The air was nearly too thick and water-laden to enter my lungs. Inhaling was difficult, but an indescribable pleasure.
Giant droplets clung to my dirty, sun-stained skin. Once the moisture of the room collided with my own sweat, the beads would roll down my ribs, eventually pooling under my stomach on the cool marble table on which I lay. Spatters of water shaken off of the hair of a woman next to me collected in the small of my back.
Today, be kind, be peaceful.
Absolute peace in our world is an unattainable goal. But it is one towards which we must continue to journey, our eyes fixed on it as a traveller in a desert fixes his eyes on the one guiding star that will lead him to salvation. Even if we do not achieve perfect peace on earth, because perfect peace is not of this earth, common endeavours to gain peace will unite individuals and nations in trust and friendship and help to make our human community safer and kinder.
I used the word ‘kinder’ after careful deliberation; I might say the careful deliberation of many years. Of the sweets of adversity, and let me say that these are not numerous, I have found the sweetest, the most precious of all, is the lesson I learnt on the value of kindness. Every kindness I received, small or big, convinced me that there could never be enough of it in our world. To be kind is to respond with sensitivity and human warmth to the hopes and needs of others. Even the briefest touch of kindness can lighten a heavy heart. Kindness can change the lives of people.
Instead of saying all of your goodbyes, let them know you realize that life goes fast – It’s hard to make the good things last; You realize the sun doesn’t go down, It’s just an illusion caused by the world spinning round.
– The Flaming Lips
I have chosen a life of goodbyes. I have chosen a life of all things transitory, all things fleeting. Yet despite this conscious decision, I have — in all of my temporary lives — fallen in love. I have fallen in love with places and people and the way places and people have made me feel.
I can’t always verbalize these things adequately — without turning into a sniveling, snotty mess — so this is my way of telling you, all of the people who have given me reason enough to stay, that I love you.
As anyone with a heart as susceptible to love as mine can attest, leaving those you care about behind can call into question any sound decision. It’s forced me to honestly rethink the path I have put my feet on.
Why leave when you have everything you need right where you stand?
In spite of my determination to go, when the farewell tears start flowing, that burdensome question falls onto my shoulders.
It’s at times been tempting to preserve my feelings by staying detached but I have resisted that urge. It sometimes feels too painful to love and leave; but I know that if I had spent just one day with all you, I’d consider myself lucky.
Whether I’ve been at home in a place for two years or two weeks, I have formed deep and lasting attachments to so many. I have wound webs of friendships all over the world and when I leave, the threads don’t break but rather become more a part of who I am. Now, after years of collecting friends, I am nothing more than an accumulation of these threads — tied to all of you.
All of you, my friends, have done more for me than I can ever hope to do for anyone. You have reminded me that good people do exist — everywhere. I can’t have met this many amazing individuals if there weren’t many, many more out there. You’ve all chipped in little bits of yourself to make me who I am and I am so very proud of that.
Somehow, that is why I have to go. I have to go touch the lives of as many people as I can, as you have all touched mine. And those threads that I have attached to all of you, I bring with me.
Thank you all for loving me as much as you have. You’re all irreplaceable.
Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse, Mount Desert Island
It sees the ocean to its bosum clasp
The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace:
It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,
And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece.”
–Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Lighthouse
Maine has been the backdrop — the setting — for some of the most important chapters of my life. It’s been the oft-unnoticed character, looming in the background, prepared to cushion my many falls with a thin layer of snow and pine needles.
The world was 6 years into the 21st century; I was half way through my 19th year when my path merged with Maine’s — unexpectedly — and for all the wrong reasons. The first role the great state took on was that of the antagonist. Its endless silence, population deficiencies, and overabundance of pine trees (of white people) was daunting. It was so unlike the cruel, harsh home I knew so well before, and its sensibilities felt wrong.
Maine remained patient however — calmly and quietly waited for me — while I resisted its persistent charms.
Somehow, slowly and without my knowing so, a love affair developed. The cold coastal sea air filled my lungs with an intimacy I had not known before. The previously unsettling stillness that followed the countless snow storms became beautiful, peaceful. Even the muckiest of mud seasons gained a certain charm. I could no longer hold off. I soon fell for the old, small towns and cities like I had never for a man.
But like any unnoticed character in a story, I never stopped to acknowledge its worth — until a goodbye was in the offing.
For some time, I knew the love was there, I could feel it pooling in my heart. But only today, six years later, can I comment on just how crucial a role this place has played. Many-a-time, my life veered off course but like the many paths I’ve found through its woods, Maine carefully guided me back to where I needed to be. It threw the most memorable sights, sounds, and people my way and reminded me all the while why I am so very fond of life.
But sadly, now, it’s time to put distance between myself and my great love. The faintly lit cobble stone streets still call to me lustily. The tree topped mountains still pull me in. The muddy hills beg me to stay. But while my heart longs to remain, tethered to the rocky shoreline, my feet have already cut their ties so I must follow them — for a while, anyway.
It is not a forever farewell and someday when I find my way home (probably captive to a loveless marriage) the state shall resume its role as the loyalest of lovers.
My heart stays in Maine. New york is ok. Boston comes close. But when I leave this world spread my ashes across the Maine Midcoast. Don’t take for granted just how deep you can breath in. Don’t take for granted just how far you can see here. Take a stroll with me down to the Old Port. Take a drive with me to the sea, my dear. We are already here. We are already here. East end to West End. Park Street to Forest. Park side to Congress. Monument Square, Monument Square, Monument Square.
–Lady Lamb the Beekeeper, Maine Song
Istanbul, Turkey
The air was nearly too thick and water-laden to enter my lungs. Inhaling was difficult, but an indescribable pleasure.
Giant droplets clung to my dirty, sun-stained skin. Once the moisture of the room collided with my own sweat, the beads would roll down my ribs, eventually pooling under my stomach on the cool marble table on which I lay. Spatters of water shaken off of the hair of a woman next to me collected in the small of my back.
An hour earlier, I stood staring — horrified — at what fell out of a small, sealed plastic packet. In the recesses of my mind, I prayed that if I stared long enough, they’d grow large enough to hide in. They did not. So there I stood, clinging to the thin towel that wrapped around my body thrice with tears in my eyes. My feet held their ground on the ceramic tiled floor, seemingly to refuse any efforts I might make to pull the black bikini undies on.
But one by one, my toes gave way…
I shuffled into the next room, my legs still putting up some resistance. But the second the intricately detailed wooden door slammed shut, the steam encapsulated me like a drug. Whirling clouds of mist wrapped around every strand of my hair, blanketed over my eyes, squeezed through my nostrils and into my brain.
My grip on the towel loosened gently.
I was surrounded by stone, a heavy layer of fog, and brown skinned women – all fitted in the same slinky Hamam uniform. 
My now curious feet lead me toward an empty cove where a small faucet jutted out of a wall that was erected hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Below it, a large metal bowl. I kneeled down and eased my legs under the water, occasionally filling the bowl to pour over my arms. It all felt so surreal: the perfect temperature of the water, the hazy atmosphere, the some how sensual antiquity of the place.
And just beyond that open little den I claimed as my own, dozens of women lounged around. A giant, round marble table filled the center of the room. Women fanned out across it, their thin towels beneath their heads, soaking up the sweat from their foreheads or the back of their necks. My ears strained for the sound of their voices but the different languages melted together and into the sound of the rushing water.
I made my way toward them, somewhat seduced by the steam.
I sat down on the edge of that stone circle and cautiously eyed the ladies all around me for the first time since I had walked into the Hamam. My eyes had seen nothing but walls, mist, and fuzzy shapes. The room’s moisture, along with my own nerves and insecurities, blurred my vision. But now, it was coming into focus. Out of the fog came the most beautiful group of women I had ever seen. Clad in nothing but matching black bikini bottoms, we seemed to be stripped of any worries that could make us ugly. And after coming to terms with the near-naked strangers surrounding me, my qualms began to dissolve as though they were soluble in the vaporous air.
I laid back and looked up at the incredible domed ceiling. Giant holes were poked in a circular pattern, letting rays of metallic light through. My towel soon dissolved from my body and for the first time in my short life, my skin — and that golden light — was the most comfortable thing I had ever worn.
With my eyes were shut, moisture forced its way in and out of my lungs. The only sounds in the room were the indiscernible voices, the hiss of steam, and the splashing of water. It all blended into something bizarrely rhythmic. The mixture of the elements was enchanting, hypnotic almost. And I soon forgot about the world beyond the marble walls.
My body had no intention of moving. I was paralyzed with contentment. Then an older woman, with wonderfully wrinkled skin and aging breasts came to me, pulled me by the hand and sat me upright. Before I could ask for her name or even smile politely, she was shampooing my long, curly hair. I was bewildered by her brashness but was comforted by the scent of the shampoo. Rather than inquire as to what was going on, I reveled in it as her hands moved the soap from the top of my head down to my shoulders and eventually my arms. She ran her deceptively strong hands down over the muscles in my legs and back before massaging them into my neck. To get a better grasp of my body, she placed my head to her chest. She smelled clean, but natural — tinged with both sweat and wet stone.
She took a rough cloth to my skin and rubbed off everything that had accumulated on my skin over the past three months I had spent traveling. Without the dead skin and dirt, I was lighter. Effortlessly, she pulled me to my feet and led me toward a small room in the back. She waved her sudsy, muscular arm, directing me in to a small, bubbling pool of water where three or four women already sat. I waded into the warmth. And then, my bather moved on, emptied her bowl of my filth, and cleaned another beautiful naked woman.
There, I half floated, half danced on the tips of my toes. A light under the surface of the water lit me from behind and I could see myself moving — slowly, dramatically. My feet let go, my arms floated above my head, and the water circled above me; it entered my nose, gently brushed up against my eye lids, and sealed my senses against the world up above.
Soon, as if to remind me of my need for air, the marble table and mist called me back and I returned to my steam induced daze.
Before long, the beads of sweat once again came rolling down my ribs, where they pooled under my stomach on the cool marble table on which I lay. I closed my eyes and thought about the crazy experience I was in the midst of … because soon enough, with saturated skin, I’d have to return to the clothed reality on the streets of Istanbul.
I learned something very interesting about myself this week.
I’m a cold-hearted, East Coast snob. And while it’s probably warranted most of the time because, well, the East Coast is awesome … the West Coast has far more to offer than I initially believed.
I was born and raised on the Atlantic. I thought it perfectly normal for sea water to be Jersey-shore brown. I was under the illusion that houses can only be shades of eggshell white, faded forest green, weird-weathered-wood, or burnt orange brick. I have never known weather to be anything but unpredictable and I’m still not quite sure how you’re really supposed to pronounce “caw-fee” (coffee) and “chaw-clate” (chocolate).
As someone who prides herself on being worldly and accepting of other cultures, I had a shocking distaste for what I thought the West Coast (really, I mean Southern California) represents.
I can get on board with camel riding, galibeyah wearing Middle Easterners; I can accept Spaniards teasing and goring bulls; I can even come to understand the body modification rituals of tribal peoples. But surf toting, starry-eyed brahs with no sense of time — no way man! Waste of my time!
I had pretty much convinced myself that California was full of nothing but … well, to put it frankly, losers with dreams too big to catch up to. I had conjured up images of talentless actresses, drug addicted musicians and free loading 20-somethings with nothing better to do with their daddy’s money (I’m still not convinced that LA isn’t like this, I’ll let you know next time I visit SoCal).
But, for the most part I was wrong.
Balboa Park
It’s a friggin’ cornucopia of culture out there! I heard more languages during my 9 day stint in San Diego than I’ve heard in Maine over the past 5 years. English, Spanish, Arabic, Korean, Chinese, the list goes on … Add to that, the variations in the landscape. I could swim in the Pacific Ocean upon waking, hike in the desert by noon and climb a mountain before dinner (I’d be exhausted, but it’s probably feasible for someone in better shape). Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised.
There were so many awesome things to do and see in the San Diego area. The Anza Borrego Desert was absolutely beautiful (and hot!). I had no idea it even existed until my San Diego-ite (San Dieg-in? San Diegun?) boyfriend told me about it. Cacti and palm trees are everywhere! I had never seen a cactus (outside of a pot) before and the many varieties in SoCal are pretty nifty. The city’s famous zoo blew me away with its fauna and flora. And just minutes away from the zoo is the most perfect park I have ever seen, Balboa Park. There, between museums — which in themselves are architectural jewels – and rose/cactus gardens, the United Nations set up a tiny global village where different countries showcase their cultures in itty bitty, red-roofed cottages.
And let’s not forget, San Diego is the perfect place to quote Ron Burgandy.
Sometime before my visit, California must have sensed my doubts because it treated me to a rare phenomenon. Thanks to perfectly timed red tide blooms in the Pacific, the ocean was literally aglow! It’s called bioluminescence (err, I’m not a scientist but Wikipedia tells me it was caused by ”dinoflagellates which emit short flashes of light when disturbed.” Please don’t ask me what dinoflagellates are). The crashing waves lit up a neon blue. And while that was mind-numbingly awesome, what was even more incredible was that the sand was also chock full o’ dinoflagellates (or whatever). As you walked upon the sand, it lit up! It was like walking on starshine! If you kicked the sand, it sent out ripples of neon blue light. The only thing I can compare it to was that movie Avatar, where the blue people lived in that bad ass forest until the imperialist Americans-by-another-name destroyed it.
I thoroughly appreciated the state rolling out a shimmery neon blue carpet just for me!
Anza Borrego Desert
Alas, despite the dinoflagellates, pandas and parks, I maintain that I’ll never call the wild, wild west my home. But it turns out, I wouldn’t mind spending part of my life there. After all, it doesn’t just smell like failure. Of course, I did catch a whiff of it once or twice. The smell of talentless failure is unmistakable (as is the smell of aging collagen) but it wasn’t nearly as pervasive as I expected it to be.
On my flight back into Portland, Maine from the west, the sun was just setting as we prepared to land. The sky was a brilliant mix of light blue, orange and pink. We hovered over the sparsely populated Peaks, Cushing and Little Diamond Islands. And the beautiful old brick homes in Portland were all glowing. It’s quite possibly one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen. And I get to call it home.
But at least now I know, California smells like much more than failure.
The little bit of water I had left sloshed around in my bottle, growing warmer and warmer from the heat emanating off the palm of my hand.
The tiny hairs bordering my face stuck to my sweaty skin. My weary feet were cracked; every step I took on the sun scorched sand hurt. The hot, dry air went in through my nose and out through my mouth, taking with it any last remnants of moisture that once existed there.
I paused and allowed my body to collapse. The sand, mixed with tiny flecks of shimmery mica, glued itself to every inch of my skin that was not covered by fabric.
Resting in the hot sun did nothing to ease my burden but out of the corner of my eye, two figures appeared. They didn’t move, but I could make out two sets of four legs and saddled humps. I knew if I found my way to these camels, I’d find my way out of this waterless desert. It felt like an eternity but finally, their hazy figures became more clear. My heart sank and my mouth watered as I realized why they remained so still.
They were made of plaster. Their fur was painted on, as were their pink lips, blue eyes and eye lashes.
“Marissa, let’s go,” a familiar voice said behind me.
I snapped out of my delirium, joined hands with my boyfriend and walked the remaining 50 feet to the museum gift shop where I bought a bottle of ice cold Poland Spring water.
In the shop, the clerk asked, “You a maine-ah? You sure don’t look like you’re from around these pahts.”
“I live in Portland now, but I’m a New Yorker,” I explained to the kindly old Maine man who wore a green Desert of Maine t-shirt.
“What do you think of our Des-aht (desert)?” he asked me.
“It’s lovely,” I laughed, finding his accent both ridiculous and endearing. “I spent a lot of time in the Middle East, actually, so it feels nice being back in a desert!”
While it was nice to pretend that I was back in the desert, I wasn’t really.
The Desert of Maine isn’t actually a desert. It’s a failed farming attempt … and a brilliantly sandy tourist trap … but that’s about it.
The 40-acre stretch of land was so over farmed in the early 1800s, that the land literally turned to dust. The Tuttles, a farming family, failed to rotate their crops. They allowed their cattle to over indulge and they cleared away too much land. Eventually the soil eroded, leaving nothing but cascading dunes of sand-like glacial silt. By the early 1900s, the farm was abandoned by the Tuttles and sold to a man named Henry Goldrup for a whopping $300. Goldrup saw promise in the land — not as a farm — but as a goldmine! He knew he could convert the area into a tourist destination.
And 92 years later, I found myself paying ten dollars and fifty cents to take a tour of this so called desert located a mere 20 minutes from the place I now call home.
From the second I pulled into the parking lot, I knew I was going to love the Desert of Maine. I knew, too – from the silouettes of pyramids on the welcome sign – that it was going to be hilariously cheesey and delightfully unauthentic. And boy, did it deliver! There was a “gem stone” patch, where kids (and small, ballsy adults — like myself) can find strategically placed, not-found-in-nature gem stones. You can buy a little bottle of colored sand. And you can snap some photos with my favorite cheesy attraction – those ridiculously misplaced camels.
Oddly enough, the most fascinating thing about the desert lies in the forest that skirts the edges. Over the years, the two dramatically different landscapes have found ways to deal with one another’s presence. The branches of Pine and Birch trees, weighted down by sand, eventually turned into roots that go down through the grass — helping nourish the tree. The sand and greenery are constantly vying for the land. Little mushrooms, grasses and weeds force their way up out of the sand. And just beyond the trees, patches of sand wiggle their way between blades of grass.
While it may not be a real desert, the Desert of Maine made being home feel a lot more exotic. And who doesn’t like to forget where they are, even for just a minute?
You have a choice.
There’s a sunny little hostel in Tel Aviv, Israel with your name on it. It’s affordable, clean, and comes with a full breakfast and free tours of the city. You’ll be within walking distance of the Mediterranean, a slew of dance clubs, and some of the finest food in the region.
However, there’s somewhere else you could go. It’s not close to any tourist destinations. It’s not near any metropolitan cities. Breakfast is a piece of cheese and a cup of tea. Oh, and it’s slightly more dangerous.
It seems like an easy decision but for some reason, the latter is pulling you in its direction.
That second option is a guest house in the West Bank. It’s part of a cultural center in the Dheisheh Refugee Camp– a rather sizable camp – near Bethlehem. The proceeds it collects from weary travelers looking for a place to lay their heads funnels back into the camp. The Ibdaa Cultural Center provides employment and income for the tens of thousands of refugees that live in the camp. The money also helps run youth programs and activities. In fact, Ibdaa’s youth basketball team and dance troupe are world-renowned.
I know many would still opt to go to Tel Aviv, choosing to ignore the itch to see what Dheisheh is like. Tel Aviv, like most of Israel, is an incredible place. It’s bustling and thriving and is both steeped in history (it’s right next to Old Jaffa) and is completely modern. It’s not a place you want to miss.
While I was able to see both Tel Aviv and the West Bank, it was the latter that really lay claim to my heart. If I had to make the choice again, the Dheisheh Refugee Camp is where I would go.
The decision to stay at the guest house in Dheisheh was an easy one for me. Lonely Planet’s guide to Israel and the Palestinian Territories mentions it briefly and the sparse description drew me in. My traveling companion and new pal-for-life, Kait, had some reservations but she too wanted to experience it. We were backpacking through Israel and Palestine after spending a few months in Egypt and a few weeks in Jordan.
Getting into Palestine proved to be the most cumbersome task. It took countless hours to get through the checkpoints from Jordan into Israel and it took even more time to get from Israel into the West Bank. The Israeli guards thought me suspicious. I looked too Arab, I had too many stamps from Arab countries, and for the hell of them, they just couldn’t figure out why I was spending so much of my quality American time with — as one guard put it as he pointed his Uzi at the Palestinian man driving the minibus into Bethlehem– Arab scum.
Finally though, we did make it to Bethlehem and with the help of a helpful Taxi driver, we arrived in Dheisheh.
I was surprised at what we found. It didn’t look like a refugee camp. There were no tents. Children weren’t outside, naked, begging for food. Instead, it looked a lot like the rest of the area. Only more cluttered with smaller buildings and more graffiti. Every wall was covered with powerful messages.
Giant trash bins with the letters “UN” painted on their sides were the first things to greet us — their smell was the second thing. The entrance to the camp was still marked by an old turnstile. It used to be the only way in or out of the camp but now is just a reminder to the inhabitants of their stifled past. You can walk right around it now.
The guest house — like I said — is attached to the Ibdaa Cultural Center. We waited to be checked into a room for a few moments so we explored a bit. In the lobby-type area,dozens of trophies, pennants and photos hung from the walls. It was immediately clear just how proud the people of the camp were that their dance and basketball teams were so successful.
That was the only room like that. Everywhere else, the walls were painted with beautiful, colorful murals. A poem was painted on one wall, faces of children were painted on another, the names of Palestinians that had died on yet another. Every wall displayed something describing the plight of the Palestinian people and — more specifically — the people of Dheisheh. Kait and I were instantly captivated.
We were finally lead to the room we would call home for the next few nights. It was pretty small and had four bunk beds in it. We were the only two there though, so it was all ours. It was, to our surprise, equipped with high speed internet (for free). The man who checked us in turned to us before walking away and handed us a small card. Its inscription immediately woke us up to the reality of where we were. It read: “The person who this card belongs to is currently a guest at Ibdaa Cultural Center at the Dheisheh Refugee Camp. If something happens to this person, please contact us.” They told us to never be without that card.
We swallowed our worry and got settled in. Afterward, we meandered outside and hopped on a tour of the camp. The tour was led by a guy named Jihad. Jihad lived in the camp all of his life. He was warm and friendly but you could tell there was something deep and disturbed about him. He’d experienced things that I would probably never understand. We struck up a conversation with him and for some reason, we bonded. We had intended to stay in the camp for only a night or two but after getting to know Jihad, we decided to stay for almost a week.
Jihad wasn’t the only thing that swayed us to stay. The other reason was a bakery — Al Quds Sweets — that was just across the street from the guest house. At the risk of sounding like a gluttonous fat ass, I’ll admit that we went there at least once a day. We bought about a pound of baklava or kanafeh and ate it until sugar coated our fingers and faces. I’m not sure who was more surprised at how many sweets two small girls could ingest … Kait and I or the three men working in the bakery who were always excited to see us coming.
When we weren’t consuming our body weights in sugary foods, we spent the rest of our time in the camp with Jihad. He took us around to meet people in the camp. We spoke with a man who had lived in the camp for decades. He had lived through the first and second intifada and had raised his children in the camp.
One of the last nights we spent in the camp, Kait and I were in our room trying to cool off in front of a small fan. It was late at night and we heard some weird noises coming from outside. It sounded a lot like fire crackers. When you hear something like that in Palestine … in a refugee camp … you’re first thoughts are immediately that it’s something horrible. We were too afraid to go out and look for ourselves so the next morning we asked Jihad what had happened. He shrugged and said that some Israeli soldiers had been in the camp and were just causing a raucous by shooting their guns off. He said it so matter of factly, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. We pushed him further for information, out of sheer curiosity. He told us that it’s a fairly regular occurence and that as long as no one went missing and nothing had been destroyed, there was no need to get riled up. He knew there was nothing he could do about it.
He went on to tell us that it had been a while since anything really bad had happened. In years past, houses had been demolished, men would go missing, water tanks were destroyed. He told us that when he was younger, soldiers were looking for some one in the camp. When they came to Jihad’s family home, he wanted to keep them away from his father. Out of anger, they took Jihad outside and beat him pretty badly. Again, he told us that story as if it were just a silly thing of the past; the way I might tell someone about the time I fell off my bike as a kid.
Now, clearly, a refugee camp isn’t the ideal place for a vacation. It’s not somewhere you want to go if your goal is to relax or to forget the troubles of the world. It is, however, the perfect spot if you want to embrace what’s really going on in the world around you. At that hostel in Tel Aviv, you can almost forget that there’s a war going on mere hours away. The only reminder as you’re sitting on a Mediterranean beach sipping an ice cold lemonade is the occasional helicopter or fighter jet that flies over on its way to Gaza or the West Bank.
So now, you have a choice. The real world or a sunny little hostel in Tel Aviv.
Traveling can be stressful regardless of who you are or where you are going. There is so much to account for! How much money will I need? How will I get around? Where will I stay? What should I bring? It can be fairly daunting and I’m sure it’s scared off a potential traveler or two.
Now add to that list of concerns will I be safe traveling alone – as a woman — and see how many more fail to take the risk of heading out abroad.
This is an issue I have become all too familiar with over the past few years. For the majority of my life, I would have told you that my gender does not affect the decisions I make. I am an American woman with all of the freedoms and glories that entails. I can work, I can drive, I can dress the way I want. Bottom line: I can go where I want, when I want.
Err. Wrong.
Safety is a concern on everyone’s mind when venturing somewhere new and unknown. There are bad people everywhere, preying on both men and women. But I’ve found that traveling with ovaries in tow is a whole different ball of wax. There are things that women need to account for that people with penises do not.
It wasn’t until I was traveling through the Middle East, largely on my own, that I even took notice of my gender.
Suddenly, I could not dress however I wanted. I had to be conscious of how I acted, where I went and who I went with. I was not just another traveler. I was a woman traveler.
But if you’re like me and are determined to travel through the Middle East with your vagina, you can make it an incredibly enjoyable experience. If you know what to expect and how to protect yourself.
For starters, the question I am almost always asked is do you have to cover yourself because you are in an Arab country? No, ignoramus. It’s completely unnecessary for you to cover your hair or your face — unless, of course, you are in a holy place. If you choose to do so in public, that’s fine but no one will force you. I did choose to dress a little more modestly — I tucked away my cleavage and kept my legs and shoulders covered for the most part out of respect. In my opinion, it feels too close to mockery to imitate the way religious people dress if you don’t subscribe to the rest of their beliefs. Respecting their beliefs is different than counterfitting them.
You should also be prepared that men will look at you regardless of how you dress. They will down right gawk. Get used to it. While it is common courtesy here in the states for men to (try to) hide their stares, it is not so in the Middle East. It doesn’t mean they want to touch you, hurt you, or have sex with you. You are a foreigner. You most likely look, dress, and act differently than the women they are used to. In this country, we worry so much about being politically correct; we feel rude when we steal a glance at a woman in a hijab or a man in a gallibeyeh. They don’t. Middle Eastern men might even go so far as to say something to you about the way that you look. It is not uncommon to hear a man who has been staring at you mutter the word “jameela” or “beautiful.”
And this actually took me by surprise but men will actually come up to you and ask you to take a photo with them. Sometimes they don’t even have a camera of their own — they just want you to have a picture with them. It struck me as pretty bizarre at first, but so many of them did this that I stop caring. I just smiled and took the damn pictures. So stop panicking about whether or not you’re about to be raped, smile politely, and keep right on walking. You’ll be fine.
Now, while I honestly don’t believe that innocent stares pose any immediate danger to you, you should still be cautious of how you act. Smiling, giggling, or making it appear as though you are in any way interested in the attention you’re getting could very well get you into trouble. Being a flirtatious woman in America is no big deal. Ah, so what, right? You’re just friendly. In the Middle East, where women are widely expected to be respectful and demure, a little flirting can buy you a one way ticket to Stoptouchingmeistan. I’m not saying to be standoffish or cold, and for the love of all that is awesome, don’t be afraid to chat and make friends with the locals. You’ll ruin your experience that way. My advice is to just be very mindful of the messages you and your body are sending out.
A more specific word from the wise is be careful if you’re traveling alone and have to take a taxi. Know how far you’re going and what a good price is. Learn how to haggle and learn fast because they expect you to not understand. You don’t want to end up paying 50 bucks for a 5 minute drive downtown just because you didn’t know how much an Egyptian Pound is worth.
Add to that the fact that taxis are almost always driven by men. They’re not bad men, usually. Often, they’re friendly, polite and educated people that couldn’t find work doing anything else. They’ll talk your ear off if you show them that you’re friendly. But … and this is a big but … getting into a car with a strange man always poses a risk. There are men that will exploit the fact that you are more vulnerable being alone in a speeding vehicle. Unfortunately, I knew too many girls that fell prey to this and had their travels ruined because a taxi driver couldn’t keep his words (and sometimes his hands) to himself. If you want to be extra safe, don’t go it alone.
Another thing I’d advise — based on both personal experience and from talking with other female travelers — has nothing to do with men or even other women. It’s more of a hygienic issue. Pharmacies (and even doctors offices) are not what they are in western countries. And when you’re traveling in this part of the world, the reality of it is that you may not get to be as clean as you’d like to be. Showering every day may not be possible. Things can get … funky … that way. Just trust me on this one, you do not want to be stuck with a yeast infection on a four month long hike. You don’t want to have to explain what you need to a male pharmacist who doesn’t know the word “vagisil.” And you don’t want to have to apply some mysterious ointment to yourself while crossing your fingers that it works — or at the very least — doesn’t make things worse. So, heed my warning and pack wisely.
I can warn you of all the dangers and I can tell you where to go and what to do so you don’t find yourself on the 6 o’clock news. But really the most important thing I can tell you is don’t be afraid. Don’t bar yourself from enjoying your travels because you’re scared or because you think you have biological or societal limitations as a woman. Go to the Middle East! Catch a ride with a stranger, learn how to haggle in Arabic! Talk to people you normally wouldn’t and you’ll find that they’re just as eager to learn about your culture as you are of theirs. If you don’t, you’ll live to regret it.
Sure, you can play it safe. You can probably scratch a good time off the surface. Take a picture in front of the pyramids, eat koshari at an American-run Egyptian restaurant, hop on a tour bus and learn about how Arabs live from a British guide.
But risks often lead to the most worthwhile experiences … experiences that you can’t even imagine. Some of my fondest memories happened when I was unsure or downright scared. Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have gotten into that naked Jordanian man’s car. And yes, I probably shouldn’t have followed a man I hardly knew across the Middle East with nothing but a pair of flip flops and my backpack. But alas, here I am … a stronger, smarter, slightly crazier woman who wouldn’t backtrack along any of those potentially dangerous paths I took for the safe road home.
While there are, of course, dangers to women that are independent of where you go, I’m fairly certain that if you’re a smart and cautious woman in any western country, you can fair pretty easily in any other western country. Visiting Paris, Sydney or Quebec will pose no real obstacle. I mean, obviously, don’t get stoned with strangers, don’t accept money for sex, don’t drink something if theres’s a little pill dissolving on the bottom … blah blah blah. If you don’t know these things by now, you should probably just stay home anyway. On second thought, no, go out. Enjoy your drink, sweetie. Survival of the fittest, right?
I’m confident that if you’re open minded and — more importantly — prepared, you can handle all of the abnormalities that other cultures will throw at you. It might be more difficult to be a woman traveler but if you ask me, it’s much more rewarding because you really have to fight for it. You have to want it pretty damn bad.
April is National Poetry month so I thought I would post a poem I love.
“In Egypt” was written by Mahmoud Darwish, a Palestinian poet. This is the poem in Arabic and the translation in English.
The Nile River
In Arabic:
…في مصر، لا تتشابه الساعات
.كل دقيقة ذكرى تجددها طيور النيل
كنت هناك. كان الكائن البشري يبتكر
.الإله/الشمس. لا أحد يسمّي نفسه أحدا
.«أنا ابن النيل- هذا الإسم يكفيني»
ومنذ اللحظة الأولى تسمي
نفسك «ابن النيل» كي تتجنب العدم
الثقيل. هناك أحياء وموتى يقطفون
معا غيوم القطن من أرض الصعيد،
ويزرعون القمح في الدلتا. وبين الحي
والميْت الذي فيه تناوب حارسين على
الدفاع عن النخيل. وكل شئ عاطفي
فيك، إذ تمشي على أطراف روحك في
دهاليز الزمان، كأن أمك مصر
قد ولدتك زهرة لوتس، قبل الولادة،
هل عرفت الآن نفسك؟ مصر تجلس
خلسة مع نفسها «لا شيء يشبهني»
وترفو معطف الأبدية المثقوب من
إحدى جهات الريح. كنت هناك. كان
.الكائن البشري يكتب حكمة الموت/الحياة
وكل شئ عاطفيّ مقمر… الا القصيدة
في التفاتتها الى غدها تفكر بالخلود،
…ولا تقول سوى هشاشتها أمام النيل
And the english translation:
In Egypt, the hours are never alike …
Each minute is a memory the Nile birds renew.
I was there. The human being was inventing
the God/the Sun. No one has a name
for himself. “I am the Son of the Nile — this name
is enough for me.” And from the first instance you call
yourself “Son of the Nile” to avoid the heavy void.
Over there the living and the dead
pick cotton clouds together in Upper Egypt,
and plant the wheat in the Delta. And between the living
and the dead there is the handover between two guards
defending the palm trees. And everything is sentimental
within you, when you walk on your soul’s tip toes
in time’s corridors, as if your mother Egypt
had given birth to you as a lotus flower first, before birth
so do you know now who you are? Egypt sits
with herself in secret: “Nothing resembles me.”
And darns eternity’s perforated cloak while facing
one of the paths of the wind. I was there. Mankind
was writing the wisdom of Death/Life.
And everything is sentimental, moonstruck… except this poem
attending to its tomorrow and thinking of immortality –
it speaks only of its frailty before the Nile …
“Four hoarse blasts of a ships’s whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping. The sound of a jet, an engine warming up, even the clopping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder, the dry mouth and vacant eye, the hot palms and the churn of stomach high up under the rib cage. In other words, once a bum always a bum. I fear this disease incurable.”
- John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley in Search of America
There are two kinds of people. Travelers … and every one else …
There is something unique about travelers — not reluctant travelers, but people who are meant for the road. The modern bums, the vagabonds. It’s nothing obvious. There isn’t a mark or a tell-tale sign, and you wouldn’t know one unless you are one. It’s not something you are born with. Rather, it’s a disease that you catch that will follow you to the grave. Both devastating and incurable, but also wonderful. Like the plague — only with pleasant side effects and a nice view.
It starts with an itch. And once you scratch it – in hopes of relieving it — it spreads, eventually encompassing your entire being. There are treatments — photographs, videos, dreams of future trips. But the relief is temporary. The bug always resurfaces. And when it does, you have to go …
Seven incredibly long months ago today, I walked off a plane at JFK International Airport in New York after an incredibly short four month trek through the Middle East. My feet stopped tapping, my bags seemed to unpack themselves, and the vibrations of my exciting life subsided. And as I settled in to what would be my “normal” life, I wondered if I would ever be the same.
The answer is no.
I thought for a while that I would be able to merge the person I was before my trip with the person I’ve become since — at least lessening the severity of the bug I had caught. However, it’s become apparent that I’ve shed that old shell of a persona and alas – all that’s left is the core of a traveler. I’ve the soul of a wandering bum trapped in the body of a particularly petite woman – stuck behind a desk.
I’m not sure when it was, precisely, that I caught the bug. I had traveled a number of times previously — to Europe and parts of the Middle East. But it wasn’t until my last adventure that I got sick. Or maybe I just hadn’t realized it before because, as I said earlier, it can be difficult to spot. But eventually, the signs and symptoms that accompany the adventure plague become impossible to ignore…
For one, I developed the tapping toe. Sufferers of the disease often have a difficult time staying still. I don’t mean literally (although I’ve found that I’m more of a wiggler now), but the idea of a sedentary lifestyle becomes increasingly hard to deal with — if not altogether revolting. Nausea may ensue. The wanderlust is also accompanied by a stiff neck — a direct result of standing for long periods of time, staring forlornly as busses, trains or airplanes pass you by. This also causes severe bouts of jealousy that, if not properly dealt with, can turn violent.
The disease, I’ve found, also makes you somewhat of a recluse. Not only is it nearly impossible to connect with people who don’t understand your debilitating love for the outside world, but it’s difficult to get close to other people knowing (hoping) that someday soon, you’ll be on the lam. It’s hard to commit to things like “plans” when you’re secretly praying that — at any moment — the heavens will open up and down will float an around-the-world plane ticket on a billowing silver cloud.
It’s clearly too late for me, but there is good news for you. It’s fairly easy to avoid contracting the disease. As long as you are content living in a little bubble of self-deluded happiness, just stay home. If you always stay within your comfort zone, never stray from what you know — the bug can’t catch you. You don’t need to know what it feels like to get lost and stumble upon something amazing and unexpected. You don’t need to experience the pleasure of being surrounded by people who don’t understand the language you speak but still understand you. It’s completely unnecessary to ever be that happy, that free.
While I wouldn’t trade my current state of sedentary misery for the ignorant bliss I once enjoyed; it might be the right choice for you.*
I know I’ll find the road again someday, it’s only a question of when. But for now, I’ll remain a tiny little bum — stuck behind a desk.
*It’s not. Get on a plane, train or bus immediately before you retard your brain any further.
Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee affords.”
-Richard Brautigan
All of the literary giants had their haunts. Iconic places they frequented that eventually took on the shape of their tales.
Hemingway and Fitzgerald had the Ritz Bar in Paris. Portuguese poet, Fernando Pessoa, is immortalized in bronze outside the Café A Brasileira in Lisbon. Jack Kerouac, Dylan Thomas, Norman Mailer, and Hunter S. Thompson all spent many a drunken evening at the White Horse Tavern in New York City. Naguib Mahfouz penned more than a few stories at a cafe in Khan al Khalili in Cairo.
And while today I am a nobody — a quiet, unnoticed writer and producer — I am ready for my future as a literary giant; I already have my haunt.
And I thank the City of Portland for that.
Coffee shops are one of the most charming aspects of Portland — particularly for someone like me with a chemical dependency on caffeine and an affinity for reading in public place. The Old Port is spotted with them. They’re all small and cozy, with a loyal, local patronage. And I tried them all. I’ve sat at their tables, on their bar stools, and their comfy couches. I drank more lattes and cappuccinos than any one (tiny) human being ever should. And they all have something special.
But one in particular has claimed me.
Bard Coffee has become my caffeinated home away from home. I half expect them to ask me for a rent check at the end of the month.
From the road, you could very well walk right past Bard without even knowing it was there. Only a small brown sign hangs high above the windows, subtly coaxing in sleepy-eyed patrons. And the showy Starbucks right across the street could very easily steal you away but fight that urge and you’ll be pleased with yourself and with Bard.
So if and when you do make it inside, it’s a combination of an upscale, relaxed coffee house and a hip, artsy coffee shack. It’s clean and quiet. The walls are spotted with local art and the most perfect tunes ooze out of the stereo system. It has all of the right elements in precisely the right amounts. And because of that, everyone seems to feel at ease within the confines of Bard. Hipsters rock out under their oversized headphones at a table right beside businessmen enjoying a cup of joe on their lunch breaks. Young guys talk to their pretty little dates as they sip nervously on their chai tea on the love seat in the corner while married couples run out of things to say over their coffees.
Aside from the ambiance, the drinks they have to offer are plentiful and delectable.
Whether it’s a latte, a cappuccino, macchiato, vietnamese, chai tea or a french pressed house blended coffee that titillates your taste buds, you won’t leave wanting. Everything tastes better than it should and gives you that necessary jolt we’ve all come to love and expect from coffee. The only thing I’d like to see on the menu would be a Middle Eastern inspired Turkish coffee (hint hint).
And while the guys and gals that work behind the counter at Bard make the best lattes this side of the Atlantic, they’re a treat in and of themselves. Everyone that waltzes through the double doors is greeted with a smile and, more often than not, some witty banter. I’m not sure how they do it, but they get to know most of their loyal customers by name and those of us that love Bard love the crew as well.
Oh, and they make the prettiest little designs on their coffees. I love pretty coffee.
So here I sit, in my literary haunt… hoping that someday the tales I tell involve this special little house of coffee that I’ve found.
I think I’ll take just one more latte to go for the walk home through this unfortunate March snowstorm.
PS– check out Barista Justin’s blog all about coffee, and other stuff too!
It’s happening more than 8,000 miles away, across an ocean and across a continent.
And yet, I’m there. I’m there in front of the museum, the palace, the state television building. I’m there in the streets of Alexandria. I’m there in Tahrir square. In Mansoura, Suez, under the October 6th Bridge.
I don’t mean I am there in the cheesy, spiritual sense. Yes, yes, my thoughts are with the Egyptians. My heart is in Cairo, right. Ok. But it’s more than that. I am physically there, watching the flags fly and hearing the people chant (unfortunately) from the comfort of my living room.
How you say?
Twitter. Facebook. Youtube. Live streaming video.
Social networking is allowing
the rest of the world to be present in a
revolution that would otherwise be
distant, misunderstood, and misrepresented.
First let me say that I was always seriously opposed to the shift toward “electronic” media. Internet sites and blogs replaced my beloved newspapers. Communicating via instant messagers and Facebook decimated my beloved language (i.e., omg, ilu imu2 c u 2mm lolzzzzz*). The instant gratification that comes from getting news electronically has made people 1) impatient, 2) inattentive, and 3) incapable of appreciating journalist talent. While part of me (and my career) relies on this kind of media, the other part of me has had to — well, shut up, swallow, and abandon good old fashion journalism. Thus my move into broadcast journalism and my addiction to blogging/social networking.
I do still feel that way but I have in fact seen the light. Since January 25th, when the Egyptian people first rose up against President Muhammad Hosni Mubarak and the corrupt Egyptian government, I have completely reevaluated my stance on social media.
We had a taste of how social media could influence revolutions back in 2009/10 when Iran’s Green revolution broke out. The Iranian people used Twitter, Facebook, and blogs to “coordinate rallies, share information, and locate compatriots.” I was in an airport, flying to Israel I believe, when I first realized the significance of this. CNN’s seasoned journalists were gathering their information from random protesters that were tweeting from the protests. The free speech advocate in me was tickled pink. What could this mean? Where could this go? I got excited, possibly a little too excited! But sadly, it didn’t last long. The rebellion was squashed and westerners, as we are wont to do, got bored, moved on and forgot about it entirely.
And now here we are, not even two years since Iran’s “twitter revolution” fizzled out. The Egyptian protesters are using this relatively new technology — quite vehemently — to win their war. And it’s not coming to an end any time soon. This time, they’re going to tweet ’til they can’t tweet no more. (I should also note that I do not think that this is a social media revolution. It’s the people’s revolution and social media is just a conduit, to help people like you and I understand and maybe even support their efforts.)
So why my sudden change of heart? Newspapers are still on their last breaths, language is being reinvented (quite poorly), and news consumers are dumber and less interested than ever before. What we’re losing is tragic. However, I am ready to admit (with a glimmering tear in my eye), after a little cost benefit analysis on my part, that what we’re gaining far outweighs what we’re giving up.
First of all, social media eliminates the middle man. It’s the journalist and his/her audience. Journalists that are tweeting and blogging directing from the protests are relaying exactly what they’re seeing and experiencing without first having to go through upper management for approval. While I’m sure there will always be pressures on journalists from employers to portray only certain ideologies, this, in a way, reduces greatly the amount of corporate intervention, censorship and bias. It’s just you, the reporter and the reporters cell phone or computer. (I’d wonder what Noam Chomsky would say about this if he added another chapter to Manufacturing Consent? No filters, Noam, no filters!)
Secondly, it is minute to minute. The second news breaks, you bet someone is tweeting about it. Before the live newsfeed’s delay even catches up, someone on the ground has already heard it and has already disseminated the information. No deadlines. No agenda. Just real news, as it appears, as it is happening. That is how I imagine people felt when TV news broke onto the newspapers’ turf. This is the next, inevitable, step.
And thirdly, it’s not a one way medium. When you have a newspaper or a television broadcast, the reporter or anchor is giving you information. You’re welcome to talk back to your paper or to the TV but for the most part, there’s little response there. Sure, there are editorials, letters to the editors, etc. etc. But social media allows the audience to become an important PART of the news experience. At my job, as a producer for a morning news program, we often rely on people’s feedback on our social networking sites. People send us photographs on Facebook of car accidents, fires, snow storms. But to take it a step further, twitter allows the journalist to comment on something and for the audience — you — to respond. Immediately! I’ve done this myself, a number of times, to reporters on the ground in Cairo and more often than not, they reply.
Now, I am not a fool.
Using social media has it’s flaws, and they’re tremendous. But they’re not impossible to work around.
For one, credibility is an issue. Anyone can tweet or blog. And without any moderator, anything can be said. So yes, lies can be propagated pretty easily. However, if the public becomes intelligent enough to know which journalists to trust, it can be dealt with, I believe. It would be no different than choosing to trust Anderson Cooper over Bill O’Reilly.
Another problem is that things happen so quickly when you’re in the field. When you are working on a piece for a newspaper or for television, there is some turn around time. There is time to let the situation unfold. When you’re tweeting as things happen, things can get confusing. Something could appear to be one way, you tweet it, and it turns out you were wrong. Also, there is no time to decompress the feelings of the situation. If you’re watching your fellow country men protest, you can’t entirely separate your feelings. There is no time to think rationally, regardless of your journalistic pedigree. So, again, the solution to this lies with the audience. There needs to be a level of understanding that the public should have. If something was wrong, as long as it was clarified quickly and efficiently, all is well. Journalists are people too. Well, most of them are (I’m talking about you, Couric). Plus, honestly, mistakes happen in TV and newspapers. We all remember when it was reported that ALL of the miners in a mine collapse in South America were alive. Turned out– they were not. Also, let’s not bring up balloon boy… that media fiasco.
PAUSE. It is now 11:18 AM. On February 11th. As I am writing this, Mubarak has resigned. In an incredibly short speech, which he did not even give himself but had his Vice President Oman Suleiman deliver, Mubarak “waived” his powers over to the Egyptian military.
Never in my short lifetime have I seen anything like this. The throngs of people were in complete ecstasy. They continued chanting, singing, clapping. In the crowd, you could see one man, small and barely visible in the corner of my screen. He threw his hands up in the air as if now, he could die a happy and free man. It reminded me 1) how lucky I am to be free and 2) how happy I am to be in the journalism business. That image of that man will stick with me forever.
Which, brings me back to the topic at hand…
UN-PAUSE. This is exactly my point. As I was watching Al Jazeera’s live stream on the web, I was also watching my twitter feed. I had to refresh the page every few seconds. People — both in and out of Egypt — were elated by the news of Mubarak’s resignation and they were telling the world! Reading these tweets, from around the world, was historical.
Facebook was no exception. The friends I made while I was in Egypt were as elated as I was. Facebook-cheers of “Yallah Misr” (Let’s go Egypt!) or ”He’s finally gone!” were plastered to my news feed.
This. This is what we are gaining. And I am willing to forego classic old journalism to be apart of this.
Many of us watching as history unfolds are not Egyptian. We are not in Egypt right now, clapping our hands, waving our flags and crying. Many of us (myself excluded) have never even set foot on Egyptian soil and some may not even know an Egyptian person. But social media has brought the world together in ways I would have scoffed at mere months ago. We are all so interwoven now. The world has become so very, very small. Egypt is only the click of a button away. And so, we can all celebrate this victory as though we are all from the same race, religion, country, etc., etc. And that is a beautiful, beautiful thing…
Arab Hip Hop artist, Omar Offendum’s song #Jan25. This video was done by Tarek Esber (@tarek), someone I follow on twitter (and who you should too).
Every young, aspiring journalist has a goal. He wants to anchor. She wants to interview the Pope. They want to write a book.
For me… I want to write for Al Jazeera.
But you, my American friends, will miss out if you don’t demand that it is added to the channel roster of companies like Time Warner Cable. There aren’t many news agencies left that have anything to brag about. But Al Jazeera is different and they’re proving it through their coverage of the revolutions in the Middle East; Egypt in particular.
It’s easy. Just enter your email and your name.
“Available in more than 100 countries and nearly 220 million households around the world, Al Jazeera English is a valuable, award-winning network that provides unparalleled coverage of some of the most important- and under covered- regions in the world.”
Michael and I with Said
I met a multitude of interesting people during my stint in Cairo.
Michael Downey, one of the people I spent the most time with, had the opportunity to interview a member of the Muslim Brotherhood while we were there. Since the recent events unfolded, the interview was published by WorldPolicy.org.
I’ve pasted it in below with the link to the blog that published it. It’s pretty incredible.
_______________________________
By Michael Downey
Yesterday, Egypt’s most influential opposition group — the officially banned but semi-tolerated Islamist party known as the Muslim Brotherhood — formally backed Mohamed ElBaradei, the secularist Nobel Laureate who has emerged as a leader of the revolutionary movement calling for an immediate end to the rule of Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak.
But this alliance — which would have seemed unlikely prior to the mass protests that have rocked Cairo for the past week — has been developing for some time. Last summer, while I was studying at the American University of Cairo, I interviewed Khaled Hamza, the editor of the Muslim Brotherhood’s official website. Hamza is considered a leading voice of moderation within the party, and is central to its youth-outreach efforts. (In a crackdown on the Brotherhood during the run-up to elections in 2008, Hamza was jailed for several weeks.)
When we spoke, it was difficult to imagine that, within months, Mubarak’s decades-long rule would be under serious threat. Still, I was curious to know who Hamza thought could lead the country if Mubarak ever stepped aside or was forced out.
“It’s a very hard question,” he said. “But we now have cooperation with Dr. ElBaradei.”
I knew that ElBaradei had been reaching out to opposition groups. But this was the first indication I had that the Brotherhood was formally participating in ElBaradei’s efforts.
“He is a very good man,” Hamza said of ElBaradei. “Maybe he is a secular man, but he respects the democratic option and he will leave the people to choose their president and Parliament. And maybe he’ll help Egypt recover.”
The Brotherhood was conspicuously absent when the street protests began last week. Last Monday, the very first day of the protests, I spoke again with Hamza and asked him what role, if any, the Brotherhood had played in launching them. He said that the Brotherhood, along with the other established parties, had been behind the curve, and that the protests had been the work of young people angry over the murder of a young man by police officers in Alexandria. “It wasn’t until a couple of days later that political parties realized that this was really happening and started to take part in supporting it,” he said.
Some observers argued that the secular nature of the nascent movement indicates that support for the Muslim Brotherhood is not as deep as conventionally believed. Yet the party is without a doubt a powerful force within Egyptian society, and would surely play an important role in a hypothetical post-Mubarak era. In my initial interview with Hamza, we discussed many of the issues that would prove most controversial should the Muslim Brotherhood ever become part of a post-Mubarak Egyptian government: Egypt’s relationship with Israel and the Palestinians; the Brotherhood’s view of women’s role in politics and society; and the Brotherhood’s conception of an Islamic state. What follows is an edited transcript of that first interview.
*****
*****
What role would the Muslim Brotherhood have in creating a new state if it participated in the political process?
We would take part in Parliament and run in the elections for it. [Under Mubarak's ban on the group, members of the Brotherhood must run for office as independents - Ed.) When people choose the Muslim Brotherhood, the West must understand that the people want it.
So the Brotherhood would support the maintenance of a secular government?
When the Muslim Brotherhood uses the word "secular," it does not mean no religion — we are talking about what we call a "civilized state."
What if an Egyptian extremist group like Islamic Jihad wanted to take part in the elections, would this be allowed?
No, if they want to make a terrorist operation against civilians we would jail them and stop them from participating in the elections. We will only accept the peaceful and democratic way in political life. If they use violence, we would jail them.
Do you support the establishment of sharia (Islamic law) in the way the government of Saudi Arabia has established it?
The Brotherhood does not agree with the monarchy in Saudi Arabia, because it is simply not democratic.
So you believe that there has to be a certain way to put sharia into place, but that establishing it through monarchy or by force is unacceptable?
Yes, democracy is the only way.
What about the Iranian model?
The Iranians follow the Ayatollah; we do not believe Islam requires a theocracy. In our view, the ulema (clergy) are only for teaching and education — they are out of the political sphere. Iran has some good things, such as elections, but we disagree with all the aggression. We disagree also with the human rights abuses from the government and attacks on the population.
What about groups that would seek to exclude or discriminate on the basis of ethnicity, sex or religion?
No, we are all united. There is no difference between Muslim, Christian, or whatever.
Should women be forced to wear the hijab, as they are in Iran?
No, they must choose. They should not be forced to wear hijab. We would never push the people to do something they don’t want to. But if a woman does not wish to wear hijab, there would be law to wear something respectable — not like a prostitute. Women must choose their way of Islam.
If the Brotherhood were in power in Egypt, what would be the rights of women to participate in politics? Could a woman serve in Parliament, or as President?
We believe in the complete participation of women in political life — except the presidency.
Except the presidency? Why is that?
Most ulema agree that the president must be a man. Women can run for any political office except president…In Islam there are ideas and options, and Islam says it is possible [for a woman to serve as President], but for now we choose the other option. We say it is a choice, from the religious thinkers or schools of thought. But there are other options and different choices. Some [Islamic] scholars say a woman can be President, but the Muslim Brotherhood, now, at this moment, does not agree with this. Maybe after some years they’d accept this. I think so. For myself, Khaled, I personally think a woman can be President, no problem.
What about relations with Israel? What would the Brotherhood do regarding the situation between Israel and Palestine?
We think Israel is an occupation force and is not fair to the Palestinians. We do not believe in negotiation with Israel. As the Muslim Brotherhood, we must resist all this. They are an occupation force and we must resist this. Did you see what they do in Gaza, on the flotilla? Israel is a very dangerous force and we must resist. Resistance is the only way, negotiation is not useful at all.
So would the Muslim Brotherhood, if in a position of government, help groups like Hamas?
Yes, sure.
Do you recognize Israel as a state?
No.
What if Israel were to completely withdraw from the West Bank, a Palestinian state were established, and Jerusalem became a shared capitol. Then would you recognize Israel?
The political view of the Muslim Brotherhood on Palestine is one state [for] Jews, Muslims, Christians — let’s have a democratic election and we will see….We can make something like a secular state and have elections and we can see.
*****
Michael Downey is an undergraduate at Western Washington University, concentrating in Arabic, Islamic history and the Middle East.
The Decemberists during sound check
Rob of WCSH's 207 interviews Chris and Jenny
“Portland…” a quiet voice dragged off, “our home away from home that is as far away from home as we could get.”
That was how Colin Meloy of the Portland, Oregon band introduced himself to the small but excited crowd that gathered at Bull Moose yesterday evening.
I found myself backstage, nestled between a bag of old garbage and a box of recyclables. I’ve turned up in worse places than that, I assure you.
It’s not everyday a number one band graces Portland, Maine with their presence. But the Bull Moose record store is apparently awesome enough to make that happen. And there I was, amidst garbage backstage at a free Decemberists’ concert, happy as a clam with my blue Moleskin notebook and a red pen.
A number of other people from the media were there as well, but they were busy snapping photographs. For the first few minutes, I was there for the same reason. But soon, through no fault of my own, I forgot where I was. My hands stopped reaching for my pen and my camera stayed hidden in the pocket of my jeans. My toes were a-tappin’ and my shoulders couldn’t stop from a-swayin’. The drums joined the guitar which joined the violin which joined the accordion and I could think of nothing but the music floating around me.
Earlier, before the show, I was able to snag Chris Brown for a few moments while the band checked their sound, practicing This is Why We Fight. My heart was racing. I was interviewing someone as one of my favorite bands was playing just feet away from me. This must be what success feels like, I thought to myself.
Anyway, I asked Brown what I’m fairly certain everyone else was thinking: how did you get a band with the #1 album in the country to play a free concert at a record store in Maine while they were touring the country?!
“Well, I asked them to,” the bespectacled man told me, matter-of-factly, as he nervously played with his beard.
He went on to explain that having the Decemberists at Bull Moose wasn’t so much to benefit the store we’ve all come to know and love. It wasn’t to make money or to draw in customers.
“It’s more a thank you to our community, a thank you to everyone who helps pay the electric bill. We wanted to do something cool for you guys,” he said before dashing off to make sure everything was ready to go.
Minutes later, the six piece band stood in front of me, chit chatting before they squeezed on to a tiny stage, with all of their equipment, inside Maine’s coolest independent music store.
Colin picked up his guitar and harmonica, John Moen his drum sticks. But just seconds later, you’d think the show was doomed. As Jenny took to the stage, she tripped over one of the wires, unplugging something potentially important. The frazzled staff worked to fix it and soon the show went on, after a few jokes from both the band and the audience.
The band opened with Down by the Water, the first song released off of their new #1 album, The King is Dead. More than 200 people squeezed into less than half of the store, and I could see the heads of dozens of people peeping over the CD racks, mouthing the words and bobbing along to the music.
“Sweet descend this rabble ‘round, the pretty little patter of a seaport town…”
It was as if they were singing songs written for our Portland, our little seaport town. They sounded incredible. The small venue seemed to fit the band’s down to earth persona.
But alas, disaster struck again. As they were about to start their third song, a brain melting noise erupted from the stage. The band covered their ears and the event staff once again rushed to the stage.
“We came to Portland to destroy your PA system,” Meloy joked.
They retuned their instruments (see video above) and after a few more jokes, they were ready to go, kicking it off again with Rise to Me.
Personally, the little malfunctions made the show that much better. I like seeing how people react to unexpected circumstances. I appreciated how calm and collected the band remained. They’ve been doing this for 10 years now and they easily could have become frustrated. Instead, they helped figure out what went wrong and made changes to their instruments to ensure that they could still give the best possible performance. The Bull Moose staff was also pretty incredible. They stormed the stage and had everything figured out fairly quickly. They’re some of the coolest people I’ve yet to meet in this town and no matter what happened that night, I can say with absolutely certainty, no one left dissatisfied. After all, once a Bull Moose fan, always a Bull Moose fan.
The show did indeed go on. They played a 45 minute set and included my personal favorite off their new album, January Hymn.
Halfway through the set, I reached for my camera. In my half excited, half music-induced stupor, I snapped a photo of the drummer… but I forgot to turn off the flash (which had been expressly requested a number of times before the show). John, the now blind drummer, looked at me and, graciously, smiled. Red faced, I mouthed the words “I’m sorry” and tucked my camera away once and for all.
As they finished, they took their bows and accepted everyone’s applause. Just minutes after walking off stage, they returned for an encore, as they always do. But this time, they treated the audience to a rendition of the Grateful Dead’s Row Jimmy.
“Bear with us,” they joked, “we don’t really know how to play this song.”
And then, once again, they set their instruments down, waved good bye to the audience and with these parting words, they bid everyone a real adieu:
“Much obliged, people of the other Portland…”
And so, they were off, on their way to their next show stop in Montreal, where I’m sure they rocked the pants off Canada.
**My photos didn’t come out great. Fortunately, the people over at Hilly Town, have some phenomenal shots. Check them out (and keep an eye on this awesome website for updates on music that comes into the area): Hilly Town
Update:
Here is the interview with Chris and Jenny of the Decemberists by 207′s Rob Caldwell.
207 Interview
Also, another video I took of the band performing January Hymn at Bull Moose
I’d like to introduce you to someone. His name is Jamal Abed-Rabbo. I met Jamal in Cairo a few months ago while studying at the American University.
Jamal and I in Cairo
He was tall and bearded. He walked precisely the way I’d imagine Jesus would have walked if he were real. He quickly proved himself to be one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. Many a night we smoked shisha at street cafes in Cairo. He introduced me to Hawawshi (a delightfully greasy meat pie) and the phrase “Ya shib tizi!” which loosely translated means “half of my ass.” I can still hear his booming voice yelling as we watched the Americans lose in the World Cup game against Ghana. I’m fairly certain that almost got us killed.
Jamal is currently a student at the University of Michigan, majoring in Near Eastern Studies. He speaks a number of languages fluently and I’m fairly certain he’s at least dabbled in every spoken language known to man. He’s truly fascinating and incredibly intelligent.
When the protests in Egypt erupted on the 25th of this month, everyone I knew came to me for an explanation. Why are they protesting? What is going to happen? How will this affect American foreign policy? Who will take over Egypt next?
As much as I would love to write about the state of affairs in Egypt, I am unfortunately not as knowledgeable about Egyptian politics as say, Jamal is. It would be irresponsible of me, as a journalist, to attempt to explain the situation in the Middle East without having a certain depth of understanding that could justify any of my opinions.
With that, I turn to Jamal Abed-Rabbo whose intellect I both trust and respect…
________________________________________
Hello everyone, I was called upon by a certain Marissa Simões to explain the present happenings in faraway Egypt-land, and that is what I now shall endeavor to do.
As most of you probably know, three countries in the Middle East have recently been wracked by massive street protests against their secular, dictatorial heads of state. They are Tunisia, Egypt, and Yemen.
Tunisia was the first of the three countries to see the emergence of a protest movement, late in 2010, and as of now the only one where the protests have successfully toppled the government: the ex-dictator, Zayn al-Abidin bin Ali, has fled the country, and Tunisia is currently undergoing a transition towards democracy, albeit a transition the success of which cannot be predicted with any degree of surety.
While it is true that the protesters in Egypt and Yemen look explicitly to Tunisia for inspiration, the circumstances of the three countries differ greatly. We cannot be sure, then, that the protest movements in Egypt and Yemen will succeed as spectacularly as Tunisia’s, nor can we be sure that if they do succeed that they will succeed in the same way.
First, the economic side of things, because that’s the one that gets the most play in the media. Tunisia, while by no means a wealthy country, is still far more developed than Egypt or Yemen: its literacy rates are higher, its average income higher, and its rate of unemployment lower. Some have suggested that the protest movements in Egypt and Yemen have no hope of duplicating the successes of their Tunisian counterparts because of the former countries’ lack of an educated middle class. This seems like a silly argument to me, but you’re bound to hear it.
I think the nature of the countries’ dictatorships is a more important consideration. Tunisia has long been a relatively stable country: it has no long history of armed revolt against the government, no central position in the “War on Terror”. It had, before these protests, acquired a reputation for being a sort of sleepy backwater under the heel of an unremarkable despot. It seems to me that the reason for the success of Tunisia’s protest movement is that after so many years of stability the dictator got a bit soft, neglected to solidify his control over the army, and was blown away by the sudden fury of his formerly quiescent subjects.
Yemen is the opposite of Tunisia in many respects. It’s the poorest country in the Middle East, and the one whose society is the most organized along tribal lines. Its dictator, Ali Abdullah Salih, controls maybe a bit over three-quarters of the country. The rest is in the hands of a motley assortment of rebel groups. I don’t know much about Yemen, so I won’t say any more about it.
And now Egypt: by far the largest Arab country by population, perhaps the most important country in the region geopolitically. It has a long history of internal Islamist rebels: its last president, Anwar Sadat, was in fact assassinated by them 28 years ago. His successor, Husni Mubarak, has been in power ever since. Mubarak’s regime has been marked by a strenuous crackdown on Islamist movements, close relations with successive US governments (who love him because he cracks down on Islamist movements), and stagnation in pretty much every other respect. We can be sure that Mubarak has not neglected the army: Mubarak’s Egypt has become the US’s second largest recipient of foreign aid after Israel, and most of that aid goes towards propping up the army that props up the regime. For proof we need look no further than the “Made in the USA” labels on the tear gas that the riot police have been firing into the crowds of protesters.
Why exactly does the US give so much money to Mubarak’s regime? Because he’s an enemy of Islamists. Who are the Islamists, exactly?
Well, you see, that’s where things get complicated. The American foreign policy establishment is notable for its extreme ignorance of foreign policy. In the same way that it was somehow decided that Saddam Husayn’s Iraq was in league with al-Qa’ida, so has more or less every political movement in the Middle East whose name contains the word “Islam” been deemed in league with bin Ladin. This includes the Muslim Brotherhood, Egypt’s main opposition group, which long ago renounced violence and dedicated itself to working through the democratic process only to have successive American governments decide, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, that it was in fact a gang of irredeemable terrorists.
If you read any article from any news source that claims that the Muslim Brotherhood is “affiliated with al-Qa’ida” you should immediately stop and wash out your brain. The Muslim Brotherhood is not affiliated with al-Qa’ida, nor is it a terrorist group. This does not mean that the Muslim Brotherhood are saints, just that they don’t pose a threat to the US. If the Muslim Brotherhood should suddenly take over Egypt tomorrow it will not launch intercontinental missiles at the US, nor will it invade Israel.
And what are the odds that the Muslim Brotherhood will actually manage to take over Egypt, anyway? Not very high. It’s the country’s most prominent opposition group, but that doesn’t mean it has the support of the majority of the population. It certainly doesn’t have the support of the army. What’s more likely, if all goes well, is that all of the opposition groups in Egypt, secular and Islamist alike, will join together in a unity government, probably headed by the former head of the International Atomic Energy Agency, Muhammad al-Barada’y – a secularist. A few months will pass, elections will be held, some coalition of pro-democracy parties (including the Muslim Brotherhood) will win the elections, and Egypt will slowly become a normal, democratic country.
Or things won’t go well. Mubarak will hold on to power, crush the protesters, and postpone for a few more years the demise of his doomed regime. Thousands of people will be killed, tortured, or imprisoned, and an entire generation of young people will be reminded once more of how little the United States cares for their freedom.
It should be clear to everyone which of these eventualities is worse, not only morally but practically as well. We have the opportunity now to extricate ourselves from the mess we’ve gotten ourselves into by propping up all of these Middle Eastern dictators. If Mubarak’s regime should fall we should celebrate, and extend a hand of friendship to Egypt’s new government, no matter who it’s comprised of.
“Drum sound rises on the air, its throb, my heart.
A voice inside the beat says, ‘I know you’re tired, but come.
This is the way.’”
–(جلالالدین محمد رومی) Jalal ad-din Muhammad Rumi
The air in the theatre is thick with the moisture of a thousand exhalations. It’s completely dark except for one bright, white light and the glow of a few dozen cell phones.
The main light shines on an empty stage, highlighting a lone microphone surrounded by an empty piano, a solitary drum set and a music stand. The silence breaks as the musicians walk to their designated areas and the audience applauds, but only briefly as they know what’s about to begin.
The band’s frontman steps into the spot lights, his hands wrapped around the neck of his guitar. He presses his lips to the microphone, so close that his first excited sigh is completely audible. He smiles and his fingers begin to move over the strings perfectly, as though this was exactly what they were formed to do. The first few notes spiral out into the crowd, finding their way to anxiously open ears.
Another light beams down and the beat of a drum chimes in. The rhythm reverberates through the walls, through the floor, through the seats, through your skin. The dum dum dun dum, dum dum dun dum infiltrates the heart beats in the audience and soon everyone’s blood is pulsating in unison. Dum dum dun dum, dum dum dun dum.
Within minutes, the entire stage is lit up and the sounds of the instruments begin to coalesce.
The frontman opens his mouth and the breath that was building up in his diaphragm seeps out over his lips, as his vocal cords begin to vibrate. He bends his voice over the lyrics, infusing his words with the emotions that initially sparked them.
And as you sit with your elbows on your knees, your shoulders mimicking the movement of the violinist’s bow, you become part of the song… or maybe it becomes part of you. The lyrics were written for you. The drum echoes the sentiments in your heart. The violinist plucks the sinews under your skin as she plucks the strings. It’s a feeling that only music can incite and despite the fact that it has happened to every single person, thousands of times over… every note feels singular and unique.
Music appeals to everyone differently. Some are moved by the melodies, others by the rhythms. For me, it is the words. It’s poetry set to instruments. Lyrics combined with music can convey ideas and feelings that no other communicative medium can. For as long as people have communicated, they have done so through song. And for as long as people have loved and lost and believed and died, they have put words to music.
I’ve always appreciated music, from the perspective of someone completely devoid of musical talent, but it wasn’t until I was in Palestine that I recognized the power behind it. While staying at a guesthouse in the Dheisheh refugee camp, I met a couple of young Palestinian boys. They were really excited to meet an American and they spoke quickly, tripping over the few english words they knew. I asked them a few questions and eventually they told me that they turned their every day struggles into hip hop music. Standing in the lobby of the guesthouse, they rapped for me for about ten minutes. I didn’t understand what they were saying, as it was all in Arabic. But it didn’t matter. I didn’t have to understand the words because I could sense their emotions in every word.
Unfortunately, I lost communication with those boys. However, upon doing a little bit of research, I’ve found that rap music is an integral part of the Palestinian plight. Many young Palestinians have turned to this musical form of expression.
One of the first hip hop groups to sprout out of Palestine was DAM (دام). They began in the 1990s and according to their website, their first big song was “Min Erhabi” or “Who’s the terrorist.” It was downloaded over one million times in 2001.
I’m not usually a fan of hip hop music, in fact, I downright hate most of it. But my appreciation for DAM lies in that their lyrics are carefully and powerfully constructed. They’ve turned their struggles into something beautiful, as so many have done before them and as so many will do in the future.
(As an aside, my problem with hip hop does not lie in the genre. Intellectual rappers with something meaningful to say are among some of the most talented musicians in the world. However, I have no respect for people who write lyrics like what we hear from rappers on the radio. This is an example of what I’m talking about, “Shorty wanna thug. Bottles in the club. Shorty wanna hump. You know I like to touch your lovely lady lumps.” I think he goes on to ask someone to lick his lollipop? Thank you Lil’ Wayne for your input, but I seriously don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. You should be sterilized.)
Anyway, while music has been used to express the pain of conflict and war — and as we have learned from Lil’ Wayne, sexual frustrations — it has also been used to communicate and express a love for the divine. Religions all over the world use music as a means of getting closer to their deity. Christians and Jews sing psalms and hymns. The Qu’ran was meant to be read with certain melodic intonations and reciters of the Quran study these vocal contours for years before it is actually mastered.
Certain sects of Islam actually use music and dance as a way to communicate and become closer to their god. The Mevlevi order of Sufism, also known as Whirling Dervishes, perform a sacred ritual called the Sema in which they literally spin in circles to music. It is their belief that they stand between the material world and the world of the divine. The dervish rotates in a precise rhythm, representing the Earth’s rotating axis around the sun. The whirling motion is supposed to empty the dervish of all worldly distractions in order to fill those voids with the love and beauty of god. They spin with their arms raised, one hand facing the heavens and one toward the Earth, in order to keep them grounded. The Sema is accredited to Sufi poet, Rumi. This type of music may not be about the lyrics. But the combination of the instrumentals and the constant motion of the dervishes is absolutely entrancing.
Whether your attachment to music is spiritual, emotional or aesthetic, there is an undeniable power to it. While I may be moved by the words of a guitarist on the stage of a decades old theatre, for some it is solemn hymns that waft through the arches of a Catholic cathedral. And maybe, for others, it is just the boom boom pow of top 40s hits behind the steering wheel of their car that is enough.
This is a video I took of Whirling Dervishes practicing in Istanbul, Turkey.
