Rashid and Marwen
In the compound where I ‘worked’ until yesterday (affectionately known as the Gulag to its inmates), Rashid is the ‘tea boy’. Aged 25 and from Mombasa, he has a degree, fluent English (he was laughing at the native speaker banter in the tea room) and is obviously as bright as a magpie’s eye. So why is he serving us coffee and wiping the tables for 1500 riyals (£250) a month? Corruption, he sighed; unless you know the right people in Kenya, or pay bribes, it’s impossible to find a job. Marwan picked us up outside the souk on Wednesday evening, driving a Toyota that he was using as an unlicensed taxi (the licensed variety are in short supply in Doha). He wanted 15 riyals for the trip back but we beat him down to 10 and got in. He was from Syria, also with a degree and very good English. His day job? A cook in a Lebanese restaurant for 850 riyals a month. So he borrows a car and drives the streets to augment his income, much of which he sends home, and works 20 hour days. After hearin...
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Call me.
I don’t promise that I will make you laugh,
But I can cry with you.
If one day you want to run away,
Don’t be afraid to call me.
I don’t promise to ask you to stop,
But I can run with you.
If one day you don’t want to listen to anyone,
Call me.
I promise to be there for you.
And I promise to be very quiet.
But if one day you call,
And there is no answer,
Come fast to see me,
Perhaps I need you.