IS THIS THE END?

This is the truth about Cairo Gate as told by Mr. M., director of the Culture Center, on a holy Friday:

"The problem is, you did not only send the statue to Egypt, you also sent the information boards and papers telling all those things about identity. And so the Egyptian customs had no choice but to call the National Security. And the National Security called me and asked me to come to their office in the airport, and I went there and they kept me there for two long days. But they didn't even once let me see the statue, because the statue was in the restricted zone, and on the morning of the first day the man from the National Security and that other man from the transportation company the two of them went in to look at the statue, and when they came out again the man from the National Security said nothing, but the man from the transportation company told me the statue was made of wax, and I said no, it is made of gyps. How do you know? the guy from the National Security said, - you haven't even seen it. No one here in Egypt outside the customs has seen it, so how do you know? And then he started to ask me all those questions and after some hours, when he was finished, he took me to his superior, an older guy, and it was he who asked all this about your country, - why do you want to take this thing into Egypt and to show it? he said, - you know where it comes from. - Yes. - From Denmark, he said, - from that country! - But it is a big country, I said, - not only three people. - They must be punished all of them! he said, - all of them! And then he said it was something related to our religion, an insult to Islam and the Egyptian people, - some satanism, he said, "satanism", and he told me that the statue was related to the Prophet Muhammad, and - they have to be punished all of them! And so on and so on and so on, and in the end he said, - okay, you can come and pick it up tomorrow. You want to come and pick it up tomorrow? - I'm sorry, I said, - but tomorrow I am going to Congo. And instead it was the guy from the transportation company who had to pick it up, but when he came the next morning, they said, - no, you cannot take it! And the guy from the National Security called me by the phone and said, - why do you want to take this thing into Egypt, it is too late, you'd better come out here and destroy it! - Well then, forget about it, I said", said Mr. M.  - Forget about it? I said and looked at him. Mr. M. looked very tired. - What do you mean "forget about it"?

But then his phone rang and the sound of it was some kind of Western metropolitan noise art as you'd hear it in Berlin and New York, and when he had finished the phone call I told him, and he said, - no it is not noise art, it's an African tribe performing in the desert of Nigeria. - Okay, I said, - forget about it.

But that was last Friday, and that is already ages ago, it is the truth told by another age, and meanwhile everything has happened and nothing has changed, all the bad and sad things have just turned worse and sader. I have been in the airport and tried to make the people form the transportation company take me to the customs and talk to the National Security and make them give me access to the statue to prove by the presence of my own body that it is the statue of me aka everyman and not the statue of the Prophet, unless I am the Prophet! But they wouldn't listen, they wouldn't even see me, so instead I took out my flag and walked it into the land of Egypt, into the night of Cairo, and there they stopped me and took my passport and interrogated me and in the end they forbid me to show the Flag of Friendship in Egypt. And while I walked away like a free man turned into a tourist they called Mr. M. again and once again told him to come to their office and kept him for another long day and told him to avoid me, and told him to cancel my performance, so now it is not only the supposed statue of the Prophet Mohammad and the Flag of Friendship that are forbidden, also I, my body, my appearance and my entire presence, skin and bones, have been banned from the public space in Egypt.

So how do you feel about it? Me? I say, - well, I feel like a banned book, a pariah, some thing that the Egyptians around me try not to look directly at, some thing they try to avoid while hoping that the thing is going to pass by, fast, and vanish into the thin air of the desert.

(And the supposed statue of the Prophet Muhammad? Is still lying in the darkness of his coffin in the nowhere land, the in-between, the undecided zone of the customs in the airport unseen by the Egyptian people. To release or return or destroy or just decide and decipher him I would have to bring Mr. M with me to the customs in the airport to sign an official paper that returns the responsibility for the statue from him, the addressee, to me, the sender and creator. But as Mr. M. has been told to avoid me this is obviously impossible. And so there is no future, no way to tell the story any further or to end it ... )      

AND NOW JUST THAT LITTLE FURTHER TOO FAR (The illegalized Walk - part 2)

There I go, white shirt, grey suit, black tie and boots, carrying the gaping hole in the world of meaning through a chaotic world of matter called Cairo, that is: the universe imploding, civilisation torn down and swept aside on a dustpan, the nineteenth and twentieth century collapsed into an arid gutter, a shoe trodden down and thrown at the laughing God lounging high up there in his heavenly Jacuzzi drawing caricatures of his own Prophet on small sheets of paper that he releases lazily and one by one into a slowly descend on the upturned faces of his ridiculed creatures in the dark.

Oh, no, God isn't dead, he just smells funny. So, there I go, having already gone too far, already beyond the End, but being a caricature of the imperial man I am drawing more and more attention, step by step I am having more and more followers, natives in white uniforms and natives in black uniforms and secret serving officers I just haven't noticed, being the avant-garde, the one that just looks ahead and already far too far into the future. And then, having just crossed the obscured Tala'at Harb Square and reappeared in the white lights of the Friday night, having just passed smilingly by a white uniformed police officer sitting in his shack I suddenly feel the soft hand of a lover nestle into mine leading me into a swift U-turn and walking me back into my own past while the rest of the loveable body dressed in white as a marine, shining black boots, black beret, black machine gun hanging from the one-starred shoulder leans a heavy reek of rot upon me mumbling oral hieroglyphs while pointing with his finger into the dark past before us. And suddenly, like ants from a collapsed anthill, they swarm around us, the normal police officers, one-starred, two-starred, three-starred up to three-starred-with-an-eagle, in their marine-like white uniforms, and the black Central Security officers, one- two- and three-starred black, having finally left their armed car that has been hovering on a corner of the square since I arrived in this city, even some of the sandcoloured traffic police officers has joined the gang, and worst of all men on earth, the National Security officers disguised as their own poor selves in dusty shirts and shitcoloured trousers, worn-out loafers, and not even daring to look directly through you, but like hyenas letting their restless glance glide in the in-betweens. They grab me and drag me here and there and out into the gutter between two parked cars, and while another four appear dragging the camera crew out into the light the other twenty make me produce my passport and grab it and like ants turn their swarming backs upon me and huddle together over the passport placed on the bonnet of a car, the owner right behind the windscreen in a deep open-mouthed sleep unnoticed by the swarm huddling over the opened passport studying the Robert Mapplethorpe-1985-portrait of Andy Warhol that I have given the Danish authorities as a stand-in in the void of my lack of identity. The passing by citizens look surprisingly freely at the scene, a distinguished quite strong and intellectual looking man even stops and takes a step out on the kerb and asks me if I'm having any kind of political problems here in Egypt? - Well, yeah, I'm afraid so, I say in a wry smile. Meanwhile the camera crew in polite obedience has turned off her camera and, seemingly unseen by any other than me, instead turned on the micro camera hanging as a talisman in a fake-silver chain around her young neck. Suddenly the youngest of the white mariners, a two-starred Second Lieutenant cut out of a Hollywood romantic teenage comedy, well-trained and self-absorbed, put up his hand holding the two passports like a trophy and escapes the swarm, which instead again turns upon me and then the hour-long interrogation begins.

Each of the more than twenty all-kinds-of-officers has his personal cell-phone, and each of them constantly calls or are being called by his seemingly personal superior, his personal Him, the forever Unseen. And as the questioning proceeds the swarm slowly unfold into countless minor and these few major characters: the young ambitious Second Lieutenant constantly marching forth and back holding the aubergine-coloured European double-trophy in his hand-of-the-Egyptian-future; his only present superior, the distinguished elderly three-stars-and-eagle brigadier with a strong touch of grey in his hair; the iron-pumped, but over-fed Central Security Second Lieutenant constantly referring to his American equivalences, SWAT, the Special Weapons Sometingsomething; and always only partly visible behind their backs, the worst of them all: the dried-up and withered mummy of a National Security unofficer, a human Gollum, with big dark purple shades under his sunken eyes, rotten teeth, constantly moving while looking exactly not at me. I try to greet him, make him notice me, but in vain, he is a used battery leaking hate that silently poisons me. - Name! says the old brigadier, - first name, and second name, and third name! And for the fourth and fifth and sixth time I slowly repeat the three cover names written in my passport that the young second lieutenant holds in his hand just beside his superior. And the superior repeats or tries and fails to repeat the names and then asks me to spell them, and I spell them, and again he tries and fails to repeat, and then calls his unseen superior, and instead of looking into the passport he asks his subordinate to spell the three names, and then, letter by letter, repeats them to the unseen superior. And so on and so on and: - Where you come from? - Why have you come here to Egypt? - What are you doing? - What does this flag meaning? - Is it something connected to the Prophet of Muhammad? - No, it is the Flag of Friendship, alam el Sadakam, I say, and he translates to the superior Him, the big Unseen. And the big Unseen speaks, and the old brigadier translates His questions: - Is it an apology? - An apology for what? - Is it an apology from the peoples of Denmark? - An apology for what? I say, - It is the Flag of Friendship! And I wonder if the Big Unseen is maybe connected to some Egyptian state media? Am I tomorrows Messenger from the North, the carrier of the Flag of Apology, the white flag with a hole in the centre that is on it's way to becoming the new and permanent Flag of Denmark waving in Al Jazeera? The young Second Lieutenant has shifted his aubergine-coloured trophy to the other hand, and pressing his cell phone between shoulder and ear, he, with his freed hand, unfolds the flag and inspects it. - Do you like the flag? I say smiling. - What? he says. - Do you like my flag? - Oh, yes, is ... nice, he says. - Thanksalot, I say.

But then they take me by the sweatdarkened collar and drag us over the Tala'at Harb Square and towards our hotel, the starless Lotus, and, oh god! I think, and as I stumble head-long in their grip I imagine them rummage through my bags producing first the big A-3-posters showing colour-photos of the naked and supposed Muhammad Statue that right now lies unseen by the Egyptian people in his custody-kept coffin in the airport; and then the black box which they open finding on a white silk cloth a pair of black silk gloves covering the little hammer that I have been given an brought here to the land of Egypt to complete my mission: the destruction of the supposed statue of the Prophet Muhammad, my god!            

To be continued?

my followers ... 

please answer!

is there anybody out there ...

- NIELSEN ... I HAVE BAD NEWS FOR YOU

We were on our cabway back from Heliopolis, that City of the Sun sinking slowly pukepale into the smog behind us, having done, or so we thought, that day, as I had been walking deserted streets among hundreds of parked cars between the white walls of a factory and the crumbling smogcoloured concrete wall hiding nothing but even more featureless chaos the kind you'd have to dig your glance in for minutes to find the century old forms left by the locals of the age where they still knew who they were, cutting the edge of an outskirted roundabout, passing down along a long row of BP gas station workshops gaping of car remains and workers in green-and-grey uniforms, waving my free left hand at their open-mouthed wondering what-on-our-earth-is-that-man-is-that-flag-does-it-mean-something-what? smiling and crying alam-el-sadaka! seing their mouths widen into big smiles and so on down a narrow passage stuffed with small old metal workshops, car remains, stunned staring men and boys seated on plastic chairs under the single tree at the end of their day, and then finally at the end of that shot popping out of thin late afternoon light the usual fattish lazy thirty-something ages old rotten teethed forget-my-face stopping me saying, can I see you passports!

Which he could, no problem, he could even have a smile, the smile and the friendly words of tourists just wanting to make a funny video-clip "to show my brother back in Copenhagen", and then he, lonely as he was, gave in and let us go. And that was it. Or so we thought leaning back into the dusty seats of the cab, as suddenly, at the very moment we passed by the presidential palace my phone played my song, and there she was, Myriam from Darb sounding so wornout&down saying: - Nielsen ... I have bad news for you.

- This morning Moataz was called again by the National Security, and they asked him to come down and they kept him for about four hours, from nine till one, and they told him they had been investigating more about you... - Me? I said. - You, she said, - and they didn't like what you are doing here in Egypt, and they warned him about you, and they told him to cancel the event with you on Tuesday... - My presentation and my concert? I said. - Yes, she said, - they know everything about you, about the statue in the airport and about your flag, and they have been following you, Moataz said he saw some of them here yesterday at the opening of that other exhibition, and he thinks they had come with you, because you came, and he recognized at least two of them, so they are probably following you, so maybe, Nielsen, it is better, for you and for us, to cancel that event ... so what do you say ...?

TOO FAR (AND THEN JUST A LITTLE FURTHER) - The illegalized Walk, part 1

At the End of the day, a long hot and dustworn day in Cairo, when we had finally had something to eat, I thought it was about time to take a break, and so I went for a walk with the Flag, that undecipherable white flag with that hole in the centre, the enigma. It was a Friday night in Cairo and the streets were flooded with sober shining fat families and bunches of young men gliding like fish shoals in the sharp white lights from the leather and shoe shops, and I just wanted to cross that river of Nile coming from the Zamalek Island over the 6th of October Bridge, the older one with the dusty dim lamp lights and guarded by four huge stone lions, and into downtown. And so along I walked and well it went, despite all the warnings I had had before leaving Europe, the bunches of young men were laughing and crying, why is meaning? what is this flag? and why do you go? and where do you come from? the family fathers were smiling kindly and polite and even their wives took a short direct look at us, while the young girls all in couples and leaning shy and fat from screeching sweet cakes and ice cream, candy and lack of movement against the parapet turned their heads towards me and smiled and giggled behind my back as I passed, and so I took it just a little further, why not, down the road and out into the huge six or ten lane roundabout on Tahrir Square, and there once of a sudden I ran into the infamous Egyptian police, or rather, they ran into me, or to tell the truth a completely undistinguishable citizen, fattish and glistened, popped out of the millions and lay his sweaty hand on my arm and dragged me along whispering, come Mister, come speak to this police officer. And there in the middle of the stinking honking Cairo traffic stood two police cars, one black and one white, a dozen of police officers leaning upon them or just hanging around, and apparently there hadn't been money enough to equip them all with uniforms, black or white, so half of them were just wearing their own undistinguishable dusty and worn out clothes, and the uniformed ones stood up lazily but straight and greeted me, while the other poor fellows looked straight through me and each of them took out his mobile phone and called someone superior, some unseen Him. What is this? said the tallest, the most handsome and two starred officer in his glaring white marine-like uniform, what are you doing? and where do you come from? and why? He put his heavy hand on my shoulder and made me produce my aubergine-coloured passport, and ...

Well, yes, we had some trouble with the polices, sure we had, but it wasn't that bad and in the end (which wasn't really The End, but close enough) they let us go. Can we go? I said, really? Could it really be true? We were free to go? Yes, said the white officer with his black machine gun hanging silently down his back, yes. And I looked at the film crew and she smiled just like af free (wo)man, and so we decided to take it just a little further, why not, just a few hundred steps further too far down the crowded and wildly lit Tala'at Harb Street. And slowly I let go of the flag, it unfolded again and stood straight and white and enigmatic in the damp and dusty breeze as I walked through the crowd, all bewildered, stunned, but smiling, laughing. And so I finally reached the shabby Lotus Hotel, and that should have been the End, no reason whatever to go any further too far, oh, no, so why I proceeded, why any further, why cross even just one more square, my god, there are thousands of squares and meters ahead before you'd ever reach the End of this city and vanish into the desert, why? I don't know, but I did, at twenty to eleven on that Friday night in Cairo I crossed the Tala'at Harb Square and that, oh, that was The End

                                           ...

                                                           (But after ALL, someone, some body must be writing this, I must be here, somewhere, still exploiting my Freedom of Expression under the single dangling light bulb in a room with no windows (or maybe there are, right there, behind those heavy puke-yellow curtains covering the wall?) but for how long, yet?

Now every kind of Cairo police officers, white or black or undistinguishable, secret and above all, all the Unseen, have had my (cover) name spelled, letter by letter, over and over again by his subordinate mumbling directly into his ear or over the phone and deep into the dark of the night ...

MY SON IS A PROPHET; I'M JUST A NAMELESS BEING

Time? says the taxi driver. I don't know, I say, one hour, two, maybe three ... Inshallah! says the taxi driver and I turn my back upon him and follow the ragged someone through a narrow fence and further into the Cargo Village, which isn't a village, but an endless grey dusty desert crossed by random roads or tracks and scattered with walls and fences and huge grey concrete structures, and somewhere in this in-between, behind one of these walls in one of these concrete buildings the supposed and to the Arabs yet unseen statue of the Prophet Muhammad is kept in his box under surveillance of the Egyptian State Security Service or the Egyptian customs, waiting for me to free and finally destroy him. Inshallah! I wonder if I will ever see that taxi driver again; or my son, who bears the name of a prophet.

We enter a huge and nameless building, nothing but halls, stairways and corridors, and in a corner a tiny office stuffed with a table and three men waiting for the return of the 11th Imam. The wall behind the chief waiter is covered with awards and certificates, this man and in particular this tiny office seems to have won countless international cargo awards and having been constantly praised by Lufthansa, British Airways, Air France, all the old colonial birds. I show him the papers that I have been given, invoices and arrival notes; I am looking for a Mister Mahmoud at Egytrans, The International Export Center Room, No. 101. The awarded awaiting releases a big sigh and rises up and tells me to sit down and picks up the phony part of an old fax-machine from the time of the early Pharaos and calls someone and so on and so on ... we cross other sunbeaten and dusty in-betweens, enter buildings and walk down corridors and finally suddenly here we are, in front of the door to Room No. 101.

I seem to be the long-awaited. A large office, two lines of desks, everyone looks up, and in the middle of the room a glass box with a huge desk and a deep chair, empty since the days of the prophet and Ron L. Hubbard. I present myself, the special envoy of the infidel north. Everyone nods and politely smiles and shows or shovels me into the glass box. But this is a misunderstanding, that's what it is all about. I'm not the Prophet, neither is he, so I just sit down in one of the three chairs in front of the desk. The film crew silently takes place in the other and Mr. Mahmoud in the third, and as the manager of the Customs Clearance who doesn't speak a word English finally enters there is no choice left. And so he sits down in the deep leather throne.

First of all I have to make it clear. This is the reason why I have come all the way from the far north down to Egypt's land: Ages or almost two months ago my contractors up there shipped of a wooden box to Egypt. In the box was a statue cast in pale plaster, the embodiment of Identity and the State Citizen, who was meant to be exhibited in public in a Cairo Culture Center lying on his deathbed and finally dying there in the heart of the Arabian and Islamic civilisation. But at the arrival in Cairo Airport the customs withheld it for weeks claiming this and that, and when they finally decided to release the box and let it be picked up by the addressee, the director of that Culture Center, let's call him Mr. M, they opened the box and then they saw ... yes what did they see? That is the question. Not to be or not to be, but: What on earth is this being?

The Egyptian customs officers immediately called the Egyptian National Security Service, let's call them the NS, and the NS came and they saw and they immediately called the addressee, Mr. M, and asked him to come, and he came and they kept him for two days, and when they finally released him he called my contractors and told them that he had been interrogated for two long days although the questions were very few and always the same: What is this and what is it supposed to mean? But the statue said nothing, and so they had to answer: Satanism! From that rotten state of Denmark! Yet another insult against Islam and the Muslims! A statue of the Profet Muhammad! Why do you want to exhibit it here in Cairo? they asked Mister M., and are you really a true Muslim? Are you a true Muslim? Are you a true Muslim? Or are you a disbeliever? And the answer was: You have only two ways out of this: Either you return it to Denmark, or you destroy it here in the airport.     

This is a misunderstanding, I say to the two Egyptian men in the glass box. Please turn off! Mr. Mahmoud says, and the film crew looks at me and I nod and she turns of the big camera or at least puts it aside, and so we are left with the two micro cameras, the one in my belt, the other hanging like a one-eyed amethyst in the lace around her neck.

We have sent down a box with a statue, I say, the Statue of Identity and the State Citizen. Or so we thought. But in the eyes of the Egyptian National Security, I say, it proved to be the statue of the Profet Muhammad. It is my work, I admit, I have made this statue, and not just with my own two hands, but with my entire body, and so I have come all the way down to Egypt to prove with my own body that this is not the statue of the Profet Muhammad, it is just me, I say. Of course! says Mr. Mahmoud and wavers his hand in the damp air in the glass box, we don't think this is the statue of the Profet or anything political, we, the Egyptians are very friendly people, and in every country there are good and bad people, but we, the Egyptian people are all very friendly. Of course, I say, of course, this is all a misunderstanding! And I take out a black box, a little coffin or shrine at the size of a cigar box, and I open it, and there, on a white silk cloth and covered by two thin silk gloves lies a little hammer. So please, I say, will you take me to the customs and ask them to let me open the box and take out the statue and destroy it with this hammer?

Oh, says Mr. Mahmoud and looks at his throned colleague, the stand-in for Ron L. Hubbard, and this Egyptian Ron L. delivers a long speech in Arabic, and finally Mr. Mahmoud nods and shakes his head. Impossible, he says, the box with the statue is in the customs, and you cannot, ever, get access to that place.

And what if we go to the National Security and ask them to take it out in somewhere in-between? You mean somewhere, some room, which is not the customs, but also not really inside Egypt? says Mr. Mahmoud. Exactly, I say, somewhere in-between. Mr. Mahmoud looks at the local Ron L. and the local Ron L. delivers another long speech, and Mr. Mahmoud nods and shakes his head. The problem is, he says, the box does not belong to you anymore, it belongs to Mr. M, it is his name on the papers, and so he is the only one who can ask for the box, but Mr. M. already from the very beginning rejected this box and asked the National Security to send it back, he never gave the National Security a chance to propose any alternative. Is this true? I ask. And of course it is true. Everyone in this story speaks the truth, the truth and nothing but the truth, no doubt about that, but there are just so many of them, so many truths spoken, and none of them seem to agree. I never met Mr. M, I say, I only spoke to him on the phone, and on the phone he told me that he had been interrogated for two days, and that finally they told him, that he would never ever get the box out of the customs and into his gallery, and that if he didn't want to get into really big trouble he'd either send back the box or destroy it in the customs. Mister Reda was with him at the National Security, says Mr. Mahmoud and nods at the throned man, and the throned man nods. Maybe Mr. M was afraid that he could not explain to the National Security what is the meaning of this statue, says Mister Mahmoud, and so he rejected it from the beginning, and so the National Security thought, why he don't explain the meaning of this statue, maybe there is something mystical about this statue, and so they decided to keep it and not release it into Egypt. Maybe.

So what do we do now? I say. Mister M has to come and be present with the National Security and approve the destruction of the statue, and also the National Security and some environmental organisation has to be present and to approve. Some environmental organisation?! I say. Yes, says Mister Mahmoud. But first of all, he says, you have to prove that you are director of that company. Me? I say. Yes, says Mister Mahmoud, can you prove that? Yes, I say, or ... well ... no. How do you want me to prove that? Ask them to send some approval letter. Who? I say. Your company, says Mister Mahmoud. Tomorrow is holidays, but then Saturday you come with Mr. M and then we go to the customs and ask them to take us to National Security. Okay, I say, Okay ...

THE JOB IS SIMPLE

Go to Cairo; find the supposed statue of Mohammad and destroy it! 

Okay, I said, where and with what? In the airport, they said, a hammer, we’ll supply you with one. Men..., sagde jeg. Amen! they said. Okay then, I said, but, I added, among my followers I’m known as the one and lonely travelling without a weapon. This time you don’t just serve your few followers, they said, this time you’re serving your nation! What nation? I said, I’m supposed to be universal, the average human. Forget the universe, they said, this time we ain’t just beating the old Bush, this time you’re up against the Prophet. Okay, I said, but how will I find him, Cairo is supposed to be overcrowded, polluted with bodies, isn’t it, how will I recognize him among the millions of followers, I never met him, only heard of him, you know, rumours, but I never even saw the fellow, so what does he look like, I said, small, swarthy and fattish and with that specified full beard, does he wear a turban and on top of it a bomb? Nope, they said, on the contrary, he is pale white, skinny, beardless, look! They showed me a picture. – Oh, Jesus! I said, - but that’s... Yeah, sure, they said, in the eyes of a European this (statue) looks exactly like... Me! I said. But, they said, in the eyes of an Arab, and particularly in the eyes of a Muslim Arab, and particularly in the eyes of a Muslim Arab of the Egyptian National Security Service this plaster statue looks suspiciously exactly like the Prophet Muhammad (may Allah’s peace and blessings be upon him!). Wow! I said, but how? How on earth do they know, the PM is dead isn’t he, he has been dead for thousands of years and no living man nor beast knows what on earth he looked like? They know, they said, the members of the Egyptian National Security Service knows everything. You understand, they said, every thing. Wow!

I looked at myself in the mirror. Hey, man, I said, so you are the one, the long-awaited, I said, that’s me, the one and lonely who is coming to bring peace and justice to the world.

The job is simple: Go to Cairo; find the supposed statue of Mohammad and destroy it! 1-2-3! I’ve done jobs like that before, simple jobs, but in odd places, remote corners of the world. I’ve been on missions to Iraq, the States, Dubai, Iran and Afghanistan. As a special envoy of the Europeans and the universal man I have introduced the Democracy into Iraq, failed to re-democratize the US, tried to catalyze a new, second and better revolution in Iran, walked the Flag of Friendship beyond Identity from the mountains and down into the Afghan capital Kabul. But never in my life as a special envoy have I had to destroy. But know the time has come. To destroy. My job is to find and destroy the supposed statue of the Prophet (may God’s peace and blessings be upon me!).

BUT WHAT DOES IT MEAN?

The job is simple: Go to Cairo; find the supposed statue of the Prophet and destroy it! Sounds simple. Yeah. But what does it mean? I wonder. I, the universal human being, is emerging one fine day in Cairo carrying a hammer, lifting it and hugging the supposed statue of the Prophet into pieces, turning the supposed picture and image into dust. A simple action. But what does it mean. I wonder:

1. The destruction of Islam?

2. No, on the contrary: You are not allowed to depict neither God, nor his Prophet! And thus, the destruction of the supposed statue of the Prophet is a righteous act. By destroying the statue I am the law enforcer bringing justice into the world!  

3. But the statue has arrived from Europe, even from Denmark; it is a product of Denmark, that mother of insults. And I, though being the special envoy of the universal man, I am, in fact, and by that I mean reality, arriving from that damned motherland of insults. It must be an apology! By destroying the supposed statue of the Prophet, that product of Denmark, I am enacting and delivering the ultimate apology of all possible and impossible caricatures and depictions of the Prophet that any European and any Dane has ever in History drawn or created or just imagined. Excuse us! I say, with every destroying hug that falls with my hammer against/upon the face and body and limbs and plaster-pale bones of the Prophet. Excuse us! Excuse us! Excuse us! Excuse us ...