bed, took a fast grip around my shoulders, shook me slightly and said:” I don’t know if you can hear me, but I am a doctor. Madam, you have been sleeping for too long time and I have been called to wake you up.”
The doctor continued:” Madam, if you can hear me can you squeeze my hand?”
I could feel that he took my hand in his.
I tried, and tried but didn’t succeed.
I could feel that he opened my eyelid and I understood that he used light to see the reaction in my pupils.
I could hear him talk slowly to the stranger.
“ She is in coma, how has this happened? If I get any reaction in her eyes, I will be able to wake her up. If it is no reaction, then she is gone. “
I could feel that he tried again and again, but it was no reaction and I could hear him tell the stranger:” She is gone, we have to call for an ambulance.”
I wanted to shout; ”No, No, I’m not gone. . . don’t leave me ! ! !”
I tried to use all the power I had to give any signals. The only thing happened, was a slight irregularity in my breathing.
But that was enough to bring the doctor back to the bed. Once more he tried several times to see if it was any reaction in my eyes.
Suddenly he shouted: “ It was a reaction. It was a reaction. It’s small but it was there.”
I could feel his hands take a new grip around my shoulders again when he said:
“ Madam, I am going to give you an injection and try to work with me now. If you have any chance to wake up, this injection will wake you up.”
I could feel that he gave me the injection and minute after minute went.
I could hear him say to the stranger: “ I don’t think it worked, I’m sorry.”
Then I suddenly could feel a heat coming over me and as if million of ants was crawling on me and a sudden anger brought me to put together everything I had of power. . . and then. . . .
I in a high speed sat up in the bed with my eyes wide open. My voice was not clear, but I was able to bring out something like a scream if breath.
The doctor pushed everybody out of the room and came up to the bed.
He let me calm down and then asked me what had happened after first had tested me for my memory of name, age, date and so on.
I told him everything I remembered.
The doctor understood that something criminal had taken place. He told me that he had to report this to the police. To Kenan and Gelal he said: “if anything more happens to that woman, (me) they will be the first the police will catch up with.”
When I first had become conscious, I recovered fast. The stranger, who named Magdy, staid with me in the flat of Gelal, after the doctors request. The doctor told him that it was two options. Either Magdy stayed there with me or I had to stay in a hospital until I had recovered. He didn’t like me to be alone with Kenan and Gelal.
Magdy looked for another place for me to live, and after 1 week, he came and picked me up and drove me to my new home.
. . . . . .