India Part Three: Oh My Heart

Oweee!

Yes, that is me staggering out of the Ganges’, fever ridden, body touching, ash munching and happy as the day I was born (I was happy that day, contrary to the next full year of colic crying would allude too).  Just wanted to start this short post with that. Eat your heart out Brad Pitt! No? Points for trying at least? No? Dang.

So I am sure most people are wondering why I am still posting about India when I live, work, study and attempt to survive in Yemen. Ok, I have no answer for that. Perhaps because India was vacation and Yemen is work. Perhaps because I used my camera there and consistently forget to take out my camera here. Maybe it is because I never know how to put Yemen into words. I am working on that. Therefore, this will be the last India post, until I make it back there that is. I promise.

My last post about Yemen seemed, in retrospect, frustrated. I am happy that it did, and that it elicited many concerned emails. Yemen is frustrated. I am frustrated here, every day. And I love it. More then I could have ever thought possible. So if others are able to feel my ever mounting frustration, then they at least get a sneak peek into the heart of foreigner in a foreign country. So bear with me. It may hurt a touch.

Now, India. I wanted to add these last few pictures. None of them are mine. They are all Marijana Panic’s, a wonderful young lady who was kind enough to (ahem) finally share a few of her pictures with me. Cheers Marijana!

Many of her pictures were repeats, but she had a few no one else had, since no one else was bright enough to bring along a camera on our overnight safari into the Thar Desert in Rajasthan. It was amazing. We drove an hour and a half outside of the beautiful fortified city of Jaisalmer, the edge of the Thar, beyond the cheep camel safari routes, visiting villages and temples along the way, and met with our camels. Jasmine and I fell in love. It was a fierce love, full of bruises and yelling, bruises from her, yelling from me, but one that lasts.

We rode into the sun, watching it set across the desert as dusk slowly descended. Along the way I occasionally caught glimpses of desert foxes and antelope, realized that a camel ride is not for the bony behinded, and came to the conclusion that anyone who states that camels are cute has obviously never sat behind one as it freshened the air.

Once at our destination we had a chance to roll in the dunes and run away from freakishly large beatles. Now, I remember them being the size a baseball, but I might be exaggerating a wee tad in retrospect. I also had a half hour to chase my newest friend, Lucy, through the sand, as she chased the devilish beatles. We got close.

But there was a small catch. Lucy, my love, was also to be my diner. No problem, I thought. I have worked on a farm before. I have helped cut off heads, pluck feathers and slice the meat. I am a man, I reasoned. This can be done! Little did I remember, that I was with a Muslim group, therefore, the meat would have to be prepared in a Halal manner, specifically under the prescribed conditions of Dhabihah. Feel free to read up on that. Anyhow, I was invited to perform the kill, and, not being one to turn down an experience, swiftly turned it down. Instead, I chose to be part of it, by holding the chicken, and massaging it after the slice. I was heartbroken. Chicken will never taste the same (but I do still enjoy it). Much to my horror, that nights meal was actually the best I had in India. Freshly cooked, under the stars in the Thar desert.

I slept under the stars with the mammoth beatles, woke with the sun, and rode Jasmine all the way home. Oh Thar, oh my heart!

And now, one more remembrance of Lucy, my young fluffy love

Freedom

It’s better to light a candle than to curse the dark

In the eyes of the youth there are question marks

Like freedom, freedom for the mind and soul

We don’t see ‘em,

See them for their worth at all.

That’s why we lead ‘em

Lead ‘em to these wars

and what is it we feed ‘em

Feed ‘em our impurities and who it is we treat ‘em

Treat ‘em like the enemy humanity will need ‘em

Need ‘em like the blood we spill and where freedom

Freedom for the hearts we fill

Mislead ‘em

They hunger for the love we give but we cheat ‘em

The guys beat ‘em and all he wants is his freedom

So they defeat ‘em

Whatever spirit he’s got

They beat ‘em

And they teach ‘em the rest of the world don’t need him

And he believes it’s a disease that he’s heathen

Put up your fists if all you want is freedom

Put up your fists if all you want is

In the Beginning – K’naan

What is the truth?

Is it the philosophical ideal that I continue to cling to, in a hope for a better world? Or is it the harsh reality of narrow-mindedness; the painful experiences of the souk’s, the airports, the bars and the parks?

If the intention of speaking about an experience is based in a desire to tear down stereotypes, and the consistent result of speaking about an experience is the strengthening of stereotypes, where does the problem lay? Is it to be found in the futility of attempting to change others minds? Or does the difficulty come from a personal unwillingness to accept a degree of validity within the stereotype.

Liberalism is a concept, which encourages the plurality of ideas, coupled with the freedom to explore a variety of ideals, with the expectation to reach a logical, rationally utilitarian conclusions, enabling deeper understanding, therefore eliciting freedom. This is a facet of liberalism, not the definitive definition of the concept, yet it is what I have clung to for years.

So then what is freedom?

Is it the ability to question authority, or the unhindered expression of ideas? Is freedom expressed through mounting debt or frugal living? Is the middle class free or tied; tied to ideology, debt, cultural norms and a fierce desire to achieve the unattainable? Is freedom the protection from evil?

But what is evil?

Is evil not the creation of the descriptions of cultural norms and societal mores? Are there absolute evils in the world? How about the murder of a child?

What about if “God” commands it? Do we remove the title of “evil” and celebrate the act as a display of ultimate faith?

Is strapping a bomb to your groin and getting on a plane on Christmas day evil? Should societies freedoms be stripped away to protect against such acts? Should an entire religion or ethnicity of people be profiled, and stripped of freedom due to the actions of a handful? Is it true that Muslims hate westerners? Is it true that the West seeks to subjugate the Arabs?

Is there such a thing as Truth? Freedom? Evil?

What is it we want, collectively and individually? Is it not to be left alone in the pursuit of happiness? But is such a pursuit possible? Does my conceptions of happiness impede on your conception, and if so, which conception is correct? Which takes precedence? Which wins? Why?

The American boarder guard assumes the penultimate ideal when he declares, “All those towel heads want to cut our heads off.” The Grand Imam has moral authority when he utters, “ It is the duty of every Muslim to reject any attempt by foreign powers to control the life of a believer.” Each statement comes with taut ideological baggage, which dictates the actions of the individual who subscribes to the language.

However, these examples are of extreme quality, and therefore irrelevant. The enlightened, informed individual, of any society would never think in such absolutes. They would see such narrow-mindedness as silly, irrelevant relics of the past. They would set their paradigms so broad as to exclude the conservative, and thus exclude one of the most fundamental worldviews to prevail within the modern consciousness. And the broad would become the narrow.

I am frustrated. I am frustrated with Yemen. I am frustrated with the Middle East. I am frustrated with America, the west, Liberal through and cultural relativism. I am frustrated with concrete religion, and abstract atheism. I am frustrated with hatred, and frustrated with inclusiveness.

Each truth has a counter argument. Each freedom comes with another subjugation. Each evil comes with an ideal dominating the action, overshadowing the act.

Nietzsche was correct. Yet Nietzsche was so mistaken.

I am lost in freedom.

The Simple Life

Ah, sunset over Sana’a. It comes far too quickly, leaving me questioning how effective my day really was. Before Christmas, these times were spent with concerns over school work. However, such carelessness ceased with the news of Omar’s actions on his Christmas Day flight. Things have rapidly changed in Sana’a since then, but this posting is not about that. That is for another time, or at least another post.

I have realized that my postings have been sporadic at best, and understand that this must be remedied. So I will start the repair with a quick overview of life lately.

Christmas was wonderful, as we were able to find Christmas cheer wherever we went. In particular, I spent Christmas day with a few students from America, where we sang carols, drank eggnog, watched (horrible) Christmas movies and stuffed ourselves silly. I was amazed with the prowess of the girls, who were actually able to rustle up a turkey for dinner. While I was left with a particularly nasty flu for the following week, it was wonderful nonetheless.

The next several weeks were horrible, again, this will be documented at a later date, but there were bright spots along the way. My arabic has continued to improve, albeit at a snails pace, and my relationship with my prof has continued to grow (i.e., we now only jokingly fight in class… usually).

The days continue to be filled with beauty, although the weather has turned quite chilly, with daytime highs only getting to twenty above celsius and dropping to roughly zero with the set of the sun. I really did not anticipate this, as displayed in my not so warm packing job.

Most of my days are quite repetitive. Up at six thirty, study till eleven, class till two, then work or tea shops. From time to time we will head out to a restaurant to enjoy food that has not been dropped on the floor, a treat, needless to say.

At least I hope it was not dropped on the floor. Judging by my mouth fireworks after the pizza, I could be wrong.

There are other joys in the daily routine as well. I have managed to get to know some Yemeni girls, and am slowly learning about the hidden side of Yemen. They have been kind as they have walked me through the daily routines, thoughts, fears, obstacles and joys of womanhood in Yemen. It is simultaneously exhilarating and heartbreaking to hear their stories. Nevertheless, they are fierce, independent and hilarious, making life that much more enjoyable for me here.

But nothing compares to spending time with some of my favorite people in the world. While a few may be missing in action, and I apologise to Ahmed, Anoud, Sig, Ganesh and Khalid, you were not there, and I only bring out my camera once in a blue moon. So speed up next time. Below is Salik and Katja, the night Katja left us for greener (whiter?) pastures in Slovenia. We miss you already girl.

So that has been my life, minus the crap, for the last month. Enjoy this post, because the next will not be as happy

As always, I have to insert a song which encapsulates my feelings at the moment, the song which gets more playtime then others on my iPod. Since Passion Pit is the best album of 2009, and since it has played continuously as I have strolled down the streets or relaxed in the evening, you, dear reader, now have the blessing of having it grace your ears. Cheers

Pictures from India: Part Two

As promised, here is the second set of photos of a three-part series regarding my experiences in India. Again, due to the lack of time, constant questions regarding the Umar incident, and my study schedule, I have been left with precious little time to accomplish this task. However, with the free time I have on my hands now, I thought it would be a perfect opportunity to get a post or two in. Sooo, without further adue, India: Part Two.

This was perhaps one of Katja’s best shots of the entire trip. I feel it captures the warmth, spirit and vibrancy of India. Or perhaps I am just being overly simplistic, but still…

Shot in the early hours of the day, as dawn enveloped the Taj Mahal. The beauty of the building and the love it represents is actually much more profound in memory then in the flesh, but still a good experience.

To understand India, one must first attempt to understand the roads, where rage, compassion and volume all interact to bring about a symphony of vibrancy.

Nothing symbolizes India more than a friendly pickup game of cricket. As boring as the “sport” my be, there was always rapt fascination experienced when I walked by such games. I even managed to participate once, as I caught a fly ball speeding towards my face.

Just another example of the beautiful architecture found throughout India.

Another Katja gem, she caught this young fisherman on the banks of the Ganges as he prepared for a day of trolling the river.

Terrorism: A Story of Sensationalism

There is a fine line between the truth and sensationalism, between anger and frustration, and between passion and betrayal. There are lessons to be learned in life, and unfortunately I am one who seemingly must learn them the hard way. I am passionate about life, passionate about others, and passionate about introspection. I have always felt that we learn more by listening than speaking.

However, despite my initially concerns, I felt strongly, after I initially discovered that Umar was the individual charged with attempting to destroy the American bound airliner on Christmas day, that I needed to share my experiences with him. It was initially both an effort provide some form of information, as well as a form of theropy for myself. So I wrote, and attempted to explain my feelings, for others as much as for myself. I did not try to analyize, nor understand the actions of Umar. Specifically, I wanted to avoid any form of sensationalism with my expereince. I needed to write exactly what I felt before and after I knew the terrable news, in an effort to avoid allowing my mind to place emotions upon my memories that were a creation of a later date. I felt that I was somewhat sucsessful.

Shortly after writing my piece, the journalists descended upon our school, the Sana’a Institute for Arabic Language, and again, I thought it would be benificial to share the slight information that I knew. My willingness and openess quickly dissapated, as I soon came to realize the initial wave of reporters had come seeking a story of sensational answers; answers to questions we did not fully understand as of yet. As I was begining to feel frustrated with finding myself  misquoted in papers throught the world, a gentleman from London called, stating that he had found me through a mutual friend, and had gone over my blog post. I attempted to ask which paper he worked for, and he replied that it was an international London based paper, seeking to share the truth beyond the fog of the knee jerk media reaction.

I decided that sharing my feelings and thought with this individual would present a wonderful opportunity to share my positive feelings regarding Yemen, and the people, desipte the actions of one man who left this very land, in order  to destroy.

We talked, and I was perhaps a little less guarded then I should have been, sharing my feelings of the experience after I had heard the news. I was even convinced by this individual to provide a few pictures from my old home.

Once the interview was finished, I did not think much more of the experience, especially because of the onslought of journalists attempting to find the “authentic” story at the mahad at which I study.

It was over a week later that I came across the piece, during a rather routine narcasistic search of “matthew salmon yemen” on google. In the news section I saw a headline that chilled my very soul. It stated “ Pa reveals the secret life of syringe terrorist Umar Abdulmutallab” in a horrible British Tabloid, famous for sex scandels and conspiricy theories. In mounting frustration, I realized that the comments I had given had been horribly edited, leaving the impression that I thought Umar was raging fundamentalist, capable of horrible actions. There are phrases such as “prayed loudly, disturbing his flatmates in Yemen as he wailed himself into a frenzy of hate…” that are words that would never come from me. Other portions of the story alluded to speculations that I “reportedly” felt were accurate. Again, other sections compleately rejected the information I provided, and created their own desire for sensationalism, while implying that such information came from me, specificaly the discription as one of the beautiful mosques in our neighbourhood as a”sinister backstreet mosque“.

I am hurt, frustrated, and angry over the use of my name to portray such a description of sensationalism in order to sell papers. I am angry at myself for being fooled into providing details to a source of Yellow Journalism. I was saddened that my name has been associated with any form of negativity with Islam, Yemen or another human being. These are not my words.

However, I learned. I learned that what we say is our responsibility, even when it is misused. I have discovered that no matter the intention, we are unable to affect our feelings once they are shared.

I can not say I am unwilling to share now. If anything, I am more determined then ever to share and to let my voice be heard. But I have also recognised a profound truth; proper dialouge will never be possible as long as people are willing to superimpose meaning upon others words and actions. I have tried to avoid such activty in the past, but a more commited then ever before to listen. We will never understand each other unitl we do.

As always, I will leave you with the music that calms my soul in moments such as this. It is called “Let Your Love Grow Tall” by the best new band of the year, Passion Pit. Enjoy

Editors note: I have since talked to an authentic journalist from Canada, named Michelle McQuigge, who wrote an amazing piece on my experiences and thoughts. She stayed true to my thoughts and feelings, while still searching for more. She may just be my new favorite journalist. You can read her response here.

My experience with Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab

I am not sure of the wisdom of this post. There is so much that could go wrong with a post such as this, but I feel the need to tell people about it. To give another side, to provide a view of a terrible tragedy. To explain what an acquaintance with an individual can have on another, even if that meeting was brief. To share the pain of knowing, even if is was only a passing meeting.

I am grateful I have not placed too much information on this site. Nor will I. It is about my experiences, but not about me. It is about what has transpired, not what will transpire. It may contain glimpses into a life, but it could be anyones life, a nonspecific experience of one hoping to understand a culture. However, with all of the good I have experienced here, I must share the opposite as well.

Recently I read about a thwarted attempt on a domestic flight to America, where one Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab attempted to do the unthinkable. I was stunned. It was an act of aggression and hatred that I was familiar with, growing up in a post 9-11 society. However, the feelings of fear, anger and overwhelming sadness remain, regardless.

Upon hearing the news, I followed it religiously, tracking the streaming news feeds, and the information grew from a hint here and there, to a flood of speculation. I was stunned when I read of the Yemeni connection. This is my home, a beautiful country, fraught with perils and danger, but full of warm loving people, willing to assist, comfort and share at all moments.

The facts continued to mount, when last evening a stunning revelation crushed all I knew. Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, typically only introduced as Umar, had shared a house with me when I first moved here. We only shared a residence for a few weeks, and I rarely came in contact with him, but nonetheless, we had resided under the same roof.

My world shrank and darkened, spun and halted, all in the same moment. I was furious. I was angry with a sudden, unjustified sense of dishonesty. I was horrified of the possibility of the “what if” questions. What if he had been successful, I thought. I was immediately overwhelmed with a unjustifed, irrational feeling of guilt, one I can not explain, but one that took full hold nonetheless. Then the fear returned. “What if…”. I know such thoughts are useless, but the rational mind is helpless against the onslaught.

In time, I began to think clearly. I thought about Umar. A seemingly good boy, one who rarely spoke to anyone in the house. He would attend the mosque and exchange pleasantries when passed on the stairs. He had been enrolled in the school, but had not been attending by the time I had arrived. When at home, he remained in his room, and kept his presence to a minimum.

Several times, early in the morning, we would meet in the kitchen during breakfast. We shared several conversations, typical in nature. How was your studies. The weather. The beauty of Yemen, and his hope that I would enjoy my time in the land. Without fail, the conversations would drift towards Islam, the Quran and mosque attendance. He would politely encourage me to continue my studies of the Quran, and give thought to joining him at the local mosque one day, when I felt it would be appropriate, as we packed our lunches for the day together. Then, with abruptness as sharp as a knife, he would wish me a good day, and with a traditional salute of “Ma’a Sala’am” he would head out. During the time I spent in the house while he was still there, we had such encounters only four or five times. Not enough to even leave much of an impression, only a curiosity. Curiosity as to why such a nice young man would excuse himself from our revelries in the house, our late night meals, our conversations till all hours, and our fellowship at the school.

Then one day, early this October,  we noticed his room was emptied. I never thought to question it much, as he had mentioned returning home at some point, with no definitive date in mind. Then life carried on.

I do not share this to be sensational. I am not attempting to sway opinion, nor create sympathy. I share it to show another side, one the media will refrain from mentioning. One of a quiet student, with gentle manners toward fellow travelers in a strange land.

When I heard about the attempt on board the airplane I was frightened, enraged, overwhelmed and confused. However, I have come to understand the power of an idea. I do not pretend to know what was in his mind. Nor the ideology which drove him to such a rash conclusion. I am not attempting to place a timeline of actions or thoughts. I am sharing my experience. I am not sure how it will help any others. Perhaps it is just therapeutic for myself, but share I must.

The point of terrorism is to strike fear, in order to further a political or personal goal. There is no logic to it. My experiences prove that there is no logic to it. It is illogical, and it works. As far removed as I was from the actual event, and thank God it did not transpire as planned, I was still deeply frightened. However, I have chosen to learn from this experience.

I have learned that those who go on to do such acts do not do so out of blinding hatred and rage. If that were the case, if they were crimes of passion, I do not believe I would be writing this right now, as we had several disagreements over some points of doctrine. These are individuals disenfranchised with a situation, be it political or social, and have fallen to such a state of frustration that the outrageous seems plausible. What is obviously not an intention one day, quickly becomes one the next.

As a possible friend, I feel betrayed. But as one who perhaps could have noticed something amis, I feel guilty. As one placed in a precarious situation, I feel frightened. But most importantly, as one who has studied the faith of Islam in University, one who came to Yemen to experience the inhabitants joys, sorrows and fears, one who has seen the hospitality of the Muslims and the blind rage of humanity, through warm arms and vicious war, I am left saddened.

With this recent act, the world will once again fear those of an Islamic background. As one who lives in such a society, has studied such philosophy, and loves those whom I have met, I find myself seeing my surroundings with different, un-trusting eyes. I wish I would not, but for today at least, I do. This is a great disservice to a people, a nation, and a faith. It is a vicious weapon utilized upon Nations already unfamiliar and frightened of that which is different. It is a horrendous crime against those unwitting victims upon the plane, their families and loved ones.

It is an act that has reshaped my experience here. I can only hope, with the help of my Yemeni, Saudi, Sudanese, Iraqi and Jordanian friends, I will quickly remember the love that is present in such a devastated land. My heart goes out to those effected, both far and near, both directly and indirectly. May you find peace today.

In addition, I feel it is important to include the power of music at all times in my life. My song for these past few days comes from a Samoli Canadian rapper, incidently a Muslim as well, named K’naan, who has produced some wonderful melodies. His song “Take a Minute” feels like a proper response to my feelings. Enjoy.

K\’naan; Take a Minute

Pictures from India: Part One

I wanted to provide a journal/pictorial essay of my experiences in India. I am afraid that the time that I would have to put into such an endeavour would put me so far behind at school and work, that to do so would be irrational (remember, dear reader, that I was in India for almost three weeks).  So, what follows is just a rough outline of a few pictures, documenting some of the highlights, lowlights and feverish moments of our trip. I tried to find the pictures that captured the feelings we experienced, but there were far to many to edit properly. For that, I apologise.

Also, my own photo skills were lacking on the trip, due in large part to constant fever and flu, but my travel companion Katjia was kind enough to pass along some of her photos. So the vast majority are her’s. I still have several to go through, so the pictures that are not quite ready yet will come along in a separate post.

Therefore, without any further adue, India: Part One

A Holy Cow outside the Temple of the Rats; Rajastan’s famous Karni Mata Temple

Jain temple outside the Red Fort, Rajasthan.

Red Fort; Rajasthan

Central Clock Tower in Town Square; Jodhpur, Rajasthan

Graveyard, Outside Jaisalmer; Rajasthan

On the Banks of the Ganges; Varanasi

Swimming in the Ganges; Varanassi

Muslim Mosque Outside Agra

Local Woman; Agra (Thankfully Katja was much more willing to ask local women for pictures. Yemen has scared that out of me.)

Mosque Devotions; Agra

Taj Mahal at Dawn; Agra

Local Beggars; Jaipur

Taj Mahal; Agra (Major fever at this point)

Islamic Mughal Period; Agra

Sorry there is not more details. More to come. Stay tuned.

Christmas in Arabia

This is my Christmas. I found it beautiful, even though I can only catch a few words here and there. Its fun to be in the land where  the Genesis of the “Big Three” found its home. Christmas may take different forms, but the message remains the same. Peace be with you this holiday season, my dear readers.

ما أسلم

Christmas In Sana’a

Life got a little bit better in Sana’a last night. Amid heightened security tensions and rumours, a wonderful taste of home snuck into town last night. Quite by accident, I happened across a semi-private Christmas party last night, where, it seemed, almost every expat in town had gathered for some caroling and hot drinks. While I was supposed to be catching up with friends, I found myself enraptured in childlike awe to the refrains of “Away in a Manger”, “Silent Night” and “The First Noel”. The lights, the colours, the spirit, everything Christmas should be. No Santa, no gifts, just good, good music, and a good spirit. Ahhhhhhhhhh.

I snapped a few pictures of the even, although the place was so packed, it was difficult to get close. Merry Christmas from Yemen.

Sitting, thinking, wishing, wanting

إنني حتى تشعر بالإحباط

I find myself sitting at a local coffee shop at the moment, aptly name Coffee Traders, enjoying a festive peppermint tea, wallowing in a funk of frustration, with military jets loudly passing in the dark night sky above my head. Having just come from work, I am justifiably tired, but the day seems particularly difficult. I don’t write this to complain or to reach out for some sympathy (although I do have Metric’s “Gimme Sympathy” playing on repeat on the iPod. Maybe I should change that), so please no responses of that nature.

It is a combination of a lot of little things that has me in this mood I think. At work I spent over four hours of my day editing a piece for tomorrow’s paper outlining in graphic detail the state of domestic abuse in Yemen. One would think that after hours and hours of editing such an article, one would become numb to the subject, but I found myself yearning to be able to be effective in some capacity in the alleviation of the problem, even though I am fully aware that such a task is herculean at best, and impossible at worst. Nevertheless, the subject got to me. Just before I left work, I was given one more piece, a last-minute submission from Sa’adah. I have been assigned to edit all of the “propaganda”, or as they are called, press releases, that come from the war-torn region an hour north. The stories are the same day after day, but again, today I could not help but be moved as I reworked the piece.

After work, I came to coffee traders to meet a friend for some last-minute Arabic cramming. As I sat down with Anoud, three separate jets flew low over head, carrying their deadly ordinances, and I could not but help wonder who was going to lose a brother, sister, husband, mother or friend tonight. I would have to write about that in the morning, I realized.

As Anoud and I got down to studying, the previous melincolli experiences compounded into one gigantic ball of frustration as I struggled to force my brain to turn the squiggly in front of my eyes into coherent sentences that I could understand. Things that had been clear only hours earlier were now far removed from my mind. Even the simplest conjugations were taking me far too long to produce.

And so, letting Anoud head off to find some food somewhere in the city to calm her raging stomach, I am left to flounder in this particular mood.

But I have to realise that this is why I came to Yemen. It was not only to learn a language. I could have just as easily studied at home for a whole lot less money. But I wanted the experience of living in a country torn apart by war. I wanted to feel the frustration everyday of knowing that I should understand those I am around, but failing to. I wanted to understand the justification of the veil, to know divergent opinions on religion, domestic situations and international relations. I wanted to live where Christmas is unknown and where I feel like I am freezing at night, when the temperature dips to a chilly nineteen degrees celsius. I am getting exactly what I wanted. There is absolutely nothing to complain about. So why do I find myself in this mood?

Strangely, with the conclusion of the last sentence I no longer feel frustrated. I guess that is why I started writing in the first place. Funny how the mind subconsciously knows exactly what to do when these feelings emerge. I think I will head off to Shamali Hari to search for a Lindors chocolate. I am sure that would make the world make sense once again.