Chapter 1 (My Struggle)


 

Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jah-Keem Yisrael Mohamed Shabaaz. I was a warrior for Mohammed in Somalia, just ten years old, when my ward, uncle Abdul-Azziz Shabaaz, brought me to Sweden. It was paradise. There were countless bicycles to steal and an endless number of little blonde children to chase. They were so weak. How they cried. And if they complained to their parents, they were told that they must be patient with me.

I loved running with my friends in the Stockholm Centralstation. We would lift up women’s skirts and then steal their purses. What fun we had! It was a dream childhood.

When I was eighteen, and in my last year of högstadiet, I emigrated to America. Two years after that, my dear uncle was arrested for liberating a Swedish whore from her sinful life on September 27, 2013, in Stockholm.

He was a victim of political repression, bigotry, and hatred. He actually went to jail. Can you believe it? Happily, the world has become a better place, a more orderly place, and a less sinful place. I do not even want to think about how horrible it was before Sheikh Obama (pbuh) radically changed the world.

I got a scholarship to the University of Baltimore and started the Islamic-Christian Friends group. The college was racist and would not provide a foot bath for me on campus. My brothers in the Friends’ group joined me in a hunger strike. Very soon, there were several foot baths. We stopped going to class because the college pension fund invested in Israel: before you knew it, the pension fund was disinvested from Israel. And, of course, no Jewish speakers were allowed on campus.

We lived through a torrent of progressive thought.

Then, one day, my precious Zika Aafreen-Haiqa came into my life. I was in my condominium with the shades drawn, about to degrade myself with the latest pornhub video, when I had an original thought: Why not enjoy a real relationship with an actual human.

With shaking hands, I searched through website after website, each one more enticing than the last, each one showing (of course) only the eyes of prospective servants and flesh-and-blood sex objects. Each came with a short biography.

They were all tantalizing in their sameness. Each of these women from Middle Eastern kingdoms promised to be my cook and my servant – if only I would pay the freight to ship them to America.

Yes, America. This was before the alliance with the European Union and Turkey, back before the spelling of the hated America was changed.

“What is in a name?” Or so the saying goes.

I had never heard of anyone named Zika: that was novel. But “Aaafreen-Haiqa”. That touched a chord in my loving heart. She would be Zika Stimulation-Obedience. How could I go wrong?  She said she was a beautiful Pakistani woman and that she loved Allah more than anyone she knew.  I took her word for it.

We chatted a bit before the State Department sent her to me on a marriage visa. I told her how to answer the clever vetting questions.

When they ask you if you belong to any terrorist group, I told her, say, “no”.

When they ask you if you will overthrow the American government, I told her, say, “no”.

It was not unlike any public school exam in America. Instead of choosing the letter C in every multiple-answer question, when in doubt, answer “no” to their questions. The worst thing that could happen would be that she would not be my bride. I could always pick another one.

Oh, joyous day! She won the contest and soon she was flying to me.

I can still feel the trembling in my loins as I watched her entering the concourse of Baltimore Washington International Airport. I nearly exploded when I recognized those burning violet-colored angry eyes, blazing from the peek-hole of her burqa.

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About rosewater12

I am in hiding.
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