Driving me crazy

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

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

(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

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

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

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

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.