12 November 1996.
I’m in bed with Maria. As I lay my arm around her, she says: "Leave me alone, Dan. It won’t work anymore." I turn away and cry, because I realize that our relationship has died. Two minutes later Maria says: "Oh shit!" – "What?" – "I forgot, today is your birthday."
Yeah, Maria has just broken up with me on my 28th birthday. Writing my diploma thesis, I have become too academic for her. She can talk! She graduated from university a year ago.

27 November 1996
I feel depressed and hopeless. But then I receive a positive reply to my application for a developmental research project in Ghana, West Africa. The preparatory seminars start in January.

29 January 1997
Depression is over. But yet I can’t really reanimate my lust for life. When I arrive at the preparatory seminars, I don’t feel like talking. So when we have supper, I sit next to the most quiet-looking participant.
After 10 minutes I can’t help starting a conversation:
"Hi! What’s your name?"
"Mohammed."
"Which project are you participating in?"
"None. I’m a tutor. For Egypt. Urban development."
"Fine."
"…"
"I’m just getting myself some salami. Do you want me to bring you some too?"
"I don’t eat pork.."
The conversation turns out to be rather one-sided. Mohammed is obviously even more depressive than me. In the following days he still doesn’t seem to be a happy customer. Maybe he has a hard time in Germany because of his Muslim religion.

13 July 1997
After two more preparatory seminars normal life has welcomed me back. I have even had a couple of new love affairs. At the seminars Mohammed has got more and more silent. Should I have cheered him up? Come on – I’m not a therapist.
I pack my bags and go to Ghana.

5 October 1997
I’ve returned back home. Three months of useful work, joy and happiness have strengthened my confidence. So I enjoy life during the following years even though I have to live on welfare.

11 September 2001, 3.30 p.m. CET
I’ve started writing a short story and go out to my favorite Arab fast food place.
"Hi Ahmed!"
"Hi! Falafel?"
"Yes, please."
"Didya heara news on radio? Bigga accident in New York City."
"No. What kind of accident?"
"Bigga airplane crashed into da skyscraper."
"…"
"Jazz Radio Berlin. 20 minutes ago, another airplane crashed into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. A further aircraft hit the Pentagon. There is no comment as yet from President Bush."
"Hey, Ahmed, that doesn’t really sound like an accident, does it?"
"Yeah. It’s an attack, I suppose."
I go home, finish my short story, and get interrupted continuously by panic stricken friends who don’t buy my theory which goes: Just like in Oklahoma City – the Nazis are behind it.

27 October 2001
The German news magazine "Der Spiegel" publishes photos of the hijackers. Oh my! One of them looks really dangerous – Mohammed Atta. Almost reminds me of that depressive Mohammed who I wasn’t able to console five years ago at that seminar. But that guy’s name was not Atta but Mohammed el Amir.

5 April 2002
I receive an e-mail from a friend of mine who was with me in Africa.
"Hello Dan, how are you? After all these years I’d like to know what you’re doing and so on. Best wishes – Tina. PS: Did you hear about what happened to our Mohammed?"
I check Google: Tina was right. "el Amir" was just the pseudonym of Atta.

Conclusion: If Maria hadn’t left me, I would have been in better form that year, I could have consoled Mohammed, the urban developer. The Twin Towers would still be standing. It’s all Maria’s fault.