I'm off to Baghdad next week so today I went to the Iraqi Embassy in Cairo to pick up my visa. The embassy is located on a busy traffic circle with very little security; certainly nothing like the massive blast walls that shield buildings in Iraq.

The Iraqi flag fluttered in the wind and the security guards were sipping tea when I entered the reception area. The metal detector didn't work, so I breezed in without so much as a bag search. I waited in a lobby with five Iraqi men in business suits. I was instantly transported to Baghdad by their thick Iraqi dialects, their groomed beards, their colorful rings, their punctuation of every sentence with the Arabic endearment, ayni, "my eye."

The foreign ministry is controlled by Kurds, a fact reflected by the embassy in Cairo. Several employees spoke Kurdish to one another, while others spoke Arabic with heavy Kurdish accents. A chaichi, or tea server, delivered a dark, sugary cup of Iraqi tea. After a while, a clerk led me to another waiting area outside the consul's office.

I was surrounded by four secretaries, each sifting through blue numbered files and fielding calls from Iraqi refugees. I heard them register four refugees by phone in about half an hour. Some of the callers obviously were regulars, and the secretaries would banter with them and scold them for calling so much.

"Yes, Umm Jassim, I still have your file. I told you we would call when there is any news of resettlement," one veiled secretary said to a persistent refugee on the telephone.

"Yes, yes, your case is still here...No!... My darling, you're at the top of the list."

The secretary let out a cackling laugh.

"OK, if you insist, Umm Jassim, I promise to tell them that you would accept even Darfur..."

Taking advantage of the gorgeous weather, I spent the day in Coptic Cairo, fulfilling a long-delayed plan to explore a serene little corner of this chaotic city.

Copts are Christian Egyptians, members of an ancient denomination based on the teachings of St. Mark, who brought Christianity to Egypt in 50 AD. Just after Jesus Christ's death, according to this Egyptology website, similarities in beliefs helped Christianity become accepted by Egyptians, who believed in the godly triad of Osiris, Isis, and Horus.

They established thriving communities and ornate churches in Alexandria and in what is now modern-day Cairo. Today, Copts make up about 12 to 15 percent of the Egyptian population and only five churches remain in Old Cairo, once home to 20 in the same square mile. Copts are represented in parliament, worship freely and have flourished in business. Still, there is occasional harassment from extremists and several documented cases of the Egyptian government refusing to issue ID cards for Copt-Muslim couples or their children. Unlike in Iraq or even Lebanon, intermarriage is exceedingly rare between Muslims and Christians in Egypt.

The ancient district with Coptic Cairo also is famous for Ben Ezra, Egypt's oldest synagogue. The synagogue is still open for visitors -- today I walked through a metal detector and underwent a bag search before entering. For obvious reasons, there was much more security at the synagogue than at any other site in Old Cairo.

I didn't have time to visit all five major churches in the area, but the ones I did visit were immaculate. The Coptic Museum was inviting, with clear labels on exhibits and soothing lighting. Forgive me if I sound awestruck by the excellent condition of a museum in Cairo, but anyone who's ever visited the national museum here will understand. (There's no label! Could be a mummified alligator, could be the throne of Ramses II...)

You can visit this site to learn more about the specific churches, including the extraordinary Hanging Church, which is built on top of Roman walls. The Mar Girgis church was lovely; it's one of the few remaining round churches in the world. Restoration was going on at the church of St. George, originally constructed in 684 and rebuilt in 1857 -- a newcomer compared to the others.

I spent at least two hours in the old city and only saw a fraction of the sights. When I later showed the photos to a friend, she couldn't believe it was Cairo. In this touristy enclave, the streets were clean and gardens were landscaped. Visitors admired Christian textiles, Jewish mosaics and Egypt's first mosque. Spanish tourists bartered with Egyptian shopkeepers. Kittens mewled from underneath the chairs at outdoor cafes. Little girls with swinging ponytails played hopscotch on the sidewalk.

As a friend and I walked to catch a taxi, a man beckoned to us from his doorway. He ran a ramshackle cafe in what was basically his living room in Old Cairo. We walked through the room and out into his back garden, where he had frayed old carpets, plastic picnic chairs and about 15 cats.

We were clearly his first visitors in a while. He was so excited that he snapped an evil-eye amulet onto my wrist, gave us a free hieroglyphic bookmark and dabbed clove essence on the hand of my friend.

We soon learned that our host was a former athlete and bodybuilding coach who is now dedicated to a healthy, holistic lifestyle. Over tea, we chatted about his other hobby: Bedouin massage. I'd never heard of Bedouin massage and I'm not sure how it differs from any other rubdown, but he said it worked wonders on the bodybuilders he used to train. We took his card and promised to let him know if we found any clients for him.

I asked for the bill, bracing for the inevitable tourist "special friend" price that's triple or more the going rate. Besides, with the teas, Cokes, amulet, the bookmark, surely he was expecting something exorbitant.

"10 pounds," he said.

That's about $2.

On March 14, Iranian voters will head to the polls for parliamentary elections in which hundreds of reformist candidates have been sidelined, clearing the way for a contest between rival conservative blocs. One of the conservative factions supports President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad; the other is anchored by Ali Larijani, the former top nuclear negotiator.

Broadly, the polls have been described as a referendum on the popularity of President Ahmadinejad, whose administration has been marked by U.S.-led concern over Iran's nuclear program, prisoner abuse allegations, the closure of independent media outlets, a crackdown on citizens who don't strictly observe Islamic dress, the arrests of Iranian-American intellectuals on suspicion of espionage, and, above all in voters' minds, a flagging economy.

Iranians will pick lawmakers to fill 290 seats for four-year terms on the Islamic Consultative Council, or Iran's parliament. The unicameral body has the power to introduce and pass legislation and to keep tabs on the executive branch. (It should be noted that the most powerful figure in Iran is not the president, but the Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei.)

For more information on the Iranian elections, check out the following Web sites that explain the process, detail voters' top issues, give background to the political rivalries and illustrate what's at stake with these polls. Feel free to suggest other sources; this list is by no means comprehensive.

MIDDLE EAST PROGRESS: This site gives the nuts and bolts of the election, with links to commentary and analysis.

ANGUS REID GLOBAL MONITOR: This independent, non-partisan think tank has a useful timeline of political milestones leading up to the vote March 14.

THE WASHINGTON INSTITUTE FOR NEAR EAST POLICY: An expert from this pro-Israel think tank explains the infighting among the "doomed reformists" and the "battling conservatives."

PAYVAND IRAN NEWS: Perhaps the best clearinghouse for all news about Iran, from restaurant reviews to sports scores. Look under the "politics" header for election news.

J is my best friend, a tough, compassionate German-Chippewa woman who grew up on a reservation and came to the University of Oklahoma via a National Guard scholarship. I won't name her home state to protect her identity, but it's a hardscrabble, hard-drinking, hard-working place whose charms are revealed in the glistening snows of six-month winters.

J and I met in a music appreciation class freshman year, but what I really appreciated was how she sharked the guys at the pool table in my dormitory. We became roommates; she was always the more responsible one. Because of J, the bills got paid, the dishes got scrubbed, the essays got typed on her old word processor. I neglected class to report for the student newspaper. She plunged syringes into oranges as part of her medical studies.

Once a month, she fulfilled her "weekend warrior" responsibilities for the National Guard. All I knew was that after a night of partying, she would trade her spangly tops for camouflage and leave early in the morning to report for duty. Only when I was about to miss deadline for a feature-writing assignment did I learn more about these disappearances. I persuaded her to be my interview subject hours before a paper was due and she shocked me with tales of digging her own fox holes, learning to shoot straight, and how to treat combat wounds. I got an A.

After graduation, we both moved north, so close that I was able to drive to her hometown to wear a purple bridesmaid's dress at her wedding. I was touched and surprised when she gave her first baby, a beautiful girl, an Arabic name that holds special meaning.

Despite all of J's training, I was the one who saw combat first, when I moved to Iraq to cover the war in 2003.

Seeing all the Guard personnel in Iraq, I feared it was just a matter of time before J's unit was deployed. I had daydreams of an emotional reunion in the Green Zone, but really prayed that J never set foot in that blood-soaked country. Year after year passed with a few close calls, but no deployment for J's medical unit. I left Iraq for Cairo, J settled into her role as a mother, and Baghdad faded into just another headline on the evening news.

J's luck ran out last month, thrusting Iraq back into our lives.

She was ordered on a one-year deployment to Iraq, effective within weeks. Motherhood doesn't prevent deployment, but pregnancy does, so J and her husband immediately began trying for another baby. She still wasn't pregnant by the departure date, so she had no choice but to say goodbye to her family and leave for her training. She was told she would be permitted one last visit home before shipping out to Iraq.

J sent me frantic emails asking about the roots of the conflict, what to expect, cultural customs. I put together a booklet called, "GI J's Survival Guide to Mess-o-patamia" and e-mailed it to her for her birthday. She is now on the first part of her training and this week she sent family and friends a letter that describes her fears and excitement over heading to Iraq.

It was so moving that I asked J whether I could post her letters home in order to give American readers a glimpse into a mother's life in a war zone. She agreed, as long as I didn't identify her or publish anything that could harm operational security.

This is J's first letter home:

hey all, just thought id drop a quick line to give everyone an update on my wonderful vacation.  just got done with 3 weeks of medic refresher training in san antonio.  i unfortunately have to admit that it was really good training.  they showed us new techniques being used and also new supplies that are helping to save lives on the battlefield.  it really hit home then that "I am going to war!"

i came back for two days (seemed like 2 minutes) and headed off to ft dix new jersey on jan27.  i am now inprocessing and making sure im medically clear to go.  i tried claiming that i was mentally unstable, but people in the unit said ive been that way for years, so they wouldnt accept it as something that could send me home :(   

we will only be here 2 months now, instead of the original thought of 3 months.  at the end of march i will get to go home for 4-6 days and then we will fly back to jersey and then on to baghdad.  not totally sure what all training will consist of here but it will include classes on the culture in the middle east, how to enter and clear buildings, how to convoy and handle attacks, and i suppose a bunch of other military yum yums. we also have to go through the gas chamber again (havent done that since basic training) and i heard we have to do a 7mile road march with our gear!! 

while we are here we stay on a pretend FOB (forward operating base) designed to give us a feel of what life will be like overseas.  however, from what ive heard from all who have gone over before is that life over there is WAY better than what they try and give us here.  i suppose its so we appreciate it more when we go over. 

for those of you that dont know i got pulled to go with a military police unit that will be helping to transition in the iraqi police.  its supposed to be an intense mission and ive been warned that im going to see some pretty bad shit over there.  i hope thats not the case and maybe they are just trying to get us really focused.  i am the senior medic and i have four young male medics under me (that sounds kind of fun actually).  but anyway they are all 19 and 20 and straight out of training.  really nice guys though, kind of thankful i dont have all females.  you know how we can get girls!!!! 

so anyway, i dont know if i will have to go on many missions or if im going to be playing mostly a supervisory role.  in a way if i knew id be safe id like to see if i can hold my own medically and mentally.  but that would mean we would have soldiers injured and that also would make me poop my pants taking care of someone while being shot at.  we will see what God has planned for me.  when i think of my daughter, i almost couldnt care less if i never saw any action. 

it is the most heart wrenching thing when you hear your child crying for you.  my 1st night away was horrible, pretty much thought i would have to be put on all the happy pills in the world if i was going to make it back half way sane.  each day got a little better, but the first night away after my visit was hard again.  i suppose it will be like that everytime, and alot of other times over the next year.  shit that sounds horrible.  a year.   i hope and pray it goes extremely fast.

i know, i know.  you are all saying "well you are the dumbass that signed the line".  and yes i know i did, but you never quite think it will happen to you, i guess.  (kind of like knowing you could get genital warts, but still having unprotected sex.)

well i guess that ends the first chapter in my novel.  i will keep up the updates when i get time.  until then, HOOAH!!!!!  (just kidding, i throw up in my mouth everytime i hear that now)

theres strong, and theres army strong!!!

love,

j

An earthquake with a 5.0 magnitude rattled Lebanon today. The epicenter was just outside the ancient port city of Tyre in the south, where three people were injured when a balcony fell on them, according to local news reports. The tremors were felt all the way in Beirut, as workers clutched their shimmying desks in confusion and worried that it was the aftershocks of yet another bombing.

Fortunately, it was only Mother Nature this time. Or maybe God trying to shake some sense into stubborn Lebanese politicians.

Miret and I were in a cab en route to the EgyptAir office in downtown Beirut when the earthquake occurred just after noon today. We didn't feel a thing, but the airline workers were still talking about it when we entered the office and asked to change our tickets so we could fly back to Cairo tonight. Oblivious, we didn't understand why they were complaining that their computers suddenly didn't work.

The sweet, veiled woman behind the counter looked at our tickets.

"But you just got here yesterday! Why are you leaving so soon?" she asked.

We explained that we were journalists in town for one day only.

"Oh, for the commotion yesterday," the woman said. "OK, I thought you were leaving because you were scared. Did you feel the earthquake?"

"It hit the south really hard," added another female employee.

"Maybe Hassan Nasrallah is up to something!" said a man who also worked there, and everyone in the office laughed off the tension.

We left and hopped into a cab driven by an elderly man with a snow-white mustache, thick glasses and a raspy smoker's voice. He turned up the radio to ear-splitting levels when news of the quake came on. We asked him to turn it down, but he would have none of it. He wanted to find out what happened, he said, pantomiming a violent tremble to drive home his point.

"We have a war and then another kind of disaster," he said sadly. "This is our destiny."

I arrived in Beirut this morning to cover the funeral of Emad Mughniyeh, the fugitive Hezbollah strategist and inernational terror suspect who was killed Tuesday in a car bombing in Damascus.

Valentine's Day is already a bittersweet occasion for many Lebanese -- on this day three years ago, a truck bomb killed the former Prime Minister Rafik Hariri, setting off a chain of events that led to the withdrawal of Syrian troops, fierce internecine fighting and a power vacuum that persists today.

Miret and I got here just in time to attend both memorials. The different moods at the two ceremonies spoke volumes about the deep-rooted political and sectarian divisions that have plagued Lebanon for decades and are once again reaching a crescendo. Here are some observations from the events:

Hariri rally, downtown Beirut
By 11 a.m., the roads to Martyrs' Square were choked with traffic as tens of thousands of pro-government demonstrators made their way to the rallying point on foot, by car or via scooter. Minibuses were festooned with Lebanese flags and portraits of the late Hariri.

Miret and I joined the marchers in the rain-drenched pilgrimage to the main square. Lebanese troops manned checkpoints and concertina wire was rolled out to form security cordons. Ambulances were on standby, reminding participants of the potential for violence any time big, politically charged crowds gather in Beirut. We saw a couple of men in street clothes whose leather jackets blew open in the wind to reveal handguns tucked under their belts.

The mood was more festive than somber, though, with throngs of Lebanese periodically breaking into call-and-response chants in support of Hariri's son and political heir, Saad. By now, Beirut residents have the "activist chic" look down pat. For the ladies, skinny jeans, tall boots, heavy eyeliner and a Lebanese flag tied fetchingly around the neck like a cape. For the guys, carefully tousled hair, baggy jeans, huge flapping banners and the latest Nokia cell phone set to video in order to record all the action. Stereotypes? Sure, but they were out in droves.

It took so long to walk to the square that the whole event could have been mistaken for any old street party except for the reminders provided by speech-makers whose voices boomed through several loudspeakers along the way. The fiery words provided harsh reality checks.

"Pierre, George, Gibran, Francois..." a voice thundered through the speakers, listing the names of several political figures who were assassinated in recent years.

An elderly couple was the picture of resilience as they held hands under a large black umbrella and made their way down the rain-slicked streets. Around them, young boys beat a drum and danced in the middle of the road. We marveled at a woman in stiletto-heeled boots teetering through the mud. Another politician sounded off through the speaker.

"Raise your voices to Tehran!"

By the time we made it close to the square, the rain was falling in sheets and it became impossible to conduct interviews or even take notes -- my notebook was soaked and the ink ran in blue streaks across the pages. We snapped a few photos, I managed to slip in the mud and bang up my knee, and then it was time for the long walk back.

"Proceed! Proceed! Proceed! Until we reach the horizon!" said another voice from the speaker's dais.

Vendors hawked T-shirts, posters, coffee mugs and scarves imprinted with Hariri's beatific face. A man who appeared to be in his 60s stripped off his sopping shirt and walked bare-chested in all his hirsute glory. Lebanese troops called out to him in Arabic, shouting the equivalent of, "Lookin' good, old-timer!" Teenagers snapped photos, while a few saucy girls offered mock-appreciative whistles. The man beamed and waved to his admirers.

"We want a president! We want a president!" the loudspeaker boomed.

The rain pounded the crowd until the children's face paint wore off, hairdos were ruined, handwritten signs became illegible and, in a bizarre sight, the cardboard posters of Hariri's face became so wet that they simply fell off their wooden sticks, carpeting the road with dozens of photos of the man everyone came to honor.

By the time we reached our waiting taxi, it was Saad Hariri's turn at the microphone. To be fair, there were thousands upon thousands of people at the rally, but I have a suspicion his crowd estimate might have been a bit exaggerated.

"One and a half million and it's raining!" Saad's voice rang out. "What if it had been sunny?"

Mughniyeh funeral, south suburbs
Through sheer luck, the driver we'd hired straight from the airport that morning turned out to be a Shiite from the dahiya, the Hezbollah-controlled southern part of the capital. He knew the streets inside and out -- and, as a local, he knew better than to escort journalists into this de facto military zone without the proper credentials.

The driver, Hajj Sami, took us straight to the Hezbollah media center, where we were cleared for admittance and sent to the memorial site a short drive away. Picking our way through militants with walkie-talkies and what seemed like every man, woman and child who had ever lived in the dahiya was an ordeal in itself.

Following the spry Hajj Sami through the torrential rain, Miret and I snaked through back alleys, knee-deep puddles of murky water and the jagged wreckage left over from Israel's devastating air strikes in the summer war of 2006.

As usual, Hezbollah showed an impressive level of sophistication when it came to crowd control. The group's uniformed members, some sporting ear pieces like the Secret Service, dug us out of the melee and barked at young men to step back and "Let the ladies pass! Now!" They apologized for keeping us in the rain and, after searching our bags and checking our IDs, issued us laminated credentials printed specially for the occasion and stamped with numbers so they could keep track of just which journalists had been allowed to enter the makeshift funeral hall where Mughniyeh's service was under way.

Once inside, the sight was worth the ordeal. Thousands of Hezbollah supporters filled the hall, with men on one side and women on the other. Many of them brandished large posters of Mughniyeh, whom they still referred to by his nom de guerre, Hajj Radwan. Journalists were allowed free reign and we were able to stroll right up to the stage where Mughniyeh's coffin, draped in a yellow Hezbollah flag, sat guarded by uniformed guerrillas in green berets.

Hezbollah leader Seyyid Hassan Nasrallah's videotaped address was broadcast on huge TV screens. He whipped the crowd into a frenzy, blaming Israel for Mughniyeh's assassination and vowing an "open war" on Israeli interests across the globe in response to the bombing in Syria. (It should be noted that Israel has denied -- well, sort of denied -- involvement in the incident.)

"At your service, Nasrallah!" the crowd cheered, with fists pumping in the air.

After all the speeches, members of the Hezbollah honor guard served as pall bearers, carrying his coffin out of the hall and into a procession through the dahiya. People clamored to touch the coffin or to throw rose petals at it in honor of Mughniyeh's martyrdom. Grown men, including clerics in black turbans, wept like babies. Women sobbed into handkerchiefs and clutched photos of Mughniyeh to their chests.

As the crowds cleared out of the hall, we approached two women talking quietly in a corner. We asked them what Mughniyeh had meant to Hezbollah.

"Everything," said Umm Samer, 40, the mother of five boys and two girls.

"His death has only strengthened our determination," said her friend, Umm Ahmed, who is 45 and already a grandmother. "In every house, there is an Emad. He's gone and more will come. I have two in my own home."

"I breastfed Hezbollah to my seven children," Umm Samer said with a small laugh. "They have drunk the milk of the resistance and any one of them is ready to sacrifice for Hezbollah."

In a place as diverse and cosmopolitan as Dubai -- home to about 180 nationalities -- English is the lingua franca. But it's not the English you hear on newscasts; this city-state has developed its own Persian Gulf patois that reflects the polyglot communities residing here.

Dubai-speak is sprinkled with corporate jargon, South Asian inflections, guttural Russian, acronyms for everything, cheeky British expressions, and plenty of euphemisms to protect the emirate's Pleasantville image. Many thanks to friends here for schooling me on the local lingo -- some samples are below. If readers have other "only in Dubai" expressions, please leave them in the comments section. Thanks!

Locals: Emiratis, the original (and now vastly outnumbered) residents of the United Arab Emirates

Expats: Foreigners, but usually reserved for the more affluent expatriates here to work for huge multinational corporations

Skilled laborers: Quaint term for the other class of expats -- the 2 million or more migrant workers who toil in the construction and service industries

Bachelors: A large subset of the skilled laborers, sometimes derogatory term usually referring to the hordes of single men who live here. It's not uncommon for buildings or districts to ban "bachelors" out of fear that they'll ogle women or make trouble. A local English-language daily had this description of the word in a 2006 story about "bachelors" being kicked out of one area: "Bachelors include married people living alone or unmarried men or women renting rooms in villas or old houses."

Emiratization: The government's nascent program for easing Emiratis into the workforce in hopes of reducing the reliance on foreign labor and weaning locals from federal handouts that provide them with homes and educations. Expats sneer at the program, saying Emiratis are too spoiled to work. Those who do appear behind a mall cash register or in a front office are dismissed as "decor."

The Vision: A reference to His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid al Maktoum's 2006 book, "My Vision: Challenges in the Race for Excellence." Dubai's ruler details the vision behind the emirate's stunning construction and tourism booms. In private -- and only in private -- there are snide references to the book, as in, "Is that rain? What? How can it be? Rain was NOT in The Vision!" 

The World: Emblematic of Dubai's over-the-top projects, The World is an archipelago of artificial islands, shaped like the continents of the earth, off the coast of Dubai. Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, Richard Branson, Rod Stewart and other celebs are among those rumored to have sprung for a private island.

The Universe: Yep, it's the World, only bigger! The same developers are now building on an archipelago of reclaimed islands in a depiction of the sun, planets and moons of the solar system.

Rent-a-Sheikh: When American or British public relations reps need an Emirati face for major PR events such as development launches or ribbon cuttings, they consult their Rolodexes for an appropriate mid-level royal to invite for the cameras. Privately, they call this the Rent-a-Sheikh route.

Modhesh: The yellow, sun-inspired mascot of Dubai. The creature was born as a marketing tool for the Dubai Summer Surprises marketing campaign, then became a local icon. Modhesh, Arabic for "amazing," is plastered across billboards throughout Dubai. The Modhesh overkill has inspired a backlash. One blog commentator wrote: "Someone should hunt down Modhesh with a large elephant gun and blow that smirking, self satisfied, fake smile off his bloated, cherubic yellow face!"   

Emirates: Not the place, the airline. Emirates is Dubai's super-luxe carrier where even economy-class passengers get hot hand towels, leg room and personal in-seat TV screens outfitted with video games, several radio stations and blockbuster movies. Passengers on a flight this week could choose from The Darjeeling Limited, Gone Baby Gone, Sicko, Michael Clayton and many other titles.

OTT: Over the top, not exclusive to Dubai, of course, but used by the few commentators here that dare to hold up a mirror to this glitzy, frenetic land of superlatives.

Emaar: Dubai's public joint-stock company and one of the world's largest real estate companies. Signs are ubiquitous; Emaar is behind many of the OTT projects under way. It's part of the Dow Jones Arabia Titans index.

Absconded: Term for domestic laborers, frequently South Asians or Filipinos, who flee their employers/sponsors with no notice. Their photos are sometimes printed in the "absconded workers" section of the newspaper to alert other potential employers that the worker has escaped. Many of the workers have fled abuse; critics liken the newspaper ads to the "runaway slave" notices of the slavery-era United States.

Shag pad: A second residence, typically a tony apartment in a sparkling tower, kept by married Emirati or other wealthy businessmen for clandestine meetings with prostitutes or mistresses.

5 khandred: 500, said in a thick, mock-Eastern European accent. This is the reported going rate for the omnipresent Russian prostitutes who frequent hotel bars and shopping malls. Expats have turned the term into slang for any dubious encounter, as in, "Hmm, you're in to work late this morning. What happened last night? Did you have a 5 khandred?"

Cyclone: This massive nightclub-turned-brothel was the stuff of legend -- until the government finally closed it in the past year. Once dubbed the "United Nations of Prostitution," you could find as many 500 working girls from all over the world on any given night. Prices varied according to nationality, with Moroccans at the top and Chinese at the bottom. It was considered corporate etiquette for American and British firms to treat visiting Saudi or other Gulf clients to an evening there. Too stubborn to go away, Cyclone is now used as a generic term for any house of ill repute.

Visa hop: Visas need periodic, largely symbolic renewal, which require leaving the Emirates if only for a day. The most popular places to visa hop are Iran's nearby Kish Island (where no visas are required) or to Oman.

Entry ban: If you leave a job, your employer has the right to request an entry ban that would prevent you from working in the Emirates for a year. This is to discourage Dubai's active headhunters from poaching talented professionals in a number of competitive fields. You can't jump from job to job without running the risk of a ban.

CID: Criminal Investigation Department, a division of the police force. Its officers are sometimes called the secret police, although they are featured on this entertaining official Web site of the Dubai Police. Prostitutes and suspected homosexuals are targeted along with drug traffickers, alcohol vendors, rapists and killers. It should be noted that crime levels are extremely low in the Emirates, though not as nonexistent as Dubai's publicity machine portrays it.

The Hole: This is an alcohol bootlegger's shop just over an hour away in the emirate of Ajman. The owners are known to sell to any customer, even those without the coveted -- and hard to come by -- liquor licenses. (Alcohol is served in Dubai hotels, but buying it for private consumption is trickier.)

DSF: Dubai Shopping Festival, the annual pilgrimage to the altar of consumerism. Held at the beginning of every year, DSF attracts some 3 million visitors with half-off sales, tourism packages and promises of a balmy respite from European winters.

Defense Roundabout Syndrome: Inertia that afflicts residents of the upscale area near the Defense Roundabout, an intersection on the happenin' main thoroughfare of Sheikh Zayed Road. Everything is so convenient and luxurious that residents often don't emerge from this bubble for days.

Jumeirah Janes: The ladies-who-lunch set who live in an expensive, bouganvillea-strewn district of Dubai. Poking fun at the stereotype of the pampered Western expat wife, there was a hair salon named Jumeirah Jane and even a book of poetry.

Mirdif Mollys: Like the Jumeirah Janes, but in yet another up-and-coming district.

Deira: The past-its-prime old center of Dubai, marked by the picturesque dhows and small shipping boats at the port along Deira's shore of Dubai Creek. Not the place to see and be seen.

I'm writing from Abu Dhabi, the oil-flush capital of the United Arab Emirates, where foreign workers make up an estimated 85 percent of the population. In the service industry, the vast majority of laborers are South Asians, but you can also find Sudanese, Egyptians, Somalis, Filipinos, Moroccans and others behind the wheels of cabs, in the scaffolding of high-rise building sites or serving as nannies to wealthy families.

Most of the laborers are supporting extended clans back home; several South Asian economies rely heavily on the remittances of workers overseas. Economic and political factors compelled the workers to make their way to the glittery world of the Persian Gulf: wars, dictatorships, unemployment, religious persecution. They can make fortunes here compared to their limited opportunities at home, but the suffering doesn't always end with an Emirati work permit, as outlined in this 2006 Human Rights Watch report, "UAE: Building Towers, Cheating Workers."

Today, I got a glimpse of the factors that bring foreign laborers to the Emirates from two taxi drivers who spun chilling stories as they shuttled me to interviews here.

The first was a Somali who fled when civil war broke out in 1988. He pines for the Mogadishu of his memory, a place with fine Italian architecture, "women 100 times more beautiful" than the Somali supermodel Iman, and delicious seafood dinners at restaurants overlooking the Indian Ocean. As the country descended into anarchy in the late 1980s and early '90s, the taxi driver moved to Egypt and, later, to the Emirates. He seemed incredulous when he realized it has now been a full two decades since he's seen his battle-scarred hometown. His voice grew pained when he talked about the effect of the war on legions of Somali children. This is what he said:

How many generations have we lost? How many? This is from our hands. We started it and now the CIA is finishing it. But we started it with our own hands, by God. We are responsible for this because there is no patriotism for a country, only clans, clans, clans. One night I was listening to Horn of Africa radio and there was a program asking people what they had witnessed in Somalia. One man called in and said that one day he was having lunch with a friend and the friend's young son came to his father and said, 'I'm hungry.' The father gave his son a pistol and told him, 'This is all you need, my son. With this, you can get your food, your khat, whatever you need.' The boy took the gun and left, but he came back soon and said, 'Father, I'm still hungry.' His father took the pistol, walked for a bit and shot a man who had cash and khat. He said, 'Here, my son, this is how you do it. Now you can buy food and you have your khat.' You see what I mean? This is all we learned from this conflict. How to kill each other."

The second driver was a gaunt, charismatic man from northwest Pakistan. He grew up in the mountainous, treacherous Waziristan region along the Afghan border. He saw the surprise on my face and said, 'Yes, we are all mujahideen there.' I laughed. 'No, I am not making a joke. Of course, we are with the mujahideen.' His father died and he was forced to support his extended family, so he left for the UAE about eight years ago. He was proud of the fact that he now speaks fluent English and Arabic in addition to his native Urdu. He asked if I knew any Urdu, then offered a 10-minute lesson while we were stuck in traffic. I asked him what he thought about the American-backed Pakistani President Pervez Musharraf. He made a face. "Very, very bad," he said, shaking his head before elaborating:

Waziristan is such a beautiful place. My God, if you saw the mountains. Oh, the beauty! And they say we are terrorists because we fight for Islam, because we protect our country. What should we do instead? Say, 'Welcome, Americans?' like Musharraf? Let them do what they want? No, we refuse this and we will always refuse this. We are one with our brothers in Afghanistan and we will not leave them. We all have weapons there. All of us. It's something normal to see men walking with their Kalashnikovs. We are not like Benazir Bhutto, who ran to Dubai. We are not like Nawaz Sharif, who ran to Saudi Arabia. The mujahideen never left...Did you see Lal Masjid? Did you ever dream you would see a Muslim leader ordering his forces to shoot at a mosque? A mosque?! (He gestured as if letting off rounds from an invisible machine gun.) You see how many people Musharraf killed in Lal Masjid? This is why we keep our weapons. He will pay, sister. They will all pay. You will see, God willing.

It is 6:30 a.m. here in Cairo and only now is quiet returning to my neighborhood. I'm traveling this morning, so I went to bed early last night, before hearing the results of a major regional soccer showdown: Egypt vs. Ivory Coast in the semifinal of the Africa Cup of Nations in Ghana.

I snuggled in and calculated that I had at least six blissful hours of sleep before I had to wake up and finish packing. Then, after midnight, I was jolted awake by a symphony of car horns, fireworks, chants, pop music, screams, ululations, clapping, drums, dancing and so on. Defending champion Egypt beat Cote d'Ivoire 4-1, and will now face Cameroon in the final.

At first, it was fun to see such an outburst of emotion after the game. I crept onto my 8th-floor balcony and watched caravans of slow-moving cars with young Egyptians riding on the hoods, clapping and chanting. People stuck their heads out the windows of nearby apartment buildings, so close I could see their eyes as they waved and gave me the thumbs-up sign. There were boys with their faces painted, girls wearing hijabs in the colors of the Egyptian flag. Fireworks sparkled and popped in the distance.

Even the notoriously heavy-handed Egyptian authorities backed off, or at least the ones on my block did. Some uniformed Central Security officers clapped and danced just like everybody else.

All righty, that was fun. Time for bed, guys. But one o'clock rolled around, then 2, then 3 a.m. Egyptians were still partying. I tried stuffing cotton in my ears, but it didn't help drown out the noise. I checked the balcony doors to make sure they were totally closed, with no crevices for letting in the cacophony. It still sounded like the party was in my living room.

I recalled a Western friend once telling me how he could spot Egyptians abroad: "They're always the ones having the most fun, wherever they are." Yeah, well, good for them, I thought bitterly as I tried to get back to sleep. At one point, I found myself rooting around the office, throwing out the contents of drawers in a desperate search for the squishy yellow ear plugs I use in Iraq for rides on Black Hawk helicopters. Didn't find them.

Then 3 a.m. turned into 4 a.m. and the revelry continued until the muezzins made their early calls for the dawn prayer. The last sound I recall before finally falling asleep was the odd harmony of Islam's call to prayer mixed with a Brazilian soccer chant.

"Allahu akbar, allahu akbar..."

"Ole ole ole ole!"

Typically, my Nairobi-based colleague Shashank Bengali covers Somalia, along with the rest of sub-Saharan Africa. In 2006, however, he was in the States and I was asked to fill in for a few days during the Islamic Courts Union's takeover of Mogadishu. It was a terrifying, exhilarating time. We drove around in flatbed trucks with mounted machine guns and interviewed doctors, warlords, Islamists, businessmen, athletes, mothers, teachers.

Many of the Islamists turned out to be far more moderate than I expected and the violence decreased dramatically during their first week in power. But the caretaker Somali government (which really had no power outside its headquarters in nearby Baidoa) and the United States basically refused to deal with the Islamic courts, whom they accused of having connections to al Qaida operatives in the Horn of Africa.

Instead, the U.S.-backed Somali factions called in archenemy Ethiopia for support. The moderate Islamists fled, the more militant ones vowed martyrdom, civilians suffered, Ethiopian corpses were dragged through the streets and Mogadishu sank back into anarchy. This is a dramatic oversimplification of the conflict there, but you can read ICG's more in-depth analysis here. In any case, things are not getting any better, according to a flurry of chilling emails I have received from a friend there named Hiddig.

Hiddig was a kind soul who eagerly set me up with a civics teacher, a human rights activist, a university professor and other sources during my short stint in Somalia. I paid him, of course, but he truly went above and beyond what was required and it was plain that he desperately wanted the world to pay attention a place where lawlessness has flourished for the past 16 years.

English is his second language, so these excerpts from his most recent emails might sound a little garbled in places. But I think Hiddig's words speak to the tragedy of Somalia and its abandonment by the international community. He is trying to gather enough money to get his family to safety in Uganda or Kenya, so if anyone knows any aid groups or Somali assistance programs operating in Mogadishu, please write to me as soon as possible.

Here are excerpts from Hiddig's emails:

...The historian teacher whom you interviewed in Mogadishu fled to Kenya after his father was killed by insurgents in Bada'o late December. his father was working for the government as one of the    supreme court. he was more than 70 yrs old. the insurgents are targeting any one who works for the government. he and his family are now in Nairobi. he is afraid to be killed. so you can make a good news i fyou need the Historian teacher . he told me that he will go to UNHCR in Nairobi for asylum seakers he and his family. may be you can prepare a story and puplish it . it may also help the family but first ask if  he needs the interview. do i look for  his number?...


...this morning we ran our village because an armed car was detonated by the insurgents with a remote control killing one soldiers and wounded others then the soldiers killed 4 innocent people. so it is getting worse and worse...

...the latest:the wounded of yesterday fighting reach 96 all of them are civilians according to the vice director of madina Hospital, Dahir Dhere...

even i was also threatened by some soldiers who work for the government saying give us moey  because you work for foreign jornalists so some nights I do not sleep in my house for security purpose...

...i am still in Mogadishu more than 50 journalists fled the city for security purpose and some of them are still in the  jails of Govrnment and some were killed. i am also trying to leave the countryif i get enough budget to flee with my family ...today is the second day of heavy fighting btw The Ethio with the tfj and the insurgents this fighting is bigger than yesterday's more than 10 people were killed  by heavy shelling .also and more than 15 were taken to Madiana Hospital .the fight spread 3 districts. the Ethiopians from the stadio mogadishu moved towards Bakara market esp 30 road and some of them came from former defence minister for reinforcement. the insurgents are also using Morters ,RPG and small arms. this came just after when the tfg and the Ethio were attacked yesterday evening.some Ethiop casualties were reported by fleeing people but not clear.he fighting is still going on. it hsa also  agreat infuluece in the bakara market.3 of the people died in Bakara Market. i am now hearing anti aircraft gun...