Logbog d. 27 januar

Opdateret: jan. 30

Influenzasæsonen har sat ind og ramt vores lille kontor. Derfor sluttede dagen lidt tidligt i går og jeg orkede ikke helt gøre status.


Alligevel nåede jeg/vi en del:


  • Poste jobopslag på facebook og LinkedIn. Vi leder efter frivillige fageksperter (socialrådgivere/jurister/el.lign) der vil læse vores informationssider igennem og sige god for indholdet. Er det dig? så må du meget gerne skrive til os på tanja@paatvaers.org.

  • Skrive rådgivningssider til både frivillige og flygtninge om kommunens ansvar i forhold til boligplacering (mangler juridisk tjek).

  • Uploade ny rådgivningsside til frivillige: Krisecenter. Du kan finde siden under 'rådgivning og krisehjælp' i app'en. Vi mangler desværre penge til at oversættelser.

  • Til møde med Aske Halling, Ph.d. studerende ved Statskundskab på Aarhus universitet, der skal hjælpe os med at måle effekten af vores app. Aske er en gave, så det var rigtig fedt.

  • Skrive. Skrive. Skrive.

  • Undersøge dagens nyheder og dykke lidt ned i det her skarpe debat indlæg af Hans Lassen: 37 timers aktivering får ikke indvandrere i arbejde. Men her er tre indsatser, der gør.


Og til sidst læse, læse, læse. Pt læser jeg "The Great war for Civilization" af Robert Fisk og sikke da et litterært mesterværk.


Her kommer en passage der sparkede benene væk under mig - selvom jeg lå i sengen. Scenen udspiller sig i Kandahar, i år 1980, under Soviets invasion af Afghanistan:


"I was lying on my bed when I heard the sound. Allahu akbar. God is great. I looked at my watch. This was no fixed time for prayers. It was 9 O'clock. The curfew had just begun. Allahu akbar. Now the chant came from the next roof, scarcely 20 metres from my room, more a yodel than an appeal to the Almighty. I opened the door to the balcony. The cry was being carried on the air. A dozen, a hundred Allahu akbars, uncoordinated, overlaying each other, building upon a foundation o identical words, high-pitched and tenor, treble and child-like, an army of voices shouting from the rooftops of Kandahar. They swelled in volume, a thousand now, ten thousand, a choir that filled the heavens, that floated beneath the white moon and the stars, the music of the spheres.

I saw a family, a husband and wife and a clutch of children, all chanting, but their voices were lost in the pulse of the sound that now covered the city. The extraordinary phenomenon was no mere protest, a lament at the loss of freedom. When the Prophet entered Mecca in the year 630 of the Christian era, he walked to the great black stone, the Kaaba, touched it with his stick and shouted in a strong voice the supreme invocation of Islam. Allahu akbar. His ten thousand followers chorused those same words and they were taken up by members of the Prophet's own Quraishi tribe who had gathered on their roofs and balconies in Mecca. Now these same holy words were being chanted by another ten thousand voices, this time from the roofs and balconies of Kandahar. A Westerner - or a Russian - might interpret this as a semi-political demonstration, a symbolic event. But in reality, the choirs of Kandahar were an irresistible assertion of religious faith, the direct and deliberate repetition of one of the holiest moments of Islam. In the last year of his life, the Prophet had entered the newly purified shrine in Mecca and seven more times chanted Allahu akbar. In Kandahar, the voices were desperate but all-powerful, mesmeric, unending, deafening, an otherwise silent people recognising their unity in God. This was an unstoppable force, an assertion of religious identity that no Afghan satrap or Kremlin army could ultimately suppress" (Robert Fisk, 88-89)


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