When I wander around the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia (KSA) today, I can see and experience many things that were unthinkable when I first came here just ten years ago. The first significant change that strikes me is the process of arrival itself. The Immigration Security no longer appears to take pleasure in voyeuristically searching around in your baggage in the hope of discovering a porno magazine. In Riyadh, in the past, I have even seen an airport security officer cut open the lining of a Pakistani traveler’s suitcase in the search for banned or illegal substances. In this instance, none were found and the protesting Pakistani was peremptorily waved on his way, humiliatingly left to replace the scattered items inside his mutilated bag. The Westerner in those days received slightly more considerate treatment–but not by much. A colleague of mind was nearly imprisoned for being found in possession of a Bible.
I think it is certain that within the next ten to twenty years, some fundamental changes will take place in KSA. Whether they will be the same as predicted here, only time will tell. It should be kept in mind, that there is always the possibility that future changes might establish a theologically inclined state in KSA, highly critical of Western culture and foreign policy. On this possibility I do not comment. I feel it is, on the whole, unlikely to happen–and if it does, it is probable that we in the West will only have ourselves to blame for it: either through neglect, or a misreading of the situation that leads to the empowerment of, at present, scattered and weak fundamentalist groups.
Now, it is unusual for customs officers to even bother searching bags at all. Everything is put through an X-ray machine and as long as no suspicious material is seen, the traveler is free to collect his baggage and leave. As simple as that! The religious worker who used to check all DVDs and videos for feisty content, was made redundant in a moment; a forlorn casualty of a new and more modern world view that deems such intrusive practices as insulting and degrading to human dignity. Read more of this article »
Posted in Op-Ed, Saudi Arabia
[Set somewhere in a USA east coast barrio.]
Si, si, I knew Father Delgato, some twenty years. But he was here long before that, you know? When this barrio was new, he came then. You ask the old people, they remember. Maybe thirty years back it was. Even twenty years ago this was a different barrio. Different south side, too. Better or worse, I dunno. People was poorer then, maybe more chances today. But back then people was more honest, and less in a hurry. Well, times change, no? Them times gone. An’ priests like Father Delgato, them gone, too.
You know that church on 4th? Si, si…that one all closed up now. That was his. Long time back that was something. Everybody went. Mass, weddings, baptism, funerals, you know. But then, kinda slow like, it died off. Times change. Father Delgato used to hold the Mass anyway. Necesscito, comprendi? Only some of the old people went though. I know, I used to bring my mother. God rest her.
But when I was a kid we’d go every Sunday. Father Delgato, his Mass, easy to understand. Simple stories, simple Spanish. Was just a kid, but even I knew his meaning: some things is right, so do it, an’ some things ain’t, so don’t. My mother, god rest her, said he was a genuino padre. I didn’t know what that meant. Now I do. Read more of this article »
For many, English is just the way the modern world communicates. It is the language to unite countries – be they poor or rich – through a universal standard. Nonetheless, for an estimated 2 million speakers of Esperanto, English is the language of the richest and militarily most powerful countries in the world. It is not neutral; the language’s dominance has allowed English-speaking countries to establish cultural and economic hegemony by exporting their films, books, music, and even commercial services around the world. And if you want to get on in life, work for the United Nations or an international company, then you need to speak good English, preferably studying in an English-speaking country.
“Bush and Blair have become Esperanto’s best friends,” says Probal Dasgupta, professor of linguistics at India’s University of Hyderabad. “Globalization has put a wind in our sails, making it possible for people to have interest in Esperanto as not only a language, but also a social idea.” Ian Fantom, of the British Esperanto-Association agrees: “Esperanto is a public domain planned language, created over a hundred years ago, to help people from different countries and cultures to communicate on equal terms.
Its inventor, Ludwig Zamenhof, disclaimed any copyright for the language.” Fantom says the language belongs to everyone. Zamenhof, from Warsaw, published the grammar and basic vocabulary in 1887. He thus laid the foundation for an easy-to-learn language to promote international understanding and peace. The lexicon derives primarily words used internationally, usually Lating-based, while structures can be formed liberally as in languages like Turkish or Japanese. Read more of this article »
She smiled as she remembered the night it all began. He was so handsome and danced like there was no tomorrow. The music played softly in the background and the full moon cast a spell on the slow moving tightly embraced couple. That was truly a night designed especially for lovers, life, love and laughter, she thought.
“You have the sweetest and deepest brown eyes I have ever seen on anyone,” he said looking intently into her shy eyes, and gently running his fingers up her exposed back. She was pleased and felt a flush of pleasure spread on her face. “The way you say it I could almost believe you,” she said softly.
“Believe me, I speak true,” he whispered into her ear.
“Is this what you say to all inexperienced farm girls like me?” she quipped feeling suddenly daring.
“Life generally gives fortunate people three things, a good heart, a good mind and a brilliant smile but you life gave one more – the most beautiful eyes in the universe,” he said in an intimate mesmerizing tone.
He smiled that cute smile of his- his gold tooth glinted in the soft light and she felt like heaven was here and now and all that mattered was this precious moment.
“O thank you Emily for lending me the evening gown,” she thought as she buried her face against the cashmere dinner jacket he wore ever so elegantly.
“No! She said,” breathlessly. Read more of this article »
Posted in Fiction, South Africa
We, humans, grew up in families, where we began our first journey into the world. Later on, when we entered schools, we became indulged in learning. The first classes we took were on the letters of the Alphabet. “A, B, C…” we uttered aloud. These letters are known as the Phonetic Alphabet. The Phonetic letters are a representation of vocal sounds, and are a way of spelling that corresponds to pronunciation. Each country around the world has its own variation of spelling letters.
Without the Alphabet, history would not have been written, and thus all the genesis of mankind would be as mute as death. With it, we could be as wise as the sages of all times. The Phonetic Alphabet made it easier for humanity to evolve and to communicate. Earlier types of alphabets were pictorial, relating to symbols, ideograms, or other representations, like the Egyptian hieroglyphs. In such alphabets, each letter was represented by a picture and not expressed by a vocal sound. Only few pictorial alphabets still remain in use, such as the Chinese Alphabet of almost 40.000 characters.
***********
Strolling on the sandy beach of Gebel (popularly known as Byblos) in Lebanon, I was thinking about all this. The waves of the Mediterranean Sea in front of me, saluted me as I walked.
On the waters that float to the shore with eternal sailors and travellers, expeditionary and trading ships used to dock. Every bright new day they would head to a different corner of the world. I looked around but there weren’t any ships of this kind. Only small fishing boats and others belonging to private owners could be seen. But they, surely, have the blood of their Ancestors running in their veins. Read more of this article »
In the beginning, all the wisdom in the world belonged to the clumsiest and slowest of all animals. The Tortoise. But this favored animal was so unwilling to share his wisdom with mankind that he decided to hide all the wisdom he possessed away. ‘I will find a gourd and put all the wisdom inside and keep it in a place where no one knows, except myself,’ he thought. So, he got the gourd, put all his wisdom inside, sealed the opening and proceeded to look for the tallest tree around.
On his way, he met several animals that noticed the unusually large gourd the tortoise was struggling with and offered to help him. But the tortoise ignored all of them and continued on his mission. When he finally found the tree most suited for his plans, he un-slung the gourd and proceeded to climb the tree. But he had a problem; he found out that he was unable to climb up the tree with his gourd. Just then an old goat came ambling by and noticed the fumbling tortoise, and also inquired what was going on but the insolent tortoise rudely told him to mind his own business.
After several attempts, he finally hit on the right method to get himself and the gourd up the tree. He succeeded until he got halfway up when he lost his grip and fell. All the tortoise got for his troubles was a broken neck. The gourd was smashed to a thousand pieces on the ground and all the wisdom inside were scattered to the four winds of the earth. Read more of this article »
For eight years and four months she waited for him. They were married for four years when she and her daughter emigrated to America. Her husband couldn’t come with them, for his request was not approved. “Some complications,” the consul had explained. “Some complications.”
Josephine remembered how her heart sank when the consul gave them the news. She remembered staring blankly at the man who wouldn’t grant her husband permission to go to the land where they say milk and honey literally pour down from the sky. She thought she saw the stranger’s green eyes penetrating her flesh before uttering indifferently that her husband was not qualified. The stranger’s skin was pale. So pale that she wondered if he had any blood running in his veins. He said that when her father filed the papers she and Emille were not married; she would have to file for him once she got to America. How her heart throbbed when she heard this!
To think that she must separate from her man so soon, after only a few years of marriage.
She was not used to looking at these kinds of people in the eyes, for they seemed too uppity and too intimidating with all their wealth and yellow skin and supple hair and eyes the color of thirsty grass or even the color of the sky when it’s in its happiest state, but that Friday morning, sitting in a square windowless room, she raised her face and pierced the stem of the man’s eyes with her own, hoping he would read the “shame on you and how could you be so heartless?” message in her eyes and grant her husband the visa. Her three-year-old daughter, Marguerite, clutched her hand and buried her tiny sugar-brown face in her mother’s skirt. Read more of this article »
The Nile that divided his land also united it, he believed. If it were possible he would make his life a bridge between north and south. Perhaps blood, his own included, would continue to flow beneath this bridge before finally the clear water of peace and life would wash the blood and bloodstain away. There would be celebration at the confluence of cross and crescent as at the marriage of the White Nile and the Blue Nile. He carried a simple message: the story of a rock that had become a shrine and site of a contest for religious space and gods.
The holy man settled under the shelter of an acacia tree to spend the night. He spread a battered old rug on the gravel ground and, facing Mecca, knelt on it and did salat. A strict observer of the tenets of his religion, he prayed, dutifully, five times a day. He sat cross-legged on the rug after prayer. He deferred the gratification of his thirst and hunger, a discipline his unusual asceticism had taught him. It had taught him to defer the gratification of thousands of hungers, tens of thousands of thirsts. He would endure until he reached the remote village, close to the border with the South, in this dry and sparsely populated part of his country. He was nearing the end of his journey.
He was a tall man, lean and very dark, with a long-flowing white beard. Age had wrung his smooth skin into wrinkles. His head was wrapped in a white turban and he wore a flowing white jelabiyah. His sandals of worn brown leather protruded from under the robe. His deep penetrating eyes, filled with piety, appreciated his surroundings, splashed scarlet, everywhere, with sunset. There was serenity all around. He held his Koran close to his heart and recited, softly to himself, suras he had been taught to memorize since the time when his mind was still in its infancy. Read more of this article »
I was nine years old when she sold me into slavery. Not slavery as the world knows it, but an exile that is no less painful. It was the year nineteen eighty-nine. I thrust my scant possessions into an old nylon bag: one chewing stick, one Ankara cloth, a pocket bible and rosary beads that shone like stars when it was dark. I wore my only dress, a colourful frock with short sleeves and kissing pleats that made me trip when I rushed. I put on my lime green slippers, slung the plastic bag across my shoulder and followed my mother on an endless journey.
The soil was drenched with dew. We walked past familiar strangers, past a post office with walls made of cherry mud and rowdy markets where green-bellied flies danced to the rhythm of rottenness. We ran past the church with life-size statues of saints in it and the massive school gates I had stroked longingly but never crossed. We ran. Or rather Mother ran and pulled me roughly after her. When we reached the motor park we stopped so that Mother could tie her scarf tautly across her head and fasten her lappa tight about her portly waist. I watched her, eyes swimming with questions that I dared not ask, wishes that could not be spoken. When she grabbed my hand again I shed my first tear. When we boarded the bus, I shed the next.
“Don’t cry,” Mother said, although her voice lacked maternal warmth and her eyes were like riverine pebbles. “You’ll be alright, you hear? They will feed you. They will send you to school…” Read more of this article »
On arrival in Saudi Arabia, more than ten years ago now, I was amazed at how different everything was to my preconceptions. I had been fed the usual line that Saudi was a staunch ally and supporter of the West and that life was easy and comfortable there. How very wrong these ideas proved themselves to be! A particular incident crystallized the reality for me.
I was quickly shipped out to Ras Tanura: a major ARAMCO training complex (but a small and boring little town) and in the evenings I used to walk into the center, buy a few things– and maybe get a take-away meal. On this occasion, I noticed that everyone in the pizza shop was rushing around, as if desperately trying to beat some deadline. They just about managed to prepare my pizza and take my money before closing for the sunset prayer. All this was very new to me, so I thought the best thing to do was take a quiet walk on a hopefully deserted beach while I ate my pizza. As the sunset and I munched away, I noticed a crouching presence right in front of me. Suddenly he sprang up and started shouting and gesticulating wildly at me. Even though I was new to the country, it was fairly clear that he was objecting to my consumption of pizza in his presence while he was praying. I tried to utter a few conciliatory words, but he suddenly barked out a few words in egregious English.
“You must pay fine of one hundred riyals.”I shook my head incredulously and informed the man that I didn’t have one hundred riyals with me (not actually true!). Read more of this article »
Posted in Op-Ed, Saudi Arabia