Posts in Letters from Ljubljana

At the end of January last year, he finally went on a flight to Ljubljana, and less than a week later we had to rush to Vienna to get the last stamps before the arduous procedure for his residence permit in Slovenia began. I shared about the latter with you every now and then on my stories, I remember how I called in every week and how everything was just standing still… But I didn’t tell you what kind of headaches and heartaches we had before he even managed to fly out of Saudi Arabia. After careful consideration and inquiries from various sources, we decided that Tamer would first apply for a temporary visa, the same as a year and a half ago, when we only visited Slovenia for one month. He started the procedure a few days after I arrived in Ljubljana by myself and started anew in another rental apartment. The first hiccup happened when his application was supposedly incomplete. This time an invitation letter from the wife had to be added. My letter of invitation from Slovenia, that is. Why no one remembered this in the summer of 2021 for our joint visit remains a mystery. The visa type was the same.

Right, so I go to the administrative office, get the document, send it by express mail down to Jeddah. Of course, it wasn’t cheap. With the received letter, Tamer had to return to the agency, which processes all the documentation and sends it to the actual Austrian embassy. A few days later, Tamer receives a call that the document is invalid.

“How? Why?!”

The official seal is missing.

“But the letter was sealed when handed over to the agency!”

Apparently, when copying the document for the archive, the agency employee tore off the string seal and did not mark it properly. A new letter of invitation must be attached.

Right, I head on over to the administrative unit. Again. And I send the letter down to Jeddah again. But this time Tamer should and will claim a refund from the agency for this shipment! Easy peasy. In short: the agency did not take any responsibility, it pointed the finger at the employee so that Tamer would have to deal with him personally. With an employee who really screwed up. With an employee that makes you wonder who ever entrusted him with this kind of work if he doesn’t know that one does NOT TEAR OFF SEALS FROM DOCUMENTS for copying. So the agency did not take responsibility, and we would have to feel sorry for the poor guy behind the counter who was pleading for a discount. Nope. No more mercy on this already thorny path.

And then we waited… The embassy called again that Tamer needs to correct this and that in the submitted form. Really strange how we didn’t have any such problems before our visit together in 2021.

“Now it’s all set. We really gave them everything they asked for. There’s no reason it shouldn’t go through.”

We received an e-mail, this time in English (when Tamer tried to come for a visit before our wedding, he was adamantly rejected in German language with the option of complaining only in German as well). Visa application rejected. I cried hysterically. Then, after carefully reading the explanation, I went into a determined belligerent mode. “They screwed everything up.”

Whoever was in charge of Tamer’s documentation was either functionally illiterate or maliciously incompetent. Unfortunately, or rather fortunately, we were the ones standing stood opposite them. After I received information that our authorities could not intervene in the process, we wrote a comprehensive and bulletproof complaint, which restored my confidence in our right. No more despair, just counting down the days until the green light for Tamer to come to me. And so it was. They took their sweet time again, but they had no choice but to approve his application. The whole thing dragged on for about a month and a half. And then? Then we got ourselves ready for new victories. Together.

It had been over three years since he had seen his parents, his sister and brother. Three years since we flew across the Red Sea back to Jeddah.

Less than a year ago, it went off again. After several weeks of uncertainty, his family managed to flee the capital and resettle in their old house in a village in the North. They took only the essentials with them. It’s in our nature to hope, we don’t usually think about the possibility of no return. They also had to leave their car behind in their yard, which would have made the journey too dangerous, or almost impossible. They had to travel by organized public transport. Soon after, the militias started looting. The car was riddled with bullets. The abandoned house, which the neighbors could look after for only a short time, received new residents. Army mercenaries need a place to rest. So now the enemies are sleeping in their beds. They brought their families from other parts of the country. All the plates, all the cups and teapots are now theirs. Bedding and clothes as well.

Even in the time of war, new bonds of marriage arise. And so the former neighbors phoned to the North that a new couple had gotten married in Tamer’s former home backyard. And the groom wore Tamer’s wedding set, which he left in his family wardrobe that faithful August 2019.

It is difficult to talk and write about it. But I must find a way. It is difficult to ask him how his parents are doing, with whom he only manages to speak on the phone. It is difficult for him when I suggest whether he will send them a photo from the snowy winter fairy tale that we have in Ljubljana. “It’s difficult,” he answers me when he can no longer find words for what is happening in his homeland.

Last week marked 4 years since I flew to Saudi Arabia for the first time. I knew what I wanted. I had no idea what life actually had in the store for me. When I try to remember my thoughts at that time, I just know that I had faith in myself and in Tamer. I remember that voice in my head that we would eventually come to Slovenia one day of course. Well, that took much longer than we thought.

In our third and last year, I was in no rush to get back. On the contrary, it was damn hard to say goodbye. The return did not mean the old, previously familiar tracks, but a brand new path again. I no longer knew where I belonged. Down there, I grew into a different Misha. I think stronger, even braver, but a little less independent.

Last year in Slovenia, I was looking for myself again. Thank God I am so privileged to be able to admit this. I have come to the realization several times that no one, except those who have spent a good chunk of time abroad, really understands this hardship, this confusion, this search.

Next week will mark 1 year since I first came back to Slovenia alone. It wasn’t until two months later when Tamer was finally able to join me. I can now say that this past year has not been an easy one for us. But looking back, and around us today, we are grateful for everything we have experienced and what is still waiting for us.

Now we can honestly say, summer is over. As a parting farewell in written form, I have a cautionary tale just for you. I think I’ve heard it at least three times in the span of a decade, with the most recent recounting from my new pedicure lady who spent her vacation in Egypt this past summer. To maintain her anonymity, let’s call my chatty storyteller Ana.

Ana and her friend booked a week at a private tourist resort. They indulged in various activities, they did not say no to clubbing either. One night, Ana’s friend shared a story about her acquaintance (of course, it’s always a story about a friend of a friend) who also went to a night club where she met a charismatic local Egyptian. He charmed her and managed to steal a few kisses during their dancing. As the night wore on, he tried to persuade her to go with him to his place. To keep the party going… Despite his charm and the fair amount of alcohol consumed, her friends, who had accompanied her to the club, convinced her not to leave with the handsome stranger. Thus, she was left with fond memories of a romantic night spent dancing with him.

Ana continued her story with all seriousness how the friend of her friend returned to Slovenia and, soon after, noticed a strange rash developing around her lips. Which was odd, since she had never had herpes or any skin issues before. When it seemed that the condition wasn’t going away on its own, she visited her primary care physician (luckily, she had one to go to). The doctor prescribed a cream and, just to be cautious, took a sample from the affected area (I don’t know how, don’t ask me) and sent it to a laboratory for testing.

A few days later, the woman received a call from an unknown number. An official voice on the other end claimed to be calling from Interpol (undoubtedly, this is when the story gets extremely serious). They said they were contacted by the laboratory that had examined the bacterium affecting her face. The bacterium, they said, could only be found on decaying human bodies. Without much ado, they asked the victim for all the information about the suspect she had been in contact with on that fateful night abroad. Before she collapsed to the ground, she told them everything. Even his address, which she had saved in her notes on her phone. The predator had, trusted her with it (how lucky!) in a last-ditch effort to persuade her to visit him on her own.

A few more days passed, during which she successfully treated her skin condition. She received another phone call. Her pursuer had been arrested. In his apartment, they discovered a horrendous crime scene. Multiple bodies of young girls who hadn’t managed to escape him were kept at his home. What he did to them… enough to transmit the bacterium to an unsuspecting Slovenian woman who returned from Egypt. Alive.

This urban legend serves as a warning about strangers and continues to circulate. As I mentioned before, I’ve heard it from various sources, slightly different each time. I’m sure you’ve heard it too. Maybe even passed it on. Was it your friend’s friend? A distant cousin? You won’t believe it, but the story spreads in all languages. The nightclub is always “abroad,” I think I’ve heard of one vacation stay in Morocco too, and the Interpol phone call sprinkles just the right amount of drama on top of this haunting cautionary tale.

Without revealing that it’s an urban legend, I shared this story with Tamer the other day. I really laid it on thick. I successfully left him in shock. But unlike in Ana’s case, I did admit to my husband afterwards that I heard this story for the first time more than ten years ago. With this letter, I’m sharing it with you as well. So, you won’t be picking up your jaw upon hearing it and then pass it on as a “you won’t believe what happened to my friend’s friend/cousin/classmate” true story.

The news of the new ban by the Minister of Education is resonating in France and abroad. Muslim girls will no longer be allowed to wear abayas in schools. In the name of secularization in public spaces, they are closing the doors to those who, in the eyes of many, are already pushed away and oppressed, ironically, precisely because of their longer and looser clothes.

The headscarf, which is not a religious symbol of Islam, but is the most visible reflection of worship in everyday life, was not enough. Now the abaya must go. The abaya, which is purely a cultural piece of clothing and not a religious one. A long loose robe with buttons or a zipper will be for-bi-dden, starting this new school year.

Many Muslim communities are outraged (while Islamophobes celebrate) and are questioning where is the line between hating the abaya and celebrating renowned French (non-Muslim) clothing designers who have been borrowing inspiration from traditional kaftans and jalabiyas from North Africa and the Middle East for well over a century, if not more. Don’t believe me? Take a look at the costume designs in Chaplin’s “Woman of Paris” from 1923, which I had the pleasure of seeing just last week at a free screening at Congress Square in Ljubljana.

Who is bothered about girls covered up, whose bodies aren’t for everyone to see? If they start wearing long skirts and blouses as an alternative to abayas — is a new ban on the horizon? In England, earlier this year (!) a male teacher humiliated girls because their skirts were too short. He allegedly used a ruler to indicate to those lined up whose legs were indecently (un)covered. Will France develop criteria for skirts and sleeves that are “too long”?

If we insist that it is our liberty and right to look at other people’s bodies, we interfere with their bodily autonomy.

The abaya is the current enemy number one in France, meanwhile, not far across from our Slovenian border, it looks like a ban on burkinis is soon to take place. The mayor of the Italian town of Monfalcone/Tržič has announced a ban on swimwear, which otherwise gives Muslim women the freedom to swim at public beaches. No, Muslim women do not come to the beach to “wash their rags” in the water. Many ladies spend a pretty penny for a quality burkini, so ignorant and hateful comments about hygiene are completely out of place. Personal hygiene and cleanliness are an integral part of the Islamic faith, while the same cannot be said for all non-Muslim users of (merely) toilet paper.

Shall I respond to the second most popular comment of bigots who are so terribly bothered by burkinis? “If we have to adapt in their countries, let them adapt in ours.”

What exactly are tourists adapting to in Western resorts in Egypt, Morocco, and for example in the notoriously backward Saudi Arabia? Not a single thing. Everything is at their disposal. Freedom to wear bikinis by the pool and on private hotel beaches as well. But if you want to go off on how much your liberties are taken away in other Muslim countries that the West has successfully left in ruins, fueled military coups and the rise of dictators, then I must kindly remind you how lucky and privileged we are to live in democratic countries.

If we insist that it is our liberty and right to look at other people’s bodies, we interfere with their bodily autonomy. Until we are ready to change this belief that (especially women’s) bodies must be available at all times for observation, evaluation, criticism, and, let’s not forget, for “resting one’s sore eyes” upon every other billboard, we have to face the unpleasant fact we do not live in so immensely celebrated democratic society with all our liberties. Funny, it is precisely our freedom and democracy that give us a false sense of superiority which often makes us look down on other social structures and cultures.

Back on the horse… Well, on a bicycle again. I’m speeding around Ljubljana once more, not too fast, of course. I overcame my fear and decided to push the pedals forward, into freedom on the streets of Ljubljana. No more waiting for the bus and the sweating in those metal boxes with non-working air conditioners.

What fear? What are you going on about, Misha? Ah… Most of you don’t know. Soon it will be 9 years since my spectacular somersault over the steering wheel and the surgeries and almost a year of physical therapy that followed. I can honestly say that at that time my life turned upside down. I felt as if something had to shake me, throw me on a different path, in a different direction. It doesn’t matter, I’m here today. I’m breathing, loving, pushing the pedals forward, I’m (almost) not afraid of anything anymore.

His wife woke him up at five in the morning, even though she had no intention of getting up herself. He asked her for a wake-up call so that he would not be late for the Eid prayer. “I don’t think if it’s wise for you to come with me. I don’t want your whole day to be ruined if there isn’t a space for women again,” he tried to spare her bad mood with bitterness in his mouth.

In the short period since they arrived in this country, they realized that it is not worth getting into debates with the existing community. That’s just how it is. “That’s how we do things here, women don’t go to Friday prayers, even less so to Eid prayers,” they kept hearing.

They came to the realization that they had fallen for the pretentious promises about the community for all Muslims and promotional photos and the floor plan sketches with the caption, 》prayer room for women《.

That’s just the way it is here. Two summers ago, when they were in this country just visiting and wanted to go to Jummah together, the wife was stopped at the door. “There are too many men, there is no room for women. It is too hot for us to pray outside,” a small group of worshipers told the woman, who was asking them, why can’t she go inside. Once she realized that she was not going anywhere, she kept to herself the last bit of how bizzare their point about hot weather and their inability to pray outside was. From where she came, from the land of the Prophet, where the scorching heat and desert sand are unrelenting, Eid and Friday prayers welcome thousands of believers even outside the mosques. Above all, it does not cross anyone’s mind that the space for women would be occupied by men. Or to put it another way, no one dares to discourage someone from joining the prayer in congregation.

During the biggest holiday, Eid, the courtyards and parks around the mosques are filled with families already at sunrise. Everyone gathers, old and young, to pray together and then exchange good wishes with everyone.

That’s just not the case here. On Fridays, when the number of Muslim men to the mosque is too high and the place for women is therefore occupied, the woman must wait for men to finish the ritual. The security guard then warns her that she has five minutes before he jingles his keys and starts badgering her to leave. Two summers ago, husband and wife weren’t the only visitors from a foreign land that Friday. A few other women were ushered away from the women’s entrance, which was being filled by men. Arriving home distraught, husband and wife naively hoped for some explanation from the community’s decision-makers. A sharp and sarcastic voice on the other end of the phone infuriated the wife to even write to the other people in charge at the mosque. She did not receive a response to either her first or her second written inquiry.

Eventually, she came to connect with others in this new land who confided in her similar stories. She could feel their reluctance and disappointment. The wife wanted to speak about it out loud. “It’s not right what’s going on,” she kept saying. At the same time, she did not want to denigrate the community, to alienate herself from it, to stay behind the closed doors of the mosque even on other occasions. “But with such an attitude, they are spitting in their own bowl,” her friend kept agreeing with her, who herself had repeatedly experienced the inexcusable jingling of the security guard with the keys, as if she were some mischievous little schoolgirl and not a grown-up Muslim woman who wanted to pray in the one and only mosque in the city.

This year, the wife did not go to the Eid prayer with her husband. She stayed at home, like other wives in this land. When her husband returned home, he brought her a red rose. “Some women were standing by the mosque, selling roses after the prayer.”

“Did they at least pray with you, perhaps somewhere in the back…” his wife asked him with a glimpse of hope for that moment.

“No. They have their own way of doing things. That’s just the way it is.” Then the wife suggested that she and her husband come up with their own new traditions for the upcoming holidays. They will recreate the atmosphere from the Prophet’s land, they will pray together, and celebrate Eid for two.

A new leaf. My first one on this beautiful monstera, which I chose as my first roommate in our apartment. I got it this past winter for just a few bucks from a lady who was looking for a new home for it.

A new leaf, a new chapter. Here comes the beginning of the summer, which we will spend together for the first time in Ljubljana.

I am so very proud of Tamer and myself. Everything we do, what we strive for, even though (or especially because) we may not share it online.

I am also proud of this young green leaf that curled out and sparkled by the window. I must be doing something right. I’ve been told that monsteras are not high maintenance. But for me, who already managed to screw up corn sprouts in elementary school, then raised my hands away from plants and declared: “This is not for me, I’d rather work with animals,” believe me, this new green leaf is a tremendous achievement for me.