I firstly want to say this. Yesterday I went to Port Arthur in Tasmania with my Mum and Step-Dad. There is a wishing well there, in the old penitentiary and I threw in a 20c coin.
I wished for the safety of the hostages who were being held at Martin Place in Sydney. I prayed for their survival.
It wasn’t until we left the decaying prison, filled with the ghosts of the wrongly accused, that my heart became heavy for all those worldwide held hostage by their beliefs… And what the rest of the world believed of those beliefs.
Later that afternoon I snuggled up next to my dogs and continued reading “Son of Hamas” by Mosab Hassan Yousef.
I closed the book on this quote:
“My father was Islam to me. If I were to put him on the scale of Allah, he would weigh more than any Muslim I had ever met. He never missed a prayer time. Even when he came home late and tired, I often heard him praying and crying out to the God of the Qur’an in the middle of the night. He was humble, loving, forgiving – to my mother, to his children, even to people he didn’t know. More than an apologist for Islam, my father lived his life as an example of what a Muslin should be. He reflected the beautiful side of Islam, not the cruel side that requires its followers to conquer and enslave the earth.”
There two sides to any story. But to some. There are millions.
Please read. Please learn. Please understand.
Don’t be a slave. To anything. Even ignorance.
I was sat on a large wicker chair in the rooftop café at my hotel in Shiraz where, in keeping with the Shirazi tradition, a group of guys next to me were reciting poetry. The scented smoke of a bubbling qaylan pipe twisted and turned on the blue tarpaulin above. Downstairs, in the courtyard restaurant, the voices of men and women competed with a cross-legged Kurdish chap in the corner, playing a sitar. Tourists and local men alike pulled chairs up to the tables of young women to chat, safely hidden from the gaze of the authorities outside. Spaces such as that hotel provide an environment of freedom in Iran. In here a woman’s headscarf can teeter tantalisingly close to sliding down the nape of her neck. In here each drag of her cigarette flies in the face of that deeply held taboo. In here large, brown eyes wandered…
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