My Praying, Fasting, Sodomyzing Moe

My Praying, Fasting, Sodomyzing Moe

“We are tired of us choosing the assholes over the decent, the rough over the nice, and the rich and powerful over the ambitious and hard working.” From Superman is an Arab by Joumana Haddad


Amal is 30, educated, attractive, chirpy, and a blue twitter bird.

She met Moe on Twitter and the virtual relation spilled onto the real world leading to a whirlwind of emotions, which took four long years to dissolve.

“I loved him,” she said to me. “He was from Iraq. I thought he was the guy. It felt like being born again, being with him. He was so different from the other Arab men I had dated. He hung to every word I said. He was divorced and had a son. That was all ok with me. I would have loved to meet his son. But there was always a reason why I never did. Soon enough after we started dating, the unavoidable happened. I turned 30. I still lived at home with my parents. We’re Arabs, you see. I wanted to marry the man I loved. I waited for him to propose in a Meet-My-Parents kind of way. When I asked him where this relation was heading, he said, to marriage, where else?


When we were both ready and when his son was ready for a step mom.

“But how would your son be ready if he still didn’t meet me?”

“Be patient,” he told me. “Everything is better in its due time.”

“So I waited,” said Amal. “Sometimes I myself thought why do we need to get married if we were happy with each other? Who needed marriage anyway?”

Because she lived with her parents, Amal would meet Moe at hotels. They would book a room, spend the day there, never the night. They’d go out, briefly. They never made their relationship public. Being two twitter birds, they would meet other tweeters in large tweetups, but Moe always pretended she was just one of the others, as though they hadn’t just showered in the same hotel bathroom or licked ice cream from each other’s lips, or, well, had sex the way he liked to have it.

“Moe was a religious man,” insisted Amal. “At least he was convinced he was religious. I am not,” she said. “So his religious convictions didn’t bother me, as long as he was not trying to change me. But all my life, at least my adult life, I though Islam scowled at anal sex, even between a man and his wife. Moe knew the Koran. He knew sections of it by heart and prayed and fasted. I never met him during Ramadan, mind you. There were times when I would still be in bed, and he’d get up to shower, and pray. I respected that. I tried not to dwell on it. Who was I to judge the man I loved?

I don’t like to have sex that way, you know, anal sex. Hell, I don’t even like it doggie style! I always tried to talk him out of it. I told him it hurt so much. But he was so insistent. He told me that it felt different, that if I loved him I would want to make him happy and that made him happy. So, I let him.”

Amal never met Moe’s son. In fact, as the months passed, she started to believe that she would never do. There was no reason for keeping the relationship a secret. They were both financially secure and single. So when she gave him an ultimatum, he felt slighted, insulted, hurt, and that was the end of the relationship.

Only when she started dating someone else did Moe come back in the pictures again.

Now with direct threats.

“I have your pictures,” he texted her. “If you don’t come back to me, I’ll make them public.”

“Some times I think I was a fool to have slept with him and let him take those pictures. I grew up hearing that Arabic men don’t marry the girls they slept with and I kept on thinking that was bullshit. How could we generalize? Besides, the issue of virginity and saving yourself until the wedding night was never a concern of mine. I am not promiscuous. I don’t go around sleeping with guys. I was in a relationship with Moe, or so I thought. I was faithful to him. I don’t know now if he decided not to marry me the first time we slept together and if it was a show from there on. I don’t know if I’ll ever find out. Should I have pretended to be demure and play the act of saving myself until our wedding night, only to go and have a surgery done to fool him and make him believe I was a virgin? If that’s what he and men like him want, to be fools, then no thank you, I don’t want to be married to a fool.”

Amal ignored Moe’s threatening massages. She did not even reply to his constant threats. She said he did not ruffle a feather in her. What she did was tell her then fiancé about her relationship with Moe and how he was threatening her with the pictures. Her fiancé told her to report the threat to the authorities.

Errrrm….Here? in Dubai? No, thank you.


The four years Amal spent dating Moe wizened her. She knew what she wanted and when to say no. She got engaged to Joe seven months after they started seeing each other, and as I am writing this, they are on their honeymoon in the Maldives.

But, because he is a Joe and not a Moe, I will not go into details about their dating.

One thing though, Amal shared this beautiful text from Joe to her the night she told him about Moe’s threats:

Don’t even give him a second thought.

You owe it to yourself, to the sparkle in your eyes, and the echo of your laughter in your own ears, to be in love, madly in love, to be happy, and not to settle for less than that. 

Being with him was mediocre. 

May be even less.

Be in control of your own fate, Amal..

If he loved you, it’s because he had to love you.

It is an honor to have loved you, and to continue loving you, and to be bitter for not having you.

You were a feather in his hat, Amal, and will be the best memory he ever had. Let him be crushed, not because you are cruel, it is because your love is a crushing force.

May it always be like that.












Mosque for Gay People: What Happened to the Rainbow Flag?

I do have a bone or two to pick with gay people.

Three bones, to be exact.

My friend A tells me about the opening of “Europe’s first gay-friendly mosque,” but I don’t believe him, until google confirms it, under the same title: ‘Europe’s first gay-friendly mosque’ sparks controversy.”

My jaw dropped. My eyes opened wider, and I was momentarily paralyzed with disbelief and shock.

Not because of the controversy. It is the act itself, the attempt to align homosexuality with Islam, the seemingly desperate need on the part of gay people to belong to religion, any religion, even Islam.


Why is religion so important, holding on to its dying mutilating (and mutilated) shreds so necessary, that without it, the one group of people who have presumably broken away from all rules and shackles associated with society are hitherto determined to elbow themselves into the midst of its archaic destructive prejudiced courts?


I feel so disappointed in all the gay men and women I have respected and supported for so long.

Why insist on tightening the yoke around your necks, gathering with your own hands the stones which your executioner will use to stone you alive, sharpening the stake which they will drive up your bodies, to set you up as effigies, a lesson to those who need to learn their lesson.

Islam and homosexuality do not mix.

To be a homosexual is not to be a Muslim.

Just like oil and vinegar (or is it oil and water): they just don’t mix.

What will my dear confused gay friends who belong to that mosque say when they come across the surahs which relish the punishment of Lot’s people, for no reason but because they were just like my dear 21st century confused gay men, well, gay?

Will they just skip them, without acknowledging them, or say that they were false verses? Will they say that the verses are false? Or that the punishment was the result of other sins? No my dear, because the verses clearly indicate that those men were punished because they “desired” other men.

Skipping, denying, or falsifying the verses in the Quran ensures an automatic denial of  Islam itself, because to be a Muslim is to believe in every word mentioned in the Quran, to accept the book in its totality, word by word, story after story, one worldly punishment after another.

The picture is ugly. It does not favor gay people.

The same thing with Christianity and Judaism.

Homosexuals, in the eyes of religion, are the plague of society and are to be dealt with as germs, diseased individuals who have to be shunned, ostracized, tortured, and killed.

Why go out of your ways to try to belong to a religion which will spit you out, regardless?

Is Jesus all that beautiful and merciful that you aspire to get his blessings and be saved by his blood?

Or is Mohammad the ultimate prophet of moderation and love that you are going out of your way to follow him?

Are you kidding me?

Create your own religion. Resurrect your own Jesus and embrace your own Mohammad. This is what you need. You have become a religion in your own right, a care free religion. Write your own rules. Inscribe them on tablets and hang them on rainbow flags. Ordain your own priests. Invent your own God.

The ones already circulating around do not harbor you any good.

And you are good.

 Better yet, turn that mosque to an art studio, a gay bar, or a “For Gay Lovers Only” Bed & Breakfast motel and hang the most vibrant breathtaking Rainbow flag on its door. Let it dance in the breeze and dance with it, beautiful people.

 Dance. Don’t preach.

P.S: I forgot to count. How many bones did I pick?

Domestic Violence and Honor Killings against Men Reach Unprecedented Heights in the Middle East


 A referendum to introduce a law which would oversee stricter tougher sentences for women who have killed their brothers and sons for bringing “shame” to their families has been rejected for the forth time in the People Democratic of Thulmestan.

Representative Habibulnas’ attempts to sway the General Council’s decision continue to fail and he has been accused of promoting vice and trying to obliterate the practice of Honor Killings. Habibulnas urged the shura council to consider increasing the punishment for women accused of killing their brothers and sons in the name of Honor. In a televised interview, Habibulnas reiterated his demands and vowed to “stand firm in the face of other representatives who have so far blocked the attempt to introduce tougher sentences for women who have killed their brothers and sons for bringing “shame” on their families.” He is urging the government to introduce a special tribunal to hear honor killing cases against men, but a parliamentary alliance has so far blocked all attempts to change any articles of the legal code, especially article 69, a “crime of passion” defense, which is commonly used and gives reduced sentences to women who claim they committed violence in the fury of the moment.

 Thousands of terrified men gathered in Sahat Al Mathloomeen, joined by Rights Groups who want to change laws amounting to legal impunity for women involved in honor killings, in support of the proposed referendum, after the body of 18 year old Haitham Elmustaq was found stabbed to death in a deserted field in an apparent Honor Killing crime resonant of the hundreds carried out on young men all over the country.

 “My friend was 18 when he was killed. All he did was befriend a girl online and meet her at a coffee shop. They did not have sex. They did not even kiss. But his sister would not believe him. She just killed him,” Kahldoun Zadi broke down in tears, holding a “Justice to Sameer” banner with his slain friend’s picture on it.

 “Something has to be done,” Marwan El Hamayra, from Sult in Jordan said in a phone interview from an undisclosed location. Marwan has been in hiding ever since his sister found out that he lost his virginity one night, when a woman attacked him in a side lane and forced him to have sex with her. “I was raped. I fought back, but she overpowered me. I ran away from home. I knew what was waiting for me there. I would be killed.”

 Marwan El Hamayra’s sister, who never stopped looking for him to wash the family’s shame, burst into his hiding place right after our phone conversation, and, aided by an angry aunt who held his arms down, slit his throat. The two women then walked proudly into the police station and turned themselves in. They were released after serving two months in a minimum security prison.

Dead Skin

Dead Skin

 I carried you around

Like stratum corneum

A layer of dead skin

Itching to be exfoliated


With cotton balls

Moistened with scented oils

 How my skin glowed

When they dropped you

In the waste basket

At the dermatologist office

And ran my credit card

To pay for the 30 minute facial

The time it took

Between lugging you around

And closing the lid

On you

A few blackheads

And some ingrown hairs

 My epidermis?

I was politely informed

You never got that deep.




Operation Rescue God

If God truly existed inside churches, I would have begged him to turn me into a wooden plank and nail me to the floor so all his worshippers would step on me in His name.

If He existed inside mosques, I would have begged him to turn me into a mat and glue me to the floor, so the foreheads of the believers, their palms, knees, and toes would find me there, waiting for their prayers.

If God existed inside synagogues, I would have begged him to turn me into oil so I would forever burn in the sockets of candles, mingling with the tears and supplications of His chosen people.

 If He existed inside a Buddhist temple, I would have begged him to turn me into miles of  red cloth and wrap me on the shoulders of monks sashaying at His feet, endless in His capacity.


I looked for God there, but I didn’t find Him.

 I found Him in the eyes of a laborer, hiding from the August midday sun in Dubai, stealthily sipping water from a plastic container in Ramadan.

The fear-stricken look of a desperate God. A terrified God, emaciated, abused, nameless.

 I found Him in a lock of hair escaping from under the headscarf of an 8-year-old girl in Yemen, dead in childbirth. Ripped. Bereaved. Silenced.

 I found Him in the limps littering the streets of Bagdad. Severed. Decaying. Rotting.

 I found Him in the clenched fists of a jailed black boy, holding on to the bars, waiting to be executed. Unkempt. Forsaken. Forgotten.

 Rescue me, God pleaded.

Rescue me from the mullahs and priests and rabbis and swamis. Set me free.

Reporting Live from Heaven


This morning, when Archangel Gabriel went to God’s throne to receive the daily task list, God was not there.

This was the first time EVER that God had left his throne. And EVER in God’s time is a very very long time.

God had disappeared without leaving a note, directions, or orders.

No one up in heavens knew where God had gone.

There was a sense of loss, confusion, and fear among the angels.

And because Gabriel did not have God’s direct command to search for him, he did not.

Had he done so, he would have found God weeping in a cave on a mountain in Mecca, searching between the cobwebs and the rubble and all the dusty layers of centuries bygone for the actual message he had sent to earth.


You see, God did exist. He lived up there in the seventh heaven and had a throne surrounded by winged creatures who flew up and down between heavens and earth and every once in a while delivered an occasional message or two to those individuals God had chosen to call prophets. But then the messages got all mixed up, screwed up beyond repair, and there was a point where no one, not even God himself, could figure out what was going on.


So many things have gone wrong that for such a long time He had fought an urge to just finish off the human race, euthanize it, or may be just order a sweeping lobotomy operative to take place and eradicate all evil from earth.

 But he didn’t.

And now, there was a very pressing question on God’s mind as He sat in a corner in the cave pondering. He wanted to know when exactly, and how, did he say that if a man raped his five year old daughter, burnt her, tortured her some more, sodomized her, and killed her, he, the man, should not be prosecuted, charged, or killed; but, on the other hand, if an underage exploited abused maid is accused of causing the death of a child, who might or might not have suffocated on his own bottle, she should be beheaded?
Crime and Punishment? All in the eyes of the believers.

And what bothered God as he sat in that desolate corner is the wording. He is so good with words. Infallible. Which words could he possibly have used to convey that erroneous message?

In which surah did he add those dictates? Which verse?

Try as he could, he could not remember.

 “What did I do wrong?” God was weeping, pulling his hair, banging his head against the rocks. Bleeding.

He no longer believed in Himself.


And then He became quiet. He sat in the cave and decided never to leave. He was afraid. He knew what would happen if he stepped outside. The bearded mobs in the mosques below would accuse him of apostasy and behead him.

He knew. He created them.

Give the Mouse a Cookie

Give the mouse a cookie, she’ll ask for a glass of milk.

 There’s no typo here. It’s a she.

This Dubai Lama has been doing some thinking on the part of Muslim men, in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, Egypt, and Indonesia, and beyond. Yes, beautiful Indonesia suffering under the eyesore of women straddling bikes! Not enough that a tsunami hit the sunny coasts of Aceh, now women (those rambunctious ignorant creatures), are stubbornly and shamelessly flaunting their rear behinds straddling motorbikes all over the island.

 No wonder a tsunami had to hit. Allah’s wrath against bike-straddling women can be endless. It sweeps everyone in between, the bike, the bikers, and the sunbathing tourist.

 Warning to potential tourists: Before you head to the shores of Aceh, make sure that women there have adhered to the No-Bike-Straddling Law. Severe punishment from Almighty awaits those who disregard the warning.

 Better yet, all of you restless, righteous Aceh, Afghani, Pakistani, Saudi male souls, who have been plagued by the sight of women (astaghferollah), get rid of them. Nip the problem in the bud. Just finish them off.

 Let me help you here.

 The biggest mistake Mohammad did was abolishing the killing of infant girls. Rectify that and call far a sweeping femicide to rid the world of women. Otherwise, the list of rights those inferior creatures are demanding has no end.

 First, secure in the fact that they wouldn’t be killed in the swaddle, muslim girls demanded to go to school. Then they started to have opinions and insisted on being heard (disregarding the fact that their voices are haram). Then they wanted to be a part of the shura, demanded seats in the Parliament, some became queens, leaders, drove cars, wore pants.

 Did I say drove cars?

 King Abudllah of Saudi Arabia: Are you out of your mind? Have you stopped taking your medication or what?

 Muslim men, make it easy for yourselves, because the world was created for you and you alone.

 Instead of demanding that women wear the veil, show only one eye (if at all), stay home, just get rid of them, annihilate them, finish them off.

They’ve been such a burden and lately I’m beginning to think that some of you, muftis, mullahs, nose-pickers, toe-scratchers, are losing sleep, pondering on the future of the world with so many women in it.

 For sex, you’ll have each other. Not that you haven’t done that already.

And you have your goats. Majority of you wouldn’t even know the difference between a woman and a goat.

As far as reproduction is concerned, well, your offspring will look just like you. Goats do have beards, mind you.

 A match made in heaven.


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