i'm starving.  But it's the middle of ramadan, an hour or so before dusk and this is some extremist Islamic state.  Where can i find food?
Maggie Tomlinson knows a bakery, and she leads me there, past scowling men and scrawny dogs. 
'What's this?'  The pastry looks pretty good.
'It's a poop pump puff.'
'I'll take it.'
But I can't eat this in the shop,  this place is take-away, and I'll be attacked for eating on the streets in daylight.  Where to go?
The mosque is the answer.  Surely no-one will attack me there.
I round a corner, pass a group of soldiers with AK-47s, hiding my poop pump puff behind my back, and find the mosque. 
I enter on my knees, and crawl uncomfortably through the sacred compound, hands raised and lowered in  worship.  There is a small empty chapel ahead, where I will be safe.  But as I near the chapel, a man towers over me, a large knife gleaming in his hand.  He plunges it into his chest, and then swipes it across his wrists, and blood is raining on me even before he collapses onto me.  I try to tumble out of the way to avoid his knife, but am caught in the side by the sharp steel.