Written and Directed by Sharbari Ahmed
Starring: Iffat Nawaz, Zarah Quddus, Alizeh Ahmed, Rumana Habib, Adnan Shaiful Khan, and Munize Manzur
“Now, Maybe”
Words by: Anusheh
Music: Bangla
Vocals: Anusheh
“Why Do These Two Eyes”
Words by: Ishtiaque Hossain
Vocals by: Srabonti Narmeen Ali
Okay, let me regroup (me, not the President, who, according to Fox’s Sean Hannity–my future boyfriend–re-grouped too slowly). A couple of columns ago I quipped that these Islamic terrorists were nothing if not helpful, blogging their intentions well before the actual events, leaving holy books willy nilly all over terror sites, and somehow, repeatedly, US intelligence as President Obama stated in relation to the Christmas Day attack, fails to connect the dots. I think it is time for the CIA to stop recruiting at crack dens and remedial reading classes.
I meditate everyday and I try very hard not to think and sometimes I succeed and when I do something pretty amazing happens, I understand things. Profound truths, some of which are very disconcerting, such as the fact that the cheeseburgers I ate in 1989 will show up and build illegal settlements on my butt in 2010. Like Netenyahu, they flout all international laws. I also know that the most pervasive way to control people is through fear. This is what I call an universal truism, therefore, it is not ‘rocket surgery’ as an annoying yoga instructor of mine would always say. But this truism is so common that it is invisible to the naked eye for the most part. I have been a victim of it myself. It is a quotidian reality. Wives running their hapless hubbies around by the nose because they have convinced them they are nothing without them; abusive men who beat their partners; parents who exact so much guilt from their children they cannot think for themselves; employers who punish and offer no incentives. Bullies in a schoolyard, one and all.
Another profound truth: very little of what I say is remotely original. Neither is the question I am about to pose. Andrew Sullivan of The Atlantic asked the same a few days ago. How did Al Quaeda’s latest flunky manage to get bomb making materials–the same ones used by Richard Reid, the shoe bomber of 2001–past security? And why in the name of all that is Holy did he just not detonate the damn thing in the john? Why did he put on a show in the main cabin where someone would see him and then inevitably stop him? The media calls this a failed attempt. I say no. Like Sullivan and others, I feel that Mr Abdulmuttallab, an exceptional student at University College in London, succeeded in his mission. I do not believe killing was his motivation. Terror was. And in that he has succeded spectacularly. Terror and chaos lead to irrational thinking. We become a nation of Homer Simpsons running around, screaming, with our heads on fire. It will also feed the nation’s intrinsic bigotry. I heard a terrible rumour that now Jolie doesn’t like Obama but Pitt does and this is causing tremendous strain in their union. The apocalypse is not far behind.
A debate is raging following this successful attack about the use of full body scanners at the airport. The ACLU says it’s an attack on our civil rights, and everyone else is saying we need this. Newark airport was paralysed for hours last week because someone walked through a metal detector the wrong way. I am already dreading travelling. I can just hear the person operating the scanner now: “Uh, nothing Jones…wait, I see something…no, it’s just a cheeseburger, looks about circa ‘89, attached to subject’s right butt cheek. It is amassing size, however. But Homeland Security has no protocol for this. Send her through. It is, after all, an American cheeseburger.”
I have read the various accounts of the Christmas Day attack, and something is stinky in a small Scandinavian nation. My Facebook friend Joseph Lieberman ( I send him hugs and mojitos all the time) was among the first eager beavers to weigh in, stating that Iraq was yesterday’s war, Afghanistan is the war raging at the moment and Yemen was tomorrow’s front! This was a highly calculated political maneuver. It was setting the stage for the next excuse to wage a war on terror, to waterboard, sorry, interrogate, and to show how ineffectual the current administration is. Yemen is our new enemy and there is a chance that Obama cannot protect us from it. Lieberman’s statement plants that seed of doubt. On top of it, as expected, the Christmas Day attacker had an obliging cleric guiding him all the way. The same one who mentored the Ft Hood shooter. And he is, of course, Yemeni.
I hate taking off my shoes at the airport and if Richard Reid was ever in front of me, I would give him the broad side of my tongue. The same goes for Mr. Abdulmuttallab. I would lecture him to death for his sheer stupidity. He was manipulated. I did some research on him–alright I read his biography on Wikipedia and other sites that included examples of his journal entries (way too much time spent on the seductive powers of women’s hair)– and if these are really his messages and thoughts, then he was a sitting duck for those fiends in Al Quaeda. Based on what I read, he is intelligent, deeply thoughtful, insecure and hormonal. A relatively normal young man, who has not found himself yet. His teachers claim his family is wonderful. They are certainly wealthy. There is no way of knowing what really happened to him as a child, but it does not seem as if he was exposed to Islamic fundamentalism relentlessly. Someone clearly played on his feelings of inadequacy and now all of us are paying for it. This does not absolve him. He is not a baby. But his immaturity certainly makes my life harder. Just when I thought we were turning a corner. Just when I thought that the damage wrought by the Bush administration on the nation’s soul was starting to be dismantled bit by bit, this happens.
Thank you Al Quaeda, you thugs, and thank you USA for playing into their hands…AGAIN! I think I should go meditate now. I am breathing in, I am breathing out, I am here, in the present. I am in need of a cheeseburger. Some things really never change.
Copyright (R) thedailystar.net 2010
Tiger Woods is not someone I care about. I mean I care for him as a human being, as I firmly believe that we are all connected and have an obligation to care for one another–even people we actively dislike–but he is not a blip on my radar so to speak. He is a world class athlete, but unless he suddenly grows ten inches and joins the Cleveland Cavaliers starting line-up, I will most probably not pay attention to his athletic abilities. Suddenly this man, for whom I have not wasted a single moment’s thought in all the years he has been in the media, is thrust into my life, every day.
He is the demon du jour–because you know Americans always need to demonize someone. It’s our national pastime–carried over from when we publicly flogged adulterers in the town square and slapped a scarlet letter on their bosoms. For those of you who have been hiding under a rock, Tiger Woods is a squeaky clean (sorry, was) success story. A child prodigy who became internationally famous for being able to sink a hole in one. He did the unforgivable; he made people think he was a saint, and then on a balmy Thankgiving night, was exposed for the messy, and frail human that he is. And the hits just kept on coming. One after another,his women emerged, blinking at the sudden( and exceedingly welcome) spotlight, pouting their collagen enhanced lips, and happily sharing intimate details and SMSs of their torrid connection with the previously beatified Mr. Woods. They all have straight hair and big…dreams. And by golly! If admitting to an affair with Woods will get them closer to the American dream, well then so be it. At this point everyone is claiming to have had relations with Tiger since it means instant attention. I believe Sarah Palin is preparing to address the media as we speak. Apparently Tiger helped her with her swing once. Though, you did not hear that from me.
Tiger is hated now by a fickle public when he was so passionately adored before. I am not here to pass judgment on him. I feel sadness for his wife (who by the way, is infinitely more attractive than some of his paramours being a former Swedish bikini model, who’s bits and bobs appear natural and not surgically enhanced. You can’t make this stuff up). Her humiliation is being played out publicly. She might have known about one of the women, but I doubt she knew about the magnitude of his pecadillos.
What I am marveling at is something that I have always known; that when one builds their life and indeed their very identity on the approval and adoration of others, then, at some point, one is bound to fall, and fall hard.
In high school this is par for the course. When we are developing and still trying to figure it all out we base so much of our self worth on what others think. But that is HIGH SCHOOL. We are children then and this is forgivable. Usually, what comes out of it are unfortunate hair styles and outfits that we see in yearbook pictures. When adults care so very deeply about what others think, instead of following their own inner compass and utilizing common sense it can actually have long term consequences. I feel the Tiger Woods debacle is a cautionary tale to those of us refusing to be ourselves and live transparently. He probably always had these proclivities but felt a certain pressure. I must marry, I must have children. This is what people expect of me. I am adored, and endorsed, I must live up to others’ expectations. Like an automaton. Maybe he sold himself and his wife a left handed screw driver and look where it has landed him. If only he had faced his own demons, he may not be viewed as one now.
I will leave you with something a very smart man named Jallaludin Rumi once said and one of my endeavors for the new year. Though it may seem to contradict what I have written, it really does not. Rumi said this: “Forget safety. Live where you fear to live. Destroy your reputation. Be notorious.”
It is the time of year when we set ourselves up for severe failure. We decide to take stock of the remains of the last year and usually what we see somehow falls short of the mark. It is also a time fraught with desperate expectation. Everyone starts scrambling to “improve” as if to get a head start on 2010. This usually involves going to the gym more or refusing that extra slice of cheesecake or various other cosmetic changes that will not ensure long term happiness unless one works on the inner junk that is bottle necking one’s spirit. To paraphrase Dzogchen Ponlop Rinpoche, we convince ourselves that money, prestige, the right relationships or dress size will bring us happiness and if we do not have these things then we have somehow failed ourselves. And yet, why is it when we have all of those things we are still bored and dissatisfied? It was exactly one year ago that I headed to Dhaka filled with hope, fear and anticipation. I knew really only one thing, that this was most assuredly an adventure. Nothing turned out the way I had expected. Actually, it was quite the opposite and I was taken aback at times at how things unfolded the way they did. But, even as it happened I understood fully that this was necessary if I was to evolve at all. Miraculously, for every bit of disappointment there were about one hundred blessings in the form of new friends, new challenges, family bonds, divine creativity, collaboration, and self awareness. I also learned practical things that would allow me to further my career and saw a side to Bangladesh I never would have had I not taken a chance.
I liken my experiences this past year to returning to the house where you grew up to find that your parents have transformed your childhood room into a yoga studio. They are not so welcoming and find your presence obtrusive. You are throwing things off balance as they have moved on and want you to. No one in your town seems to recognise you because frankly you have changed a great deal. However, you do not see that yet and you take it personally– a fatal error, because nothing is personal. The park where you played as a child is a strip mall. Where the see saw once was there is now a Korean nail salon. You walk around, searching in all the old familiar places, trying to find something that will tie your past to you or everything that you knew. The very landscape has been altered.
So what does one do in such a situation? Does one crumble and allow nostalgia and mourning for what once was or could be to overwhelm them, and as a result, get stuck? Or do they shrug ruefully and smile and say, oh well, I guess things are not what I expected them to be. I think I’ll just surrender everything I thought I knew and get ready for the next adventure. This is the healthy approach and naturally the hardest one. It is much easier to wallow in victim mode and mediocrity, which I did for a while. Indeed, one can derive a great deal of comfort from remaining in the shelter of Plato’s cave. It is dark, and warm, a bit moist (with tears of self pity?); rather like a womb. But you know, none of us is meant to stay in a womb indefinitely. At some point you have to emerge, as painful as it may be. The light hurts your eyes until you adjust to it. The light is key. The doctor slaps your butt and says, “welcome to the jungle!” It’s cold, it’s uncertain; your needs are insatiable and not met fast enough. It really can suck.
I write this because I know someone reading this is unhappy. It’s that time of year; there are quite a few of you out there. Overwhelmed souls, who are wondering why can’t I catch a break, either in work or in love or just in general? Another year has rudely galloped by and I am not any closer to happiness or what I thought happiness was.
I am here to tell you, you’re just looking at it the wrong way. You are not being punished. I think most people cause their own train wrecks. I caused mine on more than one occasion. If you are lonely or miserable right now, most likely you chose the circumstances you are in and probably spend a great deal of time blaming others for your own hurt. There is good news, however. You have it in you to discard all the illusions, because in the final analysis, if you choose to believe in God, or at least nurture your spiritual life even as an atheist or agnostic, you will know that you are loved. A loved being cannot be alone and must allow for maitri–loving kindness towards yourself. Maitri is a beautiful word. Say it out loud a few times. It’s lyrical.
Your pain is not something to be avoided, but embraced. You need to forgive yourself for your trespasses, without pity or regret.
I spent some time in China after high school. My father was working there. He once took me with him on a project. I remember the landscape was stark with dusty brown mountains and very little grass. It was a cold place. I developed a high fever and was in a good deal of pain. One of my father’s colleagues said to me, “Focus on the pain, Sharbari, feel it completely and you will find you can bear it.” I did just that and she was absolutely right. I now understand that this also applies to emotional and spiritual pain. When I say focus, however, I do not mean be consumed by it. I mean just stop avoiding it when it shows up and it does so with startling regularity, like that pesky neighbour or freeloading cousin. The more one resists it, the more overwhelming the pain will be. It will most assuredly consume you then and worse still, you will find yourself exactly where you started when the pain began. No movement, no progress. This will just send you deeper into despair.
We were designed to evolve and adapt and when we refuse, we break our own hearts and those of the ones who love us the most. Evolution is, as we know, often violent and disruptive but what is left in the aftermath is always a stronger, better version. The old, redundant aspects of our world have to be cleared to make way for the new. Our lives, its dips and sinews, and cycles mirror nature in so many ways.
I have no desire to make too many resolutions this year. I am setting endeavors instead–that most Islamic of ideas, niyoth (sadhana in Hinduism). Pain is inevitable and I intend to grasp it in a bear hug so it has nowhere to go and just dissolves in my embrace. The rewards are immeasurable, and you find yourself being able to bear the next wave of disappointment and hurt with just a bit more ease and suddenly it just ebbs away and what you once thought of as pain is suddenly transformed into opportunities.
So if I may, please spare yourself unnecessary sadness. Surrender all expectation, note all unknown variables with a question mark and surrender those as well. Make no resolutions, only set intentions and I guarantee 2010 will be the best year you have ever had. Though don’t sit around expecting that. Funny how that works.
Darling,
I will tell you whatever I can about those five days. It is a morbid subject to pick for your final paper in history, however. I suppose I should be gratified in this renewed interest in your studies.
Where to begin? They called the day of the start of the horrendous riots Direct Action Day, the politicians that is. That was their jaunty name for it. As if we were taking our fate into our own hands and molding our destiny. What rubbish! You know what action came about that day? I will tell you one thing, you were almost snatched out of my arms by a crazed Hindu woman, Devika, who had just seen her 14 year old son beheaded by a Muslim mob, and wanted nothing more than to do the same to someone else’s baby. And take direct action. I knew this Devika, had laughed with her, bought bread from her for the club. Patience had advised her on the best way to style her hair. She wanted to look like Mumtaz Shanti, who was a Muslim, from that movie Kismet.
Mere days earlier, this woman was calm, even happy maybe, but while she hummed in her kitchen and made the bread for that nights meal, Jinnah was holding court from his house on Malabar Hill in Bombay and pontificating about a place he concocted called Pakistan and putting in motion — for his own purposes — events that would render this mother a monster.
Calcutta after Direct Action Day, 1946. Photo: Margaret Bourke White
Three weeks after the riots Edward wrote to me: “If you are alive, please send me a wire as soon as possible and please tell me what happened. We are hearing so many conflicting reports. Some say six thousand were killed, some sixteen thousand. I am going mad. Everyday there is some new horror story. It’s like Nanking all over again, they’re saying. I know you hate me, but please just let me know if you and Akash are okay.”
I wired him as soon as I remembered to, more than a month later. Short and not so sweet. “Alive. Stop. Countless killed. Stop. Rahul among them. Stop. Stay well. Stop.”
The fact is, even I didn’t know how many had perished. But I am getting ahead of myself. The war was over, your father was gone. You were three years old and growing, it seemed, every night. The Duck continued as before. Some of the characters had changed. Patience had left for England as soon as the Germans surrendered. She married a soldier and moved to Plymouth. Before she left she came to say goodbye, but that is for another letter.
The British started the painstaking process of taking stock. The war had all but crippled them financially and the agitation to end The Raj was reaching a fevered pitch. It was in this chaos that poor leadership was born and the corruption and selfishness of the politicians seeped into the psyche of the people. But I think this is what the British wanted all along.
“Let those darkies kill each other,” they said in their parlours and European-only clubs, “and have done with it, the ingrates, after all we have done for them.”
I know that is what Churchill thought. And the Congress and Muslim League provided much fodder. It was all some of us could do to keep people from one another’s throats. In the Duck we were such a mish mosh of religions, castes and what not. Somehow we managed. Our differences were not along religious lines, ever. It was always about personalities and living on top of one another. The usual human drama. It was during this time, that all of us – Adil Baboo, Asma, Madhu, Ghosh, and Rahul – understood that we had been living in a bubble. This was our odd little family, of which I was the matriarch. Without realising it, I had created a sort of mini-society that was almost idealistic, utopian if you will, and therefore when the riots erupted no one was more shocked than the staff and occupants of Bombay Duck.
On the morning of August 16th, Rahul and Adil Baboo came rushing into the club. They had gone to their usual tea stall on Harrison street– East Bengal Cabin. It was run by a very nice gentleman by the name of Nanda Lal whom I had known for years. He was dignified and well educated. Adil Baboo and Rahul said that Nanda Lal’s tea stall had been burnt and vandalised and that he and his family were trapped in their own house and were fighting back. Nanda Lal had been attacked as well and was wounded.
“Who are they fighting?” I asked.
“Muslims,” Adil Babboo replied. “From Mirzapore Street.” He looked crestfallen.
“I got away,” Rahul said, “because of Adil Da. He said I was his son. They would have killed me.”
Adil Baboo later told me that they had barely escaped. A crazed mob had demanded to see if Rahul was circumcised and when he refused, fell upon him with broken bottles and lathis. Adil Baboo had stood between the boy and the mob and offered to show them that he was circumcised. He told them that Rahul was his son and if a father was cut then it followed that a son would be as well. The mob did not buy this story but became momentarily distracted when Adil Baboo undid his dhoti and obligingly showed them. Somehow it worked and he and Rahul escaped.
On the morning of August 17th, when Devika ripped you out of my arms, she did not see me anymore, and I did not see her. I saw a rakhosh, Ma Kali at her worst. She was running down the street, a mad look in her eyes. She was covered in blood, none of it her own, I found out later. Her son’s blood. She kept looking around, for something to kill. Rahul had ventured out earlier to see what was happening in the Hindu sections of town and told me that her son had been killed. I was overcome with grief for her. But I shut the door on her face. She banged on the door, screaming to let her in.
“For God’s sake, Yassu!” Madhu cried. “Let her in. Her son is dead. She will be killed if we leave her to wander around.”
I thought Madhu was right. The woman was a mother like me. It was Devika. The woman who sold us her bread. I opened the door. She stood on the steps, her chest heaving. She walked into the room slowly. We all parted to let her through. Her eyes were wide as she looked at all of us. No one said a word. She smelled like the streets after kurbani eid. But this was not cow’s blood. Human blood, which is what she was covered in, smells sweeter. It was nauseating.
Death had followed her into the Duck. My eyes instinctively went to where you were sleeping, in my room at the top of the stairs. Devika had been staring at me so she saw where my eyes went and she knew at once what I was feeling. She moved so quickly I almost did not beat her to the stairs.
I screamed, “No!” and ran up the stairs, two at a time. She was on my heels. Someone, Madhu, I think, tried to grab Devika’s sari, but she kicked at Madhu hard and she fell back on top of Adil Baboo and Rahul, who were also trying to get up the stairs. I tried to shut the door in her face, but she was so strong, Akash. She was a small, slim woman, but she was now overcome with superhuman strength. It was adrenaline brought on by grief and rage. She pushed the door in and I fell to the ground. She locked the door. Her movements were slow and deliberate. I grabbed her ankle and kept her from snatching you from the bed. You were awake now, sitting up and staring at me and Devika struggling on the floor. It was a silent, eerie struggle from what I remember. I was so close to her I could smell her sour breath. Adil Baboo, Rahul and the others were at the door, trying to break it down. I managed to shove her away and get up and grab you. You started crying then. Devika took a fistful of your hair and tried to yank you out of my arms. You screamed, I slapped her, but she would not stop. Finally, Adil Baboo and Rahul broke down the door and pulled her off us. They held her back as she snarled at me. Like a beast. Madhu took her by the hair and threw her down the stairs. She lay at the bottom, whimpering.
Asma took you and went to her room where she locked the door and tried to comfort you. We all stood and watched to see what Devika would do. Eventually, she got up and limped to the door and walked into the street, which was now overrun with broken bottles, dead bodies, and people running around screaming. Rahul quickly ran down the stairs and slammed the door and barred it against the din.
It’s that time of year here in the United States. The air is crisp; the trees are turning various shades of gold, red and burnt umber. Hormonally enhanced pumpkins are being set out for display and sale in front of markets across the country and my son has come up with yet another inappropriate Halloween costume that involves guns, dark hoods and a Russian gas mask. The character he wants to be is called “Stalker”. It’s from a video game. Sigh. Pious Muslims all over the world are wondering, how the hell did I gain weight after fasting for one month? Somewhere someone is wondering where all the promise of that summer fling went. It’s also the time of year where the US overtly starts fixing to bomb something. IS there something about the month of September that makes this fair land bloodthirsty? No, wait, we are always bloodthirsty.
To be honest things have been a bit chaotic lately, what with Quaddafi attempting to pitch a Bedouin tent in New Jersey and Ahmadinejad ticking everyone off at the UN Security Council meeting by being incendiary and, oh, effectively squelching democracy by force in his country. Does that guy own a suit in any other color?
Please don’t be fooled by my glib tone. I am actually quite disturbed. I am not ready to bomb Iran and that is what we appear to be readying ourselves for. How does one dress for these things? Casual, or business casual, as this appears to be business oriented? America is very professional in the way it kills innocent civilians.
The very busy FBI has foiled two more terror plots in the last forty-eight hours. One fellow, a Jordanian national, helpfully informed them of what his intentions were in an online chat room. I think that was very polite of him. The other fellow who counts among his role models John Walker Lindh, the WASP Taliban guy (who I am convinced though that he was signing up for a travelling theater group that took the Meisner technique of acting too seriously) was caught in the nick of time. Okay, fasten seat belts, please, this is what I am thinking: these particular threats are about as legitimate as Madonna’s adoption of that little African boy. It’s the GOP trying to undermine Barack, of course. The supposed terror suspect detailing his intentions online is familiar. Kind of like when officials found a flight manual and a Koran in the back of a 9/11 hijackers rental car. These Muslim terrorists are nothing if not helpful. I know they are legitimate terror threats in this country. I have a feeling Taylor Swift considers Kanye West to be a threat of some kind after the fiasco at the MTV awards. The US is more liked than before but still far from being voted Prom Queen by the world and the GOP is banking on that. They are committed to dethroning Obama as the recent health care debacle indicates, though I am not prepared to talk about that. Believe it or not I actually research what I write. Yes, even articles on hair flippers.
I was outraged for Obama and then, at G8 Summit, he, along with Brown and Sarkozy (who is shorter than I thought, but then again, short, French men, huge egos, with a disdain for other cultures, not quite a novel concept) voices his concern over allegations that Iran is secretly building a nuclear power plant. His demeanor is less indignant than Brown’s but is he setting the stage for justifying a strike on Iran in the next six months? I am still happy he is my president, but the honeymoon is decidedly over and his glow might not stay that radiant under close scrutiny. (I just read this back. Joan Didion I am not.) Anyway, I want to trust him now more than ever. Last week he addressed the children of America on education and how to lead their lives and I, a grown-up still struggling with the concept of maturity, was inspired by it. But I am dismayed by his unilateral disapproval of Iran’s supposedly war-like actions. It is the height of hypocrisy. We all know that the only people allowed to have nuclear weapons is the US and their chamcha (towel boy), Israel. Or are we the chamchas? I forget. At any rate, no one else is allowed to play with the legos. No one else is even allowed in the playroom to defend themselves against Israel or the US. The rest of the world is supposed to sit there, quivering masses of fear, while these two bullies brandish their toys and once in awhile launch offensives in mortally impoverished areas like the Gaza strip and burn toddlers in their beds. I guess Iran and Lebanon did not get the Quiver and Cower memo. Incidentally, that was the first name for the military offensive launched in Iraq but Shock and Awe won by a hair.
I do not trust Ahmadinejad. I would not trust him even if he went into Brooks Brothers and got a new suit. The point is, it is simply unfair to demand that some countries not arm themselves while others get billions of dollars a year in aid to do just that. The ideal of course is that no one arms himself or herself, that no one possesses nuclear weapons and everyone plays nicely and shares the legos (the ones that stack and do not maim or peel the skin from a baby’s body).
We must keep a close watch over the next few months and be prepared for various orange high alerts and dull terror suspects who obligingly post their diabolical agendas on their Facebook status. Abdul Joe Islam: is all wound up. Planning on terrorizing Latvian tourists at the Lincoln Memorial tomorrow and can’t get a lick of sleep.
It’s a smoke screen my friends and we must not allow it to obscure us from our responsibilities as members of the human race to prevent the needless deaths of more children. So please President Obama, before you strike, take a minute and contemplate this: our collective Karma can’t really handle another hit and the intense betrayal the Muslim world will experience because of your actions will actually surpass any rancour they felt towards Bush Junior and Dick because you will have done the unforgivable. You will have made them believe in you, trust you, even love you, and then you let them down. Orange high alert? The US might need a whole new colour to indicate a whole new level of threat– that of an already tenuous ally betrayed. As Michael Jackson said: it’s human nature.
“I modeled my looks on the town tramp” — Dolly Parton
Helen Fielding, the author of “Bridget Jones’ Diary”, one of those rare works of chick literature that is both highly entertaining and edifying, puts women into two categories: hair flippers and team players. Hair flippers are what I personally call the Naka-Coquettes or NCs (of which I saw in abundance in Dhaka city). These women would sell their sisters down the river for a man. They won’t take one for the team and actually love is the last thing on their minds. This is not about love, folks. It is solidly about ego and attachment. No one can stand in the way of true love because it is a mandate from whatever higher power you want it to be from, and an NC is powerless in the face of true love. But, in the case of frivolous scenarios: if it came down to choosing between a man or taking into consideration a fellow female’s feelings, what do think the seasoned Naka-Coquette would choose? Every woman is a rival, every man fair game and most feel that every man in the room at any given moment is madly in love with them or aching for their attention. They have perfected flirting into an art form, saying all the right things-never being totally deceptive but rarely being straight forward, leaving the opposite sex in such a state of confused desire, that they have no choice but to dump their wives or girlfriends and chase after the now you see it, now you don’t tail. Phew! And I thought Joyce was long winded. They simper, they pout, they explain to you (while simpering and pouting) that butter simply never melts in their mouth. They just care so very deeply for you and your plight. They are innocence and goodwill personified–Mother Theresa looks like Pol Pot next to them. They are subtle and even elegant sometimes. Their appeal being in their peeka boo style of manipulation and the fact that they are never too obvious about their interest in you. They rarely keep or have strong, intimate female friendships, but that is because (they obligingly explain) “all women are so jealous of me”.
The diabolical machinations of the hair-flipping NCs does not absolve men of the responsibility of their foolishness and the heart break that causes. It always takes two to tango. But lets face it ladies, many men cannot be trusted to truly see a hair flipper for what she is. It’s like they have been fed something that renders them incapable of using that logic they so pride themselves on. Some will have pangs of conscience or feel vaguely uncomfortable, like they are being taken for a ride, but whenever this wisdom comes to them, it is swiftly squelched by a perfectly deployed pout or simper, or simper-pout combo-followed by the delicately executed whammy–guilt. Guilt that these brain trusts do not extend to the way they treated their humiliated partners.
Then there is the team player. Team players understand and appreciate the collective struggle of their gender. It does not mean they are not passionate or don’t love men; it also does not mean these women are plain, and, therefore, bitter about the NCs. Some of my closest friends (all team players) are among the most beautiful, accomplished and intelligent women I have ever met. They are mothers, homemakers, writers, teachers, architects, poets, actors, lawyers, good cooks, outstanding poker players, painters and sexy as all get out. They have all had their hearts broken, they have all known love. Sometimes they were betrayed by other women and never once did they falter in their love and devotion to those of their gender because of it. They wonder if they are good enough mothers or lovers or wives, they agonize over their strained relationships and they sometimes make huge mistakes that can cost them a great deal, but they were and will always be team players. They understand on a fundamental level that no man is worth destroying a friendship over–a real friendship. That the collective suffering, struggle and camaraderie of the female gender far outweighs any ego-driven, narcissist and fleeting pleasure that one derives from gaining a (usually befuddled) male conquest. You can be the object of tremendous interest for the opposite sex and still be a team player. You can even be a solid sex symbol and be one. I always think of my favorite fake blondes, Marilyn Monroe and Dolly Parton. Now I would not claim that Monroe was a saint. But she was just as much a victim of her circumstances as she was a participant in them–in my opinion–but she loved women and many accounts talk about how she longed for female companionship. She would–her mother tried to drown her in a bathtub when she was a toddler. She was funny and self-deprecating, never taking her status as a sex symbol seriously, God bless her, and never afraid to show her vulnerability. This is another thing: NCs make one think they are showing you their vulnerability when all they are doing is indulging their need for attention. Real vulnerability, when it is displayed is done so, not to conquer or win over someone, but as a result of a genuine need for love and recognition–in my humble opinion. (I would like to point out that I know nothing, so prescribe at your own risk.)
Then there is Dolly, my personal guru.
I have loved Dolly Parton, the bottle blonde, large of bosom country singer since I was a little girl. I thought she was beautiful then, I think she is even more so now.
She is unapologetically female–she is unapologetically everything. She is southern, dammit! She knew she was the butt of many jokes–like she once said (I quote loosely) “I’m the first woman to burn my bra. ‘Course it took the fire department four days to put it out.” Dolly, at the height of her appeal, was an object of desire for many, and she was always a team player. The film roles she chose, her songs (She penned the hit “I Will Always Love You. It’s better than Whitney’s version.) and her overall image is that of a tender woman who doesn’t take life or herself too seriously and loves people and her gender. At first glance she does not seem in the least bit elegant nor is she subtle. She has never tried to be. Her elegance comes from knowing exactly who she is and accepting it. There is tremendous grace in self-acceptance and to me she has always been that, graceful. Team Players are grace personified.
I have been thinking about my fellow team members a great deal lately. Some are going through a few trials and tribulations–some at the hands of NCs–some are coping with death-but we all know, this too shall pass–and I am filled with gratitude at knowing them and what they have taught me. I met some new team members while I was in Dhaka (I met more team players than I did NC’s to be honest, but those NCs can pack a punch let me tell you.) and I wish I could send them all posters of Dolly or Marilyn and remind them that this team is, in the end, never the losing one.
Team players love men, truly we do, in all their gobsmacked glory. We suffer their foolishness patiently, and allow them the room to grow and some do, really. We recognize how much we enjoy this sometimes infuriating dance; it is after all what makes it all so interesting. And sometimes we even let them lead.
“I have two weaknesses, food and men…in that order.” — Dolly Parton (team leader)
I am going to tell you a story. It was extremely humbling and a testament to the fact that I know nothing. I want to add that I always hesitate a bit when I write about these personal things because I have been accused of being preachy, giving lectures and so on. But I say with all sincerity, that is never my intention. I write these things because I want to share what I am learning about the world with people. And, alas, you are a captive audience. But I do still marvel at what happens to me–when I stop long enough to process it. I used to eschew this processing business because it reminded me of jogging in place and I would feel compelled to react to whatever it is I was attempting to process. At once. This usually ended bloody, either for me or the other person (s) involved
Back to the story. About five years ago I was waiting for the train to Grand Central Station. It was in White Plains, which is an urban hub masking itself as a suburb of New York City. A little boy, about the same age as my son, five, was jumping from seat to seat in the waiting room. He was disruptive, loud, and about to break his neck. His very young mother, maybe about twenty one, if that, watched him disinterestedly, rolling her eyes a few times and went back to her conversation with a friend. She was Hispanic, and wore a thick gold chain around her neck, with a rectangular name plaque. Her hair ,slick and curly was pulled back in a tight ponytail. She was overweight, and wore jeans that hugged her ample posterior, were low waisted and tight, creating the dreaded muffin top of fat that spills over the band of one’s pants that most women despise. Her shirt was too small for her and rode up, revealing a slack belly. On her feet were unlaced black Adidas sneakers. She was the picture of the minority cliche–the kind that white male conservatives have nothing but contempt for, when they bother to notice them.
While watching her and her son’s antics, I automatically came up with her story. She was barely twenty years old, which meant she had to have had the boy when she was a teenager–I of course assumed he was her son–and out of wedlock. She did not attend college, maybe she didn’t even finish high school. I did not look down on her, in fact, I had no real opinion of her, I just assumed all these things about her and put her in a box.
The others waiting to get on the train watched the boy’s increasingly disruptive activity askance. Some sighed, some scowled, some ignored. He was invading people’s spaces, which Bangladeshis are resigned to as an inevitability of being alive, but most New Yorkers consider tantamount to breaking and entering. But no one said anything. I was about to–because, as my partner has pointed out, I have an aversion to minding my own business–when the boy jumped from one seat to another, but his mother beat me to the punch. I do not know about The Star’s policy on profanity but I shall err on the side of caution. She said: “Lorenz, get the f— back in your seat!” She then smacked him so hard across the face that an angry welt appeared at once.
Everyone was startled, I think someone even gasped. I think that someone was me. But of course no one said a word. People went back to what they were doing as little Lorenz started bawling, his hand on his cheek.
What was heart rending was how he went up to his mother and grasped her leg and looked up at her pleadingly. She responded by saying, “Tsk! Don’t even. Get off of me!” and pried his hand from her leg.
That was too much for me and I marched up to her and said, in all my self-righteous, presumptuous glory (the residue of which I still find on me from time to time) and said: “You can’t hit him like that. You can’t treat him like that, he’s just a baby. How dare you?” Yes, folks, I said, how dare you.
She looked at me shocked, and kept silent. Her friend, also young, also Latina, put her hand on my chest and shoved once. Now, of course every one of those profligate straphangers was watching with sudden interest; their New York Daily Posts forgotten, but no one made a move to intervene.
I, now totally unsure of myself, tried to channel what my college girlfriends call ghetto Sharbari, or Sharbreena (apparently I have a touch of the , “oh no you didn’t” and am known to get into physical altercations with people who displease me. I think it’s a gross exaggeration, I mean there was that one minor incident back in college, well never mind) but failed miserably because I was frankly not in the same throw down shape I was in college and found myself resorting to sheer class snobbery, the mark of a coward. I said, “I realise you think by bullying me you are accomplishing something. But all you are doing is denigrating yourself.” *(A note: most snoots trot out the SAT words when they are unsure of themselves. I remember I learned a word that way. Back in grad school I was critiquing someone’s short story and she did not like what I said and threw the word “ontology” at me.)
The young lady looked at me like I was mentally ill and shoved me gently again-for good measure.
“Mind your f—’in business,” she advised.
“I can’t,” I said. “Look at him, he’s hurt.”
We all looked at Lorenz then, who had since stopped crying–and was looking at me like I was nuts as well. I really could not keep quiet. He was just a kid and she had hit him too hard. His tear-streaked cheek was swollen. I had images in my head of his systematic abuse, his mother’s drug use, etc, all the usual stereotypes
“What do you know about anything”? His mother said. “Just mind yourself.”
And just like that, it happened. Boom! Wisdom. I looked at her then, I mean really looked at her and something in my head said, Sharbreena, you are so out of line. You have no right.
I said, “I am so sorry.”
The two girls seemed surprised. I rushed on, “I have a son too. He drives me crazy. Sometimes I want to strangle him, and his dad works a lot….does Lorenz’s dad, I mean is he around?”
His mother shook her head.
“It’s always up to us isn’t it? We have to take care of them.”
“Shoot, that’s truth,” her friend said.
“I know it’s hard,” I said. “I know.” And then I took a chance, I took Lorenz’s mom’s hand, and she let me. “Please forget what I said.”
“It’s okay,” she said and smiled at me, but she looked terribly sad and suddenly very old. But she was just a child herself in many ways, though I know that is no excuse.
“Can I say something though?”
She nodded warily.
“Please don’t hit him anymore. Please.”
She started crying then, to my complete surprise, and I hugged her. By then, you can imagine all the useless straphangers were probably wondering when the camera crew were going come rushing out.
The train arrived and Lorenz’s mom and I sat together and talked the whole thirty-minute ride. She told me, well everything, and I felt even more contrite. Her friend was still skeptical of me, however, and only grunted at me when they got off the train. Lorenz, and his mom, got off at 125th street in Harlem, and I continued to Grand Central. Before she left, she said, “I love my son. I will try really hard.”
I believed her, and I still think she is trying really hard. This is an absolutely true account , though of course, I do not remember all that was said, and a resounding testament, as I said above, of how I can be an unmitigated ass but am trying really hard too.
I have left Dhaka and am back in familiar territory, the place I have called home for most of my life, USA. I won’t bore with you with the usual cultural shock syndrome, East vs West rigmarole, as I am not in any cultural shock. I was not in Dhaka either, actually. I am, however, slowly processing the six months I spent there and that has led to my processing many other things. I have not yet processed the death of Michael Jackson – oh quit rolling your eyes! You know you at least found him fascinating. It is now summer in Obama-land. I was in Dhaka when he was inaugurated and felt somewhat removed from the elation.
The Obama administration does not seem to have any intention of altering the American stance on the situation in Gaza and environs.
Somehow partying at the American Club (which at times, seems overrun by missionaries trust me, I hung out there a lot) did not cut it. I was underwhelmed by the poem read at the ceremony but I wanted to like it so ended up convincing myself it was brilliant. I am particularly adept at convincing myself people and situations that send up red flags are really just fine. A rare, useless talent. So, I was happy seeing him take the oath, happy to see Cheney wheel chair bound, and Dubbya looking like he had developed a rash on his undercarriage, happy to hear the Queen of Soul, Aretha Franklin sing her gutsy heart out. Afterwards I posted deliriously jubilant Facebook status I, along with everyone else, extolling our new leader and his (legitimately, not a delusion) beautiful young family. I was euphoric and pushed all my doubts to the furthest reaches of my mind, where they kept company with my various other doubts and instincts that I choose to ignore when they seem inconvenient. I discovered something unhappy about myself something I have sneered at other people about I am a why-fight the-flow-kind-of-woman. It’s easy to be happy, so just be it. But as is the nature of the Universe, and why people like me and maybe you, will never be totally happy is because the truth is something we are in constant search of though, at times, I truly hate hearing it or knowing it even exists. But, as an American and current employer of President Obama, I felt it was my duty to uncover some of it. To that end, I dug around and started listening to alternative media outlets (the biggest thing I miss about Dhaka is Al Jazeera, oh, and my friends) to assuage and or confirm my suspicions, that where the Middle East was concerned the Obama administration was merely Bush light and not much more. This is what I found out:
The US is conducting a new war and this one is in Pakistan, sanctioned and conducted by Barack Hussein Obama. Seven hundred civilians have been killed by American drone missiles since he took office and according to John Pilger, award winning filmmaker and activist, the whole region, including Afghanistan, is being prepared for an extended American colonial presence. Another hard Truth: the President’s eloquent, goose-bump inducing speech to the “Muslim World” was really just about language and tone. Not that that is not important. It was a far cry from Bush’s aggressive, Sith Lord approach where one was either for or against the US. But this speech, heralded as being in the milieu of the Gettysburg Address, is starting to look like some sort of, as a commentator described it, “mood music to the Middle East.” A salve to lull us, and those upon which injustice has been wrought for generations, into being comfortably numb. In the end, John Pilger asks, “what did Obama [really] offer?” Mollification is good in some instances, and needed, and sometimes it builds up hope that is realized, but the only people, it seems, who are hopeful about the state of the Middle East and the “Muslim World” are the Americans, who are mightily enamored of their President. When one hears what the average Arab or “Muslim World” club member thinks, in general, it is either skeptical optimism or downright, OK Hussein, put your money where your mouth is. Here is a smattering of reactions I gathered while I was digging:
“Bush and Clinton said the same about a Palestinian state, but they’ve done nothing, so why should we believe this guy?” Ali Tottah, 82, a Palestinian refugee at the Baqaa refugee camp in Jordan.
“Why did he not come here to Gaza, instead of going to Egypt? He is welcome to come and see, to inspect with his own eyes, to see the war crimes and the new Holocaust.” Mohammed Khader, 47, whose house in Gaza was leveled by Israeli troops during the offensive against Hamas.
“It was actually better than we expected, but not as good as we hoped. … His stance on democracy was very general, a bit weak, we hoped for more detail.” Ayman Nour, an Egyptian dissident recently released from prison.
“On the occupied West Bank, Israeli settler Aliza Herbst said Mr. Obama’s speech will not bring peace. ‘I think we have to face, the Israelis in general will have to face a very very difficult situation in the international community. It has been difficult. I think as a result of Obama it will be more difficult,’ she said.”
“In Washington DC, the Council on American Islamic Relations, held a gathering to watch Mr. Obama’s speech. The group had been critical of Bush administration policies. One member of the organization, Khadija Athman, was upbeat. ‘I think I have never been more proud of our president right now,’ she said.” (She is an American, of course)
“Obama’s attempt was positive but not effective. As long as the U.S. is supporting Israel there will be no hope for better U.S.-Islamic relations.” Niloofar Mirmohebi, an Iranian student in Tehran.
(Sources: Asharq Alawsat Online, and VOA News)
I feel young Niloofar sums it up for me personally, but I want to qualify, that it is not supporting Israel’s right to exist I have a problem with, it is the expansion of illegal settlements in Gaza, as well as the lack of consequence for genocide exacted upon the residents of Gaza this past winter, as well as the centuries’ long injustices wrought upon the Palestinian people that America insists on turning a blind eye to.
The violent and unstable political situation across the Palestinian territories is driving the children (particularly of the Gaza Strip) towards a hostile and irreparable future. courtesy: stolenchildhood.net
I do not feel that the Obama administration really has any intention of altering the American stance on the situation in Gaza and environs, as he did not even address the atrocities in the region in his speech. That was very telling, as was Biden’s recent interview with George Stephanopoulos in Iraq.
When asked if the US would support Israel attacking Iran’s nuclear power plants, Biden replied, “Look, Israel can determine for itself — it’s a sovereign nation — what’s in their interest and what they decide to do relative to Iran and anyone else” (Source: Los Angeles Times, July 6th, 2009)
Biden and Stephanopoulos went on to discuss the idea of an “existential threat” to the welfare of Israel as posed by Iran. I was intrigued by the use of the word existential and so looked it up to get the proper meaning. I know it has something to do with Henry David Thoreau and a pond in Massachusetts and is, at times, a seemingly interminable part of my existence, but I wanted to find the technical meaning.
According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary one meaning is: struggle for existence
Date: 1832 : the automatic competition of members of a natural population for limited vital resources (as food, space, or light) that results in natural selection
The words natural selection sent shivers down my spine as that is what most genocidal maniacs use to justify genocide the inherent inferiority of another culture or race (though race is apparently a myth as well, yet another column). In general, however, it perfectly defines what the conflict between Israel and the Arab and Muslim people is about. It is in the end, about food, space and light. And it seems, the US is still very much cavorting with the dark side. This is the truth (according to me and John Pilger, and maybe the “Muslim World”) and I cannot shy away from it. I still admire my President, still view him as a beacon of hope, but can now see clearly that the light he sheds may not always be incandescent. It may not always reach the furthest outposts of the human experience. In order to do that, it needs to shine more pro-actively and with more truth.
Lately I have been doing regular emotional diagnostics on myself. This is usually during my attempts at meditation. I sit or lie still and take an inventory on how I am feeling about certain outstanding emotional issues and then try to work through them as rationally as possible. I have managed to prioritise and narrow it down to the most important ones. As a result I have had to throw out a couple of issues that I was clinging to for purely egotistical reasons, that I was using to fuel certain petty instincts.
I won’t deny, however, that being petty sometimes (in theory, not in practice) really helps one heal, but only if one is fully aware that they are deliberately indulging in this pettiness. I say, take the pettiness as far as you can. Imagine your enemy, their humiliation, the veil of their duplicity being lifted publicly, their failure, their despair (but only in direct proportion to the amount they have caused you, never more, never less) and then let it go and try very hard to imagine them surrounded by love and success and joy. I liken this practice to taking antibiotics. You pop the bitter pill to heal, and you actually might have to get sicker before you fully get healthy.
I have found that one can exact a certain delicious pleasure in imagining themselves dunking a treacherous friend’s face in the toilet repeatedly, while shouting, “who’s your daddy now douche bag?” But that must be followed quickly by a vivid image of you holding their hand while running through a field of daisies–in slow motion.
Those of you getting weary of my inflicting my personal drama on you, the reader, this column is actually not about that. I was recently meditating on how I could inflict bodily harm on certain persons who had assassinated my character but then felt guilty because that is so antithetical to Godliness, and that led me to another deeply emotional issue I have been working through: Obama and his policy towards the Middle East.
Actually it was the word assassination, character or otherwise. Our man in the White House has taken a very bold position concerning the expansion of settlements in the West Bank. The boldest in decades. He has said, in no uncertain terms, that expansion must stop in order to have any real hope for peace between Israel and Palestinians. A few days after that a bomb (bogus?) attack on a New York City synagogue was foiled. The alleged bombers were black and claimed they were Muslim. This whole thing has been plaguing me. I fear that it is a harbinger of things to come if President Obama continues being an honest broker for peace in the Middle East (the first of his kind in centuries). I fear that the more he criticises Israeli policy or action, the more vulnerable he is, and the more we will see terrorist attacks on American interests and soil. They will be carefully orchestrated PR juggernauts, specifically designed to play into our fears, and prejudices. Anti-Jewish sentiments will be on the rise as well. Some schmuck (Muslim, of course, or Mel Gibson) will publicly deny the Holocaust, and that will set off more public outrage, and usurp the tentative warming towards the Muslim world that was taking place in the US.
Because of my ability to take huge leaps in imagination (all in the name of self-discovery) I have now become very anxious about my President’s safety and what his untimely demise will mean for all of us. And when I say all, I mean ALL. Not just the American people.
King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia (left) welcomes US President Barack Obama, on his arrival at the Royal Terminal of the King Khalid International Airport in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. (photo: Hassan Ammar/ AP)
You see? My head is spinning. My six months in Dhaka have changed me. I am starting to be mistrustful, to question my belief in human intention; niyoth, in Bangla. I have always believed that if one’s intentions are pure, then no matter what happens, it will end well. In this case, I am only one hundred percent certain about one intention: Israel does not want peace with the Palestinians. Israelis voted in the right wing, just as we voted ours out, which is fascinating. While the rest of the world rejoiced at Obama’s election and many were even inspired by it to make drastic changes in their own governments, Al Qaeda, and Israel did not join the party. Al Qaeda calls Obama a criminal, the very definition of irony (are these guys even aware of what comedians they are?) and Israel is visibly put out by the President’s sense of justice.
The President’s articulate and inspiring entreaty to the Muslim world was that the US needs partners in the healing and re-building process—remember it takes two, count ‘em two to engage in a tango. Many people seem to think that assigning blame to one party in every conflict is somehow rational and go to great and petty lengths to justify this, miring themselves in a dirty deadlock and dragging others down with them. This sort of thing is played out regularly in well-appointed parlours in Dhaka and is indicative of the greater issues plaguing this and many societies. What is not immediately apparent is that these instincts, played out on a collective, global scale, reap catastrophic results. They lead to brutality, bigotry, fear, suffering, and misery. They lead to Aucshwitz.
Therefore, without real partnership between the West and the Middle East, Obama’s goals cannot, will not, be reached. Case in point: just two days before his trip to Egypt, Hamas and Fateh started shooting at each other in the street in the Palestinian territories, killing several people, and further undermining their position. You see, I can decry Israel and AIPAC until I am blue in the face, but when Arabs gun each other down in the streets, form factions and fuel centuries of clannish antagonism, I am hard pressed to maintain hope or sympathy. Imagine the glee of their detractors. “Good!” they must be saying. “Maybe they’ll kill each other off and save us the trouble.”
A BBC commentator stated that Obama’s plan of action in the Middle East is somewhat unclear. He will be relying on his charm, perhaps, they said. I am having difficulty trusting my President’s intentions as well because I know what his olive branch to the Muslim world might cost him, his family, and his people. Enemies of peace abound; surely he knows that, so how can he really believe that his efforts in bringing it to the Middle East will be allowed to succeed? Peace in the region would mean loss for some very powerful people and entities. Is he as delusional as me? Well, you know, I always thought we had a special connection.
So these are the thoughts running rampant in my somewhat cluttered head and I cannot find it in me right now to think well of the enemies of peace and send them happy thoughts. I cannot seem to imagine taking their hand and dragging them across that daisy field. They probably planted mines all over it anyway. How will we navigate? Are the daisies and the sunshine obscuring the mines? What will trip them off? But the beauty of course is, that since I have thought of this, Mr. President has as well. Finally, a person in the White House smarter than me. That does give me hope.
