For a good formation of the man, the boy needs to be taken as early as possible from the family. It is a harmful place, like the Chernobyl nuclear plant.
– Eduard Limonov
Linda here. It is my task now to tell the story of how I became what I am. It all started in Summer 122 yf, I was 18 and was on vacation in England all by myself. I wanted to learn to handle myself abroad independent from mom and dad – I wanted to become truly a woman.
London was great, delightfully quirky in its instances of almost parodic Britishness fused with a muscular multiculturalism that brings Gothenburg to shame, let alone Sweden altogether. I was raised by Kurdish Communist parents who had sought refuge in Sweden from Iranian clerical persecution, so I have always been left-wing and noticed with a vengeance the acute class differences in British society. The proletarians really had their own society, with its own culture and ethos distinct from that of the British cosmopolitans, whom I was more like. This greatly disturbed me back then, for I clearly identified myself as a champion of the Proletariat and had always been politically active since long before I had my first period.
In any case, during my English Pilgrimage I also visited Sheffield, Wakefield and Leeds, all cities in “God’s Own County”, namely Yorkshire. When I had reached Leeds I went to a tavern called The Black Prince and ordered something random, then I sat on a pedestal in front of the bar. I checked my stark white iPhone 4 for any nearby hotel to check-in for the night. While doing so, I catched a glimpse from the corner of my eye of a figure and got curious. That’s when I saw him the first time.
He was handsome yet rugged, as if he were a model who had served in the Brish military, or a Calvin Klein model turned football hooligan. Before I could react he noticed me ogling him and there was eye contact. His eyes were flirtatious yet betrayed a sinister quintessence, I dared not turn my eyes from him. I was petrified. I was terrified. I was aroused. He moved his whole being closer to me as if he was gliding through floor, or so it seemed, and he told me
– You must be Kurdish, aren’t you?
– Yeah, I am … How would you know?
– Your face just screams Kurdistan.
This proves without doubt that if you’re sexy and confident a man, you can say the corniest shit ever and still score. For not only does my face scream Kurdistan, that night my face screamed his name.