Российская Федерация

The community of bloggers has a new member. Yes, it’s him. The President of the Islamic Republic of Iran is a blogger, an ordinary blogger like you and me.

I went to see his blog at “The Ahmadinejad Official Blog Site”  , a “must read” for anybody who misunderstands the intentions behind the nuclear debate until now.

Or is it a “must read” for all those who want to learn what he misunderstands ?

Date / time: 2007/03/27 0900 Z (UTC +2 DST)
Coordinates: 51°13′32″ N , 06°46′58″ O
Altitude: 38 meters above sea level
Temperature: 15 Degrees Celsius
Weather: sunny, moderately clouded
Wind: light, from WSW
Visibility: good

Tack tack tack tack tack tack …. boom boom boom boom …. whack whack whack whack ….

This is Germanistan calling on NATO frequency 123,300 AM, does anybody read me ?

Tack tack tack tack tack tack …. boom boom boom boom …. whack whack whack whack ….

No, I am not under fire, although it might sound like I’m engaged in urban warfare. Doors are banging, people are yelling in a language I can’t understand. But I assume it’s Farsi or Urdu.

The guy next door went out on his balcony and yells into his cell phone. He can’t call from inside, it’s too loud in there. His radio is tuned in on Radio Tehran and someone, probably a Mullah, is holding a speech. The volume is pumped up to a level which would silence a jet at Mach 2 + afterburner.

From time to time I hear the names Ahmadinejad, Kohmeni and from time to time the word “Allah” is yelled out on the top of the speakers voice.

Right above me is a penthouse, some hundred square meters in size, with a huge terrace all the way around it. I smell smoke, someone is burning paper. A small trail of smoke sluggishly hangs in the air, is blown across my balcony by the wind.

Tack tack tack tack tack tack …. boom boom boom boom …. whack whack whack whack …. (the guy in the radio yells even louder, Ahmadinejad is being mentioned again) ….

Someone must be beating his furniture to bits, using a huge hammer or something similar.

Peep peep peeeep …. tshirp tshirp tsirp …. peep peeeeeep ….
My fax machine awakes …. brrrr …. brrr …. brrr …. plop !

A sheet of paper falls into the container.

I grab it, look at it, can’t read it. It looks like my 3 year old son has drawn one of his famous paintings again. (The ones that cover the walls of my home office and look like the work of a surrealist on a LSD trip).

No, the snakes drawn on it sneak form right to left, are too symmetric in shape and are in black and white only. Not in the myriad of colours my son usually uses. The number of the sender’s fax begins with +98 , the e-mail address in the header ends with [dot]IR.

Yep, it’s them again. “Them” are the friendly blokes running the Iranian steel company just down the road. The guys who constantly park their S-Class Mercedes Benz on my parking lot.

From my balcony I can regularly have a look in the trunk of their car, reminding me of Yuri Orlov’s Ukrainian uncle in the movie “Lord of War”. You remember the frustrated General who sells 30.000 Kalashnikovs to Yuri and receives a Rolls-Royce with a “special cargo” in return ? No ?

Hold it ! There are no Kalashnikovs and RPGs in the trunk of that S-Class Mercedes. Like uncle Dimitri’s Rolls-Royce, the trunk is regularly filled with cartons of cigarettes and boxes of Single Malt Scotch Whiskey. The good and expensive stuff that is, 12 years old minimum. And from time to time the big tits of a centrefold fill my visual field. I do need reading glasses, I openly admit this, but those tits are usually so huge that even the three blind mice could spot them easily.

But unfortunately uncle Dimitri’s Rolls-Royce perished in a great ball of fire (in the movie), the S-Class never does likewise. It disappears from time to time, mostly three times a year, and is replaced by a nicer and newer S-Class. Always in black, always with all the extras on the list.

Why do I get their faxes ? Dead easy, my fax number only differs by one number from theirs. Where mine has a “8”, theirs has a “3”. On bad copies we can easily mistake a “3” for a “8”, can’t we ?

So I keep receiving faxes addressed to them, unfortunately I can’t read them. They might be all about some tons of steel someone in Iran needs and now sends an order, but they could also contain the order to slaughter all infidels or someone may be asking for more cigarettes, centrefolds and scotch. One never knows.

Anyway, it’s still better than one of the occasions when I mistake, after the first ring, my fax machine for being my telephone and have someone yelling at me in Farsi or Urdu, the only word I will understand being “Fax”.

It actually is a quiet day here in Germanistan today. The night was even more quiet. No party. I could even sleep without my earplugs, the heavy duty ones which would also silence a Katjusha launcher firing its salvo right next to my bed.

The blokes usually have their party begin at 22:00 hours and end at 04:00 hours the next morning. I got used to it. I start to appreciate Middle Eastern music, featuring a freshly castrated singer singing at the top of his voice. And I am also getting used to the drums and bells ringing to some weird rhythm.

The girls they bring along to their party don’t wear Tshadors or Burqhas, although they are apparently from the Middle East as well, and with the paint on their faces one could easily repaint Düsseldorf’s “Fernsehturm” (the TV tower being a major tourist attraction) with seven thick layers of waterproof paint.

I never see the girls leave, but I assume they don’t stock them up there. So they probably roll them into a carpet and put them into the (now empty) trunk of the S-Class.

My earplugs work nicely, and looking at the lamp on the ceiling of my bedroom, swinging to the rhythm, is somehow soporific, like the pendulum of a hypnotist sending me to the land of my dreams.

The only problem I had until just recently was the fact that I didn’t hear my old alarm clock in the morning. It was much more quiet than my neighbour’s Katjusha, so its ringing was filtered away by the earplugs as well.

I solved the problem by applying a combination of high-tech and German military discipline. I got myself a new alarm clock with a laser projector, projecting the time in big red laser digits on the ceiling.

Now my bedroom spreads the aura of a command room of a nuclear submarine. The room is filled with a dimmed red light, very eye-friendly and charming. In the morning it unleashes the “Trumpets of Jericho” and shakes me out of bed. And my 12-year-long military service still enables me to sleep with one eye open, focussing the red laser digits on my bedroom ceiling.

It’s a miracle, I am longer “out” already than I was “in”, but I am somehow still the lean and mean fighting machine I used to be when serving the “Luftwaffe” as a Non-Com. Although civilian life brought gains and losses, I clearly gained weight and lost some of my eyesight, hence the reading glasses, the military is still in my system. And I still feel a deep love for my drill sergeant in basic training and his boot is somehow still present when I scratch my rear end.

Being in the sleepwalker-mode most of the night, I automatically remove the ear plugs as soon as the red digits on the ceiling signal 04:00 AM, turn the laser projector off and enjoy the darkness. Then I roll over and fall asleep completely. Life can be so easy, can’t it ?

From time to time I give myself the order to attempt a “breakthrough” to the “Greek Lines”, particularly on Saturdays.

Then I merge with my background, try to keep a low profile and a small silhouette, and crawl through “Niemandsland”, the area between the trenches which belongs to nobody, my wallet between my teeth, and try to reach the Greek Diner some 300 meters away from the front.

There I hear Greek music, listen to the “big fat Greek waiter” chatting up the gorgeous looking waitresses and switch to “combat drinking mode”. The beer there is simply great and I have it in large quantities.

After the first litre I feel good, after the second the guy staring at me in the mirror of the restroom is looking great. After the third litre I slowly start to recognize that I am invincible. Litre four and five finally turn me into the bulletproof version of the “invisible man”.

And when the “bullet proof and invincible man” starts to sing “rolling home” and is the last man standing at the Greek Diner, then he doesn’t care any more that there is a big black S-Class Mercedes Benz parked in front of the Diner and four to five bearded men with bloodshot-eyes, and an aftershave smelling like an garlic field in the Scottish Highlands, hug themselves and order another dish of grilled pork with loads of onions.

Then he waits for the next round of beer and ouzo to arrive at the bearded men’s table, waits for them to throw back their heads and to gulp down the drinks. Knowing he’s invisible he slips through the door and walks back to the front, three steps forward and two backward.

After having went “over the top” and finally having reached the friendly lines I fall into bed and try to avoid my wife’s angry look. What a great evening. Knowing that I can’t show up at the Greek Diner for a month or so, after having sung “rolling home” much too loudly, I am pleased to know that the next trench I can visit, and where I am always welcome, is the Russian one, located two kilometres away.

It will again be a Saturday and then I will drink Obolon beer from Ukraine and Vodka from Russia. The doorman will greet me by saying “здравствуйте”, the parking lot will be filled with huge 5-type and 7-type BMW’s, they guys there will wear expensive leather jackets, will not be bearded but bald.

We will sing the Russian national anthem, songs from the era of the Great Patriotic War and the Vodka will be downed by shouting “за родину”.

We will eat piroshki and blini, will have a hell lot of fun and I will pretend to be a Russian, pretending to be a German, all night long. Early in the morning my friends will give me a lift home, Aria’s “штиль” will be blasting from the Clarion stereo set and I will regret that we are riding in a BMW and not in a T-72. Particularly when I see this big black S-Class parking on my parking lot again.

We will exchange the “brother’s kiss”, I will remember that I am a liberal democrat and will not ask where to buy a Kalashnikov to survive another week in Germanistan. But I will also remember that my wife will be angry and will not forget to turn on the laser projector and to put the ear plugs where they belong.

Then it will be “All quiet on the Western Front”.

End of Transmission.

The German “Bundesamt für Migration und Flüchtlinge (BAMF)” , Germany’s federal agency for migration and refugees, refused to grant politcal asylum to the Chechen author, former secretary of social affairs and vice-premier of Chechnya’s Republic of “Itshkeria” Apti Bisultanov.

Bisultanov is accused of being co-responsible for the violation of human rights committed by troops of of his movement in the course of the war in Chechnya.

Bisultanov is in Germany on the basis of “medical treatment”, his application for political asylum is supported by people like Wolf Biermann (a chansonnier), Günther Grass (an author) and Wolfgang Thierse (a politician and former speaker of the German parliament.

Despite the rejected asylum Bisultanov may remain in Germany as no official request to extradite him was filed by the Russian authorities yet.

Source: “Russland Aktuell”

The Russia based German Internet newspaper “Russland Aktuell” reports that Russia seems to get prepared to evacuate Russian nationals from Iran.

In their report “Iran droht Russland, Moskau denkt an Evakuierung” of Monday, March 26 2007, “Russland Aktuell” claims to have information that Moscow is getting prepared to evacuate Russian nationals from the construction site at Busher / Iran where Russia is engaged in the construction of a nuclear power plant.

There are already visibile tensions between Russia and Iran over this project after Iran stopped the financing and refuses to live up to financial obligations towards Russia.

The reasons for this seem to be based on Russia’s support of sanctions and resolutions by the UN Security Council regarding Iran’s nuclear industry.

Irina Jessipova, the spokesperson of Russia’s “Atomstroiexport”, publicly rejected the idea of ongoing preparations to evacute Russian personnel form the site in Busher, or elswhere in Iran, but the Russian newspaper “Kommersant” seems to have sources within “Rosatom” , Russia’s nuclear authority, clearly speaking about the planned evacuation.

“Russland Aktuell” claims to have informations regarding several Russian firms in Iran sending e-mails to their employees, notifiying them to get prepared for the evacuation.