جامعة يو أن سي في ألشرق الأوسط

Know your market

2008-08-08T07:25:00.009+03:00

All over Salalah, posters for a long distance phone company cover the sides of pay phone booths. They boast of 25 cent per minute rates to the Philippines, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, and India. The promotion clearly caters to the guest worker population hailing from these respective countries, featuring versions of the ad in what seems to be Urdu, Bengali, Tamil, Hindi, and, of course, English.

It goes without saying that no matter what faraway place is called or what language is used to call that faraway place, this good looking man will answer and smile while holding his hand up to his ear mimicking a telephone.

Although marketing to the migrant population as consumers takes place in several languages, the labor market depends largely on English. Nearly all high-end jobs require English and it functions as something of a lingua franca in transactions between Arabic-speaking Omanis and Hindi/Urdu/Bengali/Tamil speaking migrant workers.

It also seems to be the language for labor recruitment. I found this advertisement on the corner of my hotel. It is clearly aimed at migrant workers; despite the government's Omanization program, in which all workers of a certain sector must be Omani (all taxi cab drivers, for example, are Omani), the construction workers that are building the roads, the office buildings, the banks, and the gigantic new Sultan Qaboos Mosque in downtown Salalah are South Asian. And for those of you who are wondering, 5 Riyals a day equals about $12, more than the maintenance people in the university at which I'm studying make.

Another interesting dimension to labor and migration in Oman is that as South Asians are traveling to Oman to work as unskilled laborers, some Omanis are traveling to the Gulf to work as unskilled laborers. They usually spend a few years there saving money for marriage before returning to Oman.

I wonder how migrant labor influences culture. The South Asian influence in Oman is clear. Every restaurant carries biryani and the cinemas in town only screen Bollywood movies. Do migrants bring Oman back to Kerala or Peshawar or Dhaka?

The Chosen One from the Land of the Frozen Sun

2008-07-26T22:06:00.007+03:00

Barack Obama’s election as president, many American commentators argue, would immediately improve America's image abroad. My friend Theo wrote about street level support for Obama in Cairo. In decidedly unscientific polling during my time in Salalah, people seem to like the idea of Obama winning too.

I think this might be changing after his recent trip to Israel. Thursday’s edition of Al-Shabiba carried this image on the front page with a headline of “Obama in Sderot: Jerusalem is the Capital of Israel!” The picture with the article has Obama holding up the Sderot version of the “I Heart NY” shirts, which reads "I heart Sderot" with a Qassam rocket piercing the heart.

The continuation of the story inside the paper features a picture of Obama smiling with right-wing Likud Party leader Bibi Netanyahu. The headline reads, “Obama promises to support Israel if elected President!” Yes, both headlines end with exclamation points and, just a hint, it’s not out of joy.

Obama’s comments about Israel fly in the face of Palestinian hopes to establish the capital of a future state in a part of Jerusalem. And even Barack’s million dollar smile probably can’t compensate for an appearance with Netanyahu whose Likud Party advocates continued illegal settlements in the West Bank, especially when the caption of the photo reads "Obama and Netanyahu: a smile of contentment and agreement."

For many in the Middle East, Obama’s actions don’t seem to reflect a change (we can believe in) in U.S. involvement in Israeli-Palestine. Even some Americans are growing anxious that Barack might actually mean what he's saying. But one thing we can be sure of: McCain’s absurd allegation that Obama was endorsed by Hamas – malicious and spurious in the first place – is most certainly not true now.

And maybe that’s the point. Like Hillary, who had to out-men the men in order to prove her fitness for duty, Barack might have to out-hawk the hawks, at least in the case of Israel.

Reading the Newspaper in Salalah

2008-07-20T21:39:00.015+03:00

Some excerpts from the 17 July issue of Al-Shabiba, one of Oman’s daily newspapers (brought to you by KFC and Hardee’s):
Front page headlines include stories on the results of end-of-year school exams; a meeting between Omani and Iranian officials seeking to “establish joint cooperation;” increasing numbers of foreign fighters in Afghanistan; the King of Saudi Arabia's speech at a religious dialogue conference in Spain; and the Sultan sending congratulations to Iraqi President Jalal Talabani on the occasion of his country's national holiday.

In the “Government Officials Shaking Hands and Sitting in Oversized Chairs” section of today’s paper, Al-Shabiba covers the Iranian Foreign Minister’s visit to Oman. Almost every newspaper has a section devoted to this, but I feel like it’s especially pronounced in the Middle East, where the appearance of government hospitality is an important marker of legitimacy because of its cultural significance. The officials no doubt went a lot farther than posing for pictures; Oman shares control of the Strait of Hormuz with Iran and a potential U.S. attack on Iran would have huge (and catastrophic effects) on both countries.

In the “Rising from Humble Beginnings to Pop Music Superstardom” section, a story on Egyptian heartthrob Tamer Hosni, who admits, “I lived a hard childhood and borrowed from the doorman.”

“Announcements of Flight.” The main Omani newspapers all carry notices like this, which amount to wanted posters for migrant laborers (mostly from south Asia) who have fled their jobs.

“The Curse of California: After the Fires Come Mud Slides.” Looks rather like the end of days. Luckily, California has a man for the job.

Luckier still, I can keep up with other happenings in that cursed state despite the fires and the mudslides. There is, for example, a blurb on the tribulations of Lindsay Lohan, whom the article describes as a “young lady of American society.”

The paper carries a number of syndicated columns from Oman, other Arab countries, and the rest of the world, one of which is a translated New York Times Op-Ed from Paul Krugman, entitled “Ted Kennedy's Big Day.” Between everyone’s favorite bearded economist (take that, Bernanke), the Governator, and Lindsay Lohan, I could mistake this paper for an American one. But I probably won’t due to a number of reasons, one of them being the fact that the picture accompanying the article isn’t Krugman; it’s Nicholas Kristof. Another reason is that in Arabic Paul is transliterated as bool, which means urine. I wonder if Krugman is pissed.

Imagine for a second what kind of image of America this creates. And now remember the fact that on most days the image of America consists not just of the damnation of California, the tribulations of party girl socialites, and the opinions of Urine Krugman, but also military occupation in Iraq, movies filled with a sex and violence, not to mention a President whom most of the world would not trust to successfully execute the Shriner’s mini-car section of a 4th of July parade. America is a strange place. But the way it seems from the far side of the world is even stranger.

Beirut Blues.....and the Theory of Relativity

2008-07-12T16:49:00.003+03:00

Beirut.

Along with Paris, London, Rome and New York, it's one of those legendary global cities that everyone should visit at least once in their lifetime.

To most people, it's a cauldron of political instability that dominates the news headlines with alarming regularity, but it's always held a special allure for me. That's something about this city, the Paris of the East, that conjures up romantic images of adventure from a forgotten, sepia-tinged era and the impossible joie de vivre that is the very essence of Beirut's soul.

It's a city I worked and lived in for the larger part of a summer two years ago. Now, I was going back to visit for a few days and hang out with some fellow backpackers I had met in Syria.

The last time I caught a glimpse of her was still etched in my memory, gazing wistfully from the deck of the Orient Queen, an ocean liner chartered to ferry refugees to the safety of Cyprus, as Israeli jets rained down steel and death on Beirut's hapless inhabitants below. I remember having a MacArthur-esque moment, silently vowing to return one day, as the skyline I had become so intimate with slowly melted into the horizon.

Now, l felt anticipation welling up within me, as the taxi sped along the Damascus-Beirut highway to an eagerly awaited reunion with a long-lost lover.

As her familiar skyline gradually materialized in the valley below, I impatiently willed the taxi to go faster in my mind, despite the breakneck speed at which it was already hurtling down the narrow mountain roads.

I found my friends at the Al Nazih Pension which, along with the adjacent Talal Hotel, seemed to be sheltering just about all of the handful of intrepid backpackers in town. The hostel itself was an unremarkable hole-in -the-wall, but merits a mention here though, just for the sheer bizarreness of the staff there. It was run by a wizened old man, who we quickly nicknamed Grandpa. There were another two staff members that were creepy, both in different ways. Eddie, a young former male nurse, sported a unibrow and had this disconcerting habit of feeling up the male backpackers at the hostel, while hitting on just about anything in a skirt. The other employee, whose name I never caught, had considerably less personality than a mortician.

Meeting back up with the troops was great, and I played the role of tour guide and showed them all of my old haunts, such as the expensive-looking downtown restaurant, Al-Balad, which serves one of Beirut's best-kept secrets in its cheap, affordable Ouzi (a lamb dish).

And Bliss Street, that popular, traffic-choked drag outside the American University, with its second hand bookshops and cheap food vendors.

Some of the old zest of Beirut's cafe culture has returned. We watched a couple of the Euro '08 games on huge screens amidst the al fresco cafes that were teeming with locals and tourists. There was even a smattering of Western tourists around, all of this just mere weeks after the heart of the city had been paralyzed for 18 months by opposition protesters living in a tent city. For the briefest of moments in my mind, I was almost taken back in time to 2006, when I watched the World Cup games with a special someone in that very location.

Almost.

Then, like the trailing end of a gentle summer breeze on my cheek, the feeling passed.

Something felt different. Sure, it was great to return to the place that had been my home for a summer, but there were all the little things that had inevitably changed since then. Many familiar sights greeted me like long lost friends, such as the Starbucks café where I spent so many scorching Sunday afternoons nursing a frappuccino, but like unseen ghosts from the past, I mourned what I had lost. Nothing big, just the little things.

A cafe run by a friend had closed permanently, according to the staff at the adjacent Starbucks. I tried to get in touch with him, but attempts to reach him at the phone numbers I had were futile.

Being haunted by inexplicable feelings of loss and emptiness at being in the city without that former significant other, as if I didn't quite belong there without her.

Then, there was the city's legendary nightlife.

Eddie, a college buddy who now lives and works in Beirut, was gracious enough to take us for a night on the town. Here again, though, I was disappointed by the high expectations borne of my previous experiences. For one, it's almost impossible to get in most places with 7 boys in tow, as we soon found out. For another, Rue Monot, once heaving with fashionably-dressed young Beirutis and a cornucopia of clubs and bars, was a mere shell of its former self. Eddie explained that the partying scene in Beirut has since moved on to the adjacent Gemmayze district and other areas of the city, instead of being centered around Monot, as it used to be.

Allow me the vanity of quoting from an article I once wrote in a school magazine: Nostalgia's a bitch, and man, did I feel her teeth gnawing at me constantly throughout my sojourn in Beirut.

We also ventured into the southern suburbs of Beirut, the stronghold of Hezbollah, in search of a certain restaurant that had been featured on the BBC news, and also because the other lads were curious to see this "infamous terrorist neighborhood". The details of our misadventures there and our brush with members of the "Party of God," however, merit an email in themselves, which will follow sometime in the next week, when I get the chance to put it together.

The reports we had heard from other backpackers before we arrived of "tanks being everywhere on the streets" also proved to be somewhat of an exaggeration. While there were some armored personal carriers and the odd tank or two, they were usually situated near strategic positions, such as the homes of important government members. The only inkling that normal service hasn't quite resumed in Beirut yet was the presence of scores of soldiers cradling M-16s on just about every street corner.

Which brings me to my next observation.

Despite the large number of troops on the streets, Beirut, on the surface at least, seems to be recovering its hedonistic culture of the good old days. It's hard to think of any other country in the world where the people could go on living and partying so nonchalantly surrounded by such a heavy military presence, as if totally oblivious to the political crisis paralyzing the country.

Maybe it's a form of mental escapism, a way for Beirutis to forget their problems and where they are and simply lose themselves in the pursuit of mindless pleasure.

Or perhaps this is normalcy for Beirutis. A warped sense of normalcy, in the sense of the word as we know it, yes, but if conflict and political crises are all that you know, then any chance to celebrate is to be seized and savored, such as the temporary lull in tensions that Beirut is enjoying. Remember, this is a country that was gripped by civil war from 1975-1990, and after a false dawn of a few years of peace, was plunged right back into the horror of war just two years ago.

Looks like ol' Einstein's Theory of Relativity is still alive and kickin'.

My time in Beirut passed all too quickly. Over one last hearty lunch at Al-Balad, it was with a heavy heart that I said farewell to A. and K., my traveling companions for almost two weeks now , for the second time in a few days, this time for good. Email addresses were exchanged and promises to stay in touch were made, but deep down, I think we all knew that this could very well be the last time we saw each other. Passing ships in the night, perhaps.

That's the thing about the nomadic lifestyle. No matter how many wonderful people you meet on the road, or how great the times you share, there's always the inevitable painful good-bye, with nothing left to hold on to but those precious memories and photographs.

And so it was with Beirut. I'll be back again soon enough, I'm sure, but the experience will be different once again, with new faces and new places. It's a city that you never experience the same way twice. The one thing that won't change is I'll always be powerless to resist its Siren call.

The Freedom of the Road

2008-07-11T18:40:00.006+03:00

Writer's note: This post was actually an email I sent out to my listserv of friends on June 25, so the time references are slightly off, but other than that, I thought it'd make a good first post.

The freedom of the road.

It's that sense of absolute liberty to go wherever your heart prompts you, without any regard for time or place, unburdened by responsibilities, timetables or irate parents. The only limits are those imposed by one's imagination and purse strings.

It's been a while since I've had that feeling. Two years to be exact. It's been so long that I had almost forgotten how great it feels to be able to indulge my wanderlusts at a whim. This past week, I rediscovered that feeling.

It's been about ten days since I've made it back to the Sandbox. While at a hostel in Damascus, I made friends with a couple of backpackers. A.'s a Briton who has been on the road for a couple of years now, traveling twice up and down the coasts of South America and on to Australia, Asia and now the Middle East. K.'s a tall, blonde Icelander who's in the midst of a trek from Cairo through the Middle East, Iran, Pakistan, possibly Afghanistan, and on to India. He's been traveling for five months now, and has no idea when he'll go home as he has no return ticket yet. Both of them had met on the ferry from Egypt to Jordan and are now traveling together till the inevitable separation of paths comes sometime down the road. Despite their differing backgrounds (A. is 26, worked formerly in the finance sector; K. is 21 and has not yet been to university), they both share that same insatiable wanderlust and sense of that adventure that's all too rare nowadays.

In a way, they've rejuvenated me. For a while, I'd been brooding about where my life is headed and what I'm going to do with it. This trip, in many ways, seemed like the finale on what's been a great 27 years of globe trotting. I envisioned myself coming back and finding a job to pay the bills, settling down and all the rest of that jazz. It's been really refreshing to meet kindred spirits that have shown me that no, I'm not weird for wanting to see the world and actually going ahead and following those dreams, that there is another way to live life.

So, when they asked me if I would like them to travel with them to the desert city of Palmyra, I hesitated only for the briefest of seconds. The room I had arranged to rent in Damascus was not yet ready to move into as it was still occupied, and instead of hanging around in the city for a few days, here was the chance to see more of Syria with a couple of rather laid-back, interesting travel companions.

The past week's been a blast. At first I was just going to Palmyra with them, but I had such a great time that I ended up traveling on to Homs, Hama and the really cool village of Hosn, which is perched on a mountain. Along the way, we picked up several more companions, including a amiable Korean lady, a pair of Lithuanian and German law students who had just spent a semester in Turkey, and finally another Korean girl who was taking a one year break from university to travel. And so we were six, spending our last night on a rooftop of a hostel, with nothing but a mat to sleep on. Yet the wonderful conversation, the beautiful setting and sleeping under the stars will forever be etched in my memory.

After parting ways in Homs, I made it back to Damascus yesterday and finally moved into my room in the Old City. I'll be living above a goldsmith's workshop. The goldsmith, Haitham, owns the place and rents out the rooms upstairs to foreigners studying Arabic in Damascus like me. To be honest, it was a little disappointing, as I had been hoping to rent a room where I would actually live with the family. However, things have been working out so far, so I guess I'll give it a go for a month at least. I'll be rooming with an American student (who I haven't actually met yet, as I think he's traveling), and a couple of Swiss guys and two Italian girls round up the rest of the contingent. They've all been really friendly so far, and Michael, one of the Swiss guys, actually showed me how to get to the university and register for classes this morning. The other Swiss and the two girls will be moving out soon though, so I should have some new room mates pretty soon.

I've finally registered for classes and taken the mandatory AIDS test. On Monday, I will have to take the placement test to discover which level I will be placed in. I have been trying to catch up on my grammar terms and revising my vocabulary, but at this point, it's pretty much all in God's hands.

This weekend though, I travel to Beirut to meet up and party with A., K. and possibly the rest of the gang. Despite the clashes and unrest in Tripoli this past week, it should be good times! I can't wait to revisit Beirut and see what it's like now. In a sense, it feels like I have unfinished business there, since I was forced to leave by the outbreak of the '06 Israeli-Hezbollah war. This trip should provide some closure. I'll be sure to provide details in the next email. Till then,

Salaam,

I a n

!! أهلأن و سهلأن

2008-07-11T18:27:00.002+03:00

Hey y'all,

The name's Ian, and I'm the latest addition to this little community of Tar Heel bloggers. I thought it'd be best to give a little introductory post just so you know a little bit about myself before I actually start posting.

As some of you might already know, I'm a UNC alumnus from the class of '07 who's currently living and studying Arabic at the University of Damascus in Syria. I 'll be here till the end of September, and then I'll be traveling for a month or so to Yemen (or Iran, if things in Yemen are still dicey), Lebanon, Jordan, Palestine and Israel.

I'm new to this, but I've been a regular reader since last summer, so I'm really excited to officially be part of this community. I must confess to feelings of both envy and admiration when I first started reading the blog last year, given that so many of my fellow Tar Heels were off having adventures in the Middle East, while I was stuck behind a desk in Washington DC. Now, after squirreling away money for several months, I'm finally back in a part of the world that really has become quite dear to my heart.

Thanks to Matt's kindness, I'll be posting thoughts and observations from my little corner of the Sandbox during the next few months. I can't wait to get started!

Salaam,

I a n

An Omani Wedding

2008-07-06T23:19:00.012+03:00

Some parts of Salalah remind me of West Amman. Both consist of dusty open areas interrupted by 1) recently constructed white buildings that are so bright that they make you squint at noon and 2) soon to be constructed buildings covered in scaffolding. Neither place is particularly pedestrian friendly. But I, undaunted in my cheapness, continue to walk. And one of walks last week brought me into contact with some cultural heritage I most definitely would not see in West Amman.

As I walked west on 23rd of July Street (in my professional opinion, streets named after dates are wicked), I noticed a group of men gathering on a street corner. I continued to walk but couldn’t help but notice the steady stream of men and boys headed to the street corner. Looking regal in their white dishdashas and colorful muzzar, nearly all of them wore ornate khanajir (the traditional dagger common in Yemen and Oman) around their waists. Some even balanced rifles on their shoulders.

I decided to figure out what was going on so I walked to the side of the street opposite the corner where all the men were gathering and I loitered, not sure if what I was witnessing was an Omani street theater production of West Side story or just a lazy Friday in Salalah. An Egyptian teacher named Mahmood, who probably was not wondering if the Sharks and the Jets were about to break into painstakingly choreographed musical combat, informed me that this was a traditional Omani wedding, or ‘urs. In his eight years in Salalah he had never seen anything like this.

When over a hundred men had gathered, the group began to walk down the middle of the road. The group – all men – sang and danced their way to a nearby wedding hall. And lest you fear, dear reader, that I’d forgotten words of wisdom about rifles and the bullets that come out of them, a week ago I luckily visited the Bayt Zubair museum on Omani culture in Muscat, where I learned this great bit of information as part of an exhibit on rifles:

Although no one fired their arms in the air, I can attest to the fact that their presence certainly added excitement to the proceedings. As Mahmood and I trailed the procession, he encouraged me to take pictures, lamenting the fact that he’d forgotten his camera phone at home. The wedding party had hired musicians, dancers, and marchers for the occasion. Notice the women carrying incense - an Omani specialty - on their heads.

As they neared the wedding hall the men began making laps around the front of the building. Thinking they were finished and ready for sitting down time, Mahmood and I moved to get a better angle. All of the sudden the wedding party made another lap around the wedding hall and Mahmood and I found ourselves facing this:

Notice the groom in the black garment, known as a bisht, with a look of Kevin Garnett-like focus on his face. He maintained this level throughout the proceedings. I imagine he acted something like this later in the night.

After nearly bringing Mahmood and me into the wedding party, the men sat down in plastic chairs around the outside of the wedding hall. The musicians played and small groups of men danced. I had trouble understanding the Omani dialect in the songs, but judging from the actions of the dancers the words were probably “put your khanajir in the air and wave them like you just don’t care.” Or something like that. Although it should be noted that waving of said khanajir was done with ample care because, as everyone knows, putting a khanjar in someone’s face is just bad manners. My other favorite dance was when the dancers threw money in the air and men close to the dance area quickly picked it up.

All of the women were inside the wedding hall and they watched the events from windows and the roof, asserting their presence with frequent ululations. You can see a few women in black here. (more on gender in Oman to come…which is not to say that this piece shouldn’t be read as an examination of gender)

Mahmood informed me that this ceremony cost some thousands of dollars. And that leads me to an important point. These men were not uneducated peasants but rather the business elite of Salalah. They closed the doors of their Toyota Land Cruisers and Chevy Suburbans and engaged in some of the traditions that have stayed the same even as much has changed. But this is not to suggest a stark dichotomy between tradition and modernity. Like people everywhere, Omanis blend tradition and modernity into a synchronized whole, with men carrying a khanjar in one hand and a cell phone in the other.

I watched the celebration from the outside of the seating area. But I wasn’t the only curious observer. Oman is a diverse place and it has been said that Salalah resembles Mombassa more than any Middle Eastern city. Alongside me, Pakistani and Indian guest workers watched the proceedings. The South Asian men handing out Pepsis to the wedding attendees even brought a few boxes to our group of onlookers. The relationship between Omanis and migrant workers will be explored in future posts, as well, and it’s not always a rosy one. But for now this image of a curious coexistence will suffice.

Qaboos and lassies

2008-06-29T20:58:00.009+03:00

I’m back, friends. And by back, I mean away. Between now and August I’ll periodically post on my thoughts and experiences in Oman this summer. I’ve been fortunate to spend some time in Egypt and the Sham so I’d especially like to use this place to apply the comparative lens to Oman.

I’ve been here about a week now, having spent a few days in the capital of Muscat and since moved on to Salalah. One of the first things I noticed about Oman is the cultural diversity. From the mango lassies to the samosas, the South Asian influence is particularly pronounced. As I walked around Muscat, I found my Arabic was no use in many cases, whether with a Kashmiri shop owner, a Baluchi internet café attendant, or a Tamil waiter. According to reliable sources, the population numbers 3,311,640 with 577,293 non-nationals included. I've heard much higher estimates of the number of non-nationals on the street.

These disparate flows of culture and people are nothing new for Oman. The Sultanate’s power once stretched from Zanzibar in East Africa to Sri Lanka and the cosmopolitan nature of Oman has been preserved under the leadership of Sultan Qaboos bin Taimur, the man who has ruled the country since taking over for his father in a bloodless 1970 coup. Subdued portraits of the Sultan hang high on the walls of most stores and homes. My favorite so far was at the Muscat airport departures terminal, where Qaboos’s leonine visage looked on, one hand raised in a solemn farewell. His pictures certainly lack the dress-up quality of, say, King Abdullah of Jordan. Instead, they reflect a stately man who, in the eyes of many, has been fundamental in navigating Oman toward development while maintaining traditional culture. (If you don’t believe me, you can check out his facebook page. I’m not a fan…yet.)

But, as I mentioned earlier and as the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque demonstrates, Oman’s traditional culture is anything but exclusivist. Completed in 2001 after six years of construction, the structure features a Khurasani carpet that was at one time the largest carpet in the world (maybe Qaboos would have more facebook fans if he boasted about that in his “about me” section); tiles from Esfahan; and design themes from different geographic areas for each wing.

You don’t see much like this in Egypt or Jordan, partly due to money and partly due to geography.

Just as the mosque underscores the pluralist heritage of Oman (as well as Islam, for that matter), the location also belies Oman’s developmental status. The minaret of the mosque mingles with cranes in the somewhat hazy skyline. Parking lots surround the complex in a location removed from the center of Muscat.

With a sprawling layout and mediocre public transportation, a car culture definitely exists, with Muscatis clogging the car dealership lined highways. All of this is to say that Muscat is Los Angeles, except without medical marijuana, Vincent Chase, or the Reverend Keegan de Lancie.

That might be an overstatement. For one, our German tour guide described the relatively short buildings of Oman’s skyline as such (in a wicked German accent): “This is not like Manhattan. It is more like Lilliput.” All Jonathan Swift references aside, what is clear is that the coming years will be interesting for Oman. Lacking vast oil resources to sink into large-scale infrastructure / weather control projects like in Saudi or the Emirates, the Sultanate must spend its money wisely so as to ensure that the mango lassies continue to flow even after the oil dries up.

women are like tea-bags

2008-06-20T02:32:00.001+03:00

perhaps we need to change the images we have of a feminist. i do not pretend to know how to best define a feminist and i’m too smart to even fall into that trap, or too obsessed with deconstructing labels. either way, i have learned that just like how i hate being defined, i hate defining others.

in my mind (which is a very dangerous place to be), a feminist is like a snowflake, unique and intricate.

the women i am meeting are so incredibly different and none of them are easy to dismiss. one woman i met, who is a private english teacher, described the woman of syria so beautifully: we are simple, yet clever women.

these women are sick of the colonial powers’ desires still limiting their lives. as one woman was driving me home, she told me that the first Arabic fashion designer rose about ten years ago. great, i thought. she paused before the clincher: “who then has been designing syrian clothes for the past 50, 100 years? the clothes we are wearing, both male and female, are what the french colonizers want us to wear.”

the word ‘moda’ (fashion) follows me everywhere. walking down al-hamra street or the white bridge, i see stores like “raghda’s mode” copying after designer stores like “vera moda.” if you speak to some of the revivalist women i have been talking to, you will hear woman after woman complain how ‘moda’ has limited their movements, oppressed their creativity and destroyed their sense of identity.

tomorrow i will be trying to hunt down some women artists. we’ll see how far these thoughts reach across the rest of syria.

i suspect that same fed-up-of-the-west-telling-them-what-to-do sentiments will not be hard to find.

as for me, well, i think this poem says enough:

let me put on my scarf

she gathered herself for an
odd, normal ritual,

ducking under twisted teal drapes,
or perhaps,
raising green’s careful spread,

she intricately pins
covered freedom
-exactly three feet squared-

reaching in delicate tucks
wrapped by whirling,
she sighs in the day’s face
that will tan her liberty
into a shield.

originally planned as
a self test of her control,
forcing the world along
her eye-line,
she would fold and arrange
their vision
in rainbows.

but she took this morning to
dress,
cover,
breathe,
remembering the private joys
of inner peace

silence is a source of great strength

2008-06-02T01:56:00.000+03:00

every time i walk into a mosque or attend a lecture for my research, i cannot help but feel that i am about to be judged. every woman is wearing the same long rain coat style dress and the same round white scarf. last week i walked into a mosque wearing varying shades of blue and (rather lovely if i may so say myself) light blue wrap-around hijab. and two minutes after sitting down a girl comes by and asks me my name. i tell her and she smiles and asks for my family’s phone number. ‘oh, she’s trying to hook me up,’ i thought. i guess that means she doesn’t disapprove. (i told her my father wan’t in the country so who was she going to ask for my hand?).

yesterday i attended the halaqa of the second oldest sheikha in syria and i was going to interview her afterwards. she is very well respected, wears a black scarf and black abayeh. her voice is so soft i can barely hear her during her talks and she would not let me record our interview. i was intimidated. i thought for sure she would disapprove of me as soon as she saw me. what a mistake. she grabbed my hand, smiled and exclaimed ‘mashAllah, you are very beautiful, visibly beautiful but also beautiful on the inside.’ now, not that i want to brag but she is said to be able to sense other people’s thoughts.

however they are still very suspicious when i ask them personal questions in the interview. so i guess them liking me only gets me so far.

there is this one sheikh, sheikh rajab. he is one of the main sheikhs for the abu nur mosque in damascus, where most of my research is centered. he is an adorable old man probably in his 80s who lives in the rows of apartments that are built into the mosque to house its students. my cousin taghreed, who knows him, and i went to see him when i first got here. we walked in on him eating lunch with his wife and daughters in his apartment. he tells us to sit and join him. the table is lined with dishes small in quantity but varied (they even had grilled goat’s brain which is actually pretty good).

he is a very witty and hilarious man. during lunch he randomly turns to me and declares ‘your husband does not ask about you!’ i stuttered a reply, completely caught off guard because umm i’m not married. he then laughs ‘your pair of socks!’ and for those of you who love puns get this. the word for husband in Arabic (jooz) is the same as ‘pair’ (jooz) in the phrase ‘a pair of socks’ (jooz grabat) because couples are pairs. i came in wearing sandals.

while drinking tea after lunch he randomly turned to me and asked if i wanted this to be my family’s house. again i was completely caught off guard and could barely stammer a reply. he continued saying that i should consider his small apartment in the mosque my family’s house. i was completely touched. in the end i got to know his daughters and he gave me some books about the mosque. but he did tell me to bring my husband next time!

i have been keeping my opinions to myself and hope they will tell me theirs.
i have to admit, maybe being outspoken is not helpful all the time. i guess lao tzu was right about some things.

in the depths of winter I finally learned there was in me an invincible summer

2008-05-30T18:01:00.000+03:00

in one of the oldest cities, deep in the piles of my research, my mind can only think of one thing. eve. there has not been a single day where i have not thought of you. every night i dream of your perfectly lined hair, your lighting eyes, god, your smile. this city has seen too much loss, too much destruction and here i am bringing one more loss.

i swear to you eve, none of this is easy. when nights dreaming of you turn into days, i don’t want the morning to come. i wake up alone, clutching a blanket, shaking from my thundering tears. i shudder and think what is there to move on to?

my research. eve, i am wrapping myself in it because every time i do, your joyful smile and quick jump of excitement when i told you about it dance in the shadows of my mind. your hair brushes over my books; it is your eyes that is searching for a glimpse into the minds of these syrian muslim women. your tears mix with mine when i cannot help but fall into the beauty of these mosques and the devotions but into every single inch.

i want your passion and your love but sometimes all i can find are my weary muscles and swollen eyes. these women i am meeting definitely have a passion and deep love for something in this world. i know i will find what lingers in their mind in their waking moments, the image that pushes their thoughts into conscious actions. i will find their eve.

there is too much in this world

struggle to salvage the soul the world shreds with its flailing clutches,
shriveled fingertips, worn from grasping the end of thoughts,
stories that erode my eternal faith.

i do not want to hear the end.
how can the end be good when there is so much pain?

turn aside and lose your mind in nothingness to forget.
forget their stories, forget your stories,
forget that there is too much in this world.

i grab my pen to record the evidence of my existence,
with it, i multiply word archives.
difference has been added.

now, open to your control of the journey,

i will connect myself to this earth,
rooting my limbs while muscles still inspire,
and breaths long enough to shape actions,

so when my part in this tale ends,
it will be such an end,
as to be worthy of remembrance.

the time has come to talk of many things!

2008-05-14T21:33:00.003+03:00

maryam

syria never fails to draw me into her lap. i am terrified of her embrace, yet somehow long for her familiar scent. perhaps i took her in when i longed for a mother who never came. perhaps i sought refuge in what should be my home country. but never really knowing a home or a mother, i didn't know how to love her or be loved by her. with every visit i only increased my yearning and naively allowed her to take advantage of me.

yet again, i am returning to syria for the summer but this time, it will be different. i am not going to visit my relatives on my father's side. those visits leave me aimless, eager to find anything that would keep me busy. my restlessness lead me to be easily sucked into their soap opera lives. a family that consisted of more than my brother and father was so alien to me. i wanted the closeness, the affection, anything that hinted of the families i saw others had. but somehow i always left tearfully lost in definitions that never ceased to plague me.

i am syrian. i am american. but there is a part of me that lies before, under, over and after nationality. what will i find if i look under all labels of time and space? i am not hoping for a total de-construction of my being. i want to embrace what has constructed my being. i want to live within my body unafraid of defining skin that encloses my self.

this summer i am on a mission to reclaim my land, my love and my life in this country. life has to be more than the dramatic outbursts of terror and joy that cascade through our lives. I have to find that stream that guides my spirit, to find the river before the rapids.

i approach syria without a suit of armor that deflects everything that is thrown on it. inside this armor my spirit cowers when it thinks of what lies beyond. instead, my soul will protect me. the thundering showers that used to sting when they rained upon me will now roll into raindrops upon reaching my skin. the rain will nourish my body, but i will not let myself be drowned.

and here begins my journey. in the words of a fictional but wise hobbit:
"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."

Legal Injustice in Egypt

2008-01-30T01:52:00.001+03:00

This video documents an iconic case of human rights violations in Cairo; civilians being tried in military court. This case is in violation of all international conventions regarding legal procedure to which Egypt is a signatory and has called the attention of international legal and human rights activists and organizations including Ramsey Clark, Sir Ivan Lawrence, Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, and the Arab Commission on Human Rights.

This issue is time-sensitive! Drawing public attention for more than a year, the final court date for sentencing is February 26th.

Please e-mail the following message to:

Egypt's National Council for Human Rights -
insan@nchr.org.eg

Egypt's Ministry of Justice
Counselor/ Mamdoh Mohie E-din Marie
mojeb@idsc.gov.eg

Egypt's Ministry of State for Legal Affairs and Parliamentary Councils
Dr. Mufid Mahmoud Mahmoud Shehab
parli@idsc.gov.eg

"I have learned about the case of the Muslim Brotherhood #963 in which 40 civilian leaders are being tried in military court. I stand against Egypt’s violations of international legal procedure and voice my opposition to the government’s breach of international human rights conventions. I urge you to stand up for justice and support acquittal of the defendants at the final session of the military tribunal on Tuesday February 16, 2008."

Who has disturbed my slumber?

2007-12-31T22:01:00.001+03:00

Hello Everybody,

Just a small note. Marium's new blog can be found here: http://karachiitis.blogspot.com/. The link on the right has been changed to reflect this. We wish her all the best in these difficult times.

Thanks,
Matt

Flattened Bottle Caps

2007-10-29T10:42:00.000+03:00

I’m tired today on my walk home from class. I look down at my shoes to squint out the afternoon glare. A wink in the sidewalk catches my eye.

Flattened bottle caps tell the best stories of summer.

This one could be the token of a hot July afternoon. Maybe its owner sat on the hood of a parked car and ordered the bottle of soda from a street-side vendor. Legs worn from pick-up soccer, perhaps he flinched as he rested against the hot metal body. He probably watched one of countless Hagg Ahmads or Mohammads retrieve the bottle from an ice chest and pop off the metal cap with a quick flick of his wrist.

In the summer heat, a sizzle of bubbles can be heard creeping out of the bottle neck to whisper a promise of cool solace. He savors the crisp, fizzy sweetness, resting lips against cold, heavy glass. The bottle is handed back to the Hagg, sent off on yet another journey through the factories - to be washed, refilled, and returned again to the chest of ice. In his palm, the bottle cap is carried away. He tosses it into the street, kicking it around with the toe of a dusty shoe, and quickly loses interest. He looks up to see the game of street ball resumed, forgets his token and runs off to join the crowd.

The metal top stays behind. It’s flattened over and over by speeding cars and hurried feet, all day and all night, week after week, summer after summer.

I look down to the sidewalk where the bright shiny lid has become a barely discernible label among the other ‘Coca Colas’, ‘Sprites’ and ‘Fantas’ half heartedly glinting in the matte gray asphalt. The reds and blues, greens and oranges fade. But just enough color stays behind so that every now and then a passerby will pause, intrigued by a silver wink. Like me, the passerby stoops down to get a closer look, remembers for a moment childhood summers in crisp intensity, then straightens up and continues walking.

The Light Of Allah

2007-10-15T00:07:00.000+03:00

Marium

It is so utterly difficult to put this trip into words. Beyond impossible to describe the emotions, the actions, the colors, the light. When you go to Mecca, you don't come back. Not like how you were anyway. There is a light that surrounds Mecca that you yearn and beg to be a part of.

Light. So much Light.

I spent five days in Mecca performing the smaller pilgrimage during Ramadan and then spent 16 days in Madina, the home of the Prophet Muhammad (Peace be upon him). The Prophet (PBUH) said that the person who performs Umrah (the smaller pilgrimage) during Ramadan, it is like he/she has performed the Hajj (the bigger pilgrimage) with him.

It is an honor not bestowed upon many. And I didn't deem myself worthy of it. But it changed my outlook on life. It changed me. It is a mercy that I will never forget.

It was my first time in Mecca.

I was petrified when I entered Mecca. Absolutely petrified. I held onto my father's hand as he took me inside the mosque towards the Holy Ka'aba, the Sacred House of God built by Abraham. It is said that the first time you see the Ka'aba whatever you ask for will be given to you.

The first time I saw the Ka'aba, I was stupefied. Its a feeling that is miles ahead of being scared. You aren't scared but in complete and total awe. There is no way to explain it. Lets just say it is a moment that no one, I can guarantee, no one who has ever experienced it, can ever forget.

I've seen nothing like it. Nothing.

It was surrounded by light. The sky was white, the marble white, the people, white. It stood in the middle covered in a black cloak. Covered with Light. So much Light.

Tears streamed down my face and I barely knew it. I stood awed and begged, absolutely begged, for forgiveness.

There is Majesty. You drop to your knees and put your head to the ground in prayer not because you have to. But because you know it is the right thing to do. Not because it commands you to. But because you feel it in your heart that this, this is the Truth.

I so wish you all could see it.

I spent five days in utter awe. I sat on marble that remained cool, so cool under the blazing Saudi sun. The smite of Egypt does not compare to the heat of Arabia. It was hot. But the ground remained cool.

I remember the time I prayed near the Ka'aba with my father. A man came and stood next to me to pray. We all prayed together, creating motion at different speeds but all asking for the same thing. It didn't matter who he was, who I was. Men and women, old and young, rich and poor, everyone prayed together. Names, class, nationality, nothing, nothing like that mattered. It didn't even exist.

I remember circumambulating the Ka'aba in prayer (known as the Tawaf) feeling the cool ground underneath my feet as the blazing afternoon sun shone above.

My family and I were always tried to find a time when there would be fewer people performing the Tawaf so we could get closer to the Ka'aba and to the place where a marker marks the footprints of Abraham's feet. There is am imprint of his feet in a glass covered marker covered with gold. Its always difficult to get close to it because there are so many people.

So, so many people. Thousands, thousands.

So we thought of going at 1 AM, 2 AM, 11 PM, anytime when traffic would be slow. I don't think there has ever been a moment when there has not been someone performing the Tawaf. Hundreds.

I've been to the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, to the churches of Bethlehem and Jerusalem. To the chapels, churches and cathedrals of Italy and the temples of Thailand and Singapore. To the mosques of Jerusalem, Egypt, Jordan, Pakistan.

I've never, never seen anything like this.

People cried, smiled, laughed and prayed. Mecca and Madina, in my opinion, are the two places in the world where you can look at someone next to you and not see them. You are alone in a crowd of thousands. Thousands who all worship the same way and aim for the same thing. You sit next to people breaking your fast with them in the Mosque and do not see then for what they look like, or who they are.

I rarely ever knew who the person was sitting next to me, where they were from, what their name was, what the color of their skin was or what they looked like. You saw them only as Muslims, you see them as family. You break bread with them, you eat dates when them. And then you place your head to the ground together and think:

We believe.

We believe in the Power of God, We believe in his Message. We are awestruck by His Power and We are humbled by his Mercy. I look at his people, their hands raised in prayer, tears streaming down their faces. Tears mixing with my own. I see them shave their heads, kissing each other as they finish their pilgrimage, washed away of their sins.

And your heart is washed. It feels new. I promise you it is a feeling that it unlike any other.

You pray on the streets outside the mosque because there is no space inside. As soon as you hear the call to prayer, you stop in your tracks. Cars stop, shops close and time slows. God is remembered and worshiped. There is silence and there is peace. There is Light.

Mecca is full of Awe. Madina is full of peace. In Madina it is as if you have finally come home. Birds fly around minarets, lazily circiling the minarets of the mosque. You go into the old mosque, where the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) is buried to give him your greeting. You have come to his home. You have been invited to his home.

Your soul feels light in Madina. You finally realize that you actually have one.

I look back on my trip, my nights at the mosques, my days in the cities. And I feel my heart breathing anew.

I wish you all could see it. I wish you all could be there. I went there, skeptical, at times, of my own beliefs. Asking questions, demanding answers.

And now, I know. Now, I have seen.

And I am a believer.

Insider from Outside

2007-10-01T17:03:00.000+03:00

Before I discovered a love for travel and geographic wandering, Cairo was the first to claim my heart. I was born in Egypt and spent the early part of my childhood here. For the fall, I’ve returned to study abroad in the country of my nationality while writing back home to the U.S. where I’m becoming naturalized.

At first glance Cairo appears weary with crowding throngs, poverty, and an overhanging smog. At its heart, however, the city is captivating. The overwhelming hospitality, serenity of the Nile, self-affirming sense of history, and throbbing street life have strung me along visit to visit during summer breaks. It is this vibrant intensity that lured me back to Cairo for a semester - to forge a relationship with the city for the first time in my adult life.

I’ve chosen to live in Old Cairo in the apartment where my father grew up - the first place I ever knew to call my family home. The most vivid of my childhood memories here now lurk as shadows in the emptiness. Weekday afternoons I sit at the dining room table to do my homework. Sometimes when the light falls through the wooden balcony slats just right, the glass surface reflects old times - Friday dinners with all the family overflowing the table and spilling into the living room. Evenings I sink into the couch indentions worn by three generations gathered on weekends and holidays. If I listen hard enough, I can still hear the rhythmic click of the slide projector flashing old photos on the living room wall.

The widest bed that used to hold four or five siblings and cousins at summer slumber parties I now have all to myself. With no giggles and whispers late into the night, I am grateful for the fan blades to drown out the silence. A journal entry from my first week reads, “Without the life, the joy and the stories the house is an empty shell. This house hasn’t been loved in years; it is neglected and lonely.” The walls, the chairs, the kitchen, they miss my grandmother – and so do I.

That was six weeks ago. Now, the walls are repainted, the plumbing fixed, the beds made up with new sheets and the clutter packed away. It will never be the same, but slowly a different joy is coming into the house and I am finding a new sense of place.

While hanging laundry out to dry, I dropped an obnoxiously cartooned sock through the laundry lines. I ran down three flights of stairs and knocked on the first floor apartment. The door swung open and a jolly woman welcomed me in, “You must be Aisha - you look just like your grandmother!” After karkadeh [hibiscus] juice, tea, baklava, and an hour of chatting, Tant Amaal’s curiosity was caught up enough with family updates to merit retrieval of my sock.

Judging by my awkward laundry skills I think we’ll become good friends.

More than ever I am gaining a contextual sense of my own history. At a Ramadan Iftar [dinner] last week I met childhood friends of my father, colleagues of my mother from AUC, great aunts, second and third cousins, and family friends twice removed.

After dinner I stood chatting with Ahmad and Yasmeen – my older second cousins who used to live near my family in Maadi neighborhood. Mid conversation Ahmad suddenly ran outside to his car and returned with a coy smile. “Remember when we were younger and you used to come to our house and we used to come to yours all the time?” He asked. “Of course!” I exclaimed. He grinned widely holding out a miniature toy car. “Remember the gold Jeep? You gave it to me when you moved away and said I could keep it until you moved back. It’s taken a while, but I guess it’s yours now.” He handed me the metal Jeep with white interior and doors that really open. It had been the gold standard among our shared toys; to entrust Ahmad with it was sure collateral for my return.

I really did come back; I’m meeting the neighbors, catching up on contemporary slang, becoming a regular at the corner grocery, and floating through the city from line to line of transportation. Despite the characteristic adventures and discoveries, this is not a typical study abroad set-up.

My past travels abroad have been defined by the classic subject/object relationship. As a foreigner visiting a new culture I’m ready to absorb, adapt, assimilate, embrace and return home to share the novelty of a new experience. This time, however, I came to Cairo with the approach of a native and that made for a complex and somewhat rocky start. Though my roots originated in Egypt, my perceptions come through the lens of an American-raised ideology.

Through my posts I hope to share that duality in my experience as I’m learning to make sense of it as the insider from outside.

The Sound of Silence

2007-09-22T20:04:00.000+03:00

Brian

A few minutes ago, after a short afternoon nap, I stepped outside the door of my apartment in the Palestinian West Bank city of Ramallah. It was several minutes after sunset, and the city was almost dead silent.

The normal rush of cars and buses that usually zoom past our apartment on their way to Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Nablus, and other West Bank destinations were noticeably absent. The joyous shouts of children playing outside our window had disappeared. The sounds of city construction had halted momentarily. And even the wind seemed to be respecting the silence of the moment, for there was no rustle of tree leaves.

Even in the most isolated places, it’s rare to be able to sit and experience true, pure, unadulterated silence. But here, for several minutes, there was no sound in the air. In a world that seems to never stop, it was a moment of tranquil ecstasy.

Except for the birds. The birds were signing! They angered me in a way that animals never have before! How could these birds be so disrespectful of my moment of peace? An unexplainable rage bubbled inside of me. I wanted to curse the birds, yell at them for refusing to acknowledge everything else’s deference to silence. But they paid me no mind; they were never aware that their joy could taint such a blissful silence.

Frustrated at the birds’ blatant disregard for my wishes, I retired inside to make myself a cup of tea.

***

This is Ramadan in Ramallah. The silence was the sound of a fast being broken. It was the sound of Muslim families returning to their homes after a day of no eating and no drinking to eat an Iftar dinner and break their fasts together.

Ramadan is a time for family, prayer, religious observance, charity, and self-reflection. This holiest month of the Islamic calendar is a time to slow down from the bustle of everyday life to focus on the things that should be more important to us humans.

Throughout the month of Ramadan, for about an hour every day, this silence repeats. For me, it is the external manifestation of what Ramadan represents. For just a few moments every evening, if you pause and listen carefully, and cup your hand to your ear, you can hear the true heartbeat of Ramallah – family, hospitality, charity, and peace.

That is, of course, if the birds aren’t singing.

In keeping with the Bedouin theme...

2007-09-13T23:59:00.000+03:00

Aisha's comments about the Bedouin lifestyle are a perfect segway into my post, and for that I would like to start off by thanking her. That said, I have just had what so far has been the best week of my life. Last week I stayed with a Bedouin family in the south of Jordan near the Saudi border. For a day by day description, please see my other blog, but here I would like to talk about something that a few of the readers here know about almost too much. Ethics and Excellence.

Last year, I spent a whole semester with 24 of my close friends trying to dissect these two topics. Never reaching a joint and resolute conclusion on the topic, it has left me coming back to the topic from time to time trying to figure out its true meaning. After this past week, I feel like I am one step closer to feeling resolved on the issue.

In Bedouin society there is an idea know as المسان. Al-Misaan is derived from المسن or elderly. However, the Bedouin use it to describe the ideal qualities of a man. Behind this idea is years of war and conflict, so obviously the ideal man includes the ability to fight. Also within this context is desert life. Therefore, Al-Misaan is preferable to a man who can survive the elements. In a sense, المسان is the Bedouin version of the Renaissance man.

However, the most fundamental part of Al-Misaan as described to me by my house father is the idea of never forfeiting on your principles. This philosophy states that one should rather die than do something he considers wrong. It also talks about treating strangers and friends all alike, with a compassion and hospitality that the desert from which they came surely did not grant to them. Al-Sheraf, honor, was the most important part of all. Everything one does must uphold his personal honor as well as that of the tribe. In every aspect of life one is a representative of others and as such should act accordingly.

Now, this philosophy, like so many others, has its flaws. The most obvious of which is its patriarchal nature that does not mention females at all. However, I feel that this should not take away from its fundamental message. The individual should first rely upon his self and then upon others. Everything one does must be backed by a desire for perfection, yet that desire should not corrupt the principles and compassion that is within everyone. In essence, Al-Misaan simplifies the question of ethics and excellence by blending them into one topic. Therefore, the two are indivisible; you can not have one without the other.

While this posting is a quite shallow description of a conversation that lasted over two hours, I would rather not drone on about what all was said that night. However I would love to hear feedback from anyone interested, and would love just as much to hear if anyone has heard of a similar thing with other Bedouin.

Shifting Gears

2007-09-06T11:08:00.000+03:00

I had intended to share my South American summer from the perspective of a Muslim-Egyptian-American woman. Attempts at a themed reflection during my travels resulted in an awkwardly superimposed, self-conscious analysis. Such a weighty string of modifiers certainly counters the free spirited nomadic way!

Instead, I chose to send crude ‘snapshots’ of my time in Peru. For the sake of continuity from my previous posts, I’m dedicating this entry to a few thoughts from my summer before beginning more frequent updates from my current setting in Cairo.

The research frame of my summer was enlightening. Many of us enter international experiences in the public sector with a sleeves-rolled up, elbows out, reformist attitude. I like to think that with the number of Tar Heels out trotting the globe, many with a mission to ‘save the world,’ the adventures leave a lasting impression on our deeper ideologies.

It took me months to work through my time in Egypt last summer. I settled with the understanding that the world did not need ‘saving’ but rather more earnest efforts at listening. This time around I started the journey with palms out in a neutral stance and abandoned an instilled dependency on the scientific method for a shameless subjectivity.

In the simplicity of my approach, I found it easier to transcend the method itself and to relish the experience. The dualistic battle between form and substance plays out in my course schedule this semester. On a whim, I enrolled in a Metaphysics course only to find that my Physics class falls directly afterwards.

Simultaneous to my experiential absorption this summer, I imparted a continuous impression on my surroundings. I wore my image to a place where it is grossly unfamiliar. The extroversion of Peruvian culture means that when people stared they stared hard, unabashedly and extendedly. Stares latched onto me, swiveling necks a full 360 degrees. I bear the responsibility for causing many a head on collision between onlookers and fellow pedestrians, light posts, street signs, garbage cans…

The stares weren’t hostile, for the most part. It was only in the trendy shopping district by the Larcomar cliffs that I incited decidedly disapproving gawks and lung puncturing elbow pokes. My 17 year old brother was more jarred by the intrusiveness than I was. In an unprecedented move one evening, Mohammad presented me with a blatant compliment. “Aisha, there’s some trait about you that I really admire but I don’t know the word for it”.

I expected a classic shot at my frogger-style street crossing or yet another crack at my lame jokes, but for once Mohammad surprised me with a serious tone. “People stare at you ALL the time, and you never say anything. If it were me I’d get so mad.” It was a rare and touching sibling moment; out of sincerity deeper than empathy Mohammad took personal offense for my discomfort.

I think the trait Mohammad alluded to is part tolerance, part stubbornness, and part indignant self-affirmation. My hijab experience bears face-value recognition – I am assertively expressive of my identity every moment of public life.

But Mohammad wasn’t with me during daily trips, when my hijab opened up delightfully curious conversation and invited unconventional friendships. In Peru the taxi drivers were bold enough to make prodding conversation, the street vendors playful enough to toss back comments with my change, and the waiters attentive enough to carry a continuous conversation with service.

Occasionally I was mistaken for a nun, “Una monjita!” Though I imagine the Catholic Church wouldn’t look too fondly on my collection of brightly colored and fringed hijabs. Perhaps out of overcompensating self-assertion, I loved waving down to upturned faces while paragliding over the coast, feeling the wind in my hijab as I tumbled down dunes on a sandboard, and unfurling my red hijab to stake my presence on a mountain summit.

In time, even Mohammad found a way to cope with the stares that wasn’t my passive indifference nor his initially aggressive scowls and growls. He would return every stare with an exaggerated grin and call out “Hola, Amigo”.

What a contrast it was to transition from being a novelty in Peru to blending in as a common and monotonous image since my arrival here in Cairo. I prefer the clean slate of the unfamiliar when I have free reign to define my identity.

City life has put a damper on the nomad thing, so for now it’s only in my mind that I’m wandering; on the street I’m back to pursuing a purpose.

2007-09-01T00:34:00.000+03:00

why are there no new posts?

Please keep posting!!

~maryam~

When the world hands you lemons...

2007-08-22T10:46:00.001+03:00

Clayton

It was like any other Mediterranean resort. In fact the name of the resort, Florida Beach, simply did not do it justice. We pulled into the entrance, showing the guard our membership card, and parked among the other Mercedes and BMWs. After cutting in between the hotel and the chalets we took our spot on some chairs overlooking one of the three pools and the Sea. Yachts moored in the marina were spotless, and each boat was flying the Lebanese flag. The bar was stocked with beer and wine, most of which were made in the same mountains overlooking the resort. Bikini-clad women were in abundance, some awkwardly walking around in high-heels, and so were the gaudy gold crucifix chains. The resort even had its token anorexic, behind whose back everyone would whisper “ya haraam” (forbidden). The stereo was blaring horrendous pop music, and in spite of this it was one of the most magnificent places I’ve ever been. However, there were three things that one would not expect to experience at the normal resort on the North Mediterranean.

The first one was quite small. In between the songs by 50 cent, Beyonce, and Maroon 5 were songs by Arab pop stars (including our favorite, the one, the only, Amir Diab. Keegan you should break into singing right now). The second, more ironic than the first, was the occasional woman in a hijab. These ladies only stood out because they obviously were more dressed than everyone else on the beach, and of course in Lebanon no one including myself had a second thought about it.

The third thing was shells. Not seashells, but the sound of artillery shells. Fifteen kilometers north of Florida Beach is Nahr Al-Barad, the Palestinian refugee camp which three months ago turned into the battleground between the Lebanese Army and Fatah Al-Islam. The helicopters above were not touring choppers; they were Hueys flying reinforcements and supplies to the Army. While I’m sure everyone heard the noise of cannons blasting, I was the only one who seemed pay it any heed. I was in paradise, sunbathing, listening to a war. How could people, how could I, do this?

As I started to think about that question a lot of ideas came to mind. The first answer I thought of was the religious gap. As shown by the aforementioned gaudy chains, most of the patrons here were Christian, and maybe they simply wouldn’t care about an overwhelmingly Muslim camp. However, that would not explain why those Muslims here (see aforementioned hijabs) were just as comfortable as the Christians. In addition to that, more Lebanese soldiers have died in this battle than militants, and the Army is largely Christian (the current Lebanese Army is basically reformation of the Christian militias from the civil war). What about class differences? Once again, the Army being largely Christian means that many of its soldiers are from wealthy areas in Lebanon. The young men dying in the fight came from the same neighborhoods as these people. What could it be then that allows these people to share with me drinks and skin cancer while shells fall nearby?

When that thought crossed my mind, in those exact words, it hit me. The human psyche is a hard thing to break. One reason for this is because it can become, for lack of a better term, twisted very easily. I had only been hearing literal death in the distance for less than 15 minutes and I could already joke to myself about skin cancer.

If I could do this after such a short time, imagine what a lifetime would do. There is not one person in Lebanon under 60 years old who has lived more than 15 years without conflict in their country. The 1950’s saw political unrest and international intervention in Beirut. From 1975 until 1990 a civil war made Lebanon synonymous with violence, and the 2005 assassination of Hariri and last year’s fiasco between Hezbollah and Israel were by no means good to the country. If people did not learn to go about their daily lives, including extravagant recreation (which everyone does if they have the means; who among us can say that we’ve never done such a thing?), then Lebanon would be the biggest psychiatric ward in the world.

So when does the twisting go too far? Can it really go too far? I think it is important with this question to point out that the resort had a lot of kids as well. How should parents make their children confront the two faces of Lebanon? The only way to help them I feel is to present some sense of normality. In the best case, they’ll never have to experience the same paradox when they are raising their kids. In the worst case, they’ll know that there is a way for them to present a sense of normality in a world that is simply twisted. In this respect, given the situation, we would all do the same thing. Twisting of the psyche could never go “too far,” because if it broke then we would all be in much more trouble than we face today. Was this resort a display of wealth that would make most readers of this blog sick with the problems of the world? Of course it is. However I feel that the world has given Lebanon one of the biggest batches of lemons ever devised. At least the Lebanese know how to make really good lemonade.

The Audio Culture of the Syrian Presidential Election

2007-08-20T01:56:00.000+03:00

Brian

This post is long overdue, especially after Sam's posts on the posters of Mr. Bashar al-Assad around Syria. After attempting to cut corners and rent a cheaper car, our first rental car had air conditioning that didn't work, a dysfunctional radio, and a transmission that barely pulled us up the mountain from Aleppo to Latakia -- not to mention the six times we had to stop to have flat tires repaired. Our replacement rental car was delivered to us while we were visiting Saladin's Castle. Although we had to stop several times to have flats fixed with this car, and although after our trip to the Syrian Desert to visit Palmyra, the car refused to idle [a challenge in Damascus traffic!], it did have a functioning CD player.

This gem was found in that beautiful CD player. The CD was titled "Minhibak," we love you, in Syrian dialect. The last track of the CD was in English, and I'll allow you to imagine a group of four Americans (and Keegan's dad) driving around Syria blasting this music out the window, singing along. Sam, there's no question Bashar has a sense of humor.

Audio File: Bashar, We Love You

More download options here.

Enjoy.

Free Palestine

2007-08-18T17:56:00.000+03:00

Marium

It was the futility of it all that struck me the most.

Shock is a state that I now know.

I don't think cans of tear gas, gases that have no name, stones, guns or rockets could have affected me as much as this event.

It was the first round of gas that constricted my lungs, made my eyes wet and my nose water. Breathing was futile. But I gulped in gallons of traitorous air.

After a few minutes, my eyes cleared and my lungs took their first clean breathe.
I looked around to see a photographer choke on his own spit and then faint. He was carried away on a stretcher.

I saw a Palestinian man carrying his flag, resting at the olive tree. He rested and then sprang back to life, urging people to return to the smoky battle.

I walked back to the village after the protest was over. Over for me. It was a weird feeling of disconnection. I felt disconnected from my voice and from my head. My heart was beating but I couldn't feel it. I didn't stop. I walked. I passed by stores with people buying groceries, men lounging outside shops, cars blaring Arabic music as they passed by.

I was breathing heavy.

I stopped to see a little boy, probably 11-14 years old take a slingshot and swing a rock in the direction of a house. A Palestinian house.

Target practice I imagine.

Is this my cause? Is this my revolution?

No.

Was I attached to it? Very much so.

I become attached to it everyday. Every interaction with a Palestinian, every proposal of marriage by the falafel shop guy, the women in the mosque who promise to set me up with someone, the look older women give me when I finish saying my prayers at the mosque. The free juice I get from the man selling honey juice next to Damascus gate. I had a lovely conversation with him once. About Pakistan and finding him a wife. A second wife, I'm sure.

Or the men on the bus who laugh about Musharraf with me, compare him to Mahmoud Abbas and talk about the potential of a “military” coup in Palestine.

I get attached to it whenever I see the Dome of the Rock or feel the peace in Al-Aqsa.

I am attached. With every smile. With every “hello, how are you” and every handshake and kiss on the cheek.

I am in love.

And today I felt my heart break.

I had hope for Palestine. Hope.

Its a dangerous word.

Ever since I have been here, every hope I had for this country was destroyed. Demolished.

Do I believe that there will be a Palestinian state?

No.

Did I have hope that it would exist?

I did.

They extinguished my hopes today. I stood in a state of shock as I watched foreigners with cameras, tourists with point and shoots, Press with their camera sets. Among them I saw Palestinians. I saw flags. I saw hope in their eyes. Palestinian eyes.

And then I watched the game begin.

I can't talk about it. But I write about it today. Tomorrow I plan to push it out of my head. Because if I don't I will remember that the idealist in me has died. And I don't want that. I need to believe. In a cause. In a revolution. That isn't mine. But one that I am attached to and I am in love with.

Was.

It was a game. It was a dance.

It was Ben, Crystal and I that started out to the weekly demonstration in Bilin, a place near Ramallah. Every Friday, after Friday prayer, dozens of Internationals came out to Bilin to have a “non violent” protest against the occupation of Palestine. Organized mainly by the International Solidarity Movement and apparently the city council of Bilin. The area around Bilin has been illegally occupied by Israel and there is a military checkpoint near Bilin.

I can't talk about it. I can't write about it. I don't remember the faces of Internationals. I remember cameras raised instead of hands, I remember people prancing on the streets and soldiers sitting with their legs crossed watching the event unfold. It was a sport. It was a game. Commercial free.

I remember faces of boys. Palestinian boys. Hurling stones, smiling as they try selling me bands for Palestine, the boy who sold me falafel and the store that I bought water from.

I remember the old Palestinian woman who sat under a tree near her house, the children playing on the street.

I remember Minaal.

There was a canister of gas that hurled over my head. I looked up and started to run. I stopped as another one flew over my head and I changed directions. I turned to leave the area. I had had enough.

I remember Ben talking to a boy about the gas. I remember forcing myself to remember to take pictures. And I remember the clowns, the flashing of cameras, the tourists turning their camera around to see what shots they got.

Did you see that?

Did you get that shot?

Let me see what you got!

Palestine.

We got to Bilin around 12:30. My cab door was immediately yanked open by a man with big, friendly hands. He shook my hand and after finding out that I was American and Pakistani, he invited me to his place in Ramallah for tea. He was happy I had come to Bilin. The protest would take place in 2 hours.

Welcome to the Revolution.

I met people from all over who had come to free Palestine. Crystal and I went to the place where the protest took place before everyone else, planning to go up to the Israeli soldiers to tell them we were press.

We took no sides.

We believed in reporting both sides.

We were idealists.

We stood at least 100 feet from the Israeli police. After they told us to come no further, we headed back to rest at an olive tree with our guide who had brought us there. He was an Israeli who had participated in the Bilin demonstration 5 times. He came to show his solidarity with the Palestinians. He didn't believe in Israel's actions. He wanted to show the Palestinians that. That he was willing to fight for them.

And he also wanted to practice his Arabic.

We sat with him until we heard people from the press pass by. And behind them came the demonstration. Led by a group of five to six Palestinian men, carrying Palestinian flags, the entire demonstration consisted of probably 70-100 people. I saw cameras. Everyone had a camera in their hands. I saw three people dressed up like clowns. They were protesters. They were clowns. Clowns with cameras.

Press was there.

I weaved my way into the crowd to get audio for our multimedia project. People laughed, talked, protested.

The people chanting were right in the front. They chanted in Arabic. No one in the back of the demonstration spoke Arabic.

I got to the front of the group and we reached a long string of barbed wire that blocked off the road. Every Friday there was barbed wire. And every Friday protesters were not allowed to cross that piece of wire.

And they crossed it every week.

This is a non violent protest, a woman with the movement had told me before.

“Any advice?” I asked.

“Be ready to run.”

“Why? Do they gas people every week?”

“Yes.”

Was it non violent? On the Palestinian side, yes.

Except people disobeyed and crossed a line when they were not supposed to.

Is Israel justified in gassing the demonstration?

I would think so. They cross the line. They have cameras. If they want a show, we should give them one.

Aim for the clown.

There, there, the one prancing on the road. Aim for the one in pink.

If I was an IDF soldier I would aim the canister right at the clown's face.

Target practice.

Its a joke. Its a game. Its a farce. Its fake. Its not hope.

Its disgusting.

Have you come to free Palestine? Have you come to show your solidarity with the people of Bilin? Then why are you degrading them, disrespecting their cause by making a fool out of yourselves and them? Why are you dressing up like clowns and frolicking on the street, urging IDF soldiers to throw more canisters at you?

There was gas everywhere.

They yelled at the soldiers. Yelled in English.

Yeah, Yeah, I want more gas. Give me more gas. I want more gas.

Just because you have gas doesn't mean that you are right.

Its true. They are not right. But they do have gas.

I write this and I forget the “they” I refer to. Is it the Israeli Defense Forces or is it the Internationals that attended the event. I think about trying to make this sound clearer. Make it feel coherent. But I don't think there is a difference between either of them. I no longer know the difference between the “they.” Both are just as bad.

Provoking a soldier to throw canisters of gas at you is just as bad as him throwing the gas at you.

I saw children throwing stones. Palestinian boys. They had slingshots.

The army had guns with rubber bullets.

Yalla ya Ahmad! I heard a Palestinian man yell across to the boys on the field. The boys throwing the stones at soldiers that stood 200-300 feet away.

Yalla!!

I saw them swing stones. And I heard rubber bullets.

Fathers urging sons to throw rocks. Stones. Stones versus bullets.

Is this hope or is this madness?

Madness.

Ahmad hurling stones. Ahmad a boy in his teenage years. He should be at school. He should be talking about girls with his friends, eating falafel and listening to music. He throws stones at soldiers and the media eggs him on. His father encourages him.

My brother's name is also Ahmad.

Did you see that?

Did you get a shot of that?

Hey! Come here! Look at this picture!

Cheese! Ahmad! Yalla!

I walked back to the “base” and waited for people to return. Disconnected. I saw women in shops buying groceries, a car passed by blaring Arabic music.

They all walked back showing each other the pictures they had gotten. A journalist showed me his footage. He heard a soldier tell his comrade to aim the canister at the ambulance.

I have been here 50 to 60 times he said. For 2 years. I do it for the adrenaline rush.

Sho Ismak, I asked a little boy.

Mahmoud was his name.

How old are you, I asked.

Seven.

Is that your sister, I asked, pointing to the baby with the pretty smile.

Yes.

Is everyone back, people asked.

Does anyone need a ride to Jerusalem, Ramallah, Tel Aviv???

Oh, it was so hard getting here from Tel Aviv. I hope we don't get into trouble on the way back, they said.

I saw the clowns come back. Licking ice cream cones.

Did you see that? Did you get that shot? Thats a great one!

Okay everyone going to Jerusalem, get into this car!

Ramallah??

Tel Aviv??

Ice cream. They all ate ice cream. They got into cars and drove away. I could still taste the gas in my lungs.

Whats her name, I asked Mahmoud as I pointed to his sister.

Manaal.

How old is she?

One and a half.

They left. After 3 hours of protesting. And they will return next week. Cameras charged.

They left. And I watched Minaal smile. And breathe. She breathes. She breathes every Friday.

I can't analyze this. I don't want to. This might not make any sense to any one of you who read this. I will not edit this piece. I will try to forget this as soon as I can. I saw no hope in politics. I saw no hope in conflict. I saw hope in people. People who help. People who I thought, helped. Maybe they do. Maybe they don't. I am no longer an idealist when it comes to this cause.

I am a realist.

I hate being one.

She has been breathing that gas every Friday since the day she was born.

Gas that was slammed in her village because of Internationals who came there to protest, for the adrenaline rush, for the pictures, for the story that they would tell all their friends. They leave her every Friday to go back to their lives, their fancy cars, their parties. And they talk about how they almost got hit by a bullet, gassed.

Oh man, it was so cool. I was at the protest and it was bad. Those bloody soldiers. Yeah, Free Palestine man.

She had a pretty smile.

The most beautiful Hell on Earth

2007-08-18T10:25:00.000+03:00

Since this is my first post I guess I better start with a brief bio. My name is Clayton, and I am a double major in Economics and Arabic. I am here in the Middle East with the primary aspiration of getting ahead in my Arabic language studies and also to start my honors thesis, the topic of which will be Islamic finance. For now, however, I am in Beirut. While here, I plan on doing a little sightseeing but more importantly meeting with several professors from American University of Beirut to discuss private equity and Islamic finance in the Middle East. For this trip I will be keeping two blogs. In following with the footsteps of those who have posted before me on this blog, my posts here will be more of a critical analysis of certain situations. The other, shiminthesham.blogspot.com, will be a day by day (or as close to that as possible, this was written last night due to lack of internet connection and for a while power all together) description of my first experience abroad.

I must start by saying that the first part of my journey had me worried. Never minding some of the conversations I had with individuals on the way over (more details on those on the other site), the first few hours in Beirut almost made me question why I came here in the first place. All started out well, with me not even paying for a visa (it’s amazing how you can slaughter someone’s language and they love you for it) but quickly went downhill from there. After having to track down my luggage due to it being placed on the wrong ramp, apparently I came from Tehran so don’t tell the government, I walk out into airport to find that the taxi I had arranged to pick me up was not there. Mind you, this is the first time that the blond hair blue eyed white kid had ever felt like the minority, and it took awhile for me to collect my senses. Finally I arrange for another taxi to pick me up and take a seat to wait.

Sitting down a young man starts talking to me. I am still cursing myself because I never caught his name, but he lives in one of the upper class neighborhoods of Beirut. His father was a lawyer, and he could not have been older than I. As we start to talk between his chain smoking, he finds out that I am from America. Of course this brings up what America thinks of Lebanon, Hezbollah, and the general political stalemate that this country is facing. When the topic turns to war, he bluntly states “I believe there will be another war soon. Nobody wants it, but nobody can do anything about it.” The tone of that statement was of utter depression. It amazed me that the youth of a country, a country that had pulled through so much in the past nonetheless, could be so disenchanted. What will happen to his generation? He says already that most of his friends have gone abroad. In 20 years, what will be left of this country? The matter particularly hit home when I stepped outside of the airport and the first vehicle that caught my eye was the UN heavy Armored Personnel Carrier complete with .50 machine guns. I wanted to take a picture, the mountains behind it made it look like the APC was being used for a calendar shoot, but it was recommended that I refrain. It’s amazing how this place could be on the brink of collapse, and yet it is still one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen.

I Walked into Damascus! And My Sister Ripped My Heart Out!

2007-08-14T20:28:00.000+03:00

Mike

About two weeks back, on a spur of the moment decision, after a four hour delay in which our group had to leave Marium at the Syrian border, and almost getting cheated by the shadiest chauffer in the Middle East, I walked into Damascus!

For me, this was the first time I’ve felt international adventure. Amongst this group of globe trekkers and international posters, I feel pretty juvenile. But slowly I’m learning the ropes that I have to learn in order to travel this part of the world and reconnect with my identity.

As the sook (market) opened up, I caught my first glimpse of the Great Mosque of Damascus. I had studied this building in an Islamic Architecture course in Hanes Art Center, ironically, the same building where Nasser taught me the little Arabic that is helping sustain me here. We walked into the front of the courtyard:

My sister, cousin, and friend must have thought I was crazy because I just stopped, looked around and kept turning the full 360 degrees not saying a word. Maybe it was because I knew this buildings significance or maybe it’s because I tend to over think things, but to stand there in that 1300 yr old building brought all these new thoughts to the surface.

I realized this building was built at a time when Arabs and Muslims were at the forefront of intellectual thought: math, philosophy, politics, medicine, arts, sociology. A time when the so called “West” was defining itself in relation to the Middle East. A time when Europeans would have been proud to study at Arab universities! A time when Arabs/Muslims were united! A time when Arabs/Muslims were tolerant! A time when the people I descended from were the model! Where have we come and how did we get to today? At what point did we lose ourselves? Now in Amman, I can’t get away from Starbucks, McDonalds, Burger King, Hardees, and designer jeans! Now in Amman, a degree from an American university is worth more and pays more than a degree from Amman itself. What happened to my dishdash and kefeeyah? What happened to debkah?

I consider myself fortunate to have been able to stand in front to the tomb of Salahuddin and realize that we have our own heroes! I’ll never take anything away from the great accomplishments of Abraham Lincoln or George Washington, but it’s refreshing to know that I have my own heroes, my own history, my own identity. Why are all the Arabs asleep here? I’m very happy for David Beckham, but seriously! Wake UP!

As we walked back to the hotel room from the historical site, it was getting pretty dark. Over a busy street in Damascus that we had to cross, there is a bridge that allows you to cross after first ascending about 25 steps on either side. The overcrowding of this city makes climbing these steps quite a task, even on foot. As we got to the top and began to cross, I passed by this old man in dirty, tattered clothes sitting next to the concrete rail. His face was grimy and had probably not seen a razor blade in months. He was missing the bottom portion of his left leg and he had metal rods bracing both sides of the remaining section of thigh. He was sitting there, head on the concrete, not saying a word. One hand open on his lap, as hundreds of people, including myself, passed him by emotionless. My sister grabbed my shirt as I passed him and asked me for my wallet. I said her name in a kind of way that brothers do when they are trying to be condescending. Softly but sternly she said “give me your wallet!” I took out all the money I had in my pockets (saving my wallet because I knew we needed it) and gave it to her. She went over to the old man and put the money in his hand, gave him a pat on the shoulder, and said “God Bless You” in Arabic. After we descended the steps, I was reflecting on what had just happened and felt bad that I didn’t feel for him. I’m an American: pampered, shelter, spoiled, and free. I looked over at my sister and tears were streaming down her cheeks but she was trying not to cry. I put my hand on shoulder and again said her name in a way to imply “Come on? Are you serious?” I was just trying to make her feel better. Without looking at me she said, “It must have been so hard for him to make it up those steps” I can honestly say with those words she ripped my heart out and fed it to me. I looked away and kept my eyes open so the tears would run into my nose and no one would notice me cry. I couldn’t help but ask myself where is Islam? I came here, the Middle East, knowing I would be surrounded by Muslims and the site of the faith’s inception. This can’t be Islam! What have we forgotten?

In a single day, from a 1300 yr old building built at a time when Arabs pioneered thought, to a homeless Syrian man that seems to have been passed by everyone except my sister, I started to realize that Arabs have forgotten almost everything.

It was the first time, I walked in Damascus!

Welcome to Amman

2007-08-09T16:31:00.000+03:00

Mike

Okay guys this post is about 2 weeks over due, but I had a really hard time getting away from the family to actually post it. Here we go:

Wow! I’m only using the word “wow” because they have not created a word yet to describe my reaction to my first few days in Amman. There is so much to tell I’m not sure where to begin, but I’ll do my best to keep it brief. I guess it would be fitting to start where I left off.

As I finally walked out of the exit of the most disorganized baggage claim I’ve ever experienced, I heard a loud cheering coming from the center of the throngs of people standing there waiting for their loved ones. Now you have to understand, I had just traveled for over 35 hours with medicinally suppressed vertigo (on a plane…ehh). Within seconds of hearing the cheers, I was surrounded by those very people. If you can try to picture the scene: these people who I would come to know as my family, took my heavy bags right off my shoulders. I’m not sure if I can explain this in a way that would truly capture the emotion of the instant, but within moments I was receiving hugs, kisses, people touching my face and hair as if I was that cute five yr old that left 17 yrs ago! I believe that the truest sense of the word “catharsis” may be the word I’m searching for, but in all sincerity what I experienced is enough to bring any grown man to tears! I’m not going to go into the specifics of how after I was able to breath again, I was whisked away to the closest shawarma shop, but I did just want to mention that they (my family :)~ followed it up with something even better: After 17 years, I swallowed my first bite of Nablus style Kanefe! Oh and one more thing for any of you who read my last post, it happened just as I told you in my last post: My cousin Mahmoud gave me one of the strongest embraces I’ve ever known in my life.

My first impressions of Amman:

For someone such as myself who is not yet so well traveled, the culture shock is pretty profound. We take so much for granted in the United States. It’s truly a shame. The first thing that comes to mind is water. Good ole H2O! Water conservation is a joke in the United States. These guys (I’m staying with my mom’s oldest brother) get water pumped to their house only one day a week. They have to fill up their tank that day. After that if they use up all the water they have to wait until the next time the city pumps water!

The way people speak to each other here is very peculiar to me, and this can only be understood if you have a mild to medium understanding of the Arabic language. Unlike America, the gap between the rich and poor is very huge as well as the actual amount of people in the middle class is more limited than in the States. Jordan is not a poor country by any stretch of the imagination. In fact I’ve seen some houses (referred to here as palaces and villas) that are quite a rarity in the America, in terms of their grandeur and architectural style. But what I mean is that while the rich are excessively rich, most are either poor or strapped for cash. So when two people are speaking to each other (i.e. a taxi driver and passenger) they are doing this sort of dance with words. It doesn’t translate well and it especially happens when the conversation is about money but a conversation might end with this kind of back and forth:

“May God keep you for your kids”

“May God keep you for you kid’s kids, even”

“We are very happy to have met you”

“We are even happier”

It’s very off the cuff, and really funny to observe this because actually each person is trying to get more out of the other, but if you didn’t know you would think man, these people really love each other. Arabic sweet talking! In Arabic they call it Moo-Ja-Mal-At. There’s nothing like it!

Re: In the Name of Religion

2007-08-09T06:30:00.001+03:00

maryam

*This originally started as a response to Mariam's post below but when i reached a page I decided that I should continue as a post even though I'm not in the Middle East at the present moment*

Mariam I read your post after a very long day of RA (resident advisor) training here in Chapel Hill. I'm tired from only four hours of sleep but with loads of still unfinished work on how to make sure my residents feel a sense of community.

and I'm crying.

It isn't sadness or even joy. Neither frustration nor anger.

It is catharsis.

Out of a staff of around 215 students who are resident advisers, only 4 are Muslim. This number itself seems large to me. But out of these 4 Muslims (all of them are my friends) I am the only one that is colorfully visibly Muslim when looking down at the packed auditorium. Those who know me know it helps that I'm also very loud and opinionated. :)

I sit in that auditorium happy about my hiring. I feel like a breakthrough has been made (though I don't know how accurate that is) for Muslim activism on Campus, or more bluntly, in regular life.

Everyday though I tire more and more from my battle to prove myself. All because of my hijab.

I feel the need to prove that I am not a stereotypical hijab wearing woman. I feel the need to completely break that stereotype. I am no longer only Maryam. I am now The Muslim Woman.

I am loud to prove that we are not quiet.

I am a leader to prove that we are not subservient.

I am smart to prove that we are not uneducated.

I am wise to prove that we are not ignorant.

And while I am proud that I can prove these things to the world, it is not why I wore the scarf.

I started wearing a scarf when I was 8 and by the time I was 10, I was abiding by hijab. It may seem extreme I know but it was completely by choice. My dad even tried to talk me out of it.
See my childhood was not ideal. It was hard. It was hurtful. It was lonely. It was sad. But through that, the innocence of my childhood shined. Accepting pain and hurt I connected to joy and happiness through God. He was the bigger picture. He was the one who would prove to me in the end that my suffering would not be in vain. He loved me, this caring God, loved me more than I could imagine all the people in my life put together. In my child's mind, the hijab felt like a big, warm, and loving hug from God. He felt like a father to me. A second parent.

So I would do anything for the only love I felt I had. To me it was worth the deepest sacrifices.

But all I had to do was abide by hijab. A partition.

That’s it? I thought. All this love from God and all I have to do is abide by a few simple rules?

You see, my upbringing made me realize from a very early age the scarcity but extreme importance of love.

And I accepted the hijab with a full, open, loving heart.

From that moment as a child to this very day my philosophy in life has always been one of self-responsibility.

It is not what life brings to you, but what you bring to life.

Each and every day I continue in this quest to discover what I can bring to life.

And if through the hijab I can break down of stereotypes to these 215 Resident Advisers this week then maybe I will have brought something to life.

But I need to remember why I first wore it.

Remember the eternal love that I can never lose.

Remember my gratefulness for this love.

Remember God.

In the Name of Religion

2007-08-08T15:24:00.000+03:00

Marium

The Hijab has always been a symbol of religion for me. I admire my friends who wear it and wish that I had the determination to wear it as they do.

I have never felt the "need" to wear it. I believe that I can be modest without it. I believe that religion is inward. And outward..but a lot more inward for me.

When entering a mosque, tombs of Prophets and holy places in Islam, one is required to wear a scarf on one's head as it signifies respect and modesty.

And in the House of God and the resting places of Prophets, I believe, as others do, that the hijab is a necessity.

Now, I'm sure there are some who agree with my opinion on the hijab and some who don't.

But this is not a blog about the hijab or its place in Islam.

Its about the hijab and its place in my life.
And in Israel.

It was Sarah and I that got to taste the difference that religion can make in one's life in Israel. Especially in a place like Hebron.

Hebron is the final resting place of Abraham or Ibrahim and his wife Sarah, Isaac and Rebecca and Joseph.

Sarah, Sam and I decided to visit their tomb after we spent the day in Ramallah.

We got to Hebron at 6 p.m. and the tomb was closed to everyone except Muslims and Jews.

After convincing the guard at the gate for the Muslim side of the tomb of my "Muslim-ness" I was allowed into the Muslim side.

I walked up to the door leading to the tomb and was stopped by two young Israeli guards. I fixed my green hijab on my head and stared at them for a second.

“Where are you from?” they asked.

Pakistan.

Without a word I was let into the tomb.

It wasn't peaceful in there.

I didn't feel peace in resting place of Abraham, the father of Judaism and the Prophet that built the Ka'aba in Mecca, the holiest place in Islam.

There was an eerie kind of solitude. I peered into the tomb of Sarah and said a prayer. Walking towards the grave of Abraham, I was stopped by a man who took it upon himself to explain to me who and where each Prophet was.

He pointed to a closed door and told me that the grave of Joseph lay behind it.
“Is it not open to Muslims?” I asked, since Joseph is an important Prophet in Islam as well.

No, he said. It was part of the Jewish side of the tomb. There was a time when it was open. When Muslims and Jews mingled and prayed separately but in unison. That was before a man from the Jewish side came to the Muslim side and killed 29 Muslims.

While they were praying.

Ask a Muslim: Who is Abraham?
He is a Muslim. Obviously

Ask a Jew: Who is Abraham?
He is a Jew. Obviously

It wasn't that obvious in the tomb.

I reached up and grabbed the railings of the window that looked into the grave of Abraham. It is a large oval and rectangular shaped coffin with a green, rich cloth covering it.

It was sprinkled with words in Arabic. I read the name of Muhammad and the verses from the Quran.
I said a prayer and looked up to see my friend Sarah's face peering into the room from the other side. I yelled her name.

She didn't hear me.

I yelled out to her again.

And our eyes met.

and I felt the divide.

There stood one of my favorite people in the world. And I couldn't share this moment with her.

We silently looked at each other.

The Muslim and the Jew with a Prophet in the middle.

Is he mine? Or is he hers?

Does it even matter?

I walked out of the Muslim side to meet Sarah and Sam. I didn't take off my hijab as I walked down to the Palestinian shops where Sarah and Sam stood.

We met a Palestinian man, Jamal who said he would show us a birds eye view of Hebron from the roof of his apartment building. We agreed to go with him and as we walked towards his house, Sarah and I went on the main road.

Jamal and Sam walked off to the side road which was cut off by road blocks.

"She's Muslim, she's Muslim, she's Muslim," said an Israeli soldier to another as he poked him with the butt of his gun.

"Yes I am," I said.

"You can't go in there," he said pointing to the Jewish part of town.

Why not, I asked.

You're not Jewish.

Okay but I'm American.

Doesn't matter. You're not Jewish.

There was a fork in the road. I stood in the middle of it as these two guards told me where I could go and where I couldn't.

One side led to the Jewish part of town. One to the Muslim. and all that separated them was a couple of meters and two guards.

Sarah was allowed into the Muslim side but I was not allowed into the Jewish side. We walked over to the Muslim side.

After talking with our Palestinian friend, we headed back to the streets and to a bus stop. My hijab was still glued onto my head.

Two buses went by and didn't stop.

Our Palestinian friend didn't know why.

There was a group of soldiers that stood across from us, from what seemed to be a checkpoint into the Muslim side of town.

We saw boys, old men, women enter the checkpoint and stared as they were searched.

The first bus went by. And then another.

I wondered: Is this because of my hijab?

We asked Jamal and he said it might be.

I refused to take it off.

No way.

The hijab isn't and wasn't a part of my identity. So why did I feel the need to wear it here? I refused to take it off. And I don't exactly know why. All I know is that I refused to be discriminated against based on my religion.

No.

It wasn't right and I wasn't going to give in.

I was not going to take the hijab off.

We waited and soon a group of 4 to 5 Israeli soldiers walked towards us.

I held my head high. My head covered with a green hijab.

I didn't smile.

But they did.

What's the matter, they asked. We told them we were trying to get a bus but it wouldn't stop.

They offered to stop one for us.

And they did. As soon as a bus went by, they stopped it and said something to the driver in Hebrew. We got on the bus and were on our way back to Jerusalem.

I'm not going to talk about the Israeli bus ride or the Jewish settlements we passed by.
The little green towns, people walking dogs, old women sitting on benches and children playing in parks.
I won't talk about the big train/bus station we were dropped off at or the woman who stared at me for at least half an hour on the bus.

This post is about identity as most of my posts are.

It's hard to deal with, the problem with identity and where it fits into our lives. And it gets harder everyday.

It bites at me as I leave the mosque, hide in a dark alley and take off my hijab.

It awakens when someone asks me what religion I am, what nationality.

Wearing a hijab is proclaiming that your identity is what you look like. You look Muslim, therefore it seems to be a big part of who you state you are.

Without a hijab, you merge into a crowd, faceless and unimportant.

You do not wear your identity.

And that in itself is a blessing. Especially in a country like Israel that is divided by nationalist and religious lines.

But in Hebron, it is not about nationality. It is just about religion.

I can now understand why some women would decide to wear the hijab for political reasons. It is a theory that has floated around the world as more women started wearing the hijab after 9/11. Some analysts have argued that more women started wearing the hijab after 9/11 to support their religion as they felt it was a religion that was under attack.

As Amin Maalouf explains in his book, “In the Name of Identity,” we as humans tend to cling to the identity that we feel is under attack.

Islam was/is under “attack,” so wearing the hijab signifies support for it.

I understand that.

Because if you are going to be prejudiced based on my religion. So be it.

I wear my religion and I wear it proud.

As I write this, I am sitting in an Israeli coffee shop in the New city in West Jerusalem.

I came here right after I went for the afternoon prayer to the mosque. I left the mosque with my hijab on my head and entered the coffee shop with my hair in a bun and my hijab in my bag.

I've heard stories about girls not being let into Israeli shops because they wear the hijab.

And I wanted to try and see whether the same thing would happen to me.

Would they stop me at the door if I was wearing a hijab?

Would I take it off if they told me I couldn't go in?

Or would they surprise me with a smile. And help me get to where I have to go?

Israel is a country of contradictions. A country where you expect interrogation and are given a smile in return.

Its a place where I see guns, a separation wall, inequality and discrimination. But it is also a place where an Israeli rabbi says to me that God is one; Muslims and Jews are one.

If we are one, why do we need walls?

I look around this new city and see children in baby carriages, soldiers with guns talking on cell phones, iced lattes and Mercedes'.

Life doesn't seem so bad. Until you remember that the coffee shop you are sitting in was probably once the home of a Palestinian. A Palestinian who probably still has the keys to his house. A house that no longer exists.

In its place is a coffee shop where I sit sipping an iced latte, my head uncovered and no one questions my right to be here.

An idea for Bashar's next poster

2007-08-03T15:48:00.000+03:00

sam

Friends,

In a misguided attempt to promote readership on the blog, I promised to include a Will Ferrell reference in each of my posts.

I've failed miserably. But here is my attempt to make amends.

Does anyone else notice a likeness between "I think the camera caught him by surprise on this one" King Abdullah and a certain American actor well known for running around in his underwear? Well, if you never noticed it before, all you have to do is turn around (or just scroll down).

"I think the camera caught him by surprise on this one" Will Ferrell from Old School, care of the incomparable Joey Dolbee.

I've been bashing Syrian President Bashar Al-Assad for the lack of variety in his nationalist iconography. But I think it's safe to say that he could redeem himself with one shot like this.

If not, I can only think of one other image that could make up for all of his seriousness and Jean Claude Van Damme grimmaces. More cowbell and a giggling Jimmy Fallon figure prominently in it.

Pick a Border, Pick an Identity.

2007-08-03T15:23:00.000+03:00

Marium

It was 4 AM when we got to the Syrian border. I was with Mike Mallah, his sister, cousin and his friend. Four Jordanians and a Pakistani.
American.

I exited Jordan with my American passport and nervously entered the Syrian border security with my American passport carefully tucked away in my wallet, with my green Pakistani passport in my hand.

"Pakistani?" the tall syrian asked.

"Yes."

It was a reunion. A happy one. Syrians love Pakistanis apparently. They especially love the ones that speak broken Arabic.

"How long for a visa?" I asked.

The Syrian smiled and waved his hand.

Five minutes.

I glanced over at my Jordanian friends who were still in line.
Could it be? Could I really enter Syria without letting them know that I also had a blue passport?

Five syrian soldiers crowded around the window. A thin glass window seperated me and a group of Syrians. I felt warm, welcome and if there had been no window, I would have even expected a hug.

Yalla Ya Pakistan, they exclaimed.

"Where is your exit stamp from Jordan?"

Oh no. My heart dropped. I smiled. Gingerly taking out my American passport, I handed it to the Syrian and said, "Here."

Silence.

He took my Pakistani passport and threw it at the window.

"You are American."

It wasn't a question.

No. I'm Pakistani. I'm not American. I dont live in America. My family lives in Pakistan. We might be going for Umrah (the smaller Hajj) in Ramadan to Saudi Arabia. I am Muslim. I am Pakistani.

"You are American."

"How long for a visa?" The American Pakistani asked.

"We dont know. Possibly 6 hours. 7 hours. 8. A day. Two days. Damascus has to give us clearance."

"How long for a visa?" the Pakistani had asked 5 minutes before.

"Five minutes."

I decided to wait for the visa. I watched as my American passport was put aside, forgotten and my Pakistani was given back to me.

I waited for 2 hours. I got up and went to the window that said "foreigners" and asked for my passport. I decided to go back to Amman. It wasn't worth it.

"Wait," the sympathetic Syrian said, "just wait a little while longer."

Im Pakistani, I told him. Im American, I told him. Im not shit, I told him.
Give me back my passport.

The cab driver who was driving me back to Amman asked me where I was from.

I am American, I replied.

Tomorrow I am going to Israel. I've been there before. Last year I was at the border for a very, very long time.

"You're Pakistani?" the Israelis asked.

"Im American," I said, "I'm not Pakistani."

I live in America. My family lives in America. I've come to see Jerusalem. I know very few Pakistanis. I dont live in Pakistan. I am American.

"How long will it take?" I asked the Israelis.
"We dont know. 6 hours, 7 hours, a day. We dont know."

But I'm American.

"You were born in a terrorist country." they replied.

Im American. Not Pakistani.
Im Pakistani. Not American.
In this world I can't be both.
Pick one.
Or just lie.

(about more than football)

2007-08-02T14:44:00.000+03:00

sam

I wrote earlier about Iraq's victory in the quarterfinals of the Asia Cup and since then the side's success has continued.

As a result, last Sunday sweat dripped down my nose and I looked forward to the oscillating fan's next turn to my side of the room in a packed Aleppo cafe. The championship grudge match between Iraq and Saudi was about to begin.

If the crowd's loyalties were ever in doubt, the first few runs up the pitch removed it. A man in the front row uttered a guttural "helwa," literally meaning sweet, every time the Iraqis made an auspicious move. The rest of the cafe followed his lead, exhorting the Iraqis to pass the ball more precisely, run faster, and reach out their arms farther. The instructions provided to the Saudis mostly contained a message of, as Woody Allen once said, "'be fruitful and multiply' but not in those words."

There was a certain electricity in the room, even when the actual electricity briefly went out during the second half. Young men sat arm-in-arm on the edge of their seats and a constant stream of passerby poked their head in the door for score updates, which for a while consisted of "siphr, siphr," 0-0. At least until the Iraqis broke the gridlock in the second half with a header by Younes Mahmoud. Even "helwa" man in the front row was inaudible amidst the roar that marked the score. Traffic in the streets literally stopped.

The final minutes were tense, with the Saudis managing a few stoppage time attempts on goal.

But as the final whistle sounded, the celebration was on.

Honking cab drivers conceded the road to revelers as they marched to Aleppo's main square, waving the Iraqi flag and shouting for joy.

In the marble square Syrians and Iraqi refugees alike continued the celebration, which occurred, naturally, under the watchful eye of Bashar Al-Assad and other Syrian nationalist imagery.

(Bashar is always watching, this time from a lamp post)

Finally the crowd of merrymakers, ringed by a greater crowd of merrymaker-documenters armed with cell phones and cameras, gathered underneath a martyrs statue of some sort. Chants ensued as did political rhetoric, reminding us of the intricate connection between the ritual of sport and the political undercurrents of everyday life.

(Iraqi flag wavers beneath a billboard featuring the Syrian borders outlining a collage of Syrian flag wavers)

Proving, I suppose, that all politics are local, the first speeches praised Bashar (I wonder if Bashar had hired these guys to do it -- or maybe it was just his affinity for conservative suits and neckties that generated the outpouring of support). Israel and Hassan Nasrallah quickly followed. Finally they mentioned Iraq, this time in an iteration of "bidam, birooh, nifdayak ya iraq" with blood, with spirit, we will redeem you Iraq and only after that did America come up. At this point conspicuous American with camera and disgustingly sweat stained shirt made his way to the edge of the celebration.

But that didn't keep me from thinking about the larger implications of the day's events. Among them, how many people would die in Baghdad as a result of the team's success. Bombers had targeted the large celebrations after the team's victory in the semifinals and celebratory gunfire took even more lives. Sunday's victory didn't prove to be an exception.

More broadly, I think we are seeing Iraq becoming similar to Palestine as a lightning rod issue sure to elicit sympathy beyond the bounds of the narrow nation-state identity. Though Arab nationalism might be dying, breath still remains, symbolized by the black, green, and red of pan-Arabism still present in most flags. Even in Amman, where the Saudis have traditionally held a monopoly on street celebrations (I spoke with an Iraqi about this and he joked that since they don't work, waving the Saudi flag out the window of German luxury cars while rhythmically honking is all they can do to pass the time), Iraqis filled the streets.

The question for me is whether support of Iraq represents an act of personal-identity projection. That is, what does waving the Iraqi flag mean for a Syrian or a Jordanian? Does she or he view it as an act of solidarity with an embattled nation? An act of resistance against an occupying hegemon? Requiem for a powerful Sunni Arab state? How does this differ for an Iraqi Sunni or Shi'i? These acts of national imagination all rely on particular personal resonance.

Much is made of the unifying power of the football team's run to the championship. The archetypal image of this has been the fluttering Iraqi flag, symbolizing the unity of Kurds, Chaldeans, Turkomen, Sunni, and Shi'a. But if waving the flag represents something completely different for different groups, does the notion of a unified state hold?

I don't know. I suppose it is inevitable that different groups will understand ideas and the symbols that represent them in different ways.

But the most important point here is security, again underscored by the vehicle bans put in place in the capital before the final as well as the Captain Younes Mahmoud's concerns about security in Baghdad.

Away from the solidarity expressed by the regional celebrations, it seems the Asia Cup has provided Iraqis with a brief, if joyous, distraction from everyday life. But the point is that the currents and themes displayed within these celebrations - regional support of the Iraqi "idea," the prevalence of identity in expressions of national belonging - will remain absolutely essential components of the political and the human aspects of life in Iraq and within the region.

it's cold outside

2007-08-02T13:48:00.000+03:00

sam

Friends,

You thought you were rid of me. But I'm back with a rant for your pleasure.

Many things have changed since my last post. For one, I’ve single handedly depleted Syria of its supplies of cherry kebabs and smoothies. That's not true. But I did my darnedest.

More ominously and certainly less deliciously, the Bush administration is, according to Columbia academic Gary Sick, engaging in martial arts with Iran, effectively signalling the start of a new Cold War. With a $ 20 billion (that’s right, with a b) arms deal, the United States has thrown its support behind (or, more accurately, increased it support of) conservative Arab regimes and Israel against the Iranian government.

The geo-political calculations behind this strategic decision are many, but one way to examine it is in the context of Mr. Bush’s foreign policy experts. Heralded as the Vulcans when Bush entered office, these men and women had cut their teeth in the waning days of the Cold War, when, depending on the source, America defeated the "Evil Empire" or a weak state-without-a-nation completed its slow motion collapse. Creating the familiar paradigm of moral clarity embodied by the former scenario seems to loom large in the thinking of Bush's foreign policy team. Remember the Long War?

But the differing nature of Al-Qaeda’s threat - as a non-state entity - threw a wrench into these formulations and they pulled a Gatsby (“Can’t repeat the past? Why of course you can.”), seeking a return to wars with discrete nation states. See Iraq and, as it seems now, Iran, where the threat of a country with an economy smaller than that of the great state of Illinois seems to warrant dumping $20 billion worth (again, with a b) of arms into the region.

Where will these arms be in ten years? Who will they be pointed at? Which mothers, fathers, sons, or daughters will be killed by them?

Who is complicit?

If they’d read to the end of Gatsby (you and i both know that Mr. Bush never attended his American lit course at Yale, but I expected more from Ms. Rice) and learned about “what preyed upon him, what foul dust floated in his wake,” they may have known better.

Or they could have just listened to Lonnie Rashid Lynn, Jr., aka one of Chicago’s finest MCs, aka Common, aka Common Sense, who would have told them, “It ain’t ’94 (’84) Joe, we can’t go back.”

Or they could have consulted the millions of human beings (largely in the third world) for whom the Cold War wasn’t so mercifully cold. But I suppose they're not around to say anything.

So it's back to business as usual, leaving some to wonder why we fight.

Are you listening MPAC?

2007-08-01T15:51:00.000+03:00

Matt

Hello Good People,

I had a striking, nay stunning, realization the other day which undoubtedly merits sharing with you, the countless loyal readers of this blog. Adel, one of my Arabic teachers here in Cairo, recently had a beautiful baby boy (ma sha Allah!) by the name of Jaleel. When he mentioned the name, I didn't think much of it then, but it was impossible to shake the feeling that I already knew someone by that name.

Now by and large the vast majority of men in Cairo are named Muhammad or Ahmad which makes the phonebook in my cell phone a nightmare. The other day when I sat down for chess, there were 4 Muhammad's, 1 Ahmad, and a Rafeeq. Needless to say, last names are a must in this city. But I digress.

For whatever reason I kept mulling over the name Jaleel, until it hit me. There is only one other person in the world I know with that name: Steven Q. Urkel, star of the 1990's sitcom Family Matters and icon for all those kids who grew up watching TGIF on ABC, was played by Jaleel White.

A follow-up question came to mind. Was Steve Urkel Muslim? A little bit of legitimate research later (read Wikipedia) and the answer turned out to be yes. Who knew?

Perhaps I should prepare a letter to the Muslim Public Affairs Council giving my highest recommendation that Jaleel White become their new spokesman. Such a figure so ingrained in the television consciousness of America is sure to make inroads in inter-religious dialogue. Brilliant!

Thanks for reading.

Comments from Others about the Blog

2007-07-31T05:01:00.000+03:00

(Lauren) Jill, Chapel Hill 30 July, 2007

Just yesterday I made reference in passing about this blog to a list I'm on, a list comprised mainly of single Episcopalians, age: post baccalaureate on up. Here are some responses:

"The web site is a gift. How much we need some stories from the Middle East that encourage greater understanding. I have taken to watching Iranian films and had to face the fact that I had no images of family life in Iran. So the site makes things less inscrutable."

"I think it is wonderful that you are following your passion, Lauren Jill. It is so important to learn about other cultures and to meet people from other parts of the world. The more we know and understand others the better the chance for peace, I think. Here's to meeting in 2008 and listening to the stories."

Since Lauren Jill provided a web site -- we could read over the year. Love to hear about ... family life in these countries that are foreign to me. We are all God's children and we need to know that ... Lauren, it sounds like a single life -- far different than I ever imagined."

Context: the organization, Solo Flight, has an annual conference Labor Day weekend in the mountains outside Asheville [N.C.]. Interestingly, this year's theme is "On Pilgrimage." Pilgrimage is held in esteem by various religions. And I think that the Tar Heel Travelers are largely on informal pilgrimages.

I decided not to go to this year's Solo Flight conference because my close Cairene friends (a couple with children aged 2 and 4) arrive Aug. 29, stay with me before they move into an unfurnished apartment, and they don't drive. They are here for 9 months while she does a Fulbright and he does post-doc studies (both are on the faculty at Cairo University). I want to be here to help them get set up.

One person on the list asked me about music in Egypt. I will tell her that there is such incredible musical literacy, ability, and activity there. I heard so much music making: people (largely non-professionals) who sang and played with talent and knowledge and skill. And I have also heard this in areas outside Cairo. Music seems to be more a part of their lives than in the States; it includes a broader spectrum of music, including, of course, popular music. It seems to me that somehow the U.S. has gotten away from shared musical consciousness and involvement, something we had a couple of generations ago. And in this country I perceive a split between "professional" and "non-professional" (and I was a professional for years). There, as I think is true in some European countries, music and music-making just "is" and is for anyone who wants to be be involved.

Anyway, my sharing of perceptions of this wonderful blog.

Anyway, peace and adventures be yours. Duktor Nasser sounds great, from my occasional contacts with him.

My First Time in the Middle East, for the Second Time in My Life

2007-07-29T19:33:00.000+03:00

Mohanned

First of all, I’m going to give the disclaimer that I would normally have given had we had a discussion in real life. Disclaimer: I don’t think I possess a mastery of articulation in writing, but I hope anyone reading this will appreciate the effort in trying to capture my experience. This will be my first post on the blog, and I’m actually writing it at over 30,000 ft above sea level.

I’m on a British Airways flight from London’s Heathrow to Amman, Jordan, where I’ll be meeting my family for pretty much the first time in my life. The actual trip itself from Chapel Hill to Amman started off as a disaster. After having planned everything to a T, and made all my travel arrangements, I was standing up an hour before leaving time when all of a sudden the room started to swirl around me and I hit the floor. About 5 hours later, needless to say missing my bus to JFK, I was being diagnosed with a case of Acute Peripheral Vertigo in the emergency room. But! To make a long story short, thanks to an extra $250 and my will power, Jesus, Allah, Buddha, George W. or whoever it is you believe in, here I am now flying over the English Channel. Within 4 hours I will be touching down in Amman.

When I get off this plane, a guy who I’ve never met before is going to give me one of the most adoring embraces I’ve known in my life. His name is Mahmood, and apparently he is my cousin. Trying to explain what that feels like in words is a talent that evades me. He is actually only one of the over 30 cousins I have on my mom’s side alone, and I’m ashamed to say that I don’t know any of them. Honestly, how do you deal with that? With that sense of loss of identity? I’m flying back into the heart of the Middle East, as a Middle Eastern, who can only speak a broken Arabic hybrid of ammiyah and Fusha (compliments of Nasser). I’m flying back to the Middle East, and I feel like I’m going to a foreign country!

I’m so grateful for the ability to make this journey into the land of my origin, but it’s hard not to be frustrated at the past and the power structures that prevented me from making this trip sooner. (For those of you who don’t know, I just recently, after 17 years of living and paying taxes in the US, received my Green Card from the United States Immigration Services, and with that the ability to leave and re-enter the country) I have a general understanding of globalization, boarder security, and the greater context of “terrorism”, but it still doesn’t alleviate me from feeling so small at the edge of it all. If at any point in my immigration process someone had just taken the few minutes to listen to my case, it wouldn’t have to have been 17 yrs before I got the chance to meet my family. And now that I’m finally over that giant hurdle in my life, my heart goes out to the people still trapped in that system.

I’ve come to be very proud of my identity, very proud to be American and Arab, both simultaneously. I’ve always known what it is to be American. Hopefully after this trip I can look into the mirror and have more than just an Arab exterior staring back at me. Hopefully Jordan will fill in that outer Arab shell with a little bit of context.

I don’t know what awaits me in Jordan. On the itinerary aside form the obvious, meeting my family (who says that?), is a trip to Petra, a planned trip to Damascus with Marium and who ever else we can con into going, eating nauseating amounts of Nablus style Kanefe, the same as the previous for shawarma, and picking up a wife (hahhaahaha yeah RIGHT!) Until the next post, this is AnArabiaNight saying Ma’assalaama!

The Battle for my Heart

2007-07-25T01:06:00.000+03:00

Marium

Ok so here are some random thoughts that I was contemplating while sitting at a restaurant on the corniche of the Nile with two of my friends.
I leave Cairo on Thursday to go to Luxor and then leave for Amman on Monday.
Man, Time flies. The summer is over and I feel like I just got here.
What is it about Cairo that makes time fly, memories become a blur and days become seconds?
I reflect on my summer in Amman last year and remember thinking that the summer was short, but it was not as short as this one.

Amman was my first love. It was the place where I first fell in love with sheesha and falafel, learnt how to pack tobacco in a sheesha, bought three...well the list goes on.
Amman was also the place where I met the best of people. Practiced my faltering arabic, got laughed at for speaking Fusa (Modern Standard Arabic) and perfected my bargaining skills. And got the perfect haircut.

I will never forget Amman.

But I never imagined that I would even think about replacing my favorite city in the Middle East from Amman to Cairo.

Cairo was too much to swallow when I first came here.

There was just too much going on. It was hard to think in Cairo.

But there was never a dull moment. Concerts, plays, crazy incidents, demonstrations, elections. You name it, Cairo had it going on. In contrast, as Sam so eloquently shows us in his pictures and blogs, Amman was and is pretty much about the royal family. And Oprah. And Dr. Phil.

Oh yeah. I watched a lot of Oprah and Dr. Phil in Amman.

But I don't think I have watched tv for a day in Cairo. There was no need to. Drama and sex, comedy and action, thriller and romance floats in the air of Cairo.

For example, tonight as we sat in this really nice restaurant, listening to a jazz version of ABBA's dancing queen, in walked a girl in a white satin tutu.
Yes, an actual tutu.
It was a spaghetti strap dress, splungingly designed to show off her new, plastic assets, with net hearts with gold sequins adorning her thin waist and a poof of fluff at her knees. She sashayed in wearing a wreath of white daisies in her hair and makeup that would put Marilyn Manson to shame.
She looked like a plastic version of Cleopatra.
She frolicked over to the table next to us with two overweight men and an older woman in a red t shirt and jeans, who was constantly on her phone.
The conspiracy theories about the white dress and its symbolism started to spin.
My friend and I concluded that she was part of an escort service that catered to Gulfi men who desired women in white and the older woman in red was the queen mother of this business. Thats putting in more eloquent words than what we were saying.
After conspiring for 10 minutes, my friend decided to go and ask. It seemed like the most logical thing to do. She asked what the special occasion was for such a lovely dress and the woman replied that she had just gotten engaged and they were out celebrating.
What? Two men? A woman in a tutu? And one in jeans and a red T?
We thought not. But as ABBA crooned about dancing queens and we discarded theory after theory, I thought:

Man, there's always something on in Cairo. And I think I have a different story for everyday.

For example or rather examples, take the Egyptian Taliban taxi driver who animatedly talked about his travels in the north of Pakistan while reciting verses of the Quran and took surreptitious glances at my American friends.
Or the little 6 year old boy who held my hand and told me that Muslim girls should cover their hair and maybe it was okay that I didn't cuz people in Pakistan did not.
Or the crazy french hairdresser who told me that I should not get BUNGS (bangs) because I did not like to dress up my HAAR (hair).
Or drinking tea with grave diggers sitting next to graves, smiling and shaking your head at bedouins as they offer you "cigarettes."
And walking down dark alleys in the shady part of town and finding a little store with boys playing video games and marvelling as the man in the store tells you that the wall you are leaning on is from the Mamluk dynasty.

Yes, Egypt is an enigma. She is the Nile, the pyramids and the people asking for baksheesh (tip) for handing you toilet paper in the bathroom.
Yes, she is Days of our lives, Desperate Housewives and Egypts next top model all meshed into one.

And I don't know if Amman will be able to compare anymore.

Perhaps, I'll find out next week when I head to Amman. But for now, I think I have given my heart to the Mother of the World.

So fickle.

The Visual Culture of Jordanian Municipal Elections

2007-07-24T18:21:00.000+03:00

sam

As the throngs of loyal THT readers are well aware, I like to look at pictures, symbols, and signs – visual culture – and make sort of far flung inferences from them. You may laugh, but my advisor suggests this is the best way to become a real life Robert Langdon…

But all hopes of becoming a man who overcame albino assassins, millenia old conspiracies, and clunky prose to get Tom Hanks a mullet aside, upcoming municipal elections in Jordan have graciously provided some interesting material.

White banners with colorful calligraphy convey candidates’ information, stretching across chaotic roads that strike fear into the hearts of some observers.

Some of these banners contain a surprising amount of information. The details spicing up this Salti (unfortunately when I visited this time I wasn't told I would burn in hell) candidates’ banner include his nickname and phone number. (If you'd like more information about Abu Yasser, please call 077 776 7661)

In addition to banners, a number of posters have sprung up, covering walls, street lights, bus shelters, and, really, any available edifice.

Although they are certainly widespread, I’m a little disappointed with the images. They might even be more boring than Bashar al-Assad’s posters.

I suppose on the one hand the uniformity might be a good thing. It protects the integrity of the political poster, preventing its facebook-ization (Look where I’ve been! Look, I have my shirt off! Look, I’m upper middle class and I’m making a symbol with my hands that could be construed as a gang sign!).

More importantly, it ensures that people vote based on qualifications rather than photos. Although I’ll say this right now: I only vote for windsurfers.
The political posters have also exponentially increased the number of mustachioed man pictures I see everyday, which is always a good thing. Though facial hair seems to be a hindrance to attaining public office in the United States (apparently Benjamin Harrison was the last bearded president) , it is obligatory in Jordan.

That's not really true -- that would disenfranchise all those who can't grow facial hair, meaning women and myself.

At any rate, the Jordanian government is doing more than handing out fake mustaches to promote women in municipal government posts. Women - more than 500 of whom expressed their intention in candidacy - will occupy at least 20% of the country's municipal seats, according to Parliament's Municipalities Law which was passed earlier this year.
The Jordanian National Commision for Women (JNCW) is spearheading a campaign to publicize women's candidacies. In 2003, only 5 of 46 women running were elected, with the government appointing nearly one hundred to offset the shortcoming.

Some of the promotional material takes an approach to gender justice that might surprise some westerners. Pamphlets and posters carried slogans like “You (men) trusted women to raise your children, wouldn’t you trust them to serve your country?”, “Women want their position in society not yours (men)”, "women are working with you (men), not against you”. Rather than taking a confrontational approach calling for justice, this campaign makes its calls based on traditional gender roles.

This approach extends to some of the individual campaigns as well. Below, we see Sahar Hindawi's posters at left and right and an unidentified daring photographer in the center. Hindawi is a candidate for representing the Tila' al 'Ali region and her slogan is "Our house (baytna) requires action and not talking."

Correction: Hindawi's poster doesn't say "Our house requires action and not talking." It says, "Our environment requires action and not talking." Beeitna, not baytna. I'm a chowderhead. Not sure how much weight the argument still holds.

We see the use of "house" continue with Bushra Al-Razee Al-Z'abee's banner below, which bears the slogan: "Baytee wa baytik," my house and your house.

The use of "bayt" by both Hindawi and Al-Z'abee alludes to what some would call the traditional role of women - as the executor of hospitality in the domain of the home.

One might look at the slogans of these women or the JNCW as strategic maneuvers that employ the rhetoric of tradition to secure a non-traditional role in the male-dominated government.

But it might also be that these women - like many female office holders in the United States - don't see their traditional roles and governmental roles as necessarily dichotomous, seeing them instead as fluid extensions of their identity.

Recognizing the possible existence of these differing epistemologies is an essential point often missed by those observers worried about "oppressed women" over here.

Thanks for reading, folks.

"Egyptian price"

2007-07-23T15:55:00.000+03:00

(Lauren) Jill 23-07-2007

Marium's post of around 18 July made reference to "Egyptian price," that is, at many places there is a different admission fee for Egyptians and for foreigners.

When I was in Egypt last year, I went with a Cairene friend to the wonderful Al-Ahzar Park, and she wanted me to remain mute, "her Turkish aunt who didn't speak Arabic," so we would get in on the locals' fee.

This year when I went to the park by myself, the ticket seller asked, "Foreign or resident?" [I replied, "Guess," quite obviously indicating what I was.] Yes! You've come a long way baby! I, who am the weakest of the weak in Arabic (but slowly getting better).

And I got off the waitlist and into Fall '07 Beginning Arabic I. Alhamdullilah! Repeating it from last year.

I work in the university library and in the last year a gentleman who was over 85 and worked in the Circulation area died. At the time I said to a colleague, "When I'm 85, I'll probably still be taking Beginning Arabic I."

[I know I said I wouldn't post, since I'm not Traveling; I'm back in the Southern part of Heaven. But this tale, which amuses me, does have to do with my recent Travels.]

Scattered Thoughts II: With a Vengeance

2007-07-22T23:19:00.001+03:00

Matt

Hello All,

Without further ado here is the second installment of my general reflections on Jordan, a collection of ideas indicative of the level of insight I brought to bear on the Hashemite Kingdom. Please expect more keen observations from my new home in Cairo where my exposure is infinitely greater. But hopefully there's some worthwhile ideas here.

1. I came to the Middle East with the expectation that I would not touch many people. An odd idea, but my limited understanding of Arab society led me to imagine rigid and formal interaction among the people, worlds away from the hugs and kisses of Chile or the Merengue dancing of the Dominican Republic. To a certain extent, I was right. Gender norms prescribe that I not initiate handshakes with women and hugging, at least in public, is frowned upon. But what I did not expect was the way in which men interact. In the taxis, the drivers were constantly touching me, slapping my knee to make a point or touching my hand to express affection. The latter bit, hand holding, is what most surprises me. Men here are constantly walking arm in arm, a confusing sight for an outsider like myself (more thoughts on "the Gay" in the future, al-Gay in Arabic). But it's just a common platonic gesture.

My favorite story about this involves a friend, Mike, who had asked a heavily armed soldier to help him find the local radio station. Without missing a beat, the officer took him by the hand such that the AK-47 was now securely under Mike's arm, and tenderly walked him a block or two in the right direction. How sweet!

2. Returning to the subject of women, I have been curious to investigate the stereotype of veiled women as being docile, an idea easily done away with after meeting any of the incredible women I have been fortunate enough to work and study with over the past few years. But there is nuance and complexity to the gender roles among Arab-Muslims, and so I offer one brief account. Walking around the markets of one of the Palestinian refugee camps, you see plenty of women, shopping for fruit, meats, and other household items. In addition to these domestic purchases, I also noticed a number of women, some wearing the niqab and others the hijab, browsing for slightly more adult items, namely lingerie. On the main thoroughfare, it was a trip to see women in full veil holding up a frilly pink bra in sight of the entire crowd of people. Certainly a challenge to many notions of sexual repression.

Unfortunately I wasn't able to snap a photo of the lingerie shoppers, but here's a snippet from the world of cutting-edge hijabi fashion.

3. The dome of the mosque, the quintessential design in Islamic architecture, provides an oasis of color in Amman, a much needed respite from the harsh monotone of Jordan’s cityscape. While there are plenty of Carolina blue domes to be found, my personal favorite is just down the block, a deep, inviting purple with two horizontal midnight blue stripes. Just gorgeous. And at night all the minarets are lit up in green, the color of the prophet Muhammad. Where there are no street lamps, the minarets can light the way.

Coincidentally, the very same color illuminates our local ATM at night. Fitting since it charges no withdrawal fee.

4. The call to prayer. There is nothing quite like it in all the world. When the imam begins to recite Allahu Akbar, people turn off the radio, cell phones are silenced, and, impossibly, taxi driver honk a little less. The entire city slows down just a bit as reverence for the prayer is observed. It is a constant reminder of the powerful religiosity in the lives of so many people here. And even though its message is not directed towards me, I cannot ignore its beauty. Five times a day, a stirring reminder of exactly where I am.

Other photos...

Market in a refugee camp.

Roman Columns.

Thanks for reading.

Resorting to the Canadians

2007-07-22T18:30:00.000+03:00

Marium

Canada came to our rescue the other day.

Yup. Canada. Who wud've thought?

But I guess the situation called for those peace loving, culture sponging, not such a big army (the Canadian army?) country.

The Friday market is an event in Cairo that takes place in the City of the Dead, which is a mini "city" inside Cairo. But this is a city that consists of five cemeteries. Cemeteries that existed for centuries before the overpopulation of Cairo. They were virtually left alone, with no inhabitants except for grave diggers and tomb makers. I mean come on, they were and still are graveyards.
But since Cairo decided to become the mother of 18 million people, she has finally had enough. She opened her gates to the hallowed areas of graves and tombs and said, "Move."

And people did.

To this date 5 million of Cairo's inhabitants live in the cemeteries. Alive and kicking.
But the city is not just home to dead people and living people. It is also the infamous location of the Friday Market. A place where you can find toilet seats, bathtubs (all stolen of course-from where, I don't know and I didn't ask), snakes (yup, real slimy snakes), dogs, turtles, fish, clothes and food. Big, bustling, rowdy and sweaty, that market was a crazy mess. And full of men.
Lots and lots of men.
As a journalist, the City of the Dead is probably an ideal location for a story. I mean who wouldn't want to read, see and learn about this completely fascinating city? So one of the stories I have to complete on the fulbright program is on the City of the Dead and the life that lives within it.
So I went, with another friend who is a videographer, armed with two cameras, a video camera and an audio recorder. And two male translators.

We ended up at the dog market. I have never seen a place that is so frighteningly insecure. Dogs on leashes, dogs without leashes, puppies in cages, men yelling, women selling silver chains and leashes and oh my God, is that a rotweiler without a leash?

By God it is.

In a market that was mostly full of local Egyptians, the arrival of one girl that could be Egyptian but was possibly foreign, one white, blonde hair blue eyed girl with a video camera and two clean cut Egyptian boys, was not a regular event.
We managed to talk to a man who sold dogs and let us in his little chained off area, in which a rabid dog was tied up to a steel railing. It did not look happy.
We started to shoot. And then we were surrounded. Some men walked into the blocked off area, suffocating us with questions, "Where are you from? Who are you?" and "Honey! Honey! "

We spoke to a man who volunteered to be interviewed and I started shooting the market from the closed off space ignoring the men as they blew kisses in our direction, motioned for us to take pictures of them, asked if us, the two honey-ies, were married.

"You cannot shoot here! You are American!" yelled a boisterous man in Arabic. My friend who doesn't speak much Arabic did not understand him and kept on shooting. He then pushed his face into one of our translator's face and demanded that we stop shooting. His friend tried to calm him down and said, pointing to me,"

"Hiya Muslimah" (she is Muslim)

He gave me a nod and said, "Hiya. Mashi."
He basically gave me permission to continue because of my religion.
I don't think I've ever had to use my religion before to get a story. Its a weird feeling.

"Her! She cannot work here," he then said, pointing to my friend, "she is American."

My friend turned around and said, "No. I am Canadian."

His demeanour softened.

Canadian eh? Canada, Very good.

He then proceeded to sit down on the chair and give us an interview about his dogs and the dogs that he sold.
He is a delightful man, when you aren't American.

The point of this story?
Since I've been in Egypt, the anti-American sentiment has been strong. Very strong. But always kept under fake smiles and whispered words. No one has ever blatantly spewed hate about America in our faces (not including the shop keepers that always chide me for living there and not living in Pakistan).
Moreover, being a journalist, and an American one at that, has always caused trouble.

For example our driver, who is our guide in the city of the dead always retorts back at us when we ask questions about drugs, gangs and theives that are rumoured to live in the city.

"you have that in America too," he says, sneering, "America is the biggest country with so many drugs."

Everything turns around and makes a 180 degree turn when you state your American-ness. You then become a journalist who is not out to explore the greatness of Cairo, its uniqueness and its beauty. You become the evil reporter who is out to spread a vicious and uncivilized image of Egypt and Egyptians.

Yes, it is not easy being an American journalist in Cairo.
And for once I guess its okay to be Canadian.
Even if they dont have an army, eh?

There's symbolism here somewhere

2007-07-22T16:39:00.000+03:00

sam

Iraq beat Vietnam yesterday. No, not over which will be the more frequently used foreign policy caveat over for the next fifty years. I think that's already been decided. Prepare for "Iraq Syndrome" to become the darling phrase of punditry, friends.

No, the victory of Iraq over Vietnam was in football and it vaulted Iraq's side into the semi-finals of the Asia Cup, prompting widespread jubilation in the streets of Baghdad.

I watched the bedlam from my neighborhood barber shop - dare I say saloon? - where occasionally I get my hair butchered and, more frequently, I shoot the bull with the neighborhood guys.

A fan circulated fresh air in the room as Muhammad, my Iraqi friend and sometime barber, and I watched the wild celebration. There was plenty of dancing, many Iraqi flags, a few bare chested young men, and even a few a guns. Most seemed to be in the hands of the Iraqi police, though at one point a television reporter armed who, armed with a microphone, had been going rolled-down-car-window to rolled-down-car-window conducting interviews (which, even in such a delirious situation, unfailingly began with "salaam 'aleikum" and "wa 'aleikum asalaam") dove out of the picture as a joyous man pulled a gun from his glove compartment and fired a few rounds into the air.

It seems that more than a few Iraqis endeavored to test gravity last night and, sadly, the intrepid scientists proved Newton's theory right again, with at least two deaths stemming from bullets being fired into the air and, in turn, coming back down.

But this post isn't some attempt to argue that a milennium of authoritarianism has poisoned Iraqi culture to the point that America is not at fault for the problems of the Iraq War. That would, of course, be a topic for Mr. Friedman.

And besides, it would be foolish to act like Americans don't like to shoot their guns up in the air, or other places, every so often either. Rather, this is about unity, even if only for a fleeting moment.

First of all, the unity of humanity. The streets of Baghdad seemed a little like Franklin Street - except without the tree climbing, fire-jumping, or "f*** J.J. Reddick" chants (I thought that one was universal).

But more apparent was the the unity - perhaps transient - of the Iraqi people. In a discourse increasingly dominated by sectarian appelations of Sunni, Shi'a, or Kurd, the resounding phrase of nearly every interview was "al-sha'ab al-'araqee," the Iraqi people. Another interviewee referred to the celebration's demonstration that Iraqis represented fundamentally "al-usra al-waheeda," a united family. Muhammad added that the celebrations were occurring in a mixed portion of Baghdad.

The green, black, and red of the Iraqi flag was everywhere, waved as a banner and worn as capes or cloaks.

Young men made up most of the revelers, though a number of giddy muhajibat participated as well as what looked like a few worried, arms-crossed-across-chests mothers.

As they transitioned to a montage of national team highlights interspersed - like any good nationalist material - with idyllic video of mountains and forests (and if you think Americans are innocent of this, perhaps "from the mountains..." refreshes your memory) they showed a nifty goal. Afterward, the goal scorer lifted up his jersey (in what, after careful consideration, probably wasn't homage to Brandi Chastain), revealing an undershirt bearing the message of "karama lena," dignity for us.

I'm not sure what this all adds up to. I think sometimes people can go too far in their analyses of sport and world events, treating the relationship as a novelty when sport, as a part of the world and life, sometimes does correspond and, indeed, should correspond with current events issues.

But as I watched the continued footage of the celebrations, of people acting in a, well, undignified manner (I think I have authority to say this as someone who may or may not have acted in an undignified manner on Franklin Street), two things struck me.

One, I suppose an element of human dignity is having the freedom to act undignified.

And two, amidst this brief respite from the horrors of occupation, civil war, staticide, or whatever you want to call it, one of the common sayings of the celebrants, the offhand addition to nearly any prediction or hope whether for a peaceful future or simply an Iraqi victory over South Korea in the semis : "in sha allah," god willing.

A Tale of Two Cities

2007-07-20T01:54:00.000+03:00

Brian

I’m still trying to process it all: military checkpoints, M-16s pointed at me, metal detectors, bustling Arab shopping districts, bulletproof glass, confrontational Americans, tombs of prophets, bullet holes in a mosque, frighteningly empty streets, and an armed military convoy accompanying my bus back to Jerusalem. I experienced all of these yesterday on my journey to Hebron in the West Bank, Palestine.

We decided to go to Hebron on a whim yesterday morning, and although I had my reservations about visiting one of the flashpoints in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, Hebron has been relatively calm over the past several years. Plus, it houses the tombs of the patriarchs, where Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebekah, Jacob, and Leah are buried.

Traveling to Hebron was relatively painless. East Jerusalem to Bethlehem, one bus transfer, and in less than two hours, we had arrived in the Palestinian section of Hebron. Immediately, without being asked, we were all handed lemonade concoctions (which tasted more like lemon-flavored sugar water than lemonade), exchanged mobile numbers with several of the men selling sweets and juices on the street, and were invited to one man’s house for dinner. Arab hospitality at its finest. As we wandered through the narrow streets in the market of the old city of Hebron, we were constantly asked in both Arabic and English where we were from. When answering, “America,” everyone replied with a warm and enthusiastic, “Welcome to Hebron!” It was the beginning of what could have been an extraordinary day.

However, as we continued walking through the old city, the city began to quiet. Shops had their doors shut, or were abandoned, perhaps. Within 500 meters, the city we had witnessed on our arrival – vibrant, warm, and inviting – began to drift away. The lively sounds of merchants became distant, the children following us on foot and on bicycle turned around, and the aroma of falafel faded away. We turned a sharp corner and were faced with an Israeli military checkpoint. After passing through the metal detectors, showing our passports, and having our bags inspected, we had arrived at the Tomb of the Patriarchs.

We walked up to the entrance of the mosque and shrines, but the military asked us to wait 30 minutes because we were not allowed in the mosque during prayer. As we waited at the small mini-mart opposite the mosque, with military guard towers and checkpoints surrounding us, I had time to contemplate the landscape.

* * *

Now, I can certainly understand the need for such heavy military security in an area like Hebron. After all, this was the city where Arabs massacred 67 Jews in 1929 – and the city where an extremist Jewish settler gunned down 29 Palestinian Muslims while they were praying in 1994 (the evidence of this can still be seen in the form of bullet holes in the mosque). Of all places in the West Bank, tensions here between Jewish settlers and Palestinians are the highest. In most places, settlements are built on a hill, away from Palestinian villages. But here in Hebron, in addition to the settlements on hills around the city, there are several small Jewish settlements in the city itself.

These special circumstances have resulted in a series of rules that restrict where Palestinians and Israeli settlers can travel in Hebron. These restrictions manifest themselves in curfews, in the mandatory and permanent closure of Palestinian shops in the now Israeli-controlled area, checkpoints every few hundred meters, concrete barriers and razor-wire separating the two areas, and armed guard towers on the border overlooking the happenings in the Israeli area.

* * *

In the Tomb of the Patriarchs itself, there is a Muslim entrance and a Jewish entrance. The tombs of Isaac and Rebekah rest in the Muslim area, and the tombs of Jacob and Leah can be found in the Jewish area. The tombs of Abraham and Sarah can be seen from both the Jewish and Muslim side; however, bulletproof glass can be seen between the two viewing areas.

As Christians, we had the luxury of being able to enter both the Muslim and Jewish areas. Other than the clear division of the shrines, and the metal detectors, and the bulletproof glass, and the bullet holes, and the brief military exercise we saw outside the Jewish entrance (Israeli soldiers with their guns drawn, crouched around the corners of the building, and waving other soldiers on indicating that the area was clear), there was nothing abnormal about the worship inside both areas. Muslim and Jewish pilgrims wept at the site of the tombs, Jews were studying the Torah, and Muslims were reading the Qur’an.

After visiting both sides and paying our respects to the prophets, it was around 7:00 p.m., and we decided that it was time to return to Jerusalem. However, because we had not yet walked through the Israeli/Jewish area of Hebron, we decided we would take a stroll there before returning to the Arab area to the bus stop.

During our visit, we had picked up a 14-16 year-old Palestinian boy who had acted as somewhat of a guide, and when we walked through another checkpoint to get to the Israeli-controlled area, the soldier asked for our passports. After briefly glimpsing at them, he asked the boy if he was with us. When we said, “No,” the boy answered the solder in Hebrew, and walked through the checkpoint with us. When I asked the boy if he was allowed to be with us, he answered me in Arabic: “I am forbidden here.” This, of course, made me a little uneasy in such a heavily armed military zone in such a tense area of the West Bank.

The streets in this area were deserted, and it felt like we were walking in a ghost town. Only a few Israelis were walking on the empty road, abandoned stores that used to be owned by Palestinians lined the street on both sides, and military cameras and soldiers monitored our movements.

We approached the next checkpoint a few hundred meters away at the same time as a group of American Jewish students who are volunteering this summer restoring Jewish gravesites. When we were asked for our passports, our Palestinian friend couldn’t produce one. The Americans started shouting at the Israeli soldiers: “Call the police! He’s a local! He knows he’s not supposed to be here! The only reason he would be here is for violence!”

The Israeli soldiers were very professional in their interactions with the boy. He gave them his ID card, but as they interrogated him, the Americans were quite rude to us. They mocked our reasons for visiting Israel and Hebron, and even snarled to my friend who is ethnically Greek, “You don’t look American,” implying in a derogatory way that he might be Palestinian. After we asked them what an American actually looks like – noting that there are dozens of large ethnic groups in the United States – and after the soldiers essentially told them to leave, they continued walking.

We also slowly walked away, but continued to look back at our Palestinian friend to make sure that he was going to be alright. The soldiers searched him, told him to go home, and released him.

We continued our trek up the eerily empty street, looking for a way to make it back to the bus station where we were dropped off in the Arab section. After asking several soldiers, it became clear that in order to make it back to the bus station, we would have to return the way we came – a long walk back down the abandoned street and past many more checkpoints. At this point, after our stressful day in Hebron, all we wanted to do was to get back to Jerusalem – a place whose problems we welcomed compared to those we had just witnessed. The soldiers told us how we could take an Israeli bus back to Jerusalem, and so we waited for the bus to arrive at the stop across the street.

As we stepped onto the bus and found our seats, we thought that the day’s tensions had ended. However, the military convoy that accompanied our bus through the Arab areas of Hebron served as another unpleasant reminder of the harsh realities that people living there face every day. After stopping at several settlements to pick up travelers, we finally made it back to Jerusalem.

Even as I write this, I am still trying to digest all that happened. The importance of the religious site to different groups, the security, the Palestinians’ and Israelis’ separation, the antagonism by fellow Americans, the stark contrast between the two areas of the city. All of these are parts of the larger Israeli-Palestinian conflict. And this visit to Hebron reiterated just how complicated and difficult this conflict will be to solve. We can talk all we want about a political solution to the conflict, but even as optimistic as I tend to be, after a day in Hebron, real peace seems so far away.

Adventures In Globalism

2007-07-19T02:26:00.001+03:00

Beat this, Garza!

That's right. The Pyramids, a BMW, a horsecart, KFC, and the world's most international of hand-gestures. Tom Friedman, the world is truly flat.

-Keegan

P.S. A serious update post is long overdue. I'm aware. It'll happen soon, with significantly more advanced sentence structure, to boot.

A Tale of Two Brown Countries

2007-07-19T01:07:00.000+03:00

Marium

I am brown. Skin color wise. A native of Pakistan my skin has always been olive brown and is now turning to a crisp mocha (I've tried most sunblocks in town. Nothing seems to work).

My skin gets me places in Egypt. It saves me from harassment that other foreign girls go through. People tend to assume I'm one of them and in this part of the world, thats a blessing.

But once they find out I'm Pakistani the love for my color, heritage, religion seems to dig deeper.
"Pakistan? Osama?" *big grin*

Yes, yes apparently the lord king of the infamous new age hasheeshis is no longer Saudi. He is now an urdu speaking, bhangra dancing, indian head bobbing Pakistani.

Yes, being from Pakistan gives everyone around me a good laugh.

But in this blog I rant not about my association with a psycho crazy guy, or rave about the fact that, "you are Pakistani? For you egyptian price!" but talk about the Middle East and Pakistan.

No, we are not part of the Middle East.

But lately, if birds of a feather want to flock together, we might as well start doing the Dabke too.

The Lal Masjid or Red Mosque crisis in Islamabad shocked the world, astounded Pakistanis and in the Egypt, my arabic professor joked about how he studied in a school near the Red Mosque. Joking, of course (he has a warped sense of humor).

My point is: The more crazier or shocking Pakistani politics become, the more some Middle Easterners tend to relate to us.

I might be completely wrong. It might just be because the Arab world can finally point at someone else and say, "Ha, Wala, you are worse of than us," or "Join the psycho Islamists club." Or it might be that most Arabs are just really interested in world politics. Mumkin. (Possible)

My view on the Red Mosque crisis is intricate, delicate and extremely complex. To completely understand it, or for me to even begin talking about it, one must understand three points: who and where these "Islamists" came from, the fact that a man can be desperate enough to wear a bhurka and heels to escape from police and the need of a dictator to "win" the upcoming "elections".

Its a touchy subject.

But in Cairo, as I look into the rearview mirror of a cab, driving 100 km an hour, staring into the eyes of a taxi cab driver as he asks me about the situation in Pakistan, there is a connection and there is an understanding.
It is the "real Ahlan wa Sahlan (Hello and Welcome)," one that states, "hey I understand your problems and I know where you're coming from."
And as I reply to his question about mosques being blown up with women and children inside, presidents vying for affection from world leaders and tragedy over religion, gender and oppression, he tsks with sympathy and I think:

We aren't so different. And it has nothing to do with my skin.

Its when we sit and discuss how the Muslim Brotherhood isn't very different from the Jamaat-e-Islami in Pakistan that I feel "accepted" in this culture that isn't very different from mine.

And hey, if the mutual unstability of two countries gets me the Egyptian price and Egyptian love, I'm willing to be Pakistani and stay Pakistani. Otherwise it seems to be a sinking nation, one that won't gain fame for its awesome food and amazing people, but with its association with the people next door.

Not the world's biggest democracy. The other neighbours.

Pakistan gains notoriety due to its infamous connection with crazy "madrassahs", dictators, poverty, oppression of women and bombings of mosques. And it doesnt seem like we are going to be off the axis of evil list, part two, anytime soon.

It makes me sad. And it makes me worry about its future. But in Cairo, it makes me more Egyptian and it makes me more Arab.

And I plan to learn the Dabke as soon as I can. Although Egyptians don't really Dabke. Oh well.

Driving me crazy

2007-07-18T16:24:00.000+03:00

sam

Traffic in the Middle East can sometimes be disorderly. After all, one would need four arms to light one's cigarette and keep one's hands simultaneously at 10 and 2. Lord knows that those man-eating Basra badgers are probably the only creatures up to the task.

Of course, this is a stark contrast with the always law-abiding, uber-aware drivers in the good old U.S. of A.

All sarcasm aside, zeroing in on the disregard for traffic laws seems to be one of the patent comments visitors make about the region. You've probably received an email from someone commenting on this.

Admittedly, yours truly may have engaged in such emails in a past life.

And to be sure, it bears some truth. And, yes, it can be a useful device to symbolize one's acclimation to life here (Example: "On the first day, I could barely cross the street. Now I ghost ride across Midan Tahrir. And this is much like my understanding of this place. Whereas before I was tenative, now I ghost ride." You get the point.)

But is it time to retire this motif as hackneyed tripe? Has it jumped the shark? Is it - much like using a veil pun in the title of a book about Muslim women - initially clever but now just annoying? Might it even be more pernicious, a modern day manifestation of Orientalist travel literature that imagined "labyrinthine markets" to symbolize some Eastern incapacity for logic or reason?

Two articles in Slate and the New York Times, respectively, used this theme in the past few days. They utilized it to get at larger issues, Mr Slackman of the NYT to meditate on the ups and downs of Cairene life and Mr Cook of Slate to illuminate informal norms of conduct in the region (though Mr Cook deserves some derision for complaining about crazy driving in posh Zamalek).

So, my criticisms: definitely a bit overblown. But can't we dig a little deeper on the symbolism front, gentlemen?

منحبك يا بشار

2007-07-16T13:33:00.000+03:00

sam

Last Friday, I made something of an impulsive decision to go to Damascus. You can do it quite easily here, as it's only 3 hours away. I woke up early and after brief negotiations with a white-bearded driver, I was on my way to the Sham, as they say, in an aging piece of Detroit muscle (Japanese cars just aren't strong enough, my driver explained).

For me, Damascus represented a respite from the newness of Amman, a trip to a city fabled due to its history, alluring due to its rather stringent visa requirements, and apparently dangerous given it's status as a John Bolton (who, unbeknownst to most of the world, received a shout out in Kanye West's Diamonds from Sierra Leone - I'll give you a hint: it rhymed with "international masshole") characterized rogue state (though right now it's probably the safest place one could go in the Middle East).

Plus, as the legions of loyal THT readers are well aware, I'm interested in public representations of autocratic leaders. In the wake of the recent election (more information available from Maryam here and from Joshua Landis here), ubiquitous posters of Bashar al-Assad provided numerous opportunities for visual analysis and poking fun. I was so enthralled with the possibilities (or perhaps just bored at the border) that I took this picture of Bashar al Assad and his father, Hafez.

When I explained my obsession to the Syrians with whom I shared the car, they laughed, both because they thought that I was another mildly insane American (not to be confused with Dr. Evil-ish insane Brits) and because they knew that if I were excited by such a small example of nationalist shirk, I might briefly lose consciousness given the persistence of Bashar's face throughout Damascus.

Indeed, Bashar seemed to follow me everywhere in Damascus, a constant reminder of significant differences between the Jordanian and Syrian political climate.
For example, at this fast food stand, in addition to high cholestorol you get a taste of resistance. From left, Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad (who, by the way, has an occasionally updated blog), Syrian president al-Assad, and Hezbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah. It is interesting to note that though you might find some pictures of Ahmadinejad or Nasrallah if you looked very hard in Amman, you will never ever ever see King Abdullah in the same picture. Before we see Ahmadinejad and Abdullah smiling arm and arm above the local falafel stand, I'd expect a subpar major league baseball owner to become president of the United States - no, that happened. Ah, here it is - I would expect to see Abdullah renounce his love for Star Trek before I'd expect to see him sharing a picture with Nasrallah.

And this isn't just about using every possible opportunity to publicize Abdullah's love for Star Trek. It's reflective of the larger regional political dynamics, part of what Vali Nasr calls the Shia Revival, what King Abdullah himself called the Shia Crescent, the emerging Shia power bloc extending through Iran, Iraq, Syria, and Lebanon.

The religious appellation is perhaps misleading. As an outspoken Arab many of us know and love pointed out to me, the placement of Ahmadinejad and Nasrallah (both Shia) with Bashar al-Assad (who is Alawite, a Shia minority group) is more a political phenomenon than a religious one. Though their faiths correspond, it is more about placing Bashar al-Assad on the "resisting Western hegemony and aggression" plane than anything else. The long standing secularism of Bashar's Ba'ath party - founded by a Christian and a Sunni Muslim in Damascus - further underscores this point.

Nevertheless, as the respective resistance of Western hegemony has increased the popularity of men like Nasrallah and Ahmadinejad in the region, the separation has corresponded to religious fault lines, worrying secular Sunni autocrats like Jordan's King Abdullah, like Egypt's Hosni Mubarak. Witness their initial reluctance to condemn the hostilities in the Lebanon War last summer, witness American acquiescence over Egyptian efforts to develop nuclear technology.

Indeed, the icons on this fast food stall reveal a widening philosophical gap among regional leaders. To collaborate with Western governments (while being careful to avoid alienating the populace) or resist them (at least rhetorically)?

And, more importantly, behind the rhetoric, behind the summits, behind the furious editorials, what of the people? If the election posters told the whole story, Syrians are pretty content.

This poster says "N'am," yes. Actually, it says "n'am, n'am, n'am...." You get the point. All in the form of the Syrian flag. Though if it were to be completely accurate to the Syrian elections it would include two or three no's in there.
All those yeses, however, surely can't compete with the poster below, which reads "Thalath fee qaloobna: Allah, Soorea, wa Al-Assad," Three in our hearts: God, Syria, and Al-Assad.
And here, perhaps, is the greatest honor Al-Assad can achieve. Again, we see old friend Nasrallah and Daddy Hafez to the right, but this time Egyptian pop sensation Tamer Hosny and international icon David Beckham join him on the left. Given the success of Mr. Hosny's latest single and his recently released film, I think Mr. Al-Assad is the lucky one here.
Despite these apparent displays of affection, I'm not going to lie, I'm a little disappointed with Bashar. Granted, not everyone can have the dress-up wardrobe of King Abdullah, but give me some personality, ya Bashar! All I can gather from most of these is that you like double windsor knots, conservative suits, and stern expressions. At least Nasrallah smiles!
To be fair, he has a tough act to follow. His father, who ruled Syrian from 1970 to 2000 still finds ways to remind Syrians of his rule. Isn't this everyone's dream valentine?
But Bashar does find ways to innovate. In the image below, we see Bashar going post-modern on us. The image of Bashar is superimposed on an image that contains posters of Bashar within it. Very mimetic. Interestingly, the background image - of Damascus University - features a Syrian flag next to a Palestinian flag, a flourish of symbolism that you would never see in Amman. After all, since Palestinians constitute a much larger percentage of the populace in Jordan, they also constitute a larger threat to the creation of a single, inclusive national identity, making the co-opting of Palestinian symbols into the larger Jordanian narrative that much more necessary for the Hashemite regime.
Below, we see Bashar's ray-banned silhouette on a car windshield in the Old City. It would be cool on its own, not the least because it looks very similar to a Borat shirt that I have. Nice. But what makes it ten times cooler is the Batman sign right above it. Seriously, check it out. Naturally, this raised some real possibilities in my head - can we get some sort of Bashar-signal working for when he's really needed, putting the image of Bashar into the night skies whenever justice is threatened, wherever foes need vanquishing, or, at least, when they run out of guava juice at the neighborhood smoothie stand? It could even be called the Baath signal.
For all of this symbolism, pageantry, and nation creation, it is misleading to suggest that Syria is Bashar and Bashar is Syria (which the phrase above Bashar's silhouette - Syria of al-Assad - promotes). Most people I spoke with displayed the images not so much out of devotion as what seemed to be fatalism, resigned to the sometimes absurdist nature of life.

Indeed, the heritage of Damascus boasts a vibrancy and richness that predates the Assad family's rise to prominence. The Umayyad Mosque, where I spent an afternoon lazing about, was the centerpiece of the early 8th century caliphate, whose domain extended from Spain in the West to Afghanistan in the East.
Indeed, for much of history, what is now Syria existed as part of entirely different socio-polities, with trade items from China and India passing through Roman and Greek administered centers of commerce. Borders, national identity, and Bashar al-Assad were entirely foreign concepts.

The boxes of identity that exist now - Muslim, Arab, Syrian, rogue state - either didn't exist or were a little more fluid back then. And they still are - at least more than we give them credit for. For example, the Umayyad Mosque contains a shrine with the head of John the Baptist, venerated in Christianity and Islam. The remains of the great warrior Saladin - who, as a Kurd, would probably be persecuted in Syria today - rest outside.

The evidence of these alternative forms of identity and existence are displayed extensively at the sprawling Syrian National Museum, alongside, well, more modern inventions.
As I sat in an alcove inside, I gazed at a map of various archaeological sites and cities of antiquity. The modern borders of Syria, Lebanon, and Iraq had been superimposed. Sort of like the posters of Bashar are super-imposed onto the lives of regular people. And the absolute novelty of this idea of nation-states struck me.

Far away from these nationalist posters and maps, hospitality filled kitchens and friendly conversations underscored for me the reality of cultural flows and intersections, transcending the simplification and constructed-ness of national identities.

Any Jordanian will tell you that mansaf - a meal of meat, yogurt, and rice eaten with one's hands - is the Jordanian national dish. I even spoke with a virulent Jordanian nationalist at one point who claimed that it was one of the foundational elements of true Jordanian-ness. I couldn't help but laugh as I ate a very similar, very delicious dish in a Damascus apartment.

Even the trappings of nationalism that I so adore - which are often the basis for divisiveness - evince a certain degree of similarity. Several weeks ago I noted the picture of King Abdullah on the Ministry of Agriculture. In full military regalia, he dutifully waters a sapling.
As I wandered around Damascus University at one point, I noticed an eerily similar image at the Syrian Ministry of Agriculture, featuring Bashar, hoe in hand, participating in the national agricultural effort. He's even got his sleeves rolled up.
The Arabic reads "All of us are with you." And in this case, it rings true, not in the sense that we should all grab our farm implements. Moreso that for better or worse, we are all living in a world of nationalism, nation-states, and their inherent absurdities.

A month in Cairo, May-June 2007

2007-07-15T18:29:00.000+03:00

(Lauren) Jill

Introduction: I am a librarian at University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and as a Part Time Studies student took Arabic I in Fall 2006 under the wonderful instruction of Dr. Nasser Isleem. I hope to repeat Arabic I in Fall 2007, if there is room for me in class.

Thanks for Matt for letting me join for an ad hoc posting, since I’m not presently a Tar Heel Traveler. I imagine I’ll just do this one posting, ask Matt to take me off the group, and then just make comments to others’ postings. Ah—perhaps I’ll be able to return to Egypt in a year and the blog will still be going. (Matt, sorry this is longer than you requested, but it will be my only posting.) And the 1st time I’ve posted to a blog!

I was in Cairo 26 May-22 June, 2007 at ILI (International Language Institute) for a 4 week course in ameeya (Colloquial Egyptian Arabic). This was my 3rd trip to Egypt, which I have become enamored with (and in particular with its people, on the whole). This follows on a “fascination” I’ve had with the Middle East since I was a child.

Matt is currently studying at ILI, which is an excellent school. My teacher (Amir) was excellent, as well as the staff, administration, and cafeteria folk, too. (Matt, I’ll eventually make a comment to your second 6 July posting re environs and something peripheral to chess.) ILI is in Mohandiseen, on the west side of the Nile, in the ‘burbs, and certainly part of the vast city of Cairo, “Mother of the World.” (I understand there’s another ILI in Heliopolis, another area of Cairo.) The setting certainly has one constantly with Egyptians and with the need for much taxi transport.

Altho I am such a slow learner, especially with vocabulary (those of you who know me know how true this is—but I can do it! I can learn this fascinating language), I was constantly in conversations with Egyptians, in far-flung parts of the city. Without wanting to generalize, I found the people to be so warm, so helpful, so welcoming, so interesting. I also had the good fortune to be a guest in some homes.

I also saw incredible poverty and homelessness, and some cruelty to some dogs which I can’t even take in.

I went on 2 outings organized by ILI. One to the Giza Plateau and Sakkara, where I could confirm with the guide that “Yes, over there is something that was discovered just 2-3 months ago,” since I’m up on all that current stuff. Such places weren’t mentioned on the tour, but it was so great for me to see the sites of these new discoveries. I went into Khufu’s pyramid (the 1st and largest), so now I’ve been in all 3.

The other ILI outing I went on was a day trip to Alexandria (which I had not been to). Among the highlights were the stupendous, beautiful Alexandria Library built in 2002; being deep in the Roman catacombs and the electricity repeatedly going out; the Mediterranean.

Otherwise I went off by myself. Again to the rather new Al-Azhar Park, in Islamic Cairo (of course), which I highly recommend to anyone. To Old Cairo, which was very moving to me: the old churches, the oldest mosque on the continent; I didn’t make it to Ben Ezra Synagogue before it closed. Because of getting into one of many conversations, “hanging out” with people in front of a bookstore—also interacting with Egyptian women and with Americans.

Twice to the headquarters of the American Research Center in Egypt (ARCE), of which I’m a member. Met the head of the library and others at ARCE, and was able to go to the last lecture of the season, which was about excavations near Wadi El Natrum—the whole excavation crew coming in with the presenter; in the crew a new grad student at Duke.

To a service at the Episcopal/Anglo Cathedral, whose complex now is primarily a refugee home for Sudanese and other refugees. There are many refugees in Egypt. I had hung around after the English language service, so a service in Arabic began and I went to that (at least to the first 1 1/2+ hour)—a lot of music. Among other services held there is one in the language of the majority of Sudanese living there.

Once I was getting a meal across the street from AUC and I thought, “Maybe I’ll run into Mariam.” That would have been nice.

Oh, and so much wonderful music. I can’t begin to describe what all I heard (and saw). One was a free weekly Sufi ... event. Not only were the dervishes/dancers amazing, the musicians were superb.

from Matt: "a forum to share our reflections and insights [without being overly critical of the government]” Mine: I continue to love Egypt and Egyptians, who [collectively] have such warmth, humor, and hospitality, often in context of situations of considerable difficulty. With 1 exception, the people with whom I spoke make a differentiation between “Americans” and “the American government,” so I heard nothing ill spoken about the American people (except a few comments about a few Westerners who were inappropriately dressed).

It was so great for me to be in 1 place for a month. One can hardly imagine 2 places more different: Cairo and Chapel Hill, and I love them both. I’m not a fan of large cities, but I love Cairo. I hope I will have continued opportunities for this “always a Westerner” better to understand the culture.

7 Wonders of the World

2007-07-15T14:45:00.000+03:00

Sarah

First, my apologies for not being a big contributer to the blog. It's hard to compete with the intellect here! I know I promised many of you a post on feminism and women's empowerment in Jordan, and it's in the works. Check back soon.

In the mean time, I want to share some pictures and stories about nationalism. Sam is probably better suited to write on this topic, but it's not hard for anyone to see it in Jordan. Flags in every taxi, on the sides of buildings, pictures of the His Majesty, and national songs playing on the radio.

As a global representation of this pride, the Jordanians had recently been pushing everyone to vote for Petra as one of the New 7 Wonders of the World. My traveling companions and I had the (good/bad?) fortune of being in Petra on the day in which the voting ended. Things looked a little different than they had the last time I was there...

It looked like Indian Jones 4 filming was underway. Beyond the treasury, however, things were like always. Camel rides for tourists, over-priced water, and little bedouin children offering to take you for a ride on their donkey (or sell you "interesting artifacts"....)

Again, I'm not expert in nationalism or national expression. The Jordanians seem to have it down, though. With such a love for their country- even by the very large Palestinian population of this country- it is understandable how important it would be for them to gain international recognition of their history. Before the voting ended, there would be a constant barrage a questions "Did you vote for Petra yet?". The University of Jordan even opened up a voting center near the main gate, so people had no excuse not to vote.

Though the voting has ended, there's no stopping that persistent question "Did you vote for Petra"?
I'm not about to complain about answering that questions 10x a day though, it's about time Jordan got it's day on an international stage.

The many faces of King Abdullah, part deux

2007-07-12T15:35:00.000+03:00

sam

In an earlier post, I compiled some pictures of King Abdullah posted in Amman. No luck finding one of frogman King Abdullah just yet but, loyal readers, rest assured that I'm hunting, like a frog for flies (that is to say: not really making a conscious effort but taking what comes my way).

Hopefully these selections from around town will suffice for now.

Hashemite majesty King Abdullah. Pictured with the Hashemite male lineage. From left, Sherif Hussein, Sherif of Mecca, King of the Hijaz until 1924, and, very briefly, self proclaimed Caliph of the Muslim world; Abdullah I, Amir of Transjordan 1921-1946, King of Transjordan 1946-1951; Talal, King of Transjordan 1951-1952; and Hussein, King of Jordan 1952-1999.

Note the hierarchical set up of the picture and how Sherif Hussein and Abdullah I sort of fade into the blue on the left. This isn't a picture of these people so much as a picture of the (imagined) arrangement of power and its relationship with collective memory, with Abdullah II undoubtedly the most prominent and yet still visibly linked to the past.

Straight Cash King Abdullah. Though most Jordanians no doubt respect the wan visage on display here, nothing will get you a frown quicker in Jordan than trying to get change for one of these babies.
Family Picture King Abdullah, looking very young on the far right. Abdullah was probably thinking something like "Lousy family pictures. I hope they know that I'm missing Star Trek for this!"
Harley Davidson King Abdullah. Apparently Cody Chestnutt isn't the only one who looks good in leather.

And now for something completely different: I give you mullet-een!
Thanks for reading, folks.

Coming of Age

2007-07-11T00:51:00.001+03:00

Marium

They were faces in my eyes.

Flashes of brown and black as I snapped away.

Click. Shout. Click. Voice breaking. Click. Sob.

Members of the Bedouins, nomadic tribes in the Sinai, were holding a press conference in a tiny office in Cairo a few days before they were holding a major demonstration, generally called a strike here, in Al-Arish, a city in the Sinai.

They spoke of experiences that shot shivers up my spine. Sisters raped, brothers thrown in jail, detained, shot, killed, homeless, tears, raised voices, fists in the air.

Snap.

A group of us were at this conference, which was sponsored by the Democratic Front, a new political party in Egypt. The Bedouin cause had been adopted by this party, as one of their grievances against the government.

Journalists asked questions, people had tears in their eyes, tempers flared.

The Bedouins, supported by the Democratic Front were going to hold a strike in three days; a strike to protest the government's treatment of their people.

Enough was enough, they declared.

Later on, we found out that we, as journalists, were offered a chance to go cover the strike in the Sinai that weekend.

Bring it on, we thought.

Hold up. This is dangerous. We don't have press passes, we don't know who is driving us there. There will be police. Will it become a riot? Guns? Shooting?

We had discussions about going to this strike with our professor and with each other. Our professor recommended we not go but was leaving the choice up to us.

We were pumped. We were ready. We were journalists.

And we were scared.

I woke up the morning of the strike, preparing to leave with two other reporters, my closest friends on this trip.

I assessed the trip in my mind. We don't know who was taking us across to Al-Arish, which is 45 minutes away from Rafah Crossing - the border with that Egypt shares with Gaza. We don't know where we would be staying that night.

The Bedouins at the conference promised to get us to the strike regardless of how and when. They promised to get us there.

Desperation.

I felt it in the their desire to have us there. To have anyone there.

Can anyone hear me, I thought I heard them say. My sister was raped. My brothers, shot.

Am I worth your time? Am I worth your life?

Wait a minute, I thought. Do I even know you?

I pulled on my socks as I sat on the bed. There is a risk, I heard a voice saying in my head. Is it worth going?

We don't know who is taking us. We might get turned away by the police at the checkpoints. So many ifs and mights. Oh, and the possibility that we might get shot by security.

It’s my birthday on July 4th. Will I ever see the day I turn 23? That’s absurd. I will turn 23 and I will moan about getting older.

The idea of not being alive for my 23rd birthday because there was a minute possibility I wouldn't come back from a Bedouin strike was ludicrous.

Getting shot? Oh, come on.

I was scared, but not fearful for my life.

This might be the Middle East but I was aware that getting shot was so rare, that the possibility of it happening was near to nil.

I want to be a foreign correspondent. That‘s why I am on this trip. And even though I didn't expect to be faced with the prospect of being smuggled into an area of high contention to cover a story on this trip, I imagine that I will be doing it some time in my life.

Might as well start now.

Was I trying to prove that I wasn't scared? No. I was scared.

But there wasn't a moment that I did not feel safe. Once the feeling of security dissipated, I would throw in the towel and say that this job wasn't for me.

Until that morning, I felt safe about going.

I sipped my diet coke, anxiously waiting for our Bedouin driver to call our translator. We waited in silence.

We slept. Two hours went by before he called. He said he was going to meet us and take us to another man who was then going to drive us to the village where the leaders of the strike were at.

Another driver? Wait a minute. This was getting too sketchy. He then changed the route that we were taking.

This didn't sound right.

We knew the Bedouins wanted us there. But we had to trust the people that were taking us. And frankly, we didn't.

We called it off.

Not because we were scared. Not because we feared for our lives.

But because there was no trust. And I didn't feel safe anymore.

Are you worth my life? Only if I trust you.

There was light on my face. A tiny candle shone in front of me as my friends sang happy birthday. Everyone smiled and laughed, jazz rang in my ears, and I was happy.

As I smiled at the candle and thought about what I wanted most in my life. I thought of my niece, my sisters, my brothers, my family, my friends.

My sister was raped, my brothers, shot, I heard the Bedouins say.

Is any story worth dying for? Their story could be my story. Their family could be my family. Family is family wherever you go.

What means the most to you, probably means the most to someone else.

If they want their voice heard through you is it that bad to give it to them? They don't have one of their own.

Would I give my brother my voice?

I blew the candle out.

Happy Birthday.

Sweetness and life after death

2007-07-10T12:59:00.000+03:00

sam

There are some phrases in Arabic that sound a little silly when translated literally.

Our relentlessly positive tour guide in Wadi Rum last weekend, Muhammad, had a knack for including many of these phrases in one comment.

Muhammad enjoying the wind that was so nice it made him crazy

Interactions would usually go something like:

Ya Muhammad, can you see a lot of stars at night?

Wulla mumkin shoof kul anujoom, helwa katheer. Wulla helwa katheer. Wulla almanthar bajanan. (By god it is possible to see all of the stars, it is very sweet. By god it is very sweet. By god, the view is so good that it makes me crazy. )

For those of you keeping score at home, that's three "by god's," two "very sweet's," and one "so good that it makes me crazy."

Muhammad used these words for nearly everything. I suspected that he might even describe the squat toilet at the Bedouin camp as "so good that it makes him crazy," but I never asked.

Indeed, about the only thing neither "very sweet" nor "so good that it makes one crazy" was Muhammad's description of treatments for camel illnesses or, as the Bedouin say, tiredness. Bedouins in Egypt had told Keegan that they treated tiredness by burying the camel in the ground and feeding it a soup made from foxes. Muhammad didn't subscribe to this method, though he didn't laugh at it either, instead advocating a combination of burying the camel in the ground and using fire. I didn't exactly follow, but it was either that or take it to the camel doctor. If I were Joe Camel, I might opt for the camel doctor.

Of course, one can avoid some of the ambiguities and difficult translations by dispensing with words altogether.

Yesterday I ventured to the mid size city of Salt, the former Ottoman administrative center of the area.

Minarets and church steeples pepper the skyline of Salt.

I was on the trail of school textbooks from the 1950s for some of my thesis research and after several fruitless trips to the public library in Salt ("Hi, I'm looking for school history textbooks from the 1950s." "Here's a history book." Repeat.), they finally sent me to the Museum of School Books half way up a hill overlooking Salt. While waiting for copies to be made of some of the books, I sat with the museum director for several hours underneath a tree outside of the building discussing politics and religion.

Jamal had a magisterial gentleness about him and a level of stress commensurate with a position that seemed to mostly consist of sitting outside and drinking tea (he said I was the first person to visit in about a week). He didn't go so far as to describe it as being "so good it made him crazy" nor did he use these phrases as frequently as Muhammad in general. But the lack of sweetness didn't detract from his message. His wan smile concealed a powerful directness.

As I absolutely butchered Arabic grammar in my attempt to express the similarity of all religions, Jamal smiled and picked a piece of paper off the ground. He proceeded to light it aflame, dropping it onto the ground as the flames engulfed it.

Jamal avoids self immolation...
...and shows my prospects for life after death

By this point, my elaboration on the oneness of humanity had given way to the oneness of an open mouth. In the smoke crazy culture of the Middle East, was this some new method for getting lung cancer? Jamal smiled. "If you don't become a Muslim, this will happen to you after death."

Okay. Point taken. Fire and brimstone, quite literally. My reaction (after closing my mouth and, well, taking a picture) wasn't quite as combative as Kellen Winslow, Jr. but I pushed Jamal a little and he moderated his position slightly, allowing that the People of the Book (Jews and Christians) might be okay in the end too. But really, he wasn't very different than literalists anywhere in the world, more of whom, interestingly, I feel like I've met sitting in the Pit at UNC than in all of my time in the Middle East.

But I've got to give Jamal points for presentation and spontaneity. Degree of difficulty could have been better - I would have appreciated some sort of ring of fire, fire ball, really any sphere involving fire, and GOB's "Final Countdown" music would have been a nice touch.

Although I suppose on the bright side - given Jamal's penchant for direct examples - it's good that I didn't ask about treatments for camel tiredness, at least for the sake of any nearby camels.

The Bedu

2007-07-10T00:02:00.001+03:00

Marium

Some photos from the multimedia project I'm doing on the Bedouins of the Sinai.

Our bedouin guide, Farhaj Suleiman...loves the desert but lives in the city of Nuweiba...says that the desert is in the blood of every bedouin, regardless of where and when they are born. They always come back to it.

The aunt of one of the old bedouin guides. The white sheet that hung behind her illuminated her face that was covered with a black shawl.

Salim, one of the bedouin guides. It was a full moon the weekend I was in the Sinai.

After dinner, our young bedouin cook doused the fire and waited as we finished our food.

Farhaj said something that really struck me. He said that the life of the bedouins as they know it will finish in 5 years because of borders and privatization of land.
He hoped that his children would understand the life of the real bedouin, the lives of his father and his father before him. "Its in our blood," he said.

He asks one question: One day the Sinai belongs to Israel. Another it belongs to Egypt. Where do the bedouin go?

Are you Egyptian, he was asked.

No, I am a Bedouin.

Bakh-ing in the Muslim World.

2007-07-08T23:31:00.000+03:00

Marium

Our translator had trouble explaining to us what “Bakh” meant in English. Sitting in the Sinai in the middle of the night, we were learning different sayings in Arabic with six Bedouin men. Why were we in the middle of the deserted desert? It was part of an excursion called Bedouin night, a time when Bedouin men take people to the desert, cook food, play music and dance.

“Bakh,” one of the men said, flaring his nose and baring his teeth.
We looked at him with blank expressions and watched his face fall. Our translator was unable to explain what bakh meant.
“Bakh,” she said, motioning us, forcing us to understand, “you know, Bakh.”

Talk about lost in translation.

And then the meaning of Bakh materialized in a series of comedic performances.

One of the men, Salim got up and slowly started ambling towards the white pickup truck that we had driven to the mountains. In his starch white thobe and his red and white kufiya wrapped around his head, he slowly tip-toed over to the car, sneakily looking at his friend who was about to get something from the truck. Salim hid underneath the truck, crouching low before his friend unknowingly walked over the the car.

Salim leapt out from underneath the car and yelled, “Bakh!” and everything fell into place, as his friend fell to the ground.

Bakh in Arabic means “Boo” and we got to see Bakh in action.

Laughing, we watched as Salim scurried off into the darkness followed by our raucous laughter as his friend chased after him. Watching two adult men in their white thobes and red kufiyas “bakh-ing” each other certainly put things into perspective for us.

Bakh, Boo, laughter and jokes are all the same wherever you go. Even if it is the Arab world.

Salim rushed back to the camp-site, wheezing and laughing. He smiled as he realized that we finally understood what Bakh meant. He whipped out his cell phone and then proceeded to show us videos of people “bakh-ing” each other, videos downloaded from web.

Even the bedouins have better cell phones than me, my friend Zoe exclaimed.

Salim boyishly shoved the cell phone under our noses making us watch cats jump on dogs, men jumping from trees and a dog bakh-ing a monkey. It is still beyond us how a dog could actually say “bakh” which it does in the video but thats one thing that even translation can't help us figure out.

After the men lost interest in playing pranks on each other they started playing games. It was the weirdest competition I have ever seen. Men in their later 20s and 30s, possibly even 40s were trying to see who could stand on his hands and lift his legs, while squatting on a rock.
It has to be one of the strangest things I have ever seen in my life. But one that made me laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here I was with my friends, lying under big thick blankets, about to sleep on the sand in the desert, and the bedouins were playing like a couple of children.

I fell asleep with a smile on my face as their laughter rang in our ears, late into the night. No one was apparently successful in the squatting game. But Salim did manage to bakh someone else.
Score: Salim 2, everyone else: 0

We'll have to get him next week.

Bakh!

A Request

2007-07-08T16:31:00.000+03:00

Matt

Hello good people. I write today with a simple request for book recommendations for my time here in Egypt. My roommate, Amr, works at the American University of Cairo's library and he has offered to check out books for me to read. Ideas in relevant topics like Mubarak, Nasser, Sadat, political Islam, Arab history and Arab literature are certainly welcome. Beyond the regional and religious reading, my other current interests include nationalism, Black Power, Henry Kissinger, and US foreign policy. There are also plans to read works by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Ayn Rand, Sayyid Qutb, George Packer and Olivier Roy. Also, I should probably read something about Thebes or Alexander the Great. A progressive education has left me in the dark in all that ancient jazz.

Feel free to post in the comment section or email me. Comments would be great, though, so other people can benefit from your advice.

Many thanks.

Still Alive

2007-07-06T15:17:00.000+03:00

Matt

Hello all. Sorry for the extended silence, but there has been much transition recently and precious little time to spend at the computer. Work with FINCA in Jordan finished up well with the completion of a few projects and another visit or two to the Palestinian refugee camps. After a brief visit to Petra, a contender for one of the New Seven Wonders of the World (deservedly so), my travels took me to Cairo where I have just finished my first week of classes at the International Language Institute, a wonderfully professional outfit. With 5.5 hours of class time per day (all in Arabic) and couple hours of homework, the academic frenzy has begun again.

Rock formation in Petra

Cairo is a remarkable place with tons of energy and blaring music and traffic and just about everything else you could ever ask for in a large urban center (including the only subway on the continent of Africa). The cafe culture is refreshing, with men playing card and backgammon every day until the early morning hours, reliably smoking sheesha and drinking a cup of tea. I have invested in a chess set so I can meet these men, practice my Arabic, and relive the unfettered glory of my days as a competitive chess player. Swoon ladies, swoon.

As I adjust to a new life in Cairo, I will begin to write more frequently. Currently a piece about Hamas and Fatah is in the works and I still owe you the second half of "Scattered Thoughts from Jordan." Thank you for your patience with this.

Lastly, it is with great pleasure that I inaugurate a new feature here at Tar Heel Travelers. Please allow me to introduce "Globalization At Its Finest", an ongoing photo-documentary project which highlights the rapid pace of technological, cultural and economic integration happening around our world. All the authors are invited to share photos around this theme and you at home are welcome to send photos which we can publish here. The first entry:

Cell phone call on the way to work.

Thanks for reading. Check back soon.

Earth to Friedman

2007-07-04T14:34:00.000+03:00

sam

Another July terrorist attack in the United Kingdom and another unsubstantiated claim by Thomas Friedman that Muslim leaders have failed to condemn acts of terror.

Following the July 7, 2005 terrorist attacks in London, Friedman contended that "to this day -- to this day -- no major Muslim cleric or religious body has ever issued a fatwa condemning Osama bin Laden."

This assertion was absurd at best and pernicious at worst. Note the ample documentation of fatwas against terror in general and bin Laden in particular by al-Muhajaba and UNC's very own Charles Kurzman.

Nevertheless, Friedman is at it again today, writing that "in the past few years, hundreds of Muslims have committed suicide amid innocent civilians — without making any concrete political demands and without generating any vigorous, sustained condemnation in the Muslim world."

As a great English teacher of mine once said: "No, Tom. Sometimes yes, but this time: no."

Not only does Friedman's argument ignore religious condemnations by traditional luminaries like Grand Imam Muhammad Sayyad Tahtawi of Al-Azhar University in Cairo and not so traditional but no less popular luminaries like Al-Jazeera talking head Yusuf al-Qaradawi, it also ignores the political realities of significant Middle Eastern countries, as Juan Cole noted two years ago.

In Egypt, Hosni Mubarak routinely cracks the heads of the banned Muslim Brotherhood. Many attribute his role in the alliance against Hamas to fear that a Hamas-stan in Gaza might spark an even stronger Islamist resurgence at home.

Here in Jordan, the government rounds up politicians associated with the Islamic Action Front, the Muslim Brotherhood's political wing, on an almost weekly basis.

This, of course, is to say nothing of the less than peachy relations between secular and Islamist groups in Pakistan, Ethiopia, Syria, Palestine, Turkey and other parts of Friedman's uber simplified Muslim world.

So, Tom, neither "vigorous" nor "sustained condemnation in the Muslim World?" Really?

I suppose this is simply our luck.

this is your luck

2007-07-02T18:56:00.000+03:00

maryam

In a list of the most commonly used statements in the Arabic language, this phrase would be in the top ten. The phrase’s frequent usage speaks so much about the personality of the society. I’ve never been one to believe the view of your life depending on your luck but in Arab culture it is more of an accepted fact than a belief.

Here so many events in one’s life are referred to as your luck. Marriage is commonly called “naseebak” or your luck. Your current job, status of living and even grades can be commonly referred to as your luck. It’s certainly not an atheistic point of view because your luck is from God.

I originally would be annoyed when anyone would use this phrase to refer to parts of his or her life because of the laziness that seemed to ooze from it. Accepting your luck seemed to be a lazy way of accepting circumstance and never fighting for something better.

I’ve grown a lot since those original thoughts.

I have a fighting spirit because I’ve seen things change purely from the hard work of everyday people. I know that I can work with the system to help others and myself. I know there is hope.

But what if you’ve never heard a good ending from a story dealing with the government? What if all your work is thrown back in your face by the system that was set up to protect you? How can you define citizenship if its definition exists in a world you’ve never seen? And what’s the point of marrying your true love if you end up losing your family, friends, home and all you own?

This is your luck not because you are too lazy to change it, but because it is happening to you. To you, your family, your country, your people. And there is no simple answer to why this is happening to us. Why the oppression, injustice, torture and despair? And why to me?

Because this is your luck

Humanity Rages like a tempest,
but i sigh in silence
for i know the storm must pass away
while a sigh goes to god.
-K. Gibran
A poet’s voice

The many faces of King Abdullah

2007-07-01T14:22:00.001+03:00

sam

I see King Abdullah. Many places, really. In the back windows of ambulances, amidst the din of boisterous falafel stands, beside family photos atop the mantle in stone-floored living rooms.

The meaning of this widespread iconography is complex. Some people display his picture out of love, others out of respect, some out of habit, still others to fit in. But what is absolutely certain from these images is that in addition to the whole head of state thing, Abdullah is a man of many interests. His website attests to this:

"He is a qualified frogman, pilot and a free-fall parachutist. His other interests include automobile racing, water sports, scuba diving and collecting ancient weapons and armaments."

Now, I have no idea what a frogman is (though I did turn up this helpful primer on defending against frogmen. You can thank me when you successfully thwart an amphibious assault on your military base or beach house) and try as I might, I could not find any pictures of Abdullah scuba diving, wielding ancient weapons and armaments, or scuba diving while wielding ancient weapons and armaments.

But here are a few of my favorites:

Family man King Abdullah with Queen Rania, Princess Salma, Princess Iman, and Prince Hussein. This portrait is from Hardee's.

Urban camo King Abdullah.

Soccer star King Abdullah.

Senior yearbook picture King Abdullah...that's a lie. (the Arabic text reads "We are all Jordan")

Actually, I think this selection is more believable as senior yearbook picture King Abdullah. With the cloud background, large tie knot, and happy-but-not-too-happy smile, sometimes I think I'm looking at the Deerfield Academy Class of 1980 yearbook, right next to Thad and Thatcher, complete with a Pink Floyd quote beside it.

University graduate King Abdullah.

Desert Patrol King Abdullah from the City Hall of Salt.

Steroid King Abdullah...not really.

Romantic comedy King Abdullah. (autographed copy)

Desert Patrol King Abdullah discussing strategy with Desert Patrol Prince Hussein.
(I think the camera caught him by surprise on this one) King Abdullah.
Star Trek King Abdullah. Apparently the King is a big Trekkie and he appeared as an extra back in the day. Ask Tar Heel Travelers' very own resident expert for more details.
And my personal favorite: environmental steward King Abdullah. Posted on an entire wall of the Ministry of Agriculture, this features Abdullah, in full military regalia, watering a sapling.
I would have preferred to see him doing this in the Star Trek outfit, but hey, I'm not the king.

Istanbul to Jerusalem

2007-06-28T13:04:00.000+03:00

Brian Phelps

This summer, I have been traveling with Keegan from Istanbul to Jerusalem – following the route of the first crusades. Along the way, Keegan, two others, and I have been attempting to create a documentary/travelogue of sorts on the modern day legacy of the crusades – whether the history of the crusades is still alive and meaningful for the people who live here or whether it is a dead history whose images are conjured by religious and national leaders for political gain.

I write from Damascus, Syria, and I will attempt to summarize the Turkey portion of our trip in this post, write about Syria in subsequent posts, and in the future, post more regularly. However, it has been tough to post frequently when moving from place to place every few days. Not being able to settle in one town or city for very long has made communication difficult. My apologies to our friends and to the readers for not posting yet.

* * * *

Many of my friends have traveled to or lived in Turkey, and while I have been to many countries in the Middle East, this was my first visit to Turkey. Naturally, they had told me stories about how wonderful Turkey is, how welcoming its people are, and how beautiful its sights are. My expectations were exceeded within the first week.

Turkey is a perfect introduction to the Middle East, and for the purposes of our trip – following the route of the first crusaders – it was apropos for us to enter the region in Istanbul, which was at one time Constantinople, considered by many to be the greatest city in the world. By many measures, Istanbul is half Asian/Middle Eastern and half European. Geographically, the city itself rests on two continents – separated by the Bosphorus Strait.

From the moment I arrived in Istanbul, I could see both the European and Middle Eastern influences on the city. My first experience with Istanbul outside the airport was with the traffic. Turkish traffic exhibits all of the usual Middle Eastern signs: drivers ignore traffic lights, lane markings seem to only be painted on the roads for decoration, and any living pedestrian will tell you that cars have the right-of-way (in fact, the right of way goes to the biggest and heaviest vehicle on the road). However, my fare had all the signs of a twenty-minute cab ride in London.

As I stepped out of my taxi, as I was searching for the small backpacker hostel where my three friends and I had agreed to meet, the call to prayer serenely echoed across the skyline filled with minarets. For Muslims, it announced the high-noon time to pray. However, for me, it served as a reminder that I was marching around the city in the heat of the day with a 40 pound backpack, trying to navigate unsigned streets with an inadequate guidebook, and ask directions in a language I did not speak.

I did eventually find my hostel, and very soon after arrival, I was offered a beer at the hostel’s streetside café. As I looked up and down the street, I noticed several bars and several convenience stores that sold beer. And I couldn’t help but notice the already-intoxicated Kiwis a couple of tables down from me. [These were the same Kiwis who later that night would be singing on the rooftop bar with their pants on their heads. While embarrassed for them, I couldn’t help but think: “Thank God they’re not Americans.”] In Istanbul – and almost everywhere I visited in Turkey – beer and alcohol were available almost everywhere. Nowhere else is this more evident than Istiqlal Cadessi, a long cobblestone street filled with clubs, smoky pubs, discos, and swanky rooftop bars. This is the place where Turks come to party.

To me, this should seem normal for a big city. Except, I was in a country where 97% of the population considers themselves Muslim, and Islam forbids the consumption of alcohol. This dichotomy between my greeting to Istanbul from the muezzin in the Blue Mosque and my goodnight lullaby from D.J. Koray was somewhat jarring. And for me, it epitomizes the intentional secularism of Turkey in a way that perhaps goes even further than what some European nations would be comfortable with.

Although there are many people who choose to be religiously conservative, there are also many people who do not consider themselves practicing Muslims. But, in Turkey, most people tend not to pry into others’ religious practices or judge others harshly for what they decide to do. Religion nowadays, for most of the people who we spoke with, is a private matter – between the believer and his or her god. This is a country with a deep Islamic history topped with a unique flavor of European secularism as well.

But Turks don't see this as two opposing forces. Turks are a proud people, and they see the secularism, the Ottomon-style mosques, and their hospitality as distinctly Turkish. There is no contradiction when on a weekend, the most happening clubs are closing up just as the morning call to prayer begins to sound. Turks, some who are of Kurdish or Arab origins, see themselves as distinctly Turkish, and are proud of the liberalism and tolerance that allows people of different backgrounds and beliefs to integrate into Turkish society.

I could go on with some fun (and some stereotypical) examples of the different European and Middle Eastern flairs in Istanbul and Turkey. I will talk about the uncomfortable hospitality we were shown by many of the people we met along the way, but I promise to incorporate that into another post. And perhaps, that post will be a bit shorter.

For now, it’s on to Syria, a place that I expect to be very different...

a rose by any other name

2007-06-27T13:18:00.000+03:00

maryam

For those who are lucky enough to have been to Syria know the feelings that cause me to declare, oh Damascus is Syria and Syria is Damascus. She is a city I have visited many occasions over the years. As I come back to her in the different stages of mental development I cannot help but fall in love with her over and over again for different reasons every time. And yes, I cannot refer to Damascus but in the pronoun she, because in Arabic it is a feminine word. But also, I think the affection refers to that of a captain to his ship. The affection between us is one that has existed through the ages, for Damascus is the oldest continuously inhabited city.

The first time I remember falling in love with Damascus was the summer of 8th grade. I fell in love with her beauty, her romantic charm and her incredible etiquette. My cousins used to take me on walks through the city at nights during that summer. At first the proximity of the ancient city with the modern additions took my breath away. The mixture of the two seemed to be a perfectly balanced blend of the two worlds that I was living in. The image that I fell most deeply in love with is the rise of the ancient Mt. Qasoon at the edge of the old city, littered with tiny old-fashioned cement block houses. The mountain as a part of the city, a mountain that paraded the feeling of eternity with its very presence, a mountain that lessened the division between the heavens of the almighty and the poor mortals of the ancient earth; well, that mountain proved to me the special place that Damascus has in God’s heart.

At that age all I could concentrate on was her unique beauty. I did not notice the intense poverty in the areas surrounding Damascus. The result of rapid modernization without a thought to city planning and the people’s welfare was lost to me. Looking at Damascus now I cannot help but be reminded of the favalas of Rio in Brazil (for those who haven’t experienced seeing such images, you must watch Favala Rising immediately). Walking through Damascus now, I cannot help but wonder how this incredible city used to be a beautiful oasis in the middle of the Syrian Desert. I sigh for the cut down beautiful forests that was said to be a literal paradise on Earth. When I remember that all this destruction happened in the last 50 years, I feel like collapsing in a fit of tears. My insane, incredible and persistent hope for a better future though helps me accept the torture that has been done to my lovely city as I look for ways to restore her health.

The last time I was in Damascus was last year. I graduated early from high school and a semester and a summer here before I started college. As I awaited the beauty and charm that drew me to Damascus, I knew that I could no longer look at her the same. I didn’t love her less, for it is impossible to fall out of love with her, but her faults were thrown constantly in my face. The pollution, poverty and political insanity followed me wherever I went. While I was in Damascus, the Danish cartoon incident happened. For those who didn’t hear, a parade of young, angry Prophet Muhammad loving men stormed through Damascus and burned the Danish embassy along with its neighbors just for fun. Easy to believe that a group of angry Arabs could do something as crazy as burn an embassy, but here is the catch: the embassy caught fire before the crowd was even close to it. When I realized this, it opened the bag of worms for me about Arab political affairs. Everything turned into a Kennedy assassination conspiracy. From wondering why the electricity always goes out for an hour a day (some people say that companies pay off the electric company so that appliances will break with the electric surges and people will have to buy new ones) I started to give everything I had taken for granted in Syria a deeper observation.
Despite the betrayal and hypocrisy of the country, I could not dismiss my love Damascus from my mind. She had become a part of who I was and by throwing her away; I would be throwing away a significant part of myself. The result of which caused a race for a cure for my sanity. I felt like two souls were vying for control of one body. I was Maryam, an American citizen, or Maryam, an Arab Syrian. I could not be both for each wanted to live in a different part of the world. I will save you the details of this struggle but only recently have I come to terms with this tug of war.

Coming to terms with all of her faults, and discovering my own identity, I have fallen in love with Damascus all over again. This trip has turned out to be one of healing as once again I can walk through the cobbled streets of old Damascus during the day and tour through the malls of new Damascus at night. I love the sound of the Mosques calling to prayer and I also love the shake-your-hip belly dancing music that blares from stores and passing cars.

I love watching Hummers try to navigate the narrow ancient haras or neighborhood streets.

I love hitting the cafés with my cousins then running home to catch Isha’a prayer.

I love watching the ancient etiquettes of Arabs played out in high-tech scenarios of Internet cafés and Four Season hotels.

I simply love Damascus.

I’ve never known a person who has seen her breathtaking face without falling head over feet for her.

all the world's a stage

2007-06-26T07:28:00.000+03:00

Aisha

I’ve been in Lima since last Sunday and with each day we’re becoming better acquainted. It was a formal introduction at first, a well-groomed interaction with the tidy politeness of a distant stranger. Over the week, formalities have been deliberately subtracted from the context and already we’re forging a bond through insightful chats with comic taxi drivers, warm chocolate churros and spontaneous street theatre.

My relationship with the city has flourished through the language experience. Beyond a progressing familiarity with street Spanish I’m gaining a clarity and honesty that comes through a disarmed simplification of expression. I find fluidity in conversations with taxi drivers, on minibuses, at street cafes, with market vendors and local artists chatting away with unguarded ease. I love taking on an accent, slurring the vowels, playing with words and tossing in the occasional idiomatic expression.

In professional settings, however, when I try to impose a calculated deliberateness to my thoughts, intended articulations come out butchered and sloppy. It’s humbling to see the meager truth of my ideas when they’re not dressed up in poised rhetoric. The pursuit of quality will surely be a long one.

As I’m taking on roles and trying out scripts in this city, I enjoy the occasional break as a spectator. I love people watching. In Lima my favored vantage point is a lower step of the amphitheatre in Kennedy Park. Sitting in the hub of Miraflores district I’ve gotten to know the old man who comes to visit his pigeon friends. I’ve seen young love stories spark and old ones fizzle out. I’ve watched family outings, temper tantrums and the occasional mid-life crisis. I love opening my senses and soaking in the vibrant surroundings. On long afternoons and late evenings I get lost on rambling trails of thought while inventing stories to piece together the scraps and fragments of passing strangers.

In continuation of my nomadic theme for this summer, I find myself freer and more penetrable in this unpaved journey. It’s an escape from passive consciousness with its surface impervious to the details of daily activity. Traffic jams that were once annoying inconveniences become primetime for people watching, crammed mini-buses offer wisps of juicy conversation, and no matter how trivial the discussion my rough language skill demands complete focus, eliminating a lapse into passive listening.

Friday was my first venture into the industrial region on the far side of the city. As fellow bloggers have expressed, the visual juxtaposition is astounding between the modern and the traditional. Heading into the heart of a bustling district on a chaotic minibus I stumbled over outstretched feet and into the last vacancy in the back seat. Ten minutes into the ride I was sparked into conversation by a solemn looking Peruvian in his early 50s. Carlos Vera dove right into discussion and analysis of Peruvian politics, the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, the recent elections in Egypt and the role of the United States in the Middle East. Carlos attempted a simplification of events to a bottom line of deteriorating human culture. “It’s the capitalist spirit that eats us from the inside; each person pops the top to his own individual Inca Kola, fights for his entitlements, and pursues his personal rights - this global mess we’re in is the product of self-interest, and where does that leave the masses?”

As the bus stop approached, our conversation wound down to an all-too familiar question. “Have you been to visit Machu Pichu?” He asked. “You must remember to vote for the 7 wonders of the world! You remember Machu Pichu and I’ll remember the pyramids,” he smiled.

For a bit of thematic relevance, my ‘Arab experience’ has certainly been unique. To date I’ve incited a fan club of 60-year old chess players, in a 15 minute span I received requests for 3 photo-ops, on a regular basis I cause double-takes and literal jaw drops, I’ve held my own against stare-downs of the masses, and for the eighth day now I've withstood round after round of the ‘top to bottom sneer’ as coined in Egyptian dialect. I often feel like the three headed woman in a circus freak show, but more on that will follow shortly…

On legitimacy

2007-06-24T13:21:00.000+03:00

sam

Granted, political rhetoric is by nature reductive and simplistic, concealing the true intentions of actors beneath a discourse acceptable to the audience. But allow me some venting.

As Hamas has taken control of Gaza, relegating Fatah officials to nervous chain smoking in the lobbies of Ramallah hotels, the tide of ~~empty rhetoric~~ lies has become overwhelming.

Here's one of the more egregious examples, found in a New York Times article today previewing Monday's meeting of Egypt's Hosni Mubarak, Israel's Ehud Olmert, Jordan's King Abdullah II, and the Palestinian Authority President/Fatah leader Mahmoud Abbas:

“We are following closely the fallout from the coup against Palestinian legitimacy,” Mr. Mubarak said in a statement to members of his party.
(my emphasis)

Legitimacy, Hosni? Legitimacy? We're talking about legitimacy? Sorry to sound like Allen Iverson. But let's talk about the legitimacy which, Mubarak insinuates, Hamas lacks.

In the elections of January 2006, the Palestinian people propelled Hamas to 76 of the 132 parliamentary positions, with secular Fatah coming in second with 43 seats. The vote was complicated. On the one hand, it represented a repudiation of Fatah's complacency and corruption as well as a recognition of Hamas's efficient social services and centralized organization. For some, it was also an affirmation of a harder line - especially rhetorically but also militarily - against the Israeli occupation. What is clear, however, is the election's certification by international election observers.

Even George W. Bush seemed caught up in the the moment, noting at the time that "the Palestinians had an election yesterday, the results of which remind me about the power of democracy." Or maybe Mr. Bush was just confused, thinking of all the time he's been able to spend on vacation in Crawford, Texas as a result of his experience with the power of democracy.

The point is, Hamas was legitimately elected to power, in something of a land slide at that. As such, it seems they must figure into Palestinian legitimacy in some way, at least more than Hosni Mubarak would like to admit.

But at the end of the day, Mubarak is scared. Scared of the possibility of a refugee exodus coming over his border from Gaza. Scared of Hamas's success emboldening the Brotherhood.

His short term domestic concerns trump any clear eyed assessment of what constitutes legitimacy in the eyes of Palestinians or, for that matter, a legitimate peace. If he did, he would recognize that the alienation of a powerful, primary stake holder lays the foundation for a creaky peace, if any at all. As a wise Israeli whose last name rhymes with kalamari noted, this was one of the significant flaws of the Oslo Accords - it was an agreement between Labor and Fatah to the exclusion of the Likud and Hamas. More recently, refer to Bush and co.'s reluctance to heed the recommendations of the so-called "wise men" of the Iraq Study Group to engage Iran and Syria in the effort to secure Iraq as exhibit b in the failure of alienation as a viable strategy.

Reminding us of Hegel's contention that "the only thing we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history," it seems the powers that be are nevertheless intent on bulldozing forward. Which, the Economist notes, could lead to a choice between "martyrs or traitors" for the Palestinian people.

And - sparing you any extended reference to a certain Bay Area rapper of early 90s fame - you can probably guess which side will be seen as legit.

cousins

2007-06-22T00:03:00.000+03:00

maryam

Matt asked me to elaborate more on the idea of cousins marrying cousins. I mentioned it briefly in my last entry. To ease his confusion, I will oblige. However, there are some disclaimers:
1. Cousins marrying cousins is a tradition that still exists to this day in the West. Even though it is looked down upon in the main stream culture, it is found in places that we refer to with high regards, mostly royal families. Also, it was a part of main stream culture in Europe all the way to the 1800s.
2. Whatever generalizations I make do not refer to all Arabs. There are definitely many families that do no allow the intermarriage of cousins.
3. The generalizations I make refer to the Arab culture, not the Muslim culture. Many Arab Christians hold onto this tradition as well.
4. Whatever generalizations I make does not necessarily refer to my family.

So, the intermarriage of cousins. Don’t be so grossed out. As I mentioned before, it is fairly common despite it being illegal in 25 states in the USA.
To start out with, let’s talk about why it became a tradition. Arabs are, as many other cultures also are, a family orientated society. The intermarriage of cousins is a way to keep the family together. It saves the family name. For example, when a girl gets married, for all purposes she becomes a part of her husband’s family more than her original one. Even if she does not take up his last name as hers, her children will have their father’s last name. In her original family’s eyes, she and her children are lost. Rather than loose members of the family, some families will marry their daughters to their cousins so that when they marry, they will be leaving the family only to come back into it since her husband’s family is hers. This way the girl’s children will keep the family’s last name.
Is that confusing? That really sums up the most basic why of the issue. In the olden times, the unspoken rule was that the cousin of girl had more rights to marry her than an outsider. If the guy wanted to marry her, any other guy stood no chance. But if the cousin didn’t want to, then she was free to marry outside of the family. Many times the cousin didn’t want to marry his cousin, but is pressured by the older members of his family to not let his cousin ‘be lost.’
To lessen the gross factor for the readers, let me explain the relationship between cousins in the Arab culture. Some families think of their cousins as their brothers and sisters. If this is so, then the intermarriage of cousins is NOT allowed in this family, because if you think of someone as your brother or sister and marry them, well that is just incestuous. For most families, cousins are people you know as you know your friends, people you can trust to watch out for you and you watch out for them, and people you are comfortable with. However, there always exists an unspoken partition between the girl and guy cousins. They are not allowed to be alone together and if you are a Muslim, the hijab barrier exists between them. Cousins are your family but are really like close family friends. What if you fell in love with the daughter or son of a close family friend? Sure there would be complications but it wouldn’t be gross would it?
Now society today has been greatly affected by Western ideology, where it is considered wrong to marry your cousin. So most families today generally do not hold very much to this tradition. Cousins are becoming more and more as siblings and less as strangers. In fact, it is actually hard to find people from my generation who would accept marrying their cousins. I’m not saying it doesn’t exist anymore, only that it is definitely less common.
I hope that covers everything. If you have any questions, please leave a comment. I’d be more than happy to answer any questions about this topic or any other topic.
The most important thing to remember when looking at issues in the Middle East, is that the people here have a totally different frame of reference than you do. Trust me. I’ve had discussions with members of family that leave me speechless (and those who know me know how hard that is). For example when talking to my aunts how I don’t want to get married or at least don’t feel the need to get married anytime in the near future they ask me about things that I didn’t think of as an issue before. Like where I was going to live. I hadn’t considered before that I needed to be married to move out of my parents’ home, but they thought it was scandalous that I wanted to get an apartment by myself after college. Not scandalous as in unIslamic or morally wrong, but scandalous as in what will society think?
I’ve learned to accept the different modes of thinking because mistake number one is to think that your way of thinking makes the most sense. Maybe it makes the most sense for you but you cannot push your way of thinking on the world. Me moving out is something that will work out for me (God willing) but I would not recommend it for my girl cousins here.
Sorry if I sound a little preachy but I learned these lessons the hard way so I can definitely imagine people reading this who would not have thought of this before. Just some words of advice.
Well, this update has certainly been longer than the others. But please, don’t shy out of asking me any questions that you might have on Arabs, Arab culture or Muslims. I really would love to answer them. Trust me, I don’t have anything else to do ☺

Take care everyone,
Maryam

Slapping hands

2007-06-21T13:26:00.001+03:00

sam

Dining with a group of Jordanian and American friends several nights ago, I unleashed a force whose magnitude, in all my thinking, can only be compared to what happened when they crossed the streams in Ghost Busters. The spur of this tidal wave seemed pretty innocuous. I simply noted that in my three-ish weeks in Jordan, we hadn't really discussed politics yet. Before I had closed my mouth, the juice was loose. What followed, a rousing, fist-pounding-on-table discussion of Palestinian statehood, Iranian influence, and American conspiracies, among other things, ended in agreement on not much more than the belief that the situation in the Middle East is as complicated as ever.

Recent developments in the region are overwhelming, among them: Mahmoud Abbas channeling Ronald Reagan in discussing what he called a Hamas military coup in Gaza and what the U.S. seems to hope will be a Fatah political coup in the West Bank; the challenge of Fath al Islam in Lebanon; new accusations of Syrian meddling in Lebanese politics; the continued strangle-hold on political freedom in Egypt; rumors of Turkish military incursions into Iraqi Kurdistan; not to mention the greater issues of Iraq, it seems few would disagree with our contention regarding the complexity and magnitude of current events.

If anything seems to be evident from our work so far on this blog, it is the tension between these issues of geopolitical strife and the content of everyday life, at once more "mundane" and "humane," to quote Ilan Pappe, than the larger systems of ideology, authority, and force at work in the region. I've especially appreciated being privy to sharp humor.

I struck up a conversation with a cab driver the other day on my way home. His people were from Ramla (different than Ramallah), where in 1948 tens of thousands of Palestinians were forcibly dispossessed by Israeli forces under the leadership of a young officer named Yitzhak Rabin. I asked my cab driver what he thought about the current Civil War between Hamas and Fatah. "Ma feesh hal," he lamented. There is no solution.

As we sat in traffic, a line of cars zoomed past in the other direction, young people hanging out of the windows and dancing, horns blaring. Jordan University holds separate graduation ceremonies for each of its faculties, so these episodes of rhythmic honking and clapping had been pretty commonplace over the previous week or so.

The cab driver, laughing, looked over to another idling driver and shouted, "Look! Palestine must be free! We can return!" I couldn't help but laugh. He punctuated the moment with the half hand-shake, half hand-slap preferred by joke tellers all over the Arab world.

My Pulitzer Prize Photo

2007-06-19T02:30:00.000+03:00

Marium Chaudhry

Snap. Stop. Stare.

As an amateur photojournalist I tend to do the first of the three actions rather than the last two.

On our trip to the Sinai, I decided to try something new. I decided that I would leave my camera in my bag and try to venture out into the desert without my beloved partner.

There is power in the shutter of one's eyes. Forget the big lens that straps itself on the hollow body of a camera. Using a camera to capture a moment is like a strong, healthy man using a cane to walk. Cameras are a curse if you don't know when to put them down and a blessing if you realize that your eyes are stronger than any camera lens.

I saw the most amazing sights in the Sinai.

From nights of utter blackness strewn with stars, from bedioun men calmly comforting camels and mountains enamating holiness, I saw Egypt's beauty in the span of 48 hours.

And I have nothing to show for it.

But I do have the pictures in my head. In this blog, I will try to show you my pictures of my Egypt, my images of its essence. For I am jealous of the camera that speaks for me. And this is my moment to shine.

But in the nights of the Sinai, shining is a feat left to the stars of the Arab world. In the pitch dark of hallowed desert winds, the sky speaks for itself. I have heard the black ink sky being compared to black velvet and stars to diamonds. I disagree with this analogy.
The sky in the Arab world is as dark as you want it to be. At first glance it is like black ink. But the longer you look at the sky, the color glistens from black to dark blue and to slight shades of white.

Stare.

The stars are not like diamonds. They are strewn in the sky like marbles that fall out of a child's hands. Glassy and clear. They twinkle like diamonds but are not as capricious as diamonds. Diamonds are fickle mistresses that shine for anyone that lays their eyes on them.
Stars in the Egyptian sky shine for those who take the time to look at them. They twinkle for a second and then quietly stop blinking as if waiting to see if one is really staring into their eyes.

Stop.

My camel stopped right at the edge of a bundle of rocks on Mount Sinai. My camel, who was named Asfour, and who, my camel driver, Sobh, swore was sent for me from heaven, was in love with wandering off to the edge of the mountain. I rode a camel for two hours to the top of Mount Sinai in darkness.
All I could see was the light from Sobh's flashlight and the stars in the sky. Sobh animately started talking about his camel's digestive problems as I felt Asfour's stomach rumble beneath me.

Stricken with fear of falling off the camel and equally scared that my camel was going to throw me off the mountain I held on for dear life and took a picture.

It is the most beautiful picture I've taken yet. Worthy of a Pulitzer. And its all in my head.

Asfour crunched her feet on the ground as Sobh grinned, his old face, brown with lines that crisscrossed from the edges of his eyes to the cleft in his chin. His eyes were brown and old, his beard, shaven and white. My green bag hung on the bright red saddle that was strapped on Asfour's back. My red and brown embroidered shawl covered my head as it lazily wrapped itself around my shoulders. The mountain looked sinisterly brown. The sky looked white with the blaze of stars. And at that one moment all the stars twinkled together.

There is some thing about Egyptian nights that even cameras can't capture. A feeling of utter beauty that cannot be translated onto film. There is not one person that travels in the orbit of these nights who is not touched by its winsome path. Unless they walk through it with their eyes closed.
For there are moments that are lost in adjusting the speed of a camera's lens, moments like the grin of a bedioun camel driver as he explains that camels drink water after three days, seconds when a shooting star races through a sky illuminated by galaxies, and a split second when you think to yourself, “did that camel just turn its head around and smile at me?”

Moments. And it can take exactly that moment, the one that you actually take to look at the picture around you instead of holding an artificial lens next to your eye that can define your entire journey.

Snap.

Turkish Delight

2007-06-18T18:26:00.000+03:00

Hey party people!

Well, for my first blog post (actually my first use of a blog ever!) I should probably introduce myself. My name is Keegan de Lancie, a senior at UNC from Los Angeles, and an Arabic dork along with everyone else on this site. I lived in Egypt two years ago now, and I'm currently traveling from Istanbul to Cairo chasing the legacy of the Crusades. I'm visiting historical sites and interviewing academics, but I'm also talking to people I meet along the way, your everyday average Jameel who runs the kebab shop underneath the Crusader fortress. I want to know how people approach religious violence today - whether the legacy of the Crusades is as pervasive and gripping as we hear, or just empty political rhetoric.

I will try to post my progress as often as I can, but I am subject to the whims of chance in the internet cafes I come across. Some are speedy - some are just a step above an old man yelling into a rusty can on a string.

With all of that said, our progress in Turkey has been, well, progressing. We've visited Istanbul, Bursa, Ankara, Göreme, Şanlıurfa, and Antakya, and have found ourselves feeling progressively more foreign the further east we travel. The coastal cities, even as far as Ankara, have a distinctly European feel. Tourists receive no more than a look or two, provided you don't show any interest in a carpet. English is often the second language, and people dress like a cross between a 70's pop star and the entire population of Italy (though considerably less lecherous). However, as we crossed the Euphrates towards Urfa, we suddenly felt like we were back in the Arab Middle East we know and love. Traffic inexplicably went crazy, men fit their entire family and pets on to a 2-stroke motorcycle, and syrupy-sweet baklava became a semi-official currency. We were surprised to find that Hammer pants are still very much in fashion in this part of the world, and even got a number of tobacco merchants to shout "Hammer time!" with us and shuffle around. "Makes me say, Oh mah lawd! Ohhh Ohhh!"

We could also finally communicate in Arabic, albeit in a crazy half-Iraqi, half-Syrian, half-freaking-Martian dialect that threw me for a loop. Zein. Shnoo. Moo. What? Speak Egyptian!

Our travels have been peppered with spontaneous friends-for-life and hospitality that defies explanation. We had been given contact numbers for people along the way, but in typical Crusades-trip fashion we neglected to write down where we'd received the contact information from. Here in Antakya for instance, we're being shown around and treated to lunch by a group of people from a local high school. We have no idea how we know them, especially considering that they speak nearly no English and only a slight bit of Arabic. Only in the Middle East would I ever jump into the car of someone I'd just met on the street, communicated with using a poorly articulated mixture of 4 languages, and be still left not really knowing who they were.

I'm off to Syria tomorrow, inshallah. Word on the street is that they're really keen on a group of twenty-something American men wandering around their country, interviewing people on camera about religious violence and politics. We've been trying to get official permission to do the filming, but after talking to multiple ministries it appears that Syrian bureaucrats went to the same schools of administration as Egyptians. Maybe it's something in the tea...

Peace and blessings be upon all ya'll. Ma'a salaama until the Sham!

-Keegan

Maryam- outspokenarab

2007-06-18T18:15:00.000+03:00

So i saw that I haven't really introduced myself yet. I am a rising sophomore at UNC studying International relations and Arabic. I am half Arab and the other half is a mixture of Irish and German. I'm staying in Syria for the summer visiting family and 'relaxing.' But any Arab can tell you that when you add the rest of the extended family in the picture (and mine easily counts to 75) then it is not very relaxing.
Because I wear a scarf, people in Syria automatically take for a Syrian. And it doesn't help that I have become fluent in Arabic slang from my last stay in Syria last year. But sometimes it gets annoying. Like when I'm at a restaurant and I'm getting the Syrian service, which is to ignore you and wait for the foreigners to come and wait so they can make big bucks. At times I want to scream, "Hey! I'm an American!" I'm sure my experiences are unlike the experiences of the rest of the Tar Heels on this blog.
For example, because I'm somewhat smart and pretty (you can see the modesty right?) and because most importantly, I have an American passport, my older aunts and uncles all think of me as (taking the words from Jasmine in Aladdin) 'a prize to be won.' They would give anything for me to marry one of their sons. Thankfully my cousins don't think this way so we just ignore and make fun of the attempts made by older members of the family.
And also, I don't have easy access to the Internet so my updates will unfortunately always be short.

Until next time,
Maryam