iemand2

[iemand2]

Erna-the-Nun

George had a colleague who was a nun. A fairly tall woman, yet quite plump with huge breast, which was of no use to her, considering her age: "Those 'mountains' just get in the way when eating," she commented, "I have to go over them with my arms to get food into my mouth." During conversations, she regularly alternated the biggest nonsense about herself and her figure with quite intelligent observations and analyzes about her profession as child psychologist. Erna "did" children, George "did" adults. There was some common ground because children have parents and parents have children. Not only that, both parents and children can be deranged or become deranged, and parents may drive their children crazy, and children their parents. All of them can be deranged or even criminal, which you could or should prevent. So, conversation topics with Erna-the-Nun were inexhaustible.

George and Erna liked to retire regularly to George's foreign holiday home. Female colleagues didn't like it at all. "George, how can you put up with such a crazy person?" That wasn't a question, it was rather a failed attempt to tell George that they themselves were much smarter and more attractive than Erna-the-Nun. "And she's ugly too," some of them said. Men even called her "hideous." Erna was indeed the complete opposite of "a sultry."

What George and Erna shared was a complete lack of value judgments. He could discuss everything with her, nothing was too crazy for her. Was there such a thing as a gay birthday? Yes, and Erna had been there as the only woman. "How was it?" George asked. "Quite enjoyable," she answered. "Enjoyable" wasn't her word, hers was "affectionate." "What do you mean by "affectionate?", George asked. "The way people interact with each other." Erna answered. "Do you mean 'sweet'? And that at a gay party?" "No, affectionate." "Then tell me what you've been through."

In one room, people had been sitting together chatting and laughing, as was the custom on most birthdays. But there was a dark room in the basement furnished with a sling. Someone could hang in there and then be "taken from behind." And there would also be "fist fucking" as an attraction, but the story didn't end there. So, all was "very affectionate."

Sexuality is a favorite theme among psychiatrists. Among those of the Freudian school, but even more so among those who think of the Freudian school to be obsolete. Both Erna-the-Nun and her colleague An knew how to talk about it. "Sex for psychologists" is not a book on how psychologists should have sex. It means fodder for psychologists, who can never get enough of it. It is also a big deal for female colleagues, as An said. An was the most cordial of all the people George knew, colleague Bé was of a much older date, but talking about sex was a piece of cake for both of them. Sometimes it could be painful in company, as the next chat between two women at a party shows.

"Some people are narrow-minded. I recently got a woman on a therapy setting who didn't want to be taken from behind!" "Yes, there are people who are easily ashamed of such things." "Oh, people can do strange things with themselves… a few days ago, a friend doctor had to help a man brought into the emergency room with his spring mattress where he had put his genitals in. The paramedics, who were alarmed, couldn't help him without damage because his genitals were swollen and bleeding.

The ladies in the party burst out laughing; only the colleagues of course. The gentlemen and ladies non-psychologists deemed such conversations unsuitable in company. They thought "Can't you talk about anything else!" Which is not quite right, because psychologists talk about everything and incessantly.

Yet, there is something special about sex, both in real life and talking about. George was always keen to know all ins and outs about it. What was a better opportunity to talk about it than with a nun. With Loudon's nuns (France, 1634) in mind who were not only fooling around with friars day and night, but also getting hysterical, George asked Erna-the-Nun what it had been like in her convent. In the meantime, she no longer wore a habit, as George had known her from their early student days, lived independently and only came to the monastery on heydays.

Loudon, that was something else. At a time of hysteria and fear of the devil sometime in the seventeenth century, wealthy girls for whom no suitor could be found or no dowry was available, were usually sent to a monastery. Those girls weren't there by vocation. Their sexuality kept bubbling up. The vow of chastity had been forced upon her, and as a result, the monastery garden was full of buried baby corpses. Erna had lived in several monasteries: "No, George, really not, never bothered, no urge, I really don't know anything about lesbian loves or something like that, I think only men are bothered by sex." That is of course not entirely true, because nymphomania does exist. But the novice period in the monastery sifts out such candidates.

George recently heard of a serious scientific study that had shown that sex sometimes hasn't to come out like the air from an over-inflated bicycle tire, as Freud believed. The "safety valve theory" turned out to be incorrect. Sexual urge is not like hunger and thirst, but simply arises during a learning process. George had once heard the same from a Buddhist monk: no lust, no desire, just occasional wet dreams.

The story doesn't end there yet. The fact that the friars did it with the boys and sometimes with girls was not revealed until later, although many had suspected it for a long time, and therapists had to hear harrowing stories. The church is however only a man of his time as well —if we may use the word "man" here to refer to a collective. Catholic nuns believe that humans are of good will, and therefore, they really have to do with people. When the superior of a monastery heard about the safety valve theory in the 1980s, she immediately took action. A therapist was engaged, a man, because unfortunately there was no Catholic woman to be found who was familiar with similar matters. (Catholic psychiatrist Dr. Anna Terruwe was well into her seventies at the time.)

The nuns were given information about sex, as feminists had advocated. And, consequently, masturbation lessons (think of the safety valve theory). Erna-the-Nun couldn't resist talking to George about it. He had to promise strict secrecy, but he refused. Nevertheless, she told her story. She had been given a vibrator from the course to experiment at home herself. That would have been of little help. One day, she went shopping with that thing in her and on-mode. She went to the bakery and as soon as she stood on the doormat, she had an orgasm, the first of her life! At the same time, the store bell was activated, letting staff know that a customer had entered. The orgasm was so intense that the store girls yelled for Erna to get off the mat because the bell kept ringing. When Erna left the store, she was somewhat calm and, like Pavlov's dog, so-called classical conditioning manifested itself. This scene repeated itself every time Erna entered the bakery and stood on the door mat. Erna kept having orgasms despite the screams of the shop girls. That happened more than once a day for a week. "One of the sacred numbers mentioned in the bible is seven," Erna-the-Nun commented.

[iemand2]

Papasans, or aren’t Zen and Tao always what we might expect?

Peacemaker went along. A friend had to go on a business trip to Japan. Peacemaker had envisioned exotic pictures of Zen monasteries, peace and quiet, but it all turned out to be very disappointing. What a noise all over in Tokyo! And in that city's largest department store, only fashion kings like Pierre Cardin and Yves Saint Laurent had departments the size of an entire store in a big European city. Peacemaker read a lot about Zen and Shintoism, his business friend, on the other hand, was more interested in the nightlife as some kind of relaxation. Japan seemed to be a kind of photographic negative of both their fantasy worlds. The monasteries were packed with tourists. Every monastery had a parking lot the size of a football field, filled with a massive amount of buses, neatly lined up. The buses poured an endless series of Japanese people in raincoats and rain hats, forming themselves like toy soldiers behind a leader who started moving behind a stick held up by himself with a waving banner attached to it. The procession climbed the broad steps and walked between numerous gods and goddesses dressed in all kinds of clothes, wearing a hat, a tie, and a sweater. Japanese people were visibly grateful for help and healing from High Powers, although the hundreds of gods on both sides of the paths themselves showed the misery this people constantly had to endure.

No, the Japanese are definitively not cheerful people, nor spontaneous. At the large department stores, just at the entrance, welcoming ladies stood bending over with folded hands for the tens of thousands of consumers. They mastered the art of behaving perfectly like a well-programmed robot because that is the wish of most Japanese: to become as perfect as a robot, Peacemaker concluded involuntarily. In their imagination, robots are the highest attainable on Earth, the same perfection attributed to Zen and Shintoism. And just as suffering and penance in every religion pave the way to perfection, so too plastic surgery are Japanese and South Asian implementation of it. Yoga and meditation are obsolete.

Japanese can't really become perfect, and managers among them just have to work hard and participate in self-humiliation meetings. Mannerism and petty etiquettes —in which everyone can participate in order to be "saved"— serve as flowerpots. Stylized lives are depicted in "perfect" gardens, flower arrangement and tea ceremony. Those were Peacemaker's reflections, and if they were right, then there will have to be a hectic nightlife in Tokyo to compensate for all that fuss. Excited and way ahead, Peacemaker's business friend had noted down all sorts of special addresses where "it" should happen. "No, it's too early," the companion commented, "it's only 11 PM, usually you yourself don't go out until 1 AM anyway." Peacemaker never went out, he was always busy. However, he had no idea what to do between 11 PM and 1 PM, and insisted on going.

Everything was quiet in the hotel, everyone seemed to be asleep. Those who wanted to go out had to ask for a night key at the reception, which Peacemaker's travel companion did. Armed with a slip of paper full of secret signs, they tried to get a taxi which couldn't be seen in the virtually deserted streets. Every now and then a taxi drove by but didn't stop. At last, one did. The companion handed over the slip of paper and the driver nodded in understanding, picked up speed and seemed to know the way to their destination. After a few turns, the taxi stopped and the two foreigners got out and were led by the taxi driver into a small building. It turned out to be… a police station. All loud noise and screaming. The taxi driver showed the slip of paper to several officers while pointing to the two foreign tourists. "What the hell would that place be like, anyway?", Peacemaker wondered. Peacemaker had to accompany one of the officers to a room, where the officer dialed a number and handed the receiver to Peacemaker. An English-speaking agent on the other end of the line asked, "What kind of place is that?" "A bar," Peacemaker answered dryly. "Do you really want to go there?" ("Not really," Peacemaker thought). Instead, he answered, "Yes, it was recommended by a friend. We are psychologists." ("An excuse for everything," Peacemaker assumed.) "Give me the cab driver." This man took over the receiver and listened.

Moments later, the taxi arrived in a quiet neighborhood where everything was closed and dark. The taxi driver indicated that the entire block was mentioned on the note. Peacemaker knew that the Japanese don't think in terms of streets, but in city blocks. So, instead of walking down a long street looking for a bar, they had to walk around an entire block. The Bar was found. Except the bartender, only one visitor was about to leave. It was nearly one o'clock in the morning. Later on, Peacemaker learned that the hectic times started right after work, at 5 PM, when the sake flowed profusely. The strangers drank one glass of sake and asked the kind bartender to order a taxi, otherwise they probably wouldn't have gotten out that neighborhood that night.

Peacemaker was disappointed in what he saw of the spiritual life, as his companion was in the nightlife. Peacemaker suggested to look for an authentic Japanese hotel for a few days, and going native. That meant walking for hours. The Japanese symbol which Peacemaker had mistaken for a hotel was rather similar to the word "construction." They had better look for the script representing "hotel building." Whenever they thought to have found the script, it turned out to be a building under construction.

Perseverance led to success. In the authentic small Japanese hotel they finally had found, the hostess even spoke some English. Both papasans, or gentlemen, were asked to remove their shoes and walk through to a small hall. "Clothes off, all," said the stern voice of the female manager, who didn't seam to tolerate any opposition. "What you want to be cleaned, put it in the basket. Other clothes in the suitcases and close them. Here, towel, here, kimono, here, shoes [slippers]." The slippers were made of plastic and felt uncomfortable. Both guests followed the instructions. After they were done, they reported and had to take the suitcases to the basement. The lady manager walked in front, both men stumbled down the stairs in their stubborn plastic slippers. She opened a padlock at the end of a long chain, took the suitcases one by one and slid the chain through the handles. Then she locked the padlock upon the ring in the wall. It appeared that it wasn't permitted to use the contents of the suitcases during the stay in the hotel. They then went up the stairs. "Come with me, shower first!" They walked past a huge built-in barrel filled with warm, milky and slightly steaming water where a dozen of hotel guests soaked themselves. After showering, Peacemaker bowed and nodded politely to the guests in the warm water, which was answered with raised hands in greeting and slightly bowed heads. When Peacemaker's companion stepped into the barrel, the same ceremony was repeated. After an exhausting day, this would be Peacemaker's only and finest experience in Tokyo. The next morning, Peacemaker went to the roof to check their cleaned laundry hanging to dry on long sticks with the clothes strung together, like the chained suitcases in the basement. The Japanese have their own spatial awareness, with a preference for series and blocks.

The nights on the tatami and under the futon flew by, despite the traffic noise and neighbors' wrangles at night. When Peacemaker slid open one of the paper doors, he could almost touch the neighbor's window across the small alley. This neighborhood was densely populated, not a single sound could be hidden from the others, and shouting to their heart's content seemed quite natural. Like other hotel guests, Peacemaker and his companion walked down the street to make a small purchase for breakfast. Across the pavements and in the alleys, Japanese men en women stopped and bowed with hands up to the two foreign papasans, who too performed the same act. Peacemaker soon noticed that people recognized each other by similar hotel kimono, which was worn on the street as well. The fact that the Japanese apparently don't see people as individuals, rather as a group, would also be apparent on the two foreigners' last day of their visit to Tokyo.

The lady hotel manager finally gave us permission to take out clothes from the suitcases. The two foreign tourists went to the Imperial Gardens. They were at a counter to buy two tickets. The very surprised saleswoman asked, "Where group, where group?" It proved difficult to explain to her that the whole group consisted of only two persons. They thought they were out of the woods. But the second question came: "Where guide?", for, what would the meaning of a group be without a guide in a country that is only familiar with groups. Is a group of people different from a herd of animals, or does a herd too have a leader? Peacemaker pointed to his companion, who was here on a business trip after all, and answered in English: "He, he guide." And the tall, thin but muscular companion had to carry a stick with a small, yellow pennant and a roadmap of the Gardens.

It turned out to be the weirdest trip Peacemaker had ever taken. No one in the Imperial Gardens, it seemed. A huge park surrounded by Tokyo's traffic deafening roar, and exhaust fumes that rose like dark clouds above the hedges and trees. It seemed to him as the day of the Last Judgment after another atomic bomb was dropped and only the park was spared from destruction. Smoking ruins all around, only the park, Peacemaker and his "guide" are left unscathed, including, as it would appear at once, burly Japanese ladies, the sentries of the Imperial Gardens. There were a few of those guards in every lane, looking suspiciously at the two visitors, the tall guide and the small group member. The "guide" walked with big strides, Peacemaker lingered, wanted to see what the hedges were made of. That was hard to see, for as soon as only one twig or leaf jumped out of its ranks brought out of its stupor by Peacemaker' curious hands, one of the sentries immediately rushed over to cut it away with a large hedge trimmer. Stopping to watch was not appreciated, not even allowed, and "Where group? You go group!" was inevitably and sternly shouted. And from both sides of the hedges as well, for the tall "guide" appeared to have rushed ahead, chased away by the dullness of hedges and lanes. His height, however, kept him above the hedges visible to his group, Peacemaker. The "guide" too was addressed sternly, "Where group, where group?!" Whenever he casually held down the stick with the pennant, he was gestured to raise the flag and not lose sight of his group.

For the first and hopefully last time in his life, Peacemaker went mad. Mad because of the dust, the stench, the incessant traffic noise and the posturing and whining "Where group?" shouted by the mamasans, the lady-sentries. To ease their suffering, the "guide" took Peacemaker along to a restaurant with geishas. Geishas were there to please the papasans, not with delicious sex, but with boring massage and other minutiae. Peacemaker didn't like massage, much less the other boring services of the geishas in a restaurant. These Geishas, who appeared to do no justice to their classic, fanciful species, also assumed the job of feeding the papasans. With every bite, they commanded giggling papasan-Peacemaker and papasan-companion in Japanese: "Mouth open, bite for papasan, mouth open once more, bite for papasan once more." Papasan-companion seamed to enjoy himself, Peacemaker didn't like kindergarten incentives.

Papasan-Peacemaker shortened his stay, was able to get a ticket for the next day and left the country. Away from a country that converts ancient monasteries into Disney parks, and the diversity of human nature into a few, simple characteristics, inspired by trained monkeys.

[iemand2]

Hypocrisy Can't Do Without Lube

“We just need to have that brand of milk for Hwisheem,” Rasheed says. Muneer, his friend, walks a few long corridors to the refrigeration department. Rasheed and Muneer are used to do their shopping at the supermarket Mardján early every saturday. Rasheed is a civil servant at a municipal company, Muneer's clothing store is usually frequented by the better middle class in the capital, Rabat. "Shall we go to Radya first?" Muneer asks as usual because he has to hurry to open his shop. Rasheed parks on the narrow street, and both friends dig into the trunk and take out plastic bags and sacks destined for Radya. Diapers, milk, flour, sugar, oil, meat, fruit, toilet paper, and everything else on their list. Radya, small, pretty, with big eyes and updo thick hair, is already standing in front of the open door with Hwisheem in her arms. Both friends kiss her on both cheeks and hug the baby. "I hope we haven't forgotten anything" is Muneer's way of greeting. Rasheed and Muneer walk through to the kitchen and put the bags on the counter. "Has the plumber been yet?" Rasheed asks Radya. No, he failed as so often. Rasheed will be working on it today. "The tea is ready," Radya invites them. Rasheed and Muneer take off their shoes and sit comfortably on one of the benches that line the walls of the small sitting room. Radya takes her six-month-old Hwisheem to her cramped bedroom and returns to pour tea. Muneer sees a bundle of clothes in the narrow courtyard: "We'll take those clothes and put them in the washing machine," Rasheed says firmly. Radya objects, but the bundle will be returned to her the next day, clean and folded. The tea and biscuits taste good, and: "We have to go, see you tomorrow then," Muneer says, and starts to put on his shoes, Rasheed does the same.

Rasheed and Muneer, aged 36 and 34, moved into an apartment three years ago in a new block of flats on a wide avenue that opens onto Radya's street. Besides three bedrooms, the apartment consists of a small and a large sitting room, an open kitchen, a spacious bathroom with toilet, a storage room and a wide balcony. Initially, the neighbors just saw two working friends who deemed it easier and more economical to share an apartment before they tied the knot. However, since the friends didn't receive female "guests," the neighbors gradually started to ask themselves questions. Questions that were answered with other questions, and so one got used to the "modern couple," albeit the matter remained curious. Although receiving female "guests" is prohibited by law, hypocrisy --being one of the necessities of life -- transcends the law.

One day, six months earlier, Rasheed was addressed by the upstairs neighbor at the gate of the apartment building. With an affected voice, she informed him about the poor mother who lives down the street whose husband took a French leave a few months ago. He left her and their baby without a livelihood." She neatly cursed men "who know no responsibility and who are only after carnal pleasure. Poor woman, she is not yet 23 and she is already stuck, in a deep pit, her parents are deceased, has no brothers or sisters, knows no other relatives. I and my husband and our neighbor do what we can, but it isn't enough of course. If we weren't here to help her, she probably would have… 'sold her body.' What will become of her and her son? God is great and we humans are cruel. Poor wretch!" Rasheed was affected. With praise for her good deed, he said goodbye to her. That evening, the friends decided to tackle the fate of the poor woman. And they "adopted" Radya.

On Saturdays, Rasheed and Muneer run errands for Radya and themselves, and at the end of the month, embarrassed and grateful, Radya takes some pocket money; the friends also bear the rent and other housing costs. A mobile for the mother was deemed necessary by the friends in the event of unforeseen circumstances. Her child, Hishaam, who became fond of his "uncles," was henceforth to be called Hwisheem --little Hishaam. On Fridays, Rasheed and Muneer bring meat, vegetables and semolina to Radya to savor her delicious couscous. On Sundays, Radya, Rasheed and Muneer stroll on the boulevard on the wide beach, a long way from their residential area. Hwisheem coos as he is moved from Uncle Rasheed's shoulder to Uncle Muneer's and then lands on his Mother's back. Strollers see only two brothers, one of whom is married and has a son. In this way, society is well organized and life has no confusing surprises. When the "family" gets hungry, they sits at a table in the same beach restaurant, where the manager mumbles "Mr. Rasheed" and "Mr. Muneer" and rejoices in the generous tip.

One evening, Rasheed and Muneer's apartment is called. Law enforcement. "You will hear everything at the office" is the short message conveyed by the two agents. The Superintendent is sitting at his large desk and talks on the phone. He gestures the two men to sit down. Superintendent: "We have received a complaint against you." Rasheed: "What's the complaint?" Superintendent ignores the question: "You know a certain Radya bint Habib, don't you?" Rasheed: “Yes.” Superintendent: "Are you related to her?" Rasheed: "No, we're just friends with her." Superintendent: "What is the nature of your friendship with her?" Rasheed: "Just friends. She's fine, I hope?" Superintendent: "Yeah, she's fine; she's here." Rasheed: "What? At the police station?" Superintendent: "Yes." Rasheed: "What did she do?" Superintendent: "I want to hear it from you?" Rasheed: "I don't understand." Superintendent: "You aren't related to her and so you should know that a visit, 'with gifts,' to a married woman is a criminal act?" Muneer: "We're not doing anything wrong!" The Superintendent seems to be formulating a question in his mind: "Do you share the bed with her?" Rasheed: "No, definitely not!" Superintendent: "Then, what do you do in her house every time?" Rasheed sighs and tells: "About six months ago, we heard from the upstairs neighbor that…" The Superintendent half mockingly: "I have never seen such generosity; what then is the return?" Muneer: "She doesn't have to give anything in return, but she insists that she come and clean our apartment, and my clothing store as well. Above all, she is a pleasant and caring woman, and her son is a cute kid; we are a kind of family."

The Superintendent is silent for a moment and forced to declare a ceasefire between law and practice in order to proceed: "So, you're uh… how should I put it, you don't have any girlfriends or flings with women?" Rasheed: "Radya is just our friend, our relative." Superintendent: "I mean, uh, every grown, normal man has to, uh, I'd say burn off his sexual energy with a woman every now and then, isn't it?" Muneer, annoyed: "What if that grown man doesn't feel the need to 'burn off his sexual energy with a woman'?" The Superintendent has arrived where he wants to be; he didn't expect it to be that soon: "So, do I understand it correctly that you two have a… special relationship?" Muneer, loud and clear: "Yes, we have." Superintendent: "Well, in that case you are aware of the sanctions on that, aren't you?" He then lifts the receiver off the hook and dials a number on the telephone sheet. While he waits, he slightly rolls up the left sleeve of his jacket, revealing a large gold wristwatch. The thick gold ring, studded with precious stones, on his finger didn't escape the notice of the two friends as well. Rasheed and Muneer exchange a meaningful glance. Rasheed, therefore: "What are you going to do now? Tomorrow morning the landlord will come by to collect his rent, and before we have to go to the bank, yes, the bank to get money. We can come here after that, with your permission." The gold watch and ring are a signpost par excellence to the "bank" and "money." The Superintendent, feigning displeasure, hangs up the receiver: "Then I'll see you here tomorrow morning at 11 o'clock." Muneer: "Can we take Radya with us?" The Superintendent scratches a few words on a piece of paper: "Here, give it to the officer on duty and tell him that she may leave with you." The trio don't care that they interrupt each other out of control; what matters is that they are relieved.

The next day at 11 o'clock, the Superintendent slips a thick envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket, handed over by the two friends, and muttered: "You should be more careful. Have a good day."

[iemand2]

Shame under the Sand

Tens of small and large tents are erected on the golden sand. It is a summer morning, the waves are quiet and inviting. Even more families defy the hot sand and drag their tent, food and kitchen utensils to a free place. The swimming, playing and sunbathing beach guests pay no attention to the man who, at the edge of the beach, gives instructions to a bulldozer that shovels sand into a truck.

Támo shouts at her sisters, little sisters and the children, points to the place where the big tent has to be set up and where the luggage should stand, safe for sand. Satisfied with the collaboration, Támo leaves home to pick up her mother, for whom there was no place in the two taxis, and to collect the rest of the luggage.

The man next to the bulldozer screams and swings violently to draw the attention of the excavator. This one puts his head out of the window, opens his mouth and then his ears; the noise of the machine prevents any understanding. The indolent truck driver finally turns off the engine and gets out of the machine. The man next to the bulldozer points to the truck --a white cloth and a small arm stick out above the sand.

Támo and her mother get out of the taxi and, with their heavy luggage in their hand, they walk across the asphalt to the wide staircase that separates the road from the beach. They can not move further; the view of the beach is hidden from view by the crowd. Támo struggles between the disappointed beach guests, and stands for a crush barrier. "What is going on here?", Támo asks the young policeman. "An investigation is being conducted", he replies. "Research into what?", She asks worriedly. "You will hear it later from others", the agent turns down any further questions. Using her mother as a fence, Támo opens her wallet, pulls out a twenty-dirham note and stops it unnoticed in the policeman's hand. This young man feels it, stops it in his pocket, looks to the left and to the right, pushes the crush barrier a bit further and lets Támo and her mother through.

An ambulance and three police cars are standing on the edge of the beach. Policemen are standing here and there, white coats visit one tent after the other, bothered by curious children. Támo's sisters can not control their impatience to tell their older and disposed-to-listen Támo what they have heard. "An baby has been found, dead, under the sand… The police and the doctor are looking for the mother, the women are not allowed to leave the beach, the men might have, you missed something, then …" The speaker is silent when she hears a man coughing. "Can we come in?", a female voice asks. The doctor, a middle-aged woman, leaves the two agents outside and enters the tent: "The little children have to wait outside", she recommends dry and business-like. She looks into the eyes of the women, gropes their breasts and examines their lower body. "What a mess!", Támo break the silence. "Yes, it certainly is," says the doctor without enthusiasm. "The poor child, it will surely have just been born?", Támo tries to get more information from the doctor. "We do not know that yet, madam". "There are still families who yearn for children, and giving them a child is not forbidden, is it?" "No, but you have to follow the procedures", the dry doctor answers. The doctor is ready, thanks and leaves the tent.

The family has started her lunch. Shouting and loud voices come from the outside. Támo stands up and leaves the tent. A young girl walks between two policemen, sobbing. Behind them, three other women trudge, probably mother and two older sisters, afraid and in tears. The girl disappears in a police car. Támo braves the hot sand, accelerates her pass and stands beside the sad mother. Támo: "What a disaster!" Mother: "God is great, what have we done to deserve this?" Támo: "Where are they taking her?" Mother: "To the police station." Támo: "Can not you go with her?" Mother: "No, only a lawyer can visit her at the police station." Támo: "Shame, that poor child is so afraid, she is not yet fifteen." Mother: "Yes, madam, she is fourteen and the culprit is now at home with his family, sitting at the dining table." Támo: "Does not she live with you?" Mother: "No, we placed her with a family a year ago, with a "respectable" family! She had to have a future, and we thought she learns to cook, clean and do shopping, and that she learns something from city life and later earn some money, and now they have "taught" her that!" Támo: "'Respectable' families are not everything!" Mother: "That's my fault, she often complained to me about their son who did not leave her alone, I said that it will pass and that she must be patient and that it will be okay. I am the one who has to be at the police station, not she."

Támo: "What did they say in the hospital?" Mother: "She gave birth at home the day before yesterday. I did not dare to take her to the hospital, I thought about what they were going to ask, and so on. A midwife helped us." Támo: "And you have come to the beach to recover?" Mother: "No, not really, the baby was born dead and we were scared. You see, madam, we come from the countryside. And we thought that, if we say who the father is, that rich family would bring us to court, and we can't afford a lawyer? And with a child, my poor daughter can't achieve something in life. " Támo: "No, I know, a child can sometimes be a additional drag for young girls. There are a lot of young girls walking around with a child on the arm, the wretches!" Mother: "In our neighbourhood, behind the beach, there is no room to bury the child, and God has led us to the beach." Támo: "Poor girl, who knows what she has to go through." Mother: "Yes, madam, our suffering is great, may God be merciful to us!" Támo gives the mother some coins for a taxi, kisses her and her affected daughters and wishes them strength.

"Those damn waves are lost again", Támo curses the USB modem. She is so eager to catch up with her husband who lives abroad, and keep out the grief that the word "waves" raises with her. She starts looking for the abstract waves, but she can not find them indoors. She opens the door and is out in the street with her laptop. The waves are found, the connection is made, Skype is waiting for an order and Támo is delighted: "Hello, you may not see me well, it is dark here, I am outside, wait a minute, that thing is so heavy." Then, to the night watchman in her street: "Mr. Omar, hold this thing for me for a minute, will you?", looks for some coins in her dressing gown and gives them to him, and to the device: "So, I'm back again, how are you doing, darling, wait a minute, it starts to drizzle, I'll just get an umbrella", and a moment later: "I'm back again, are you still there…"