My Wasted Time Recycled By Nadiya A.A.M. Mohado Sheikh Nur

My Wasted Time Recycled

By Nadiya A.M. Mohado Sheikh Nur Stuttgart, Deutschland September 2021

Feeling in the here and now. I wait one, two seconds. This thing I type on, now. A keyboard, toetsenbord we say in Dutch.

I wait. Until it’s my own. Like an instrument we play on, I learn to play with this thing now. I wait until I made this thing my own by dancing on its rhythm. And write. That’s how it goes for me. I need to learn. It takes time. I don’t rush things. Wait for a while. Stand up when I fall down.

I stood up at many spots during my long journey to ran away from insanity and since the beginning of August even more.

After hundreds of miles of walking I am now here. I would fall down in Stuttgart but stood up. Woke up. Trying to make this typing machine in these modern times my own again in my way. I dare to see things different.

I go back. I left a moment in the beginning of August the 5th.

I was injured. As if a file I click on it. A silent click. In the mind. I open a thought. It’s me there. Crying, as I was afraid to end like the other A’s in the family. As my name is Amina officially. If it wasn’t dying of being as they say braindead, I would as I have also diabetes, die of necrosis slowly. With kidneys shutting down and other organs. And so not, it would be cancer. Heat that shut burn my cells and dysfunction. But I still function. Not a robot. How can we name our self a robot? If any matter has an atom. Everything functions. My heart and the universe are in sync. My heart is in sync with nature. And so, I am in sync with every matter that lives on beats from the past. Current heartbeats leave a possible mark in time. I go back. 5th of August. No stitches.

No medical healthcare. No human rights. I was at Radboudumc. I have seen that the doctors were not able to function because of something that I didn’t understood. After seeing the man from security crying after the doctor said that he would have done me too I would understand everything. Based on his emotions it all would make sense to me. With the nurse standing nervous next to him, passing after giving up like a hero me some medical material to cover the deep cuts injured by broken glass. It would make again, sense to me. They could not function. To ‘’their thing’’ as professionals. I would ask many times if there was still medical healthcare during curfew. During this COVID-19 pandemic that always seem to change its codename or how we should describe it. As I would hear no ambulances, have seen no women giving birth that way, I would think of war. Hard times getting in the ER department in the first place, When I was there, I would see a doctor actually not explaining me why he would be so rude. It needed feel, emotion to make me realize what was going on. The nurse, behaving sometimes aggressively when trying to help me with the wounds, with listen to me when she would go too far. She looked to fight with something.

I was for months busy with this thing I would pick up.

I would discover a distortion in the Android Spectroid application when I would hear a sound in my room all the time. And it would follow me. Generated sounds. I could record it. But when I would upload it on Twitter I would end up finding out that my Twitter was hacked. Delay of 5 minutes for a video. Or delay of my screenshots of 3 minutes. I thought that it could be replaced with something else instead. And when I checked it on my very old windows laptop, showing me more things than on my smartphone, I could confirm that thought. Censorship, as I could not even google: USA pay attention, hidden communism. The website would be blocked. One chance. One time. Living The Netherlands. ‘’So free’’ that we could use any drugs if we want. Turning into a secret hidden communistic country. One time. I searched for it. And it would change everything.

When people give up at the right time, right moment. I always end up surprised. Instead of feeling like a failure, I leave it at pause. A mark. To work on it later on. She would pass it. As she gave up. Looking me in my eyes as if help. Help me.

Understand that I can’t do my thing as a nurse. After forgiving her that she would almost go too far with my foot.

It only took me some trust to understand. Instead of judging right away. I would pay attention to what she was trying to say. Silently. It makes me a bit emotional right now. As a fully drop-out, made by the Dutch state, I could learn the lessons life and nature would show me. Trying to understand things when things would occur that I could not understand.

She would explain me, I need help.

I didn’t want to hurt your foot. But why? The nurse, standing next to the ER doctor, standing next to the security, being in the present. With me.

A patient. Almost about to freak out as I could see my wound not doing so well. A big man crying while looking at me.

Thinking about his mother. As I was in the same hospital where I gave birth to my son 27th of October 2020 and haven’t seen him ever since the end of February, he would cry. And see me, in the present, but his mommy sitting there, in the past but present. And cry. He cried. When a man is about to cry, there is something inside of me that stops. As if nude. He would show me himself at his weakest. Lowest. Opening up. Red watery eyes explaining me that there is no medical health. War times.

And that the doctor was not functioning well. After he would again, say to me that he had done me too. One sentence. One time. One chance. I took it. To understand. Not becoming angry, but I would climb on another thing. To pause and oversee. Where am I right now? How should it here normally function? What is their job? Rules? Who are they? I don’t know them. What do I know? Answer is clear as they are professionals not doing ‘their thing’. It needed me to see a man crying. A nurse begging for help by passing her profession through after I would forgive her. And a man going too far, usually very focused and talented as it is a university hospital, to go too far and cross a line to wake me. It leaves a mark every time when something goes too far. I go back. As if clicking on it. Go on pause. And try to realize. Try to understand. Takes a lot of discipline and courage. To not respond on pain right away. Or respond on everything that is been done, or about to happen to me let it get to me at first.

As it once already would have happened before, or would look similar to a past experience. I learn from my past. From what life and nature shows me. Here where I try to explain that spacy sentence that I as a fully drop-out made by the Dutch state can also understand. By seeing. By doing. By hearing.

And by feeling. Using my sense. I can recall pain. I do not want anyone else to feel that too. And there where I stop it for myself I stop it for others if they are about to do harm.

I could be wrong. But I would never all from deep down under somewhere I think in my soul not risk to let it happen again.

To say it less romantic, it is all about recognizing a pattern. My life is paused too many times. As he said that he would have done me once. I picked that sentence up from a man crying as his mother could have stopped there. Being done.

With men. Thanks to this brave man I had to courage to move to Dusseldorf. I would climb on his courage that he passed through, giving up on time for a while. Cry. While left alone by these security men in the cold by maybe a voice or command they were scared of I would call a taxi. Having not much money. I would buy a ticket. Where can I get medical help?

Where do I count as a human being?

The country was empty 10 march 2021 during curfew.

Schiphol was empty too. For months, I have been busy to understand what kind of war we could be in.

Looking for things in the news. Fake news at first glance would be true news at the second inspec. glance as I name it and turned out to be real written by serious journalists. A sexy magazine, National Geographic would write unusual things I could not understand. What happened? I would question and make notes. Looking back to myself before I judge others, I would see that I had difficulties with writing and more. But I would study that years before. Myself.

Looking a bit psycho. I would study myself as a child when I didn’t understand my behavior and pause it that way with technology. Making it a fact. As I could show it to others. And let them watch along if I decided that I wanted it that way. As becoming a journalist was once a dream of mine, I could see what maybe was going on. I tried to inform and warn. Hard times with being censored by the Dutch state being only 25 and living forced on my own in a ghost village.

With almost no money. I tried to find in creative ways to inform. Not feeling better or less. I didn’t care. The worst thing what I was seeing were people writing for someone else. No freedom in writing, as if they would forget about their worth. Who they are. And that they are journalists, writers. A name they have worked for and made. And so, have something to say. Whatever someone pushes you to do, these people are allowed to say no. And say what they want to say or publish. I would check their old published work. And would see a major difference. I would be censored for only typing in hidden communism. Next question is: what about the news? That was difficult. Everything would look fine.

When I saw empty streets or stores or airports, Closed shops, schools and more. I had to pay attention to journalism. Again.

Not feeling less or more. I ignored myself fully to get to a possible answer to only myself. As I could not talk to anyone.

Reach out to anyone, Fake news being real news, Code way of talking I understood, looking at expressions and showing not normal behavior along with what would have been said by serious journalists or people who talk in talk shows. They would use codes. Talk in opposites sometimes. And their publications would show not showing off more talent, as we grow in our careers, but a drop. Talking about nonsense in the end. With sometimes a line or sentence I would catch up as: this really stands out. Or, this is on a much higher level written that everything else I don’t even want to read. War time. But then in the mind? As I needed to use my mind to understand why the shops where closed. Or schools. Or that the whole country sometimes would be empty. People scared and sitting at home with their beloved ones. I would sit alone. In my room. Questioning why I in the first place would be alone.

I dare to question. Dare to ask. Dare to be honest. I dare to be. And if it shows, like in communism, it could be dangerous.

Leaving you alone. If you dare to be free. For years, I would see fake things. History books not telling the whole story. Or giving the wrong translation or information. It is scary.

Realizing that Cold war could be going on this way. Silent. As it is named cold. Journalists not able to talk. And publish something else as they would be known for. Showing talent and courage.

I was there and still being in a position to have no reputation or name. Money that I have is been stolen away. And my writings too. Still I am here. Writing this. Hoping others pick it up for me. Keeping my selfworth, I understand that being a Somali that now is trying to be free could kill me. Every day. One time I tried to test if I was being spied on in my house and for what reason. I would praise USA. Being honest. For two days talking non-stop. Passing information when I realized that It could be true. I would be forced away after being hurt with electro and more. Tortured. And almost got killed 7 march 2021. It hurts me that people use my writings or conclusions. But they in the end know the best being professionals. I do what feels right. In the end, I say no if it goes too far. Like stealing my art. And poetry. That is about experiences that are my everything to me. Passing information should be free. In journalism, it’s all about passing through. No matter if I am yes indeed a drop-out or not. It is a huge compliment to see my discoveries being confirmed on front cover pages from serious magazines in the USA or UK. When the time is right I will have a face. And a name. During cold times, we share warmth in other ways. Silent. Taking risks makes us all a hero. I hope others would and could agree. By seeing my photograph. Or a video of mine. It’s hard.

When not able to reach out. I think I would never by that Miss anonymous if I would reach out.

I don’t see it as a crime when I approve that others use my work after I allowed them to hack my devices. To save journalism and so the world. I would put by trust in the founders of certain things, not the people who just work there. But people who came with inventions. Or started certain things. Risking everything in the beginning. Inventors. And journalists or artist. Who made a name in the beginning by taking a risk to show some a whole new thing to the world.

Being talented. It’s is a huge risk.

But giving trust in order for safety to the unknown when being locked away in their illusion is a choice I made. I see it working out well. But not for me. As it usually goes. I stopped it in July. Saying to fight for my name. And now I am here. Being close to homeless as this country, Deutschland would love me in the beginning. And now survived where other journalists died. I have seen, smelled even and so left a serious mark to me, death. One compliment. One time my name being used. Not even a second. One poem, not even in my name and I end up paying the price for it. My body shows the damage. I end up being in Stuttgart. Sleeping on a bench yesterday not even getting shelter. Typing this now finally on a computer. A IMac computer. In a hotel. As I accidentally came from a diplomat royal family known for to help the world.

With science art and so love. I got a voucher and could stay in a hotel I trust the receptionist with. By saying I trust you, I said I hope you will bring me to a safe hotel. Being grateful for having a roof above my head. I can here type this on a PC I could never afford. I don’t believe in magic. Or dynasty. Or kingdoms.

I believe in nature. It’s a risk I take. Could turn out wrong. Or well. Patterns from the past lead my way.

And everyone’s road is different. Every dot. Pauses that way. Or memories at some name it too. Tells a story. I share my findings on my path right now. And law is always a guidance while I live my life. And see my path going on I hope the right direction. With law, I can now be here. I can be here. Because someone died for making a mistake. They would make a rule.

To prevent. In the hope that it would never happen in humanity again. I hope I am at least saying something right now. Everyone says mostly that I am not and end up locked up in jail. Happened in Frankfurt once.

About to be killed slowly. For being honest.

Because I see law and rules this way. I learn from my mistakes. And so, we make rules. There is law. To be leave a mark when we cross lines too far. And never do it again. Diplomacy is not just a job. It is a way of living the profession.

Protecting humanity that way with law.

Rules we can change, as time changes.

The Times said: The Path Forward, August edition. I barely buy magazines. But bought this magazine at Gare du Nord in Paris.

Along with National Geographic’s Beating The Heat, I passed after my silent protest one and a half week later again in Paris some writings out of my journal and the Beating The Heat edition to some police men. Very attractive. But maybe only that they would behave as true men. They would try to understand. Paused. By me. Takes lots of courage. Daring to feel. As a man. I hope they could or try to understand me. As I understand by looking at the counts in the world during this pandemic I had to take a risk.

I would see hurricane Henri. New York in danger. American people in the train I took. Looking hurt and broken. I am talking here about men. Men I don’t know but their expression would tell me that there was something wrong. As I was in danger while being unknown, how would it be if you are known to the world? Would be worse right or not? I don’t know to be honest. As I don’t talk to these people. I think I recognize them on the streets. Ever since I left that country. I see expressions I have never seen. It pauses me every time. New people, or spirits that try to understand too in order to feel. With law supporting them as a Bible. Or Koran. Or Thora.

Or any other form of believing in something that gives us guidance to be on the right path. As long as it has good effect on me I don’t judge others who find having good effect with religion as guidance. Basic rules as not doing harm to others should be leading. I say. I like it French way I would type. Lots of feel. I begged a country that was in the worst condition ever since they’ve copied Lodwewijk Napoleon his way of Kingdom and behavior almost 200 years ago because he would feel and share. A fact, Paris is not doing so well if I talk to people there or see them at night. From policemen to fake policemen to people like me meaning nothing to the future but just as ‘’citizens’’ with no proven talent or showing risk and courage, We all would have courage. For still being alive, Not committing suicide. And having hope for better times. I shared and dared with the French. I hope it worked. After doing the same with this beautiful country Deutschland. One time. One chance. And I am paying the price everyday. Endless suffering.

Infinite. No human rights. Whatever proof or evidence show.

People get to hear the wrong thing, As they are sometimes not allowed to talk to me.

They see me as the devil. While I do not commit crimes or break any law. I see how they manipulate me and others by using their feelings against them. And get them trapped like me in order to save others to not be stuck that way.

Left alone with insanity. Not able to be free and breathe. It hurts me, I can only cry in private. I end up on streets with no sleep at all for weeks sometimes. A job. Seems hard to find. As racism is stalking me and copying me. So he could erase me in the end. As I have a name in history like others who suffer like me this way. Being copied. ID frauding and more. My work is stolen by someone who wants to rewrite history slowly. And erases me slowly by copying and stalking like racism. I am the new, so people see me as what? (New York is new again I would say in a poem of mine, as insanity has touched The New while they knew there in New York how or what I hope. I try to pass it through. I suffered for passing the new through) He makes it into something scary by causing fear and fill things in for others. War on Terror I understood that way.

Seeing Arabs as innocent like the Jews back then. And now in the end during this pandemic, everyone. I don’t get, I look for it for weeks. Shelter I don’t get as I said in this writing many times. As some want me dead. I feel used and that its true. But how to move on? I pause it. For later on to go further on it. I oversee. The news sometimes is so shocking that it pauses me too. I choose to go further on that and see It with my own eyes in my time in my present.

The current. The city where I am in. The people I talk to.

The people I meet. The pain I feel because of it. Or the love I feel because of it. I see hey to possible friends I would type. Or future friends. I hope someone stands up for me with being warned that feel will show. As it takes feel to take a risk after being ‘’paused’’.

In communism, it is all about feel. There is no wrong thing in showing feel. I hate it when someone becomes angry to someone else for showing feel. I just be. And that’s how I got to these things. I decide. Most of the times secretly. Silently.

And I love who I want to love. Patiently the world will see.

And as long as I can still see light and the sun shines even in space where it is fully dark. The world is saved. Too hot to come close to. The sun. Beating The Heat is dangerous. It could burn. Leave a mark. A mark in time. I felt it many times before too. Many scars. While being just a child. I still look for love. Is that wrong? One time I probably give up when I felt it. I think that’s how it goes in Nature. All species. We give up when we see that it all worked out well, Family, passing it through. Love, knowledge, and memories to talk about in next generations. History. Findings, and so science.

I don’t believe in again, magic. Romance, yes. And imagination also. To not make it boring as it actually is mostly very simple. To me. Love I find complex. I keep on looking for answers. Communism is about ending love. So I fight for love.

As love is everywhere; But no one sees it. This thing I type on. Matter. Everything has feel I conclude for my own. As everything what has an atom has feel. Could that be? Not being mentally ill, schizophrenic or psychotic. My sense of time is spot on. I am the present. Mostly, always. Until I think about men who took my time away I say. Love that way. Who is he? Why did I felt that way? The delay makes me feel it more and more.

And how the world has suffered if I look at the stats of bees and other living creatures. I cry. Even now. That nature is love. And nature is not doing so well. Because we end up only paying attention to something what talks back. As we could use it as a fact. I could easily prove things. It is my name`’ Mohamed Sheikh Nur (Nur or noor in Somali means light in Arabic and Sheikh means someone who knows It close to all in my translation) and Mohamed Hussein. Being Somali. I know and stop myself when I know that I can understand it. I need only feel. To end communism, we need feel. I put my trust in others who dared once and end up being stuck and left alone with insane and harsh conditions like me. Having the right by a contract by law to take risks. Do not to forget who you are.

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Nadiya A.M. Mohado Sheikh Nur 30-11-1995 Stuttgart, Unger Hotel, Deutschland 07-09-2021 06,07 After Midnight