Friday, June 30, 2006

UAE Prisons

First of all, thank you CG, for linking this article in your blog. It just so happens I’ve got a UAE prison experienced friend of mine at my place today to help me move, as I came and opened this link of yours. I read the link to him and it induced a very interesting conversation; Prisons in the UAE.

Before I go on, I’ll make clear that I’m not going to mention this persons name, but give him a fake one, T, and my blog may very well be banned for posting this. But if that happens, it’ll be worth it. So, if this becomes good-bye, it was fun while it lasted, all.

T has been in prison more times in the UAE than he can count or remember. Most times, it’s been for alcohol consumption and/or fighting. His sentences have taken place in Abu Dhabi the Central Prison: Al Wathba, CID Department and the Military Jail. In Dubai, he’s stayed in the Central Prison; Jumeirah, and the smaller ones Al Rashidiya, Muraqqabat, Al Gusais, Bur Dubai, and Al Rafaa. In Sharjah, the CID one; Mudeerria, Markez Al Qarb, and Buhairah. In Ajman he can’t remember the name, and claims this prison is much like a home.

His experience in this field in invaluable. He relays that the worst of all prisons here that he’s been to is the Abu Dhabi Central Prison, Al Wathba. Here he claims that the inmates there are not given tasty food, they are not allowed to take any bottle inside the actual prison rooms, excepting plastic and you’re not allowed to take bread, eggs, or dates from the cafeteria. You are searched for food before leaving the cafeteria. You are allowed, biscuits that are mixed with dates, laban (a yogurt drink), Pepsi & Seven-Up in plastic bottles, nuts and cigarettes. For things like Panadol, you must see the doctor in the clinic and swallow it in front of them. Afterwards your mouth is searched.

Also in Abu Dhabi prison, on a brighter side, there is a place for sports such as football, volleyball & basketball. There is work available inside that consists of tailoring, painting, etc. But you are only paid amounts in the hundreds of dirhams as a salary each month. They have inmate actors and compose plays on stage in front of inmates and guards alike. All of which activities will allow you better facilities; longer visitation rights or time on the phone.

Please note now that Central Prisons are not like the smaller ones as in Rashidiya and other police stations or CID.

In Dubai Central Prison, T had lots of fun. He claims you can learn just about anything inside and everything available on the streets is also available inside; excepting women. What is not ready-made can and is made by the inmates. In his own words, Dubai Central Prison is heaven. He felt like he was at home only you can’t walk out the doors at any given time. A year will pass and it will feel like two days, he laughed. There are some people who don’t wish to leave.

Inside the prison, T claims that there isn’t such a racial divide as there is in the outside or free society of the UAE. Inmates are not followed around by guards, nor are they locked into their cells at night. Bathrooms are much like the bathrooms you will find in a public center and they are open for use twenty-four hours. You will not be escorted to the bathroom and you are given your privacy. You have a separate room for showing to assure modesty.

You are given a blade for shaving, however you must sign for it and return it within two hours. If you fail to return it, you will be beaten, be stripped of telephone use and visitation rights as well as smoking. You will then be sent to isolation in a room not big enough for you to stretch out. Stretches in isolation may last up to 24 hours, until the blade is found.

If a fight should break out in the prison and a weapon (of any sort) was used the consequences are as follows. The judge will first inquire about whether or not you were intoxicated. Being found intoxicated will lessen any consequences because you were not in the right state of mind. However, you will have an additional 5 to 10 days added to your sentence as an intoxication charge in addition to the consequences of fighting. Then the judge will investigate the weapon. If it was found that you brought the weapon to the fight yourself, the sentence will be severe because it proves intent.

A typical day in Dubai Central Prison starts before the morning prayer time, when an inmate shouts, “Safaaaaaaaiiiii!” which means ‘Clean’. It’s only in the central prison where inmates are expected to clean, in the smaller prisons there is cleaning staff. Inmates then clean the floors, toilets, and general tidying of any trash (biscuit wrappers, etc) lying around.

After cleaning you can shower and then eat your breakfast. Breakfast usually consists of Breakfast cereal, eggs, cheese, butter, Egyptian foul, and other such foods. Juice, milk and tea are also available. Once you’ve done eating you’re given a cigarette break where you can go outside and smoke a cigarette. You are given a cigarette break ever two hours or so for the rest of the day. In the smaller jails, after every cigarette you must return the cigarette buts to the guards to insure you will not attempt to smoke later causing a fire inside.

**In the Dubai central jail there is a canteen where food such as hamburgers and other types are available. You can order, from four pm the line up for the orders start. In the smaller jails, such as Rashidiya, Al Gusais or Bur Dubai, inmates can order fast-food such as KFC, or Hardies right to their cell.

From sometime around 3pm you’re allowed to make phone calls, every day. Each inmate is given 10 to 15 minutes on the phone. You must purchase a phone card from inside the prison in order to make your calls. In central prison, your money is kept in a safe and you sign with a guard each time you take; a voucher of certain amount to spend in Abu Dhabi and actual cash in Dubai. What’s left of this money is returned to you upon your release.

The evenings inside the jails are spent playing checkers, and other board games, and watching TV. At night, inmates retire to a common sleeping area where each one is given a bed, and above most of the beds posted on the walls are magazine photographs of celebrity women.

In prison in the UAE, 1 month consists of 23 days and if you have good behavior you will leave the prison a quarter short of your expected sentence. T claims this isn’t hard to do, because unlike the image we see of ‘hardcoreism’, of American prisons, you are able to live your life normally inside. He says there’s no need to get all ‘gangster’ to protect yourself from other inmates. Fights do take place, as do a number things we can all assume (that I won’t be mentioning here out of hope that this doesn’t get me banned), but over all it’s not that bad a place. Some of the techniques are severe when it comes to suspected inmates attempting to smuggle in drugs. Consequences are tough and no one should want to visit such a place at all.

T asked that I mention one particular story concerning the Sharjah prisons. He was sentenced to 80 lashings, which is normally done in a public place. After being beaten 80 times with a stick in the middle of a street on a roundabout, he laughed in the officer’s face, because the crowd was laughing at him. The officer then gave him ten more. T laughed again, before they decided he was crazy and let him sit back with his friends who were in line for their own punishments.

T also asks that I say, “Sisters and brother, mans and girls. I’d like to say no one try to be ever in the jail but if you must be in the jail, it’s heaven. Welcome.”

**I might point out now, T isn’t the sanest of all folk I know. But I’m sure you’ve figured that out already by the number of prisons he’s been in and the stories he’s shared.

Now, we really have to get on with moving. One of you will give me a call and let me know if this gets banned while I’m away, right?

Reverse Racism

A while back, I remember coming across a letter to the editors in 7Days, where a woman was calling it racism because an article they published on bald people, didn’t have a single black person as an example in it. Give me a fucking break. The author wasn’t thinking about race or skin color and you want to be treated equal, so STOP brining up the damn skin color differences. Right here in blogsphere of the UAE you can find all sorts of the same psychotic ramblings from simple minded folk.

I am white. That doesn’t make me a racist. And I’m getting pretty fucking tired of the label, or of the implication that I should feel guilty because of it. I’m also sick of the idea that I have never encountered racism because of my skin color.


When some dumb bitch knocks on my door every night for a fucking week after midnight, because I’m Canadian and she thinks I should help her son get into my country. Had I been any other fucking nationality, I wouldn’t have been woken from my damn sleep each night while seven months pregnant and suffering something SICK already. That is racism.

When you assume I’ve not suffered or gone through strife because I’m white. That is racism.

When you call me a racist without even knowing me, because I’m white and won’t feel guilty for it. That is racism.

When men (of ALL nationalities, even the fucking minorities here) ask, “How Much?” as I walk by, because my skin is white, my eyes are green and well, despite the fact that I’m wearing an abaya I must be a prostitute. That is racism.

When a shop owner charges me double the asking price because I’m white and he thinks all white people are rich. That is racism.

Quite contrary to all you whining bitches belief, the minute you label me a racist or privileged because you know I’m from the west, is RACISM. And it’s just as nasty as whatever you think you’ve felt.

The UAE is a multicultural, multiethnic, multinational country. Local’s take up the smallest percentage of the population here, my guess would be that Asians take up the largest, and then expatriate Arabs and Westerners are about even these days somewhere in the middle. Yeah, racism plays a huge role in the way society works. But why not stop yourself and ask how you’re being racist yourself before pointing the finger at everyone else?

When was the last time you went to a coffee shop with a table full of multinational friends? Do you even have friends that aren’t the same nationality, same color as you; and if so, at what percentage in comparison to friends (you actually socialize with) of your own nationality? What do you know about the other cultures here; aside from what you think you’ve seen on TV, or a few shitty examples you’ve been given? When was the last time you asked a culturally-based question, “Why do Hindu’s put a red dot on their head?” instead of just making jokes about it? And for those of you who don’t know the answer to that, from what I’ve learned it’s a sign of marriage, sort of like a wedding ring to us in the west.

Arrogance and ignorance causes racism and Reverse Racism. If you can’t point the finger at yourself first, no matter what nationality you are, stop pointing it at others.

Reverse Racism, is just another form of discrimination and to be honest, I’m sick of it all.


Today is moving day. I’ve finished packing the majority of my house. I’ll be shifting this evening. You all have a brilliant day. I’ll see ya when I see ya.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

Sleeping Dogs Die: Kill It. End the Suffering.

There’s nothing I can’t stand more than inconsiderate people feigning as friends for the sake of taking and not giving. Why do so many people fail to realize that a relationship is give and take, and not just take?

Lovers, friends, associates, it’s all the same. An exchange has to take place in order for the relationship to work; to continue before someone pulls out of the deal.

I have a grandmother I haven’t talked to in years and a sister that I haven’t talked to even longer because they couldn’t understand this concept. I don’t believe I ask too much of any of the people in my life, certainly not more than I’m willing to give to them in return.

Why do so many of you suck so bad? And why haven’t I still gotten it right in choosing the people I let in?

I live in a country where you can make a best friend in a minute, or so it seems with the plastic people. I can’t count the number of people I’ve met for the first time only to learn that I’m now their best friend and that they love me with all their hearts. YOU DON’T KNOW ME FROM ONE DAMN MEETING. I’m sure I’m not alone in experiencing this. It seems the norm for the Arabic and even Eastern European cultures to talk like this, and act like that. If you’ve not yet experienced it, be warned of it and don’t take it at face value because the minute you turn your back, you’re the word on their lips for gossip and judgments.

These people don’t bother me really. They make me laugh. What bothers me are the people I let into my life and willingly give my heart to (as they greedily take all they can); me assuming they are mature enough, logical enough and even far enough from this mind-frame to understand what friendship is really about.

Today, I let a friend go; someone I welcomed in my home and introduced to my son; someone I loved and respected despite any flaw they might have had; someone I believed loved me in return. He no longer will exist in my life. To me, true friends are forever, but only if there was truth in the base of that friendship to begin with. I’m sad to let him go. I really am; sort of like I would be if I had to shoot a dying dog to put it out of its misery. But there’s only so much I’m willing to take. And despite what all you readers might make of me through my blog, I’m a softy at heart. I tend to get walked on and usually I don’t mind. But once I feel your footprints are getting too fucking deep; that’s it. You’re done with me and I am done with you.

Let this be a lesson to all my friends. I’ll love you, respect you, keep you at the core of my heart and be the best damn companion you’ve ever had until I realize you’re not giving me even an ounce of that in return; not giving me anything but heartache and strife. I’ll be patient, but not so patient to let a sleeping dog die once you’ve started abusing me. I have a line. If you cross it, I’m not going to stop you. But I’m also not going to wait around for you to come back; nor will I welcome you if you do.

Just a Whining Expat: All You’ll Ever Be

Browsing the newspapers this morning I couldn’t help but notice all the talk about expatriates rights and needs. Hell, in 7 Days there was even a poll asking if being called an ‘expat’ was insulting. I read the term, reverse-racism somewhere, and well I’m starting to feel that this is the thread the expatriate community is falling into, altogether.

When is the public here going to understand, whatever you call for or ask of the government isn’t your right to have and they’re under no obligation to give it to you? When is the expatriate population here going to give thanks for the damn things this country has already given you that your own damn country couldn’t?

If you go to your friends house and their parents (because you’re all acting like babies now) cook better food for you than your own mom does, that’s great. But when your friend’s mom decides to stop cooking so extravagantly except for her own family, you’ve got no god damned place bitching about it; even if you did wash their dishes after eating every meal.

Seriously, I read some stupid calls concerning Emiratization. People are saying, ”The government should help us find another job”, or ”Nationals should be hired as assistants.” Give me a fucking break people. I don’t necessarily like Emiratization because it’ll damn well effect me soon enough too, but that doesn’t mean I should have any place in making the laws. This is not my country and it’s not yours. Seriously, shut up or go home!

And on a side note, how many of you were bitching that it’s only the locals who get off on crimes easily? These murderers should be executed; according to Sha’ria rulings. 15 years is NOTHING. If the death sentence really has disappeared to sooth you whining American System lovers, at least give these fuckers life and make their own governments pay for their keep in the local prison until they rot. Why should the UAE Government even pay to feed these fucking expatriates while they’re in prison?

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Dubai – Diseased Egyptian Drama~!

So this morning, I get a message from that friend I once wrote about in Egypt. You should probably read this post about her and then this one, if you haven’t already, before the below one. She’s one of my favorite people in the world, with a heart of gold.

I spent a lot of time sending and receiving text messages today, to her and to her husband. I spent even more time on the phone with her. You all have to keep in mind, she’s been married according to Islam (with an Imam and two witnesses) and not legally (in the courts).

Here’s the first message she sent:

Babes, I’m traveling to Yugoslavia next week, but before I go and not come back I need to have my conscious cleared. I took some numbers from my husband’s phone because although he’s denying it, I do believe he’s chatting and flirting with girls. Can you please check this DxB number and let me know who it belongs to, as for ABC if he exists? +9714XXXXXXX Thanks. Love you.

Being the awesome friend I am, and knowing how shitty it feels to have a cheating man, and even wanting this friend of mine to see he’s trash for herself (as I’ve been telling her since she got there), I called.

“Hello,” a young woman answers.

“Hi. Can I please speak to ABC?” I was as friendly as I could be and added a second name from my head, “ABC XYZ?”

“He’s my brother,” She answered, “Who’s this?”

“I’m a friend of his. May I speak with him please?”

“He’s in Egypt,” I’m thinking it’s time for me to hang up the phone cause I know enough, “Where did you get this number?”

“From a friend,” I quickly added, “Thank you. Bub-bye.”

I closed the phone and called my girlfriend in Egypt. She listened and explained that this number had been calling her husband every night and he’d been calling it. He’d sent a message to a Dubai mobile expressing his love for whoever the receiver was. She mentioned his ex wife was working here in Emirates.

Minutes after I closed, she sent me another message asking me to call again and ask her if her name was GHD. I called her back and asked why, she explained that GHD is his wife’s name, and she thinks they didn’t actually get divorced and that’s why her husband refused to marry her in the courts in the first place. There would be no hiding it then, would there?

I wasn’t able to call because the woman knows my voice and it’d be hard to get her name in a second call. I got a really good friend of mine to call her up and pretend she was calling from some society in Sharjah and wanted to do a phone-survey. Bam! That was it; the woman answering the phone was the first wife, GHD.

I call back my friend in Egypt and explain this to my friend. She’s relieved. She ask for a proper divorce and leave without having something on her conscious. Ten minutes later she forwards me this message:

forwarded from +2010XXXXXX: DON’T TALK TO ME AGAIN I SAID. AND Tell your stupid spy bitch to call the number and ask for ABC!

I couldn’t help but laugh. And now, my conversation between the dumb-fuck, diseased-low-life-scum starts. Keep in mind, I’m laughing the whole time. You should be laughing too while reading this. Instead of giving him his real name, we’ll call him STD because the abbreviation seems to fit him well:

Me: You’ve underestimated this spy-bitch. STD, GHD’s brother makes for a great alibi, but since he’s in Eqypt now he’s certainly not the one you’ve been talking to in that Emirates Airline Apartment. You’ve fucked with my friend, understand that if you don’t let her go in peace your diseases will be the least of your problems.

STD: Oh forward this to the fucking canadian bitch. Listen you fucking candian prostitute. Not because you cheat on your husband once and eat black mother fucker another another, it means that everyone is like you. I don’t know is this is a trick you’re playing or GHD (the wife in Dubai). Anyway you fucking one dollar whore watta a fuck r u gonna do about me calling you a bitch. Fucking canadian slut.

And you all thought the nasty shit anonymous people say to me on line gets to me! LOL!

Me: Big words and baseless insults make for a small mind STD. No tricks are being played. You’ve been caught. You’ll see where this goes if you don’t leave her in peace. I’m not going to warn you again.

STD: Ooooh i'm really scared now. Fuck you bitch.

Me: Stop wasting your wives’ and mom’s money on pointless messages. They’re great for comedy and make me laugh, but have a heart and feel a little humility being a house boy and all.

I happen to know as a matter of fact this man isn’t working but rather taking my friends salary every month and then allotting her only enough money to pay for her taxi to work each morning, without enough to eat during the day, then he pays the driver at the end of the day when she reaches home. He doesn’t even allow her shampoo or moisturizer claiming these things are luxuries in Eqypt. She’s currently washing her hair with hand soap, and refused to give me her address so I could send her some proper toiletries.

STD: Lol ask your friend, i spend money on more than both of you can earn honey. Actually, not more than you, cause I know prostitution make a lot of money. Loooool.

He had to send this message three time to prove his point about spending lots.

Me: Of course you’re spending more than us. You’ve got your wife’s (my friend who I’m not going to name on the net), GHD’s (the wife in Dubai), and even your mom’s! Do you know the definition of deadbeat leech? Seriously, talking to you is nauseating my brain cells and you’re boring me now too.

STD: I spend thousands over her money. I know it’s nothing compared to what you make on the streets but still atleast my money is clean bitch.

Me: Clean as in borrowed or taken from your women? Get a job, work for your money, and buy shampoo and other luxuries. Then speak. You’re a loser STD, get over it.

STD: I am working you idiot. The money she makes she spends on her self and i give her from my money. But a stupid bitch like you is just talking and doesn’t know what she’s talking about. By the way i i called you a whore, slut, bitch and pros what the Fuck can you do about it.

Me: Luckily for you, your opinion doesn’t matter to me. Seriously, find something to so, another woman to leech from, call someone who wants to hear from you, try to save what you have with GHD. Little girls far from home need security in their work and life. Don’t destroy that for her.

STD: I know your shift is as night and you have nothing to do now, well I’m working so have a life and Fuck off.

Me: Surfing the net and getting paid surveys doesn’t constitute as a job. Nice try though.

STD: No honey i’m going for my tour leader now. Better than a pimp husband anyway. So go masterbate, find out who you gonna Fuck tonight i don’t care.

Me: So you admit you’re nothing but a pimp husband. Low-life, taking as much as he can from his women. And don’t die before you complete your training. The world would suffer a great loss.

STD: I was talking about ur poor husband who doesn’t know who ur fucking

Me: STD, there’s got to be some truth in your insults for them to have an effect. I don’t have a husband. Try again.

STD: Oh thats why you do what you do

Me: There’s an art to comprehension skills, clearly you’re lacking in that area. I am bored now. Tata.


I have talked to my friend since. She’s laughing along with me, because really this man is a fucking deadbeat. From the conversation alone you can tell he’s not the most intelligent person. I’ll kick her ass for fucking with him in the first place when I see her next, but in the meantime I’ll be there to support her always.

He’s agreed to divorce her (according to Islam) this evening. She’ll be packing her shit up and moving into the company apartment (which is also a nightmare but of a lesser form) that was prepared for her, until she flies back to Yugoslavia. Thank God, she’s outta this situation. Now, we just need to get her here so I can beat the woman a little before getting on with our lives.

P.S. I’m only here because I’ve procrastinated again and decided to leave cleaning my mom’s place for later tonight when it’s not so hot out.

Ahhh, Sweet, Sweet UAE

Is it just me or is there entertainment just about everywhere here? I used to work in customer service, for a satellite television company. As each day passes and I encounter more and more almost comedic events, I can’t help but wonder why the HELL so many people get uptight when the tellie is out. Your life can be a soap opera here, and you don’t even have to know how to act!

As you all know, I’m in the process of moving back in with mom. That means that there’s a lot to do and lot to get rid of. In fact, today I’ll be there, cleaning out my rooms. Some of the things I won’t need anymore include a fridge, stove and microwave. Last night, I had a guest to take a look at these things. Well, he’s my lawyer actually, the one I was talking about in an earlier entry. He’s just taken a new flat in Ajman. I offered to give them to him, because well lets be honest, it’s getting expensive so why should he have to buy new, when he can have mine and not pay a thing?

The first and most entertaining part of last night was the money discussion. I wasn’t really thinking about selling the equipment in the first place, so I hadn’t put a price on anything. If he hadn’t wanted them, I’d have just left them in the flat for whoever comes next. Sort of like what I’m intending to do with my bedroom set. I didn’t really care, but he ended up insisting on paying something. So the discussion starts. Have you ever haggled or tried NOT to haggle with an Arab, who’s also friend? It goes something like this…

Him: How much do you want for them?

Me: I don’t really care, you can just take them. Consider it a gift.

Him: No, no. I can’t take them like this.

Me: Seriously, I wasn’t thinking about selling them and you might as well just have them.

Him: Tell me how much you want. If I can afford it, I’ll take it. If not, I’ll go to Carrefour and buy new.

Me: Listen, I hate talking about money. And you’re talking silly. I’ll tell you what, you take the things and put whatever you think is reasonable for them in an envelope and give it to me. We won’t discuss a minute more about something so stupid.

Him: No. I don’t want you to think I’m a bad person. If you were a stranger it’d be easy, but you’re not. How much did you pay for them?

Me: Oh God, I don’t even remember now.

Him: I want them! I mean I really want them. Can I take them today?

Me: I’d prefer it if you didn’t, because I’d like to drink coffee tomorrow morning and I haven’t had the chance to clean out the fridge yet.

Him: But when can I take them? There are some movers down from your building now. It’ll take them an hour or more I think to finish whatever they’re doing. Let me go talk to them.

Me: Don’t worry about that. We can find movers anywhere. We can transfer them on Friday, once my things are out and I’m settled with my mom.

Him: I’ll be in Abu Dhabi on Friday. How much do you want for them?

And the conversation goes in circles till he finally realized that I don’t give a damn and he offers an amount, which I accept. He also agreed to take them on Friday or Saturday.

The next entertaining bit happened about three minutes after he left. He came back with the movers from down stairs.

“These guys want to see all the furniture before they agree on a price for moving them,” He beamed, “And I’ll show them the bedroom set, see if they want to buy it. If they do, I get half, deal?”

For the next hour or so I had two Pathans and an Arab fighting over the cost of moving things and buying my bedroom set throughout my house. This conversation went something like this:

Pathan: Ok, 300Dhs to deliver the kitchen stuff to your house in Ajman and 500Dhs to deliver the rest to Dubai. We’ll take the bedroom set for 300 dirhams.

Him: What?! You’ve got to be kidding. I paid just 100Dhs last week to have furniture transferred to Ajman from Sharjah! You want 300Dhs for Ajman, to Ajman? No no, forget 100Dhs.

Pathan: Baba, it’s a big truck and it’s expensive for petrol. And there’s moving work that has to go into it.

Him: And the bedroom set was expensive baba. You can tell just by looking at it. Madam here paid a lot for it. She still has the receipts.

Pathan: But it’s broken and will cost a lot to repair.

(It’s a four-post bed and I broke one of the pillars off)

Him: It’ll take 5Dhs and a screwdriver to fix it. Then you can sell it like new! 1000Dhs.

Pathan: No, no, it’s too much. We don’t want it.

Me (to the lawyer): Umm, why don’t you just tell them they can have it if they transfer both our things for free? I’m going to just leave it here anyway.

Him: Are you crazy? No. No need.

The three fought on for a better part of an hour before the amounts were decided and the transfer was arranged for Saturday; all of it, except the bedroom set.

After they finally got out of my house I called the friend of mine who will be helping me on move; as in, he’ll get into the truck with the movers to show them where my mom’s house is. It turned out he was working morning shift Saturday, so someone had to call the Pathans and ask them to come around on Friday for my things. I called the lawyer and got their phone number and transferred it to my friend.

My friend called them and since he spoke to them in their language and is always pleasant to talk to, they were more than happy to move my things on Friday, and the lawyers stuff on Saturday without changing the agreed amount.

10 minutes later, my doorbell rang. The Pathans were here, talking on the mobile.

”Madam,” The guy hands me his mobile, “You want to move your things now?”

“Friday,” I take the phone and find the lawyer on the other end.

For some reason, the lawyer had called them and told them that I wanted to move that minute. (Keep in mind the guy was just in my house, and knows I still haven’t finished packing.)

“No,” I speak into the phone, “Friday. And I just told you that. Why would you send them back here?”

“I’m sorry. I knew that, but I thought that’s what this guy just told me,” He was lying, “That’s why I called him.”

I closed the phone and apologized to the guys. They smiled and told me, “We knew it was Friday, but he told us to come back now.” I’m sure he wasn’t lying, “Here, take my card and give me a call Friday evening and we’ll move everything.”

I called the lawyer back and confirmed to him that my things would be moved on Friday and his on Saturday because he would be in Abu Dhabi on Friday. He told me that if he was in town when they came to take my things, he’d give me a call. Ahh, so he wasn’t really planning on being in Abu Dhabi, was just eager to get his new things.

Impatient to get his house furnished, wouldn’t you say? Now I’ve got a question or rather guess for you all, do you think things will transfer smoothly on Friday? Who needs television, the real life is far more entertaining.

Now, off to pick up my son and then to my mommy’s house.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Islam: Not a Good Muslim, but No Stronger Conviction

Before we came here, I remember seeing two Muslim women, completely covered in black, in one of the shopping malls in Canada. I pointed them out to my friends and said, “This is what the women will dress like where I’m moving.” I had no idea what that meant, or why they did it. I was young, and I’d never been the one to listen to what people have to say so long as they had nothing solid to base it on. I prefer to do my own research rather than just believe word-of-mouth from random talkers.

Anyway, if I have one gripe about the UAE nationals and their culture, it would have to be their unwillingness or inability to initiate conversations about their faith: Islam. Harsha asked in the last post about my reversion (and yes we Muslims consider it reversion and not conversion because we believe every child was born innocently, into complete submission to One God), and here’s where I’m going to explain.

I should be packing my house Harsha, but blogging is addictive and I figure your question is an important one. When I’m all behind in what I should be doing, I will blame you & not my addiction.

For information purposes, ‘Islam’ is defined as just that; complete submission to One God. It is not a name the Prophet Mohammed (sallalhu alaihi wasalaam), or any other Muslim gave our religion. We believe that this is the name and definition of our faith as given by God and no other.

Anyway, I can’t say one person taught me about Islam. There were a number of people willing to answer questions once asked, but the conversations were never initiated by them. It was only when my curiosity grew that I started to get the answers.

I arrived in the UAE when I was 14 years old and lived in an area predominantly inhabited by locals. One of the first impressions I noticed about people here was how tight families seemed to be; brothers would stand by brother’s sides even if they were wrong, children obeyed their parents, and the married couples I’d met seemed content with their lives and everyone was so simple. People, even the Nationals, just weren’t what they are today. Most people seemed content with their lives. Whether it was from the old man who couldn’t speak a word of English but saved my family in a fly filled station wagon almost certainly coming strait from the camel farm, from a broken-down-car in the middle of the desert on a hot summer day, or the young national boy who was kicking a soccer ball around our yard with my brother one day, when I turned on the radio in the midst of athaan, who then taught me that this was a no-no, a sign of lack of respect; people were content almost serene in nature.

This was a stark contrast to the life I’d known and lived in Canada. Being the curious little girl I was, I started to consider the reasons why. All these people seemed to have one other thing in common; religion. So naturally, I started to educate myself on the Islamic beliefs and how they were so tightly entwined with the lifestyle. It was so rare that a national would mention religion, I ended up buying countless books on Islam, which then led me to buy books on Christianity, and multiple other religions and ways of life.

By the time I was 17-years-old I hadn’t been able to find a contradiction in Islamic beliefs. I tried very hard to do so, but found nothing but logic based on provable facts. This left me with a dilemma. What free teenager wants to start covering her hair, and letting go of the concept that 19 just around the corner and she’ll soon be legally allowed to go clubbing? What teenager wants to know that life isn’t just about living aimlessly but actually has a purpose, an aim to reach for? What teenager is ready to make a step and change her whole life?

I wasn’t.

I tried very hard to ignore the truth I knew. I tried to push it under the carpet, at times wishing I hadn’t been so curious. I tried to forget the logic. I tried even harder to find a hole, some untruth in the teachings. But the more I tried, the more convinced I became. Islam isn’t about miracles, or believing in the unseen. The science as proven in the Quraan, and the examples given are everyday logic.

Earlier on, I mentioned in my blog being raped in Canada. What I failed to mention was the men who did this to me; they were African Muslims living in Canada who had pretty much all-but abandoned the Islamic way of life. I left this out on purpose, because while writing that entry I wasn’t ready or willing to get into this whole topic. Knowing they were Muslim, was one of the reasons I trusted them despite not knowing them at all. Islam teaches kindness, modesty, and compassion towards other people. I mistakenly believed that these men would live by these morals despite breaking other Islamic teachings.

The very morning after that night, I got on a plane and returned to Dubai. I haven’t returned to Canada since. Within a week, I was ready to make that change I knew I had to make eventually. I decided that I would be a good Muslim for the rest of my life. I decided that I wouldn’t allow the actions of people who carry a certain label distort my views or what I’d learned. I realized that just because the religion is perfect, people aren’t. I started covering my hair.

I am a Muslim. I am not a very good one at all. The life I once knew is rather addictive and being human, it’s far too easy to slip back into the things I’ve grown to enjoy. It’s easy to block-out what we know in order to satisfy some meager want. One day, I hope to be a better person, a better Muslim. And even as I break every belief I have these days, I know I’m wrong and I hope that one day God gives me the strength to be the person I know I should be.

Until then, know that despite my rough exterior and the horrible example I set for Muslims, there is no conviction stronger in my heart than the conviction that there is One God and Mohammed (sallalhu alaihi wasalaam) is His last messenger.

Monday, June 26, 2006

Could You Resist an Interview by Balushi?

These are the questions coming from the one-and-only Balushi.

1- How did you discovered the Blog world?

With your Blog’s URL tattooed on your forehead, how could I have not found it after seeing you prance through Citicenter in your pink kandora, with 12 nasty looking women (and even 1 guy) tagging along behind you?

2- Who was the first blogger you visited and made you think of a Blog of your own?

Well, it was this trash-talking-American-whore who needs to get ass blown up by a suicide bomber in America that I first came across. She repulsed me to the point where I thought I’d never make a blog. But then I found UAE community and started surfing the hate blogs coming from our own little home, and realized that these fuckers need a countering voice. That would be me; or at least what I’m attempting to do.

3- What's with this name Tainted? did you had this name before entering the blog scene?

I’m a fucking stain.

4- What is an Ideal evening for you?

With myself?

Bubbles, Candles, and a good movie.

With Black Feline?

Catnip, Whiskas, and a ball of yarn.

With you?

Ice, Orange, Absolut, Pepper Spray, Handcuffs (in case you act up), some paint and fucking canvas.

With a man I care about?

None of your Business.

5- Did you ever sent an email to Emarati asking Him for a date in His Dodge 6 Cyclinder car?

No. I only go after guys in Corolla’s (Taxi’s included). Did you?

6- Do you think of yourself as a Pretty women compare to all other women? and why?

She’s taller than me, more tanned than me, thinner than me, and has nicer skin than me. But I rock in every other way, so what the fuck do I care?

7- What is more important in your point of view a women should have; A nice Body or a nice face?

Umm, since I haven’t been into women (other than feline) for a long ass time, I don’t give a shit anymore.

8- Why doesnt black feline and Harsha get jealous of you?

Well, you’ve taken feline as your new girlfriend; I believe I should be jealous of her. And as for Harsha, why should she be? Currently, I’m jobless, moneyless and about to move into a box with my parents. Why the FUCK would anyone be jealous of me?

9- What will you do if a guys come's up to you and says "You are beautiful" it could be anywhere, in a lift, shopping center etc.

Since I’m a six-foot-tall Ethiopian woman, with breasts down to my knees and a piercing in my lip that’s bigger than my mouth, and I’m in Plastic Dubai, I highly doubt that’ll happen. So, why the fuck are you trying to get my hopes up?

10- What do you think about sex?

What don’t I think about sex? You’re going to have to be a little more precise with this one B, there are too many extensions of this for me write about in a single answer.

Sunday, June 25, 2006

Packing Up: Packing Out?

Just when I thought I’d made up my mind about this place and my place here, it seems I’m being pulled right back towards the prospects of moving back home.

I don’t look forward to the Canadian lifestyle in the least. I can do without having to give and learning to take a quarter every time I want to bum a cigarette or someone wants one of mine. I can live quite peacefully knowing I don’t have a hot-house drug dealer, or ‘rejuvenated pedophile’ legally living as my next-door neighbor. And I’m pretty darn content avoiding paying Canadian taxes, on everything I buy. I can live in peace knowing my sons right here next to me.

But, Emiratization has taken a couple of steps further and that security I was on about forever ago is looking less and less likely.

I’ll be moving out of this apartment over the next five or so days; back in with my parents. I was hoping it’d turn out to be a much needed vacation and planned on doing absolutely nothing for some time. But with the current state of my broken fucking heart, combined with the reality of a rather bleak looking future here, I’m willing to bet I’ll spend more nights tossing and turning than I have over the past little while.

I shan’t be around the blogs, so all you Tainted-haters have the free rein of the place in my absence. Don’t miss me too much, Balushi will get jealous.

Before I go, some dumb twat on the last post mentioned that I haven’t managed to logically defend locals, anywhere in my blog. Umm, my son’s a local you ass-wipe. Most of my blog defends local traditions, religion and lifestyle. Clearly you’ve not seen or comprehended enough of it to speak. So do me a favor and shut the fuck up.

May God bless me or him, enough to assure he doesn’t grow to be as arrogant, ignorant and lacking comprehension skills, as you most certainly are.

And by the way, someone forever ago, asked me for the definition of GCC or CGG, as I was always mentioning it in my blog. Forgive me, I can’t remember who I sent it as it was during the shittiest of my connections and now I can’t find the email. CGG is a typing error on my part. GCC stands for Gulf Cooperation Council.

Adios for now, all.

News Flash! You & Your Blog Suck!

So here we go again… Tainted has found herself annoyed; not only about the expatriate community here, but also bloggers in general. Sam once gave all you bloggers tips on what he thinks is proper blogging etiquette should be, now it’s my turn.

The blogging world does not needMore Copy & Paste News Blogs. First of all, we’ve already got the queen of that around here, there’s no fucking way you and your amateur posting skills are going to conquer her lifelong quest to get to where she is. And at least, when she adds a comment at the bottom of her copied work, she proves to know how to write with skill. Second, if people really want the fucking news, they’ll go to a local news site. Here, let me link a few for you (and them), Gulf News, Khaleej Times, 7 Days; and 7 Days, even has a fucking comment section where you can discuss and make you damn opinion known (and I’m pretty fucking sure a newspaper comment will get far more views than a damn blog comment). You’ll note, that most of us UAE bloggers have local news sites linked somewhere on the front fucking page of our blogs.

The blogging world is also already fucking saturated with UAE National bashers. Seriously, what’s the online ratio of English-speaking-local bashers verses English-speaking-defenders? For fucks sakes, locals are the fucking minority in this country off-line, how the fuck do they manage to get under your skin so? Are you that fucking insecure, jealous, envious, uneducated, ignorant or just fucking spiteful? Or is your self-esteem just shot so far to hell that you need to join the group; the biggest group you can find to feel like you belong? Get bullied in school? Feel like you need payback? If that’s the case, get some fucking therapy in your own damn country and come back later.

And above all that, you know what no one needs anywhere? Dipshits who speak as if they’re talking legitimate facts about EVERYTHING with NOTHING to base their statements on! No one likes your type off-line, don’t expect people to like you online. That’s right, don’t bother going into religion, law, health, fucking astrophysics if you haven’t the slightest insight into these topics, other than what you’d like to presume from what your single minded head has heard someplace.

What’s that? You think that’s just what I do? Here ya go asshole, a list of things I know nothing about and thus DON’T state solid facts about:

1) Your mama
2) Cloning
3) Mongolia
4) Technology
5) Geography
6) Rock Polishing
7) Architecture
8) S&M
9) Spontaneous Combustion
10) The Pope

Is ten enough? Or would you like more?

A few other things, no one gives a shit how many views you’re getting on your blog, or how popular you are in cyberspace. People came to you before you went on about that bullshit, because that’s when you were saying something interesting.

A cyber kiss just isn’t the same as a real one.

And, if you have to keep begging people to come to your blog, it’s a sure fucking sign that you’re doing it wrong. Is it possible you can’t write? Do you ramble inconsistently without staying on a single topic? Have nothing new or interesting to say? Are just wasting more fucking space begging for attention and sympathy from strangers?

All of these things are getting on my damn nerves. And while I’m on about my nerves, so are the stupid fucking pop-up boxes so many of you have for your comments on your blogs. They take forever to load and piss me off, in many cases, depriving you of whatever I was going to say. And believe it or not, sometimes, I have nice things to say.

Now, do yourself a favor and make your way over to Sam’s blog, find his insight on this topic combine it with mine and see where the fuck you’re going wrong.

Saturday, June 24, 2006

Talking Out of Ass as Facts Again…

In reference to a comment made here, I checked into the legal age limit for marriage in the UAE.

I called up one of my lawyers (and after spending three years in Ras Al Khaimah Court in a criminal case, and another 3 in Dubai Court for divorce, I HAVE A LOT OF THEM) and asked him if the family law in the UAE had a minimum age limit. Keep in mind it’s now 8.30pm; he’s at home and he’s not got the damn books in front of him so I can’t give you the law reference number just yet, but I will make it very clear that it’s actually illegal to marry before you’re 18-years-old here, despite what other’s would make you believe.

Wish to argue this law exists; contact local advocates, thank you very much. I did. And for future reference, I’ve asked him to look into getting an English translation of criminal & family law books; since I’ve already got the labor one. I’m sick and tired of the bullshit people would like the rest of the world to believe.

I really wish people would stop talking out of their asses as if what they had to say was fact. You make shit up, and then believe it. No wonder you feel this is such a shitty place to be. I’d hate to live in your fantasy as well.


It seems there’s a recent flood of egg-talk among blogs. Keefieboy is talking about the price increase, SD went on for a while about finding something of interest in Satwa… and I believe I’ve come across a few other mentions along the lines of Eggs.

All I can say is naaaneeenaaneeeboobaaa…

We get fresh eggs, from my father’s chickens, daily. And lots of them. Anyone interested in buying?

Tainted may have found her place in life. Dubai - Egg Sales Woman!

New Sex Laws in Canada – Khaleej Times Bites

Oh, home sweet home…

I called the supermarket asking for Gulf News this morning. I figured with my current connection, it’s a lot cheaper to buy a newspaper then to the surf their pages online. (Seriously, I’ve now spent more than a thousand dirhams in the last week surfing through my mobile. That’s a hell of a lot for Internet expense.)

Anyway, the guy landed at my door with Khaleej Times. I took the paper, knowing it was all that’s available here. I do live in Ajman, and the daily necessities for foreigners have yet to arrive to this hole.

Here starts my mini rant: Khaleej Times. I do not believe you’ll find a more unintentionally comic news paper published world-wide. Only a dip-shit would think it’s efficient to publish a half-a-dozen or so, half-stories on the font page, directing you to places in the middle of the paper for the rest of each article. That shit’s confusing and disorganized. You end up reading half of one story with the final half of another, but since the language published in this paper is notoriously crap, reading two halves of two different stories will almost certainly give you a better picture of one actual event than reading a single Khaleej Times article in full. Seriously, someone needs to burn that publishing house down; the paper is a mockery to journalism everywhere and a perfect example of the shoddy, low-quality performance accepted throughout ‘professional’ companies within the entire UAE.

Moving on, under the ‘International News’ section something caught my eye. Despite my better judgment I logged on to the net to try and find a link of the article at Khaleej Times. But do you think this superb news paper that is literally better used as kindling or toilet-paper than getting news, would have a digital print of the story, or even a link to the original (because you can tell the English in this article just isn’t original Khaleej Times) found on their site? Of course not!

So, you’re just going to have to take my word on this one. Or rather, I’m just going to have to plagiarize the article in full.

Ottawa to hike the age of consent for sex

OTTAWA - Justice Minister Vic Toews on Thursday presented a new law to raise the age of consent in Canada from 14 to 16, to zap possible sexual predators lurking on the internet, particularly from abroad.

“More and more, ordinary Canadians are concerned about the growing problem of child sexual predators, especially in the Internet age. … They want us to protect our young people from being exploited and preyed upon by adults,” he said.

Mark Hecht of Beyond Borders welcomed the proposed law as “essential for the protection of children.” So, too, did Canadian law enforcement officials. But critics lamented that it cast too wide a net and could “criminalize puppy love.”

Toews countered that the legislation was not meant ‘to criminalize youth who may be involved in sexual activity with their peers,” and so an exemption was included in the draft act to allow youths to have sex with people up to five years older without criminal prosecution. This would, for example, allow a 15-year-old to legally have sex with a 20-year-old. The current age of activities such as prostitution or pornography, or where there is a relationship of trust, dependency or authority, remains 18, Toews noted. - AFP


On to my intended rant; since when was prostitution made legal anywherein Canada? And what a glory it is to know that if I were there, my son could legally become a father in his teens, with a woman just 5 years older than him! Or my 15 year old niece is currently doing no wrong, with her alleged drug-dealing 19 year old boyfriend, running through the gutters despite her mother, my sister’s pleas for her to come back home and go back to school.

Canadian laws suck. It’s just one more fucking reason I’m glad to be here in the UAE and not there. You want my fucking passport, please, please take it. I’m ashamed to belong to such a country that condones child sex with anyone, even among peers.

Last I read (and this was like 5 years ago), the ratio for teen girls with STD’s in British Columbia, was 1 in every 3. That’s disgusting. I can only assume the number has increased since then. The audacity of believing puppy love and sex should go hand in hand and be legal is disgusting. You’re just allowing our women to become tramps and our men to become dogs at young ages. D.I.S.G.U.S.T.I.N.G.

No fucking parent should be condoning their teenager to have sex. Let me not start on the number of teen parents there. And again, who the fuck cares what the parents want? Canadian law will always beat the shit out of the adults in pursuit of the ever-expanding rights of their ‘independent’ kids. We might as well change the God damned definition of ‘independent’ to living off your parents, raging in the hormones of puberty, in complete rebellion to your parent’s wishes, disrespecting them but being legally able to walk all over them and fuck the world, and becoming a parent yourself while you’re at it.


Friday, June 23, 2006

Question For My Blog Readers

You’re here. Whether you comment or you do not, you are here.

The other day I came across a poll on the UAE Community Blog that asked how surfers found blogs to read. The most popular option was “UAE Community Blogroll”, which would make sense since the damn poll was located on that page. Stunning to think that people at the UAE Community blog should find other blogs from there, isn’t it?

Now, I take special interest in this because I asked to have my posting rights revoked and to be completely removed from that particular blogroll, as I have personal issues with the administration of UAE Community. I do not believe that that blog represents the UAE society in the least. In fact, I pretty much have it summed up to being a bitch fest for expats to point out how nasty the UAE is and to promote a few select bloggers with the same mind-set.

Since I asked to be removed, I have not noticed any significant decrease in my page views and while I was listed there my stats showed that very few of you came here from there.

Makes me wonder, how did you find me? Even those of you who don’t usually comment, I’d appreciate it much if you took the time to let me know, even if it’s done anonymously. Curiosity kills the cat, you know. And thanks in advance.

This is going to be one of those posts that gets exactly 1 comment, isn’t it?

Where Does that Ego Come From?

Yeah, I’m pretty egocentric.

But if you were me, you would be too. If you knew me, you’d understand where it comes from. Just ask Sam, he met me recently and can verify that even as I sat with him, he got and helped end a live little show of why I’m so damn conceited.

I want to share a story with you all. But first, I need to explain to all you pro-UAE-bloggers that think bitching and complaining and pointing out only the bad here, that just like you, I don’t follow a lot of the rules here. The difference between you and I is when I’m caught or have to face the consequences of my actions, I can accept it. I’m not in denial about what country I’m in. I know the rules and the laws and I don’t think that satire & sarcasm is an intelligent form of communicating the realities of country that is truly as beautiful & hospitable as the United Arab Emirates.

Now, take a look at my Guestbook here. If you’ll note a few days back, someone popped in calling themselves Saif. I know one Saif; not two, or three, or four. I know one. And as I said there, he sure as fuck isn’t from Bahrain. No, no. In Bahrain, I know one other person and his name sure as fuck isn’t Saif. His name would be Omar, at least prior to his daddy changing it for him believing that somehow, his name was the reason he kept fucking shit up and I’m starting to really wish I didn’t know him.

Way back, when I was in University here, I stuck out like a sore thumb because even then, I was breaking all the rules. As Omar pointed out, “Still the same old Chrystal.” I’ll never change, though I’m changing constantly (as I mentioned in my own profile). I am your living fucking contradiction and I thrive off that. Do not think you can predict me or what I’ll do next. There is a certain charisma that comes with being so bluntly stubborn and unwilling to change.

Anyway, Omar also stuck out like a sore thumb. He wasn’t really liked, and people took a piss out of him because he was always chasing and clinging to girls’ way out of his league. Don’t get me wrong, at one time; I really loved the guy like a brother. Initially, I felt sorry for the boy who was clearly having a rough time of it. It was only when he became my fucking stalker that I grew tired and even a little scared of him.

Now, I’ve dealt with a lot of crazy people in my life, but Omar is something else. For some fucking reason he just can’t let it go and he can’t be ‘normal’ about anything. Seriously, who in their right fucking mind would make the name of someone they know in the UAE public, as Omar did in my guestbook? Lucky for him, I’ve changed my name and well, I really don’t give a shit if you all can pinpoint exactly who I am.

I know it’s hard to get over rejection, but you dumb fuck, it’s been years and I mean fucking years since I beat the shit out of you and kicked you out of my house, and you still attempt to hunt me down. Yeah, I got the message that you were looking for me to apologize the last time you were in town. Damn I hate it when my friends have to lie to other friends just for the sake of keeping my whereabouts anonymous from you.

Let me explain a few details. I used to live with Omar. Yup, he stayed in my place in Bur Dubai for a while, while I was working and he was studying. I had a boyfriend at that time too, and it wasn’t Omar. Omar and I had a completely platonic relationship; at least in reality. But who gives a shit about reality when what we can fabricate in our minds is so much more entertaining?

After arriving back from vacation with my boyfriend a day earlier than expected, I found Omar and more strange guys than I can count in my living room, which had consequently become a fucking pigsty. I’m a clean freak. Omar knew this. I walked in and not an inch of my house was free of dirt, and grit, and spilled food and drinks and nasty boy’s mess. I flipped out. That was it, Omar was out.

I literally beat the fuck out of him, before throwing his shit out the window and leaving my own house to calm the fuck down. Only later I learned from his father that the boy had quit going to school prior, and was getting shipped back home to Bahrain where the rest of his family was staying.

It wasn’t long before the letters swarmed in; yes letters as in snail mail. No, the boy didn’t think of email as a more efficient way to send his 100 page psychotic ramblings, he’d rather send them constantly and without fail to my God dammed office mail box. In these letters Omar talked some of the most psychotic things I’d ever heard. Unrealistic and unbelievable ramblings; I’m pretty sure that based on these letters alone, I’d be granted a fucking restraining order*, if we were in a more advanced society.

These letters are now boxed up in my mom’s house somewhere. But some of my favorite ramblings, as I remember them went on about how I should marry him and move to Pakistan where he’d assure I was treated like a princess. Or how he remembered watching me come out of the bathroom after showering in only a towel; and I swear I NEVER ONCE left my bathroom less than fully dressed, in front of this man. Even further, he’d describe to me how he still had a passport photo of me, and would sit in a coffee shop for hours-on-end, alone and starting at it.

All of the things the guy said with letter after letter, proved to me just how twisted he really was. When I failed to reply to his letters, he started calling my friends to check on me. When he came back to town, he’d pop into my office and ask my colleagues about me. Luckily for him and me, I don’t remember every being there at the times he appeared. Every year on my birthday since then, he’s called one particular friend of mine (whom I’ve since lost complete touch with), and asked her about me, sending birthday greetings my way; up until he realized that was fruitless as well about a year or so back.

Sometime, also years ago, he managed to find me on another writing site. He made himself an account there, calling himself Chrystal656; 656 being the first three digits of my phone number at that time, and started rambling to me poetically both in private emails and in his public portfolio. Now, he’s managed to find me here. How do I know it was him and not Saif? Well, my stats show that same IP was searching my blog yesterday from Bahrain. And I checked with Saif yesterday to see if it was him. He had no idea what I was on about.

*I called my mother, because the words restraining order failed to come to my mind while writing this. Naturally, she asked why I wanted to know. Upon telling her this story, she said, “Is this the guy I don’t want knowing where we live?” We as in my parents. I laughed and told her, “I don’t know. There are so many of them!” She had no choice but to laugh, because it’s the truth. Omar isn’t the only fucking stalker I’ve got and somehow managed to avoid. He’s just the most persistent who keeps popping up, no matter where I’m at.

The craziest part is, I’ve got a heart and I don’t hate the guy. It’s just that every fucking time he comes around, he freaks me out. If only he could be normal like the rest of the psycho-obsessive people I’ve met; I wouldn’t have to hold this damn grudge and beat him to the fucking ground every time he crosses my path. Imagine if this post was about you? It’d fucking hurt. Would you keep coming back for more? I wrote one a lot worse on that first site he found me at.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Introducing Tainted Poetry

Tainted Rhymes.

Once upon a time, I considered myself a bit of a poet. For the time being, only older poetry will be posted there. If you consider yourself a poet and want to join me in authoring this little blog here, send me an email. We’ll make it a group thing.

Stop Haunting Me Please

Feeling like ass, I decided it probably best I sleep. I curled up here on my living room sofa, watching Seinfield and fell into a light sleep. My phone rang and I answered him, “What’s up?”

On the other end he was sobbing, crying, hardly able to tell me whatever it was he wanted to say. This has happened so many times in the past. And each time I’ve given in and given up the fight.

Only today, it was only a dream. I don’t know why I’m bothered so much this time. I don’t know why I give a fuck. All I know is it really fucking hurts.

Today, I truly resent being a girl. And I truly resent the boys who hurt us. Today, I’m suffering pain that even sleep won’t allow me to escape. I hate today. I hate myself. I hate him. I hate you.

And well, I wish there was someone to hug.

Thank you Sam, for letting me whine about things, even when I'm not whining at all because words just fail me. And for being one of the only men who really gives a shit about me, without trying to get into my panties. I love you, hope you know that.

Today… I Hurt Damn It.

I went through the papers and badly wanted to comment on this article, but today I just hurt too much to care.

My leg hurts something awful. I’m 25 and shouldn’t suffer bone-pains damn it, but I do and I am and it stopped me from sleeping well. My head hurts something worse because of lack of sleep. And even my God damn heart hurts about the boy. Stupid boy.

Today is a bad day. I will not be a nice person. I will not have much nice to say.

I’m Anti-Torture, You Should be Too

June is Torture Awareness Month.

I’m sure these photos are still burning in the backs of many of your minds; along with the many others we’ve all seen over and over again in the media. You’re going to have to excuse to quality. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing when it comes to these things.

Image Hosted by

Image Hosted by

The cunts smiling in both of these photos disgusts me more than words can describe. And I don’t want to hear your shit about how they’ve gone to jail; how they’ve been punished and I shouldn’t talk. For starters, I don’t give a shit about the ‘punishment’ these particular fuckers may have had to face at the hands of the American system. Concluding that, I believe in the death penalty and I’d gladly shoot both of them without an ounce of remorse.

These photos we see, they’re only of the tortured we hear about. What about the ones we never got to see? What about the rape victims? What about the dead? What about the mentally ill? What about those who will never speak out, out of fear or inability?

It is a fact that the American Government uses torture tactics regularly and more often than not, it’s inflicted on us Muslims. It is a fact that the American Government is the most powerful in the world. It is a fact that something needs to be done to stop this torture and though one man may not be able to achieve much, a whole bunch of us can at least try.


Torture Awareness Month

If you’re a blogger, join Join Bloggers Against Torture.

Big thanks to both, Buj & SS as I saw the image to this on both your blogs first, and decided to check it out myself.

Abu Ghraib Prison Photos.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

In Bed With Balushi…

There’s no secret, I love Balushi. After waxing, showering and moisturizing, I started to think about the possibility of going to bed with this man. Earlier today, I saw a comment where someone implied I was attracted to him.

They say it takes a woman about 14 minutes to determine whether or not she’d take a guy to bed, while it takes a man less than a minute to determine the same about a woman.

I’ve never met Balushi. But I’ve come up with the following lists.

Reason’s why I can see a girl might go to bed with this man:

  • Confidence. The boy’s got that, and some might argue that it takes little more for a man to get into a woman’s panties.
  • Experience. The boy tells us stories about his never-ending adventures in bed with women, I mean things from toys, to role-play and beyond. Whether his stories are true or not, doesn’t matter… the boy clearly knows his way around the bedroom.
  • He’s Easy. From what I can tell, it doesn’t take much to bed this boy. And who are we kidding, sometimes a girl just wants to fuck too.

Reason’s why I can see a girl would NOT go to bed with this man:

  • Health. He never tells whether or not he’s using protection.
  • Self Respect. It’s not easy for a woman to fuck a man she knows is only looking for that, even if she’s in the same boat.
  • Fear. He’d try and chase her around the house, only to piss on her once he’s had his way.
  • And most probably the worst of all, the boy’d be sure to blog about it and let all you in on the nasty details.

I’m sure you all can come up with a few more reasons. Here are the one’s why I’d personally never do it:

  • If a man can bed anything, he doesn’t deserve me.
  • I like the guy. Sex is the end to all good friendships.
  • Health. See above.
  • Blog. See above.

Balushi, how about you give us your thoughts on this. And everyone else too. I’d especially like the thoughts from someone who HAS gone to bed with the sex-tyrant.

GCC Beggars & Swindlers…

It doesn’t surprise me anymore, when I’m stuck in traffic somewhere in the industrial area and a man walks up to my car window begging me to buy whatever piece of junk he’s managed to get multiple pieces of; cheep ornaments and knickknacks, that he is now showcasing in a plastic bag and around his arms between cars, full of pissed off, aggravated drivers who want nothing other than the get the fuck out of the traffic mess they’re in and on to whatever they’re supposed to be doing.

Despite the fact that these people are usually foreign and begging is illegal here, I’m not so bothered by them. I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and assume some unscrupulous bastard has made them a visa and forced them to beg, because despite the assumption that begging is for the severely poor, I’ve come to learn it’s truly a prosperous occupation in the Emirates.

You have the begging women in their designer shoes, who I shit you not, can been seen at times leaving the parking lot of their chosen begging venue in Mercedes or other such cars. You have the men who will walk into offices and building complexes with photo albums full of children suffering horrendous visual diseases, malnutrition and in many cases suffering from physical disfigurement; and you know as much as your heart bleeds for the people in these photographs, not a fil (or cent), is going to actually go to them should you give the beggar something. And then you have the ones who have suffered some tragic personal or family issue that requires millions in medical bills, who will accost you in your own home; even if you are living in one of the poorest areas of the Emirates. It surprises me, that I get more beggars in this apartment here in Ajman on a monthly bases then I’ve ever come across in any other place of residence. Western people live in Ajman because we can’t afford to live anywhere else; not because it’s the ideal place to be, thank you very much.

Anyway, everyone in the CGG has had to have come across at least one beggar at one time or another. The beggars are well known and I suppose the profession is getting rather saturated and thus less profitable. (If only this were a good enough excuse for what comes next: the swindlers.)

We’ve got the sorcerers that are often caught and publicized in the papers, for conning some magic-buying twit into giving him loads of money which he promises to duplicate with a few magic words and a special potion. We’ve got the luxury car buyers working on dud-cheques. And we’ve got the unscrupulous agents, both recruitment and residential; and now the high-tech in the GCC.

We all get our fair share of junk mail full of scandalous requests to help transfer billions in unclaimed cash from Iraq, or some government official in the midst of nowhere. But this morning, I got one up on all of that. I got a special request from a man repenting his sins; wishing a way his past of stingy evil behavior that surmounted to him making a fortune only to learn he is soon to die some evil disease. And where would this man be situated? He’d be from the most charitable place ever; the GCC, Bahrain to be exact.

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This might have actually been a believable story, had 1) I known the guy previously; And 2) he not mentioned God giving him the chance to come back to this world. GCC nationals are more often than not, Muslims. One called Abdulla Hassan most certainly is. Muslim’s do not believe in reincarnation. Hindu’s do. Thank you very much.

Now, if any of you twits are interested in helping this poor soul out, you can find his contact details here:

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If these people just had some brains, these scandals would probably be much more successful. I’d more likely reply to an email stating, “Hey, I saw your blog (about the only place I know that he could have gotten this email address) and I thought you might be interested in helping me with something. If so, reply and I’ll give you the details,” rather than this sort of dead-give away.

Monday, June 19, 2006

Taking My Break: Taking It Easy

The boy is still gone. I don’t give a shit now!

I was talking to CG the other day and she made me realize something I may not have seen if it weren’t for her; and it’s not that I should also have my own a damn cow.

She made me realize that should I go home to Canada in pursuit of my higher education, chances are I’d not last long anyway. Soon enough, motherhood would creep up behind me and make it unbearable to be that far away from my son. I quit sometime in the middle of the studies and end up back here, right where I started; only with a bunch more wasted time behind me.

No non-parent can understand the pull of those invisible strings each child has.

She’s right.

I need to find an answer here and now. I’ve succumbed to moving back in with my parents for the time being. They spend more than 6 months of ever year out of the country as it is, so I’ll manage. I’ll take my much needed break and not worry about anything for a while. Then I’ll start looking into planning my future.

I guess I just wanted to say thanks. Thank you CG.

Now, SS has gone and tagged me again. So much love I’m a feeling these days.

Here are the six weirdest things about me:

  1. I tie my hair in a big knot when I can’t find the stick I usually use to keep it up.
  2. I can NOT find a bra that actually fits properly; no matter what shape or size I try.
  3. I will sit in the lounge of 5 star hotel or restaurant, take off my shoes and fold my feet on the sofa as if I were at home watching television.
  4. I enjoy watching cartoons and often dissect the twisted minds the makers must have.
  5. I will NOT order a frozen coffee or cold latte, but prefer to drink my coffee or latte’s cold.
  6. I don’t eat pizza.

I’m willing to bet that the people who know me personally could come up with a far more entertaining list; how the hell, am I supposed to know what’s weird about me and what’s not?

Anyway, I’m going to tag the one-and-only Balushi and him alone, because God knows with the stories he tells as normal his strange should be worth a read.

Hey Mister, I’ve Got Something To Tell You


I resent the fact that this is all you see when you look at me.


Some men will always be the stereotype; sex crazed beings who can’t look at a woman as anything more than meat-on-legs.  I’ve got no problem with these sorts of men, so long as they keep their damn pokers away from me.  Actually, I kind of think a traditional sex addict, is funny.  They’ve always got entertaining stories to tell; hell, if a girl is stupid enough not to see it coming, then she damn well deserves it.

But I’m not that girl.  And I resent the fact some men just don’t get it, pisses me off.  How many times can you say, “Don’t go there with me.  I’m not that girl.  There are plenty out there who are.  If you want, I’ll send one to you. But stay the FUCK away from me.”  Before you get nauseated because he just refuses to get it?

I’m cool with you and fetishes; you and your inability to think strait without climaxing at least once a day.  I can handle the concept that you’re thinking about sex almost as often as you’re breathing; I can even grasp that you might be visualizing me from time to time.  But don’t step on my God damn toes by classing me with the trash that will go to bed with you after a few cheesy sentences and over-indulged compliments.

There is etiquette to talking to people; no matter what the relationship.  It’s not okay to start mumbling about the recent lows and highs in the stock market during foreplay with a prostitute.  It’s not ok to attempt phone sex with someone you’ve just met, who isn’t in that damn trade.

Understand it.  I am not a prostitute.  I am not going to jump into bed with you, because you’ve got a few clichéd lines (that really aren’t that convincing), and you think you’re the shit.  Understand it.  I am not sex.
The fact that you could possibly still wonder if I am, just makes me question your damn intelligence.  And the least attractive characteristic of a man is idiocy.

Friday, June 16, 2006

Tag and Your Local Zoo

Fuck, fuck, fuck a duck…

Screw a kangaroo,

Finger-bang an arrangatane

Support your local Zoo!

A combination of the word ‘tag’ and Buj’s comment about naked monkeys dancing, took me back to the childhood school yard, where playing tag was about as common as the singing of that song. A twisted nature we children had. Where the hell did we learn that shit?

Anyway, finally I can stop my mopping. I have been tagged by Buj, and I because of it, I feel a little loved around here. Here goes:

20 years ago, I:

1- Didn’t sleep after learning about the atomic bomb and visualizing it would soon land on my house killing us all.
2- Had a grey cat called Smokey, who slept on my back while I watched cartoons.
3- Went to Sunday School

10 years ago, I:

1- Was on the other side of the planet; comparing sandy-land to lush land.
2- Was a superstar called Princess C.
3- Had beautiful breasts.

5 years ago, I:

1- Was about to get married; about to get pregnant.
2- Learned to blog.
3- Loved to drive in the UAE.

3 years ago, I:

1- Spent 16 hours in labor.

2- Painted the world in multiple colors & textures.
3- Learned not to give a fuck.

1 year ago, I:

1- Said farewell to my divorce lawyers.
2- Thought I’d found love again.
3- Picked my ass up off the floor, all by myself.

So far this year, I:

1- Made a couple of new friends.
2- Passed a few lessons on.
3- Contemplated the point.

Yesterday I:

1- Cried.
2- Laughed.
3- Slept.

Today I:

1- Watched a dream die.
2- Admire my son, mother and all that’s here.
3- Feel pretty damn privileged considering…

Tomorrow, I will:

1- Rest.
2- Play real tag with my son, around the house.
3- Write.

In the next year, I will:

1- Be alive, inshallah.

2- Be just as tainted as I am today.
3- Still be living my drama; and allowing you all to watch.

And Imma have to tag: Baby Kaos, MD, Balushi, Taunted & Foghorn Leghorn.

If you all don’t come out and play with me, I will hurt you.

What’s it mean to you?

I am fucked; watch me suck.

Are you one with:

Literal thinking skills, metaphorical thinking skills, or just plain tainted thoughts?

Psychotic Episode Surfaces

There are many times when I’ve referred to my ex-husband as a psychopath. Most people tend to think that I’m referring to him like this out of hate, or begrudging anger, or animosity due to the divorce. But most people don’t know me, and don’t know that I don’t harbor such feelings for other people.

So long as I’m not being at hurt, I can not hate for what you’ve done in the past or may do in the future.

In this sense I don’t hold a grudge. In my husband’s case, I’d have had to love him first to be able to hate him. But I didn’t. I don’t hate my ex husband. I don’t feel anything for him except the fact that he’s the father of my son and thus we must respect each other.

I was finally able to reach him this morning. As calmly as I could I told him what I was thinking, about going back to Canada to getting a degree and I explained that I’d like to bring our son. Within seconds of the realization of what I was suggesting, the man went into an anxiety attack, “No. No. No. Are you crazy? You know I can’t ever do that! No. My son? What? No! What about my family? No. No. No.” His breathing went into an abnormal state and his words were no more than panicked thoughts messing up the calm in his mind, being spat out without recognition that he was even talking.

“Calm down.” Once again, I found myself in a situation where the tone of my voice and every word I said would determine whether the near future between me and this man would become hell, or stay just as stable as it has been, “You know I can’t do anything without your approval. You know me well enough to know I wouldn’t even try. You have complete control, and I’m only asking you to consider this suggestion.”

”No. I can’t even consider it. I won’t even sleep now.” His breathing was heavy and irregular.

I continued to explain to him as lightly as I could, that the maid was leaving this year, our son was meant to start school, that it’s not the same when a father is taken from a child and when mother is taken form a child; that he’d always have easy access to him, even if that meant him coming and staying there with us in Canada for some time, or us returning on school breaks. To everything, he responded with a paranoid, on the edge, “I can’t. You know I can’t. I can’t even consider it.”

The conversation continued until I found myself almost apologizing for asking, in order to calm him down; while I myself was becoming a mess, realizing that there’s no way it’s ever going to happen. By the time I closed the phone, he was asking me about whether or not I’d found work; a conversation that he only initiated because I’m sure he noticed me trying to disguise my now, pouring tears.

And that’s it. I’m not going to Canada to study. My son called me this morning to tell me he was angry at the maid for bathing him and getting soap in his eyes. He then told me I had to come and get him. That’s what I’m off to do. I’m picking up my son and bringing him to my mother’s house for the day.

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Study Canada – A little more appeal…

In a ranting rave over this fucking World Cup and the sheer stupidity of men who obsess over it, I called up a friend of mine for the second time yesterday, late last night.  I’m sorry you had to hear it F.  I really am.  Through my screams, bittersweet nervous giggles, and sarcasm about the whole situation something interesting popped up.

There’s one more thing that home can offer me that I can’t get my hands on here; one more reason why that flight back may be necessary.  And it’s not the prospect taking up permanent residence on F’s couch, smoking and drinking away his shit, destroying his privacy, sucking away at his life; as tempting and productive as that sounds, to both him and me.

If I go home, I can complete my education and get my degree; something that’s highly unlikable here; exuberant schooling fees for inadequate schooling systems that are honestly, more about being a fashion show than anything else. Or at least that’s from what I’ve experienced.

I left higher education at the American University of Dubai for number of reasons; but mainly I had absolutely no interest in the degree choices they offered, and life away from proper education was at that time more appealing and suiting to me.  There are three solid career choices a girl like me really has; Writing, Law, and Psychology or Psychiatry; none of which were offered then in either the most acclaimed university here, or any of the others in the English language.

I was deliriously in love then.  I choose I’d spend my life taking care of the man who would be my future husband.  Fate had its own plan, and ripped him away.

What if now I could turn back and complete what I failed to as a teen?  What if I could somehow try and convince my ex-husband to allow me to take my son with me; for the sake of that education and him saving on the costs of school him here?  Ideally, he’d see convenience in that and allow me to make my son a legal Canadian citizen; something he’s always denied in the past.  Ideally, I’d take my baby back home with me, for the years that I’m studying and he’d be taught primary schooling for free in a Canadian government school.  Ideally, I’d come back here with a degree which made me a therapist and allowed me to open my own practice here and actually do something with myself.

What if that was all possible and I just haven’t seen it until now? But then, what if it’s just wishful thinking; I’m dreaming up a future that will never materialize because the ex will never allow me to make my son a Canadian, will never trust me to take him out of the UAE for even a short trip, will never see that I intend to keep the promise of returning with our baby one day?

I’ve been trying to call the ex all morning.  He’s not picking up the phone.  I will take my chances and see what he has to say about it as soon as I can.  I

f I could leave, make something of myself knowing my absence wont destroy my son, it’d be great.  If I could leave and make something of myself with my son at my side, I never have to ask for; never have to want anything else.