A look back at past and present and at how the world has or hasn’t changed as the result of events,trends and travels. What are are comfort zones and how do we in our desires to remain comfortable manage to change the world around us?
Today is hot and fires burn everywhere
But this is only the start
Yet there are millions who still don’t care
And this just breaks your heart
Another baby child is born this day
Safe in his mother’s arms
Someday soon he’ll go out and play
To the sound of fire alarms
So go on abolish the carbon tax
Let’s set the record straight
Australia is heating up to the max
And now it’s just too late.
© Renee Dallow ( Hybiscus Bloom ) 9/10/13
That first evening dancing with Gurel under the stars at the beautiful Hydro Majestic in Australia’s Blue Mountains had been the most magical evening of my life but it had ended all too soon. The valley under the gaze of the moon had cast a spell on us both. I longed to repeat the wonder of it all again and again. He had kissed me on the hand after chaperoning me to the door of my room and I had lain awake all night dreaming of fairytale romances. The Hydro was a perfect example of the kind of architectural splendour popular with royalty. Set high on a cliff top overlooking the Megalong valley the hotel reminded me of the kind of palace a princess would inhabit. That princess was myself and Gurel my handsome prince.
We dined each night on that same terrace over looking the old staircase leading down to our beautiful green valley floating in the gentle mists. After dinner we would go for long walks under the stars with the sounds of the Australian bush all around us. We talked of dreams for the future as we gazed out into the distant mountain ranges surrounding us. He of architectural wonders of the world and I of great historical revolutions.
Together we would change the world. We were past and present searching for new tomorrows. The future was ours and our love would guide the way. There were lavish parties in the grand dining hall followed with dancing in the ballroom. As Gurel and I danced around the room so in tune with ourselves that we barely noticed what music was playing I imagined myself in a land of make believe. It was all so exciting, so glamorous, so perfect that I could hardly breathe for fear it would all disappear and I would wake to find that none of it had ever really happened.
My parents had kept a watchful eye on us and were no doubt more than a little concerned at our growing obsession with each other. Over Gurel’s shoulder on the dance floor I watched them so at ease in each other’s company and felt so honoured to be in their presence. They had loved this holiday almost as much as I and were reluctant to leave but father had embassy committments and of course mother and I would have to leave with him.
Once home at Greylin I found myself pining for the man I loved. Just as I had watched my mother do so often. I wondered through the gardens alone day after day lost in my world of memories. Oh there were invitations to social gatherings and balls with friends trying to soothe my broken heart by lining up handsome bachelors for me to choose from but it was of no use.
Then the day came exactly one month later as I was preparing to go into the village. I heard a knock at the front door and a voice on the other side of it calling my name. Barely able to contain myself I ran so fast down the stairs that I tripped and fell over the banister. The maid opened the door and there he was standing there with sunbeams highlighting his dark, wavy hair. I flew into his arms and at that moment was sublimely at peace with the whole universe for he was my truth, my essence, my everything.
Only two weeks later we would be married in the grounds of Greylin castle and I would be whisked off to Istanbul for a honeymoon. Yet another far off land filled with promises of new adventures, new discoveries, new beginnings. Together we were destined for something greater than anything that had come before. Something we both knew existed but was not yet within reach ….. something ….
© Renee Dallow ( Hybiscus Bloom ) 9/10/2013
So where did I fit into this picture? How had I become a favourite of the sultan and Rana’s unofficial hand maiden? I had never actually studied my ancestry but remembered talk of family connections in Albania . I learned from Rana’s diary that I had been chosen by the sultan after that day at the slave market to be her personal servant. I was no longer Emma. My name was Emine and I had been sent to the market that day to buy cloth for the dressmakers of the harem ,under guard of course, along with others of my status. What was my status? I had only recently been chosen as a favourite having been a mere concubine just days before. Memories came flooding back of the day I had been taken from my family.
I was all of ten years old at the time and had tried to flee with my mother but we were captured and thrown onto the horses of Ottoman soldiers. My mother had died before we reached Topkapi having tried to escape and been thrown from the horse in the attempt. I had seen her fall and knew that if I struggled the same fate could befall me. The pain I felt at losing my mother was immense but I resolved to do whatever I had to in order to survive. I had decided to endear myself to my captor if that were at all possible and use the skills taught me by my parents to do so. I had never actually been chosen to go with the sultan as he had regarded me more as a daughter than a potential conquest. I was energetic and fiesty with a grand imagination which the sultan found endearing. When he came to visit the harem he would bid me tell him one of my stories or mime the events of the day. The others were very protective of me and also a little afraid of the things I could reveal about them.
Being the daughter of Abdyl Frasheri the Albanian hero responsible for the league of Prizren in the year of 1878 which stipulated the need for an independent Albanian state had made me a fighter. I was born in 1887 one year after my father, who had been captured and imprisoned by the Ottomans, was at last released and reunited with my mother. Ten years later in the year of 1897 there was another uprising led by my father during which the Albanian Nationalist union was dispanded. This is when It was decided to punish the leaders who had fled by scattering their families and that is how I came to be a child of the harem. It was now 1908 and I had just turned 21. The sultan had begun to look at me through new eyes. I was no longer the amusing child he had found such a diversion. I was now a beauty and as such was to be primed for a private audience with the sultan in his chambers.
Before this could happen I had to be taken to the part of the harem reserved for the favourites to undergo the training necessary to make me everything and more in accordance with the sultan’s pleasures. I was taught to move with the sensuous stealth of a young tigress, to smother myself in sweet smelling oils and perfumes after bathing, to drape myself in silks and satins which would reveal the soft curves of my body and sit for hours while my hair was braided and coiled with flowers and diadems. It was part of my training too that I waited on the sultan and on his wives including his mother the dowager sultan. It was she, his mother who had sent me to the markets that day and for this I am eternally grateful. For from that day forward only Rana could fulfill the every desire of the sultan. I was chosen to be her handmaiden, confidante and friend and it was I who knew her for the catalyst she would become.
© Renee Dallow ( Hybiscus Bloom ) 1/10/2014
Back in world war two we girls had merit. We were women with wings and we could fly with the best of them. We came predominantly from Britain, America and even Australia . We were Known by different titles but believe me we all certainly had a sting in our tails. We were prepared to fly missions in place of men so they could be freed up for combat duties. Although we didn’t fly bombers and were not given gunnery training we felt that what we were doing was of equal importance. We were flying supplies in and out of enemy territory including replacement weaponry.
We were also there to pick up the wounded and deliver urgent medical supplies. We still had our dreams and homes to look after but we were working for freedom and that was what we were passionate about. Thousands applied for positions as female pilots but only 1,074 of us were actually accepted. In America they were called ‘WASPS’ ( Women’s Auxiliary Service Pilots ) and in Australia they were called ‘WAAAFS’. That stands for ( Women’s Australian Auxiliary Airforce Service ). They had one extra A. Trust those Aussies. We British were simply known as ‘WAAFS’ ( Women’s Auxiliary Airfoce)
Note how only the British mentioned attachment to the “AIRFORCE’ …. That’s because we are and always have been more civilised. All three titles, however, used the word ‘auxiliary’ which means in support of …. So we were not really accepted as real air force pilots merely as supporting players on the ever changing fields of battle. Thirty eight wasps died and they were dispanded in 1944 . For them there were no military honours and they were sent home at the family’s expense. In fact the flag was not even placed on their coffins as they were considered to be in the civil service as opposed to the military.
All records on the ‘WASPS’ remained classified for the next 35 years and were not unsealed until 1977. In 1984 they were awarded the victory medal and finally in 2009 ,when there were only three surviving , were awarded the congressional gold medal by president Obama. And what of the ‘WAAFS’ and the ‘WAAAFS’? Well the British Commonwealth always keeps a stiff upper lip and carries on as usual.
© Renee Dallow ( Hybiscus Bloom ) 21/9/2013
Cheers my dears
Wanda Wey Awrf
Bourgeoise Bloomers 
